The Hyde Park Headsman (36 page)

“Oh yes, indeed. Mind, I cannot say whether it was an acquaintance of any duration or depth, or merely a natural affinity in the love of music and a spontaneous kindness on Aidan’s part. He was very gentle, you know, very easily moved to compassion.”

“Compassion? Was Mrs. Winthrop in some kind of distress?”

“Indeed.” Lismore nodded, watching Pitt curiously. “I don’t know what may have been the cause of it, but I recall seeing her on one occasion deeply distressed over something. She was weeping, and Aidan was endeavoring to comfort her. I don’t believe he was entirely successful. She left with a young gentleman, of a somewhat sunburned appearance. I believe he was her brother. He also seemed most disturbed about the event, and quite angry.”

“Her brother. Bartholomew Mitchell?” Pitt asked quickly.

“I regret I don’t recall his name,” Lismore apologized. “Indeed I am not sure if I ever met him. Aidan said something about it afterwards, I think that is how I gained the impression he was her brother. You look concerned, Superintendent. Does that have some meaning for you?”

“I’m not sure,” Pitt said honestly, but he felt his pulse race with excitement in spite of himself. “Is it possible Mr. Arledge and Mrs. Winthrop had a disagreement about something? Or even that Mr. Mitchell could have assumed it was so?”

“Aidan and Mrs. Winthrop?” Lismore looked startled. “I cannot imagine what about.”

“But is it possible?” Pitt insisted.

“I suppose so.” Lismore was reluctant. “At least I suppose it is possible Mr. Mitchell misunderstood the situation. He was angry, as I recall, very angry indeed.”

“Can you remember anything of it at all, Sir James?” Pitt pressed. “A word, a gesture even?”

Lismore looked uncomfortable, pursing his lips.

“Please!” Pitt could barely contain his impatience.

Lismore took a deep breath and chewed his lower lip before speaking.

“I did overhear a few snatches, Superintendent. I dislike intensely repeating what was most certainly an intensely private conversation, but I can see that you believe it may be of importance.”

Pitt was breathless with impatience.

“I heard the man—I shall assume it was the brother—say quite vehemently, ‘It is not your fault!’ He emphasized the negative most fiercely. He went on, ‘I will not have you say so. It is quite absurd and untrue. If Thora is foolish and misguided enough to think so, that is her misfortune, but I will not have it yours. You have done nothing. Do you hear me, nothing, to cause it. You must put it from your mind, totally, and start afresh.’ That may not be his words precisely, Superintendent, but it is extremely close, and it is certainly his sense.” Lismore looked at Pitt expectantly.

Pitt was confused. Was Bart Mitchell referring to Winthrop’s death? And what did Thora Garrick know of this?

“Well?” Lismore asked.

Pitt recalled his attention. “Did you hear the reply?”

“Only in part. She was in some distress, and not entirely coherent.”

“And the part you heard?”

“Oh—she insisted it was her fault, that she had caused whatever it had been by her foolishness, and that he really should not be so angry, it was not an uncommon event, or something of the sort. I am sorry, I really was most uncomfortable to have overheard any of it at all.”

“Did you see Mr. Mitchell with Mr. Arledge?” Pitt persisted. “What was his manner?”

“No—no I did not.” Lismore shook his head. “So far as I can remember, Aidan had left in order to conduct the second half of the performance when I saw Mr. Mitchell take Mrs. Winthrop out towards the door and, I presume, leave the premises. They seemed to have resolved whatever difference it had been by then. Apparently he had persuaded her he was right, and she seemed pleased about it.”

“Thank you. You have been extremely helpful.” Pitt rose to
his feet with his mind whirling. “Thank you for your time and your frankness.” He turned towards the door. “Good day, Sir James.”

“Good day, Superintendent,” Lismore said with some confusion, and obvious curiosity.

Emily had enjoyed the party, in spite of its having been an entirely political affair. There were many aspects of the campaign she did not care for in the slightest. Speaking in the streets was sometimes fun, other times more tiring, dispiriting or even dangerous. Helping Jack to write articles and speeches for specific audiences was a chore, and one she entered into only because she was loyal to him and wished him to fight with every possible advantage she could give, even if it were a battle he had little realistic chance of winning.

Although in the last few days that had changed markedly. The signs were quite subtle to begin with, an altered tone from one of the principal columnists in the
Times
, a questioning of Uttley’s motives for the criticisms he had made of the police, even the suggestion that perhaps Jack Radley’s loyalties were more what was desired at the moment. A question of patriotism was raised.

But this evening had been fun. She had danced and chattered, seemingly artlessly, but in fact with the greatest imaginable art. She had flattered and laughed, been amusing and, once or twice, as fitted the moment, even been astute in her observations, politically wise, to the amazement and delight of several portly and middle-aged men of influence. Altogether the whole event had been a resounding success.

As she and Jack took their leave she was on the crest of a wave, and swept out on his arm to walk the short way home to Ashworth House in the balmy late spring evening. The moon was high like a silver lantern above the trees, and the air smelled of night-scented flowers. The shadows of carriages, lanterns gleaming, clattered past them and left them in the darkness between the lampposts almost as if the gentleness of the night were wrapped around them.

Jack was singing under his breath and walking with a very slight swagger. It was not the result of too much indulgence, simply elation and a tremendous sense of well-being.

