Hyde Park Headsman

“No!” Mina said instantly, then blushed at her forwardness. “Oh! I am sorry, that was most rude of me. I simply meant that—that—Bart has only recently returned from abroad.”

“When was this incident, ma’am, exactly?”

She paled. “I—I don’t recall … exactly. Some time ago.”

“Before the injury to your wrist?” he asked.

There was a moment’s total silence. The clock on the table by the window sounded like twigs breaking it was so loud.

“That was only the other day,” Bart said icily. “An accident with a pot of tea. A clumsy maid who did not look where she was going.” His blue eyes bored into Pitt’s with anger and challenge. “Surely you know that, Superintendent?”

“I was referring to the bruises, Mr. Mitchell,” Pitt replied without flinching.

“That was my own fault too!” Mina said quickly. “Really it was. I—I …” She turned to face Pitt, away from her brother. All the confidence had drained away from her. She looked frightened and guilty. “I was being foolish, Superintendent, and my husband caught hold of me to … to prevent me from falling. I had already lost my footing and—and so …”

Bart was seething with some emotion he could barely suppress, and yet dared not reveal. He seemed on the verge of exploding into speech, and his face was dark with fury.

“And so his strength—my weight…” Mina stammered. “It was all very silly—and entirely of my own causing.”

“It was not your fault!” Bart lost control at last; his voice was quivering and very low. “You must stop blaming yourself for—” He stopped, turning to glare at Pitt, both his hands around Mina, holding her as if she might fall if he let her go. “Superintendent, all this has really nothing whatever to do with your inquiry. It happened long before Mr. Arledge’s death, and had no relevance to it whatever. I am afraid we neither of us had any personal acquaintance with him, and much as we would like to, we cannot help you. Good day, sir.”

“I see.” Pitt did not believe him, still less did he believe Mina, but there was nothing he could do to prove it. He was convinced Oakley Winthrop had beaten Mina, frequently and severely, and she was terrified that when Bart had seen it he had killed Winthrop, or that Pitt would think so. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Winthrop,” Pitt said politely. “Mr. Mitchell.” And with a bow, but no pretense of accepting their words as truth, he excused himself and took his leave.

10

THE DAY FINALLY came for moving house. Since the Headsman was still at large and the mystery as deep as ever, Pitt was unable to offer more than an hour or two’s help. Of course he had employed men to pack and move the furniture, and Charlotte had spent all the previous day rolling glasses and cups and plates in old newspaper and wedging them carefully in boxes. All clothes were packed up, and linen; carpets had been taken up in the morning, and now everything was on its way from the old Bloomsbury house to the new house, which was finally decorated. The tiles around the fires had been replaced, all the gas brackets mended and in working order, shades were whole, every tiny piece of coving and dado rail mended or replaced, and the wallpaper and paint were immaculate.

Now that the reality was here, the children had realized exactly what moving meant. A whole new world beckoned full of excitement, experience, possibly adventure. When he had first got up Daniel had jiggled up and down with exuberance without really knowing why, and his questions had been endless. It had not noticeably dampened his spirits that no one had answered most of them.

Jemima had been quieter. Being two years older, it had taken her less time to realize that accepting the new inevitably means relinquishing the old, and the pain and uncertainty that brought with it. She had bursts of enthusiasm and curiosity, then long silences when she gazed around the familiar places, saddened that they now looked bare and already abandoned without curtains, pictures or the family furniture. When the carpets were rolled up it was as if the floor itself had been removed, and she spent several minutes rather tearfully with Gracie chiding her and hugging her, and giving her a string of instructions how to be useful, none of which she was able to follow.

However, by half past ten, Gracie and both children had gone with Pitt in the hansom, squashed rather uncomfortably close together in its narrow confines. There was no way in which Charlotte could also have ridden, quite apart from the fact that they had gone first in order to open the house and be ready to receive the goods when they arrived. Charlotte, on the other hand, was waiting till every last thing was packed and she had made triply sure that nothing whatsoever was left behind, forgotten, or mislaid, and the door was latched for the last time.

When all was accomplished and she had given the removal men the new address yet again, she picked up her two very best cushions, hand embroidered in silks, which were far too good to entrust to the men and too big to put in the boxes. She wrapped them in an old sheet, closed the front door once more, and hesitated on the step, looking around.

Then she pulled herself together and walked down the path to the gate. There was no time to think of all the happiness she had had here, or of regrets. Memories could not be left behind. They were part of one, carried in the heart.

She went through the gate, closed it, and set out along the pavement towards the omnibus stop, carrying the sheet with its two cushions. They did look a trifle like laundry and she was glad not to pass anyone she knew.

The omnibus came within five minutes and gratefully she stepped up, lugging the cushions behind her.

“I’m sorry miss, yer can’t bring ’em in ’ere,” the conductor said sharply, his round face full of contempt. He stood squarely in front of her, chin jutting out, brass buttons gleaming, expression bright with authority.

Charlotte stared at him, taken completely by surprise.

“You’ll ’ave to get orf!” he ordered. “There’d be no room for fare-payin’ passengers if I let every washerwoman in Bloomsbury get on ’ere with—”

“It’s not laundry,” Charlotte said indignantly. “It’s cushions.”