The Hyde Park Headsman (34 page)

“We can’t arrest Carvell yet, sir, but if we pushed a little harder we would get a damned sight more out of him
.
As Mr. Farnsworth says, there’s a connection somewhere, and I’ll swear he knows what it is, or he can guess.”

Le Grange looked attentive.

“What have you in mind?” Pitt asked very slowly.

Tellman’s chin came up. “He’s guilty of one crime, by his own admission. You can get several years for sodomy. He may not realize we can’t prove it. We can pursue him on that.” His lip curled very slightly in unspoken contempt. “Mr. Carvell isn’t the sort to take well to a term in somewhere like Pentonville or the Coldbath Fields.”

“That’s right, sir,” le Grange said hopefully.

Pitt ignored him. He looked at Tellman with dislike.

“You have no evidence.”

“He admitted it,” Tellman said reasonably.

“Not to you, Inspector.”

Tellman’s face hardened and he stood facing Pitt squarely. “Are you saying you would deny it, sir?”

Pitt smiled very slightly. “I should say nothing at all, Inspector. All he told me was that he loved Arledge. That may be interpreted as you please. The emotion is not a crime. I imagine Carvell will say precisely that, and have his lawyers sue you for harassment.”

“You’re too squeamish,” Tellman said, disgust written large in his face. “If you pander to these people you’ll never learn anything. They’ll run rings ’round you.”

Bailey coughed loudly.

Tellman ignored him, still staring at Pitt. “We can’t afford your delicate conscience if we want to catch this bastard who’s cutting people’s heads off and terrifying half of London. People daren’t go out after dark unless they’re in twos or threes. There are cartoons all over the place. He’s making a laughingstock of us. Doesn’t that bother you?” He looked at Pitt with something close to loathing. “Doesn’t it make you angry?”

Le Grange nodded his head up and down, his eyes on Tellman.

“That’s just what it sounds like,” Pitt replied coldly. “The reaction of anger—not of thought or judgment: the instinctive lashing out of someone who’s afraid for his own reputation and works with one eye over his shoulder to see what others think of him.”

“The ‘others’ pay our bloody wages!” Tellman said, still staring icily and undeviatingly at Pitt. Neither Bailey nor le Grange interested him in the slightest, and the desk sergeant had faded from his awareness completely. “Yours as much as mine,” he went on. He had committed himself too far to turn back. “And they are not pleased with you.” His voice was rising. “Nobody cares how brilliant you may have been in the past—it’s now that matters. You are leaving their lordships’ reputations in tatters. They look like fools, and they won’t forgive you for that.”

“If you want me to arrest Carvell, prove he had something to do with it,” Pitt demanded, his own voice angry and hard. “Where was he when Yeats was killed?”

“At a concert, sir,” le Grange chipped in. “But he can’t find anyone who saw him there. He can tell us what the music was, but anyone could get that from a program.”

“And when Arledge was killed?” Pitt went on.

“Home alone.”

“Servants?”

“No point. There’s a French door in the study. He could
have gone out that way and none of the servants would have known. Come back the same way.”

“And Winthrop?”

“For a walk in the park, so he says,” Tellman replied with heavy disbelief.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Pass anyone?”

“Not that he can recall. Anyway, he’d have to pass pretty close for anyone to recognize him at midnight. People don’t hang around the park at night these days—not as they used to.”

“Not even the women?” Pitt asked.

Tellman shrugged. “They’ve got to, poor cows. Can’t afford to stay in. But they’re scared.”

“Well go and see if you can find anyone who saw Carvell,” Pitt said. “Try some of the women. What about in the street on the way home? Someone might be able to place him at a particular time. Don’t his servants remember his coming home?”

“No sir. He kept rather odd hours, and preferred the servants to go to bed and leave him to it.” Tellman’s lips lifted in a faint sneer of distaste. “Presumably he preferred they did not see Arledge coming and going. Caught him out last time—if he was really there.”

“Try the other people in the park,” Pitt repeated. “Try Fat George’s girls. They work that end.”

“What’d that prove?” Tellman said with open disgust. “If no one saw him, that doesn’t prove he wasn’t there. And we can’t find anyone who will say they saw him in Shepherd’s Bush. Tried all the passengers on that last bus.”