Emily found herself smiling widely and humming along with him.

They turned the corner from the broad, well-lit avenue into
a quieter road, trees overhanging the high garden walls, shadowing the lamps on their slender posts.

Suddenly Jack let out a cry and lurched against her, catching her roughly and knocking her sideways into the gutter before he fell forward onto his hands, only saving himself at the last moment from injuring his face as he struck the pavement.

Emily let out a shriek of alarm and astonishment. Then it changed to real fear. There was a dark figure looming over Jack, his head covered so his face was unrecognizable, and something raised in his hand with an enormous, wedge-shaped blade.

She screamed with all the force of her lungs.

Jack was sprawled on the pavement and the figure towered above him.

Emily had no weapon, nothing at all with which to defend Jack or herself; not that she even thought of herself.

The figure raised his arms high in the air.

Jack rolled over onto his back and shot out his legs, kicking hard. One foot caught the assailant on the shin just above the ankle, sending him off balance. He staggered backwards.

Emily screamed again and again. For God’s sake, somebody must hear!

The assailant was regaining himself, starting forward.

Jack was still not on his feet.

The assailant lifted the great blade.

Jack launched himself from his hands and knees and charged, catching the assailant in the solar plexus with his head. The man gasped, choked, and went backwards into the wall, hitting it hard with his shoulders. There was a clatter as the weapon fell to the ground.

Jack clambered shakily to his feet.

Farther along the pavement someone else was coming, calling out, footsteps loud on the stones.

The assailant turned and fled, limping raggedly, but with a startling speed, until he was around the corner and swallowed up in the darkness.

An elderly gentleman in a dressing robe came running up the pavement, his white nightshirt showing beneath his skirts.

“Oh dear! Oh my goodness!” he gasped. “What on earth …? Madam! Sir—are you injured? Here!” He knelt down beside Jack, where he was again sprawled on the pavement, having overbalanced with the weight of his charge. “Sir!
Are you injured? Who was it? Thieves? Have you been robbed?”

“No, no, I don’t think so.” Jack answered both questions at once. Then with the man’s assistance he scrambled up again and turned immediately to Emily.

“Ma’am?” the man said urgently. “Are you hurt? Did he …?”

“No—no. I am unhurt,” Emily said hastily. “Thank you for coming so swiftly, sir, and at such inconvenience. I fear if you had not—”

“We should indeed have been robbed,” Jack interrupted.

Another man came running up and stopped abruptly.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who’s hurt? Are you all right, ma’am? Were these men …” He looked at Jack, then at his helper. “Oh—are you sure?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Emily assured him breathlessly. “My husband was attacked—but he saw the man off, and with this gentleman’s prompt arrival the assailant fled.”

“Thank God for that. I don’t know what the country is coming to.” The man’s voice was choked with emotion. “There is evidence everywhere. Would you like to come to my house? It is a mere hundred yards, and my staff would be happy to get you some restorative….”

“No thank you,” Jack said a little shakily. “Our own home is not much farther. But it is most civil of you.”

“Are you quite sure? Are you, madam?”

“Indeed. Thank you.” Jack took Emily by the arm. She felt him awkward, his body shaking.

“Yes, thank you,” she agreed quickly. “It was very good of you to come out. You have most certainly saved us from a terrible experience.”

“If you are quite sure …? Well, as you wish, of course. Good night, sir. Good night, ma’am.”

Jack and Emily thanked them again and hurried away, their feet loud on the pavement, eager to escape.

“It wasn’t a robber,” Emily said huskily.

“I know,” Jack replied, his breath catching in his throat “He was trying to kill me!”

“He had an ax,” Emily went on. “Jack—it was the Headsman! It was the Hyde Park Headsman!”

8

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
Emily’s fear had turned into furious anger. She was still shaking as she sat at the breakfast table opposite Jack, who had come in walking stiffly, and as she faced him he looked distinctly pale.

“What are you going to do about it?” she demanded. “It’s monstrous! A member of Parliament attacked in the street by a homicidal lunatic!”

He sat down carefully, as if any twisting or jolting might cause him pain. “I am not a member of Parliament,” he said slowly, his brow furrowed as if he had to search for the words. “And there is no reason why I should be exempt …”

“Of course there is,” Emily rejoined. “You have nothing to do with Captain Winthrop or Mr. Arledge, or the bus conductor, and we weren’t even in Hyde Park.”

“That is what I was thinking.” Jack stared at his plate. Beyond the door came the sound of footsteps as one of the servants crossed the hall.

“What do you mean?” Emily demanded. “You are not making a great deal of sense! Have you sent for the police? I still think you should have sent for them last night. I know they wouldn’t have caught anyone by then, but they should still have been told as soon as possible.”

“I want to think …” Before he could complete his sentence the parlormaid came in with hot tea and fresh toast for Emily, and inquired what Jack would like, offering him smoked haddock, eggs, sausages, bacon and potatoes, or chops. He thanked her and chose the fish.

“Think? What about?” Emily demanded as soon as the maid had gone. “The Headsman attacked you, for goodness sake! What is there to think about?” She leaned forward across the table, peering at him. “Jack? Are you ill? Did he injure you?”

He pulled a face of self-mockery, but his amusement was hollow.

“No, of course not. I am a trifle bruised, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am quite sure.” He smiled, but his face was still very pale. “I want to think about it before I decide what to do….”