He walked quickly, because he must be at the park gates in time to make sure all was well, there was no litter, no untidiness to offend the eye. And then he would begin his duties for the day. Sweeping, weeding, trimming were not especially enjoyable in themselves, but then on the other hand, neither were they particularly onerous. But it was being outside in the sun, and at this hour, the perfect solitude, which kept the smile on his face as he crossed Park Lane and entered the gates.
It was a bright day, but the dew was a heavy sheen over the grass and the leaves were wet on the bushes. There now. Some untidy person had left a bottle on the path. What a thoughtless thing to do. It could have got broken and then there would be shards of glass all over the place. Who knew what injury that would do? Especially to a child.
He walked over to it and bent to pick it up.
It was when he was thus contorted that he saw the foot sticking out of the undergrowth, and then the leg, and the sole of the other shoe where it lay at a different angle.
He let go of the bottle and moved over to the bushes. He gulped hard. Most probably it was someone who had drunk too much, but then there was always the other possibility. Ever since the first corpse had been found, he had been afraid of it, but still he had never really expected it to happen.
Gingerly, with his heart beating violently and his mouth dry, he grasped both the legs by the ankles and pulled.
The man was wearing dark trousers, navy or black, but they were damp from the dew and it was hard to tell. Then his body began to emerge, and Sammy was so appalled he dropped him and staggered back. He was a policeman! The uniform tunic and its silver buttons were unmistakable.
“Oh Gawd!” he moaned. This was no drunk. This was the Headsman’s work again! “Oh Gawd!” he sobbed. Perhaps he should not have moved him. Maybe they would blame him for it.
He backed away and fell over the bottle, sitting down very hard on the stony ground, which knocked out of him what little breath he had left.
He looked at the awful object again. Yes, he was definitely a rozzer. He could see the gleam of buttons all the way up to his neck.
On his hands and knees, he crawled back to the body, and without any clear decision in his mind, began to pull it again. It emerged from the bushes slowly, waist, chest, neck—head! Head! He was whole!
Sammy fell backwards in a heap, his hands shaking, his stomach lurching with relief. Stupid man! He should not have let his imagination do that to him. Headsman indeed! Suppose a rozzer could get drunk like anyone else?
He got up and then bent over the man to see just how drunk he was. His face was terribly pale, in fact his skin was almost white. As though he were dead!
“Oh Gawd!” he said again, this time in a low moan. Reluctantly he touched the man’s cheek with the back of his hand. It was cold. He felt his own stomach sick. He loosened the man’s collar and slid his hand down inside his clothes. The flesh was warm! He was alive! Yes—please God he was alive!
He studied the face for a few moments, but he could see no sign of a flicker in the eyelids. If he was breathing, it was too shallow to see.
There was nothing to do but go and find help. The man needed a doctor. He rose to his feet and hurried off, starting at a fast walk, and then changing his mind and running.
“What?” Pitt looked up from his desk as Tellman stood in front of him, his face grim, and yet with a perverse glint of victory in his eyes.
“Bailey,” Tellman repeated. “One of the park keepers found him this morning, about six o’clock. Been hit on the head and left under the bushes.” His eyes met Pitt’s unwaveringly.
Pitt felt ill. It was an agonizing mixture of pity and guilt.
“How badly is he hurt?” he said with dry lips.
“Hard to say,” Tellman replied. “He’s still senseless. Could be anything.”
“Well, what injuries has he?” Pitt heard his voice, rough and with a note of panic undisguisable.
“Doesn’t appear anything except hit on the head,” Tellman answered.
“Anyone know what happened?”
“No. Except, of course, common sense says it was the Headsman. He wasn’t on duty in the park, or anywhere near it. He was still chasing after Carvell’s statement that he was at the concert, where you sent him.” Still his eyes did not flicker from Pitt’s. “Looks as though he may have found something after all.”
There was no possible answer to that. Pitt rose to his feet. “Where is he?”
“They took him to the Samaritan Free Hospital, in Manchester Square. It’s only half a mile or so from where he was found.” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “Do you want me to arrest Carvell again?”
“Not until I have seen Bailey.”
“He can’t tell you anything.”
Pitt did not bother to reply, but walked past Tellman without looking at him, and ignoring his hat and coat, went out of the door. He took the stairs two at a time, passed the desk without speaking and went out. It took him nearly five minutes to find a hansom and direct it to Manchester Square.
He felt wretched. There was now no longer any reasonable doubt that it was Carvell. It was Carvell’s presence, or absence, at the concert Bailey had been checking. But the thought hurt. He had liked Carvell, felt an instinctive respect for him and a sympathy with his grief, which he still believed was real. And just as deep was his disillusion with himself, an awful sense of failure because he had been so deceived. His judgment had been fatally flawed.
He was guilty of Bailey’s injury, and if he died, of his death.
How could he have been so stupid, so unaware? And even now, riding along in the hansom, he still could not