“And I suppose you haven’t yet found where Arledge was killed either?” Pitt asked sardonically. “Seems you have quite a lot to do. You’d better get on with it.”

And with that he went up to his office and closed the door, but Tellman’s charges lingered with him. Was he being too fastidious in his prosecution of this case? Was he allowing the fact that he liked Carvell to influence his judgment as to the weight of the evidence? Pity, no matter how real, was not a factor he should allow to blind him. If it were not Carvell, then who? Bart Mitchell, over Winthrop’s abuse of his sister? But why kill Arledge? And why Yeats?

Or was it really some obsessed lunatic who killed seemingly at random from the dark chaos in his own mind?

He must learn more about Winthrop, and his marriage, and Bart Mitchell.

Emily looked at Charlotte’s new house with growing approval. There was something acutely satisfying about finding a house in a dilapidated state, then repairing it and decorating it to suit your own tastes. When she had married George she had moved into Ashworth House and found it in perfect order, everything maintained as it had been for generations. Every room had been added to by each succeeding chatelaine until by 1882 there had been little room for improvement or individual expression in any part of it. Even her own bedroom was curtained and mirrored in the taste of the previous incumbent, and it would have been wasteful to have altered it. Indeed, it was so lavish and so beautiful it could not have been bettered, it would simply have been Emily’s own choice rather than someone else’s.

Now, of course, Ashworth House was hers, and she shared it with Jack, but it still contained little that was of her creation or taste, even though she could find no fault with any of it. She was delighted for Charlotte, and also just a very little bit envious.

They were in the bedroom which overlooked the garden. Charlotte had chosen green after all, and today with a bright sun and the trees in full leaf, the whole room had the feeling of a shaded bower, full of light and shadow and the soft sound of moving leaves. What it would be like in winter remained to be seen, but at this moment it could hardly have been lovelier.

“I like it,” Emily said decisively. “In fact I think it is quite marvelous.” She screwed up her face unhappily and her hands with their gorgeous rings were knotted in her muslin skirts.

“But …” Charlotte said, feeling a sharp disappointment. She was so happy with the room, it was exactly what she had most hoped for, but it hurt her that Emily should have reservations, and to judge from her expression, very serious ones.

Emily sighed. “But have you seen Mama’s bedroom lately? I called there.” She turned to face Charlotte, her blue eyes very wide. “I had a chance to go upstairs. Have you? It’s—it’s so—I don’t know what to say. It’s just not Mama! It’s as if she were someone totally different. It’s—it’s worse than romantic—it’s lush. Yes, that’s the word, lush.”

“You are still trying to pretend it is a passing thing,” Charlotte said slowly, going to the window and leaning her elbows
on it to stare out at the garden. The lawn, now neatly clipped, stretched away under the trees to the rose-covered wall at the end. “It isn’t, you know. I think I have faced that now. She really loves him.”

Emily came beside her, also looking down at the garden in the dappled sunlight. “It will still end in tragedy,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing else it can do.”

“She could marry him.”

Emily turned to face her. “And do what?” she demanded. “She could hardly remain in society, and she would never fit in with the theater people. She would be neither one thing nor another. And how long could it last—happiness, I mean?”

“How long does it ever last?” Charlotte replied.

“Oh come on! I am very happy, and don’t tell me you are not, because I should not believe you.”

“Certainly I am. And look how many people predicated I should end in disaster.”

Emily looked back at the garden. “That is rather different.”

“No it isn’t,” Charlotte argued. “I married someone nearly all my friends said was hopelessly beneath me, and had no money to speak of.”

“But he is your age. Or at least he is only a few years older, which is precisely as it should be. And he is a Christian!”

“I admit that is a difficulty, Joshua’s being a Jew,” Charlotte conceded unhappily. “But Mr. Disraeli was a Jew. That didn’t stop him becoming Prime Minister, and the Queen thought he was wonderful. She liked him very much.”

“Because he flattered her shamelessly, and Mr. Gladstone wouldn’t,” Emily responded. “He was a miserable old man, always talking about virtue.” Her face lightened. “Although I did hear he was actually very fond of women himself—very fond indeed. In fact I heard it from Eliza Harrogate.” Her voice dropped to little above a whisper. “She said she knew for a fact that he could hardly contain himself when in the presence of a pretty woman, whatever her age or state. That makes him seem a little different, doesn’t it?”

Charlotte stared at her, uncertain if she were serious or joking. Then she burst into laughter. The thought was delicious, and completely novel.

“Perhaps he made an intimate suggestion to the Queen?” Emily went on, beginning to giggle as well. “Maybe that is why she didn’t care for him?”

“You are talking the most arrant rubbish,” Charlotte said at
last. “And it has nothing at all to do with what we were discussing.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Emily was suddenly solemn again. “What can we do about it? I refuse simply to stand by and watch Mama walk straight into a disaster.”

“I don’t see that you have a choice,” Charlotte said grimly. “The only thing we can hope for is that it should come to a natural end before irreparable harm has been done.”

“That’s hopeless. We can’t be so—so ineffectual,” Emily protested, turning away from the window again.

“It’s not ineffectual; it’s a matter of not interfering, and robbing Mama of the right to choose for herself.” Charlotte turned away as well.

“But—” Emily began.

“How is the election progressing?” Charlotte cut across her deliberately, a smile on her face.

Emily shrugged. “All right, for the moment I give up. Actually, it’s going surprisingly well.” Her delicate eyebrows rose, her eyes wide. “There have been a few extremely good articles in the newspapers in the last two days. I don’t understand it, but someone has obviously changed their views and is now entirely for Jack; or to be more exact, against Mr. Uttley.”

“How odd,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “There must be some reason for it.”

“Well Jack has not joined the Inner Circle, if that’s what you are thinking,” Emily said fiercely. “I will swear to that.”

“Of course not, I had not doubted it,” Charlotte said soothingly. “But it does not mean that this change has nothing to do with the Inner Circle. They may have their own reasons.”

“Why? Jack won’t give them anything.”

“That is not what I meant.” Charlotte drew a deep breath. “Uttley has been attacking the police. Do you not think it is possible that there are those in the police who are high in the Inner Circle too, and Uttley was foolish enough not to realize it?”

“Oh! Like the assistant commissioner, perhaps?” Emily looked startled and, just for a moment, disbelieving.

“Micah Drummond was,” Charlotte reminded her.

“Yes, but that was different. He didn’t use it.” Emily stopped suddenly. “Yes I see. That was silly. It doesn’t mean Giles Farnsworth wouldn’t. He will call on the right people in order to defend himself. Of course he would.”

“Quite apart from that,” Charlotte went on, “we don’t know who else is.”

“What do you mean?” Emily demanded. “Who are you thinking of?”

“Anyone,” Charlotte replied. “The Home Secretary, for all we know. That’s the whole thing about the Inner Circle, we don’t know. We don’t know whose loyalties are where. There can be alliances you never even imagined.”

Emily looked at her, now very grave. “So Uttley may have defeated himself by attacking the police? Wouldn’t he have known the dangers of that?”

“Not if he didn’t know Farnsworth was a member, assuming it is Farnsworth. And if they were in different rings. But it was stupid of him not to have considered the possibility.”

Emily frowned. “He must have thought he was safe. Charlotte—could there be a—rivalry within the Circle? Do such things happen?”

“I suppose so. Or perhaps it is so secret Uttley really did not know,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “According to Micah Drummond, he knew only a few other members, those of his own ring. It’s a sort of protection. Only the senior members know all the other names. Then no one who becomes disaffected can betray the others.”

“Then how do they know who is and who isn’t?” Emily asked reasonably.

“I think they have signs,” Charlotte replied. “Secret ways to recognize each other if they have to.”

“How incredibly silly,” Emily said with a smile. Then suddenly she shivered. “I hate things like that. Imagine the power those at the heart must have. They have all that blind loyalty—hundreds, maybe thousands, of men in positions of authority all over the country, all promised to give their allegiance without question, often without knowing to whom or even in what cause.”

“They can go for years without being asked to do anything,” Charlotte pointed out. “I expect most of them never are. When Micah Drummond joined he thought it was only a nice, anonymous, benevolent society, giving time and money in charitable causes. It wasn’t until the murder in Clerkenwell, when he was asked to help Lord Byam, that he began to understand just what the price was, or to wonder how much of his own preferment had come because of his membership. Maybe Uttley was the same.”