earnestly, her voice strong, full of entreaty. “There must be something. No matter how clever he is, the Headsman will have left something undone, some thread that if we pull at it, carefully, we’ll unravel the truth.”
“That’s a nice thought,” he said, smiling at her. “But I’ve racked my brains to think of what that could be, and I’m no further forward.”
“You are too close to it,” she said immediately. “You are looking at the details, instead of the overall picture. What have all the victims in common?”
“Nothing,” he said simply.
“They must have! Winthrop and Scarborough were both bullies, and you said that the omnibus conductor was an officious little man. Perhaps he was a bully too.”
“But Arledge wasn’t. By every account he was a most courteous and gentle man.”
“Are you sure?” She looked at him dubiously.
“Yes, I am sure. No one at all had anything ill to say of him.”
She thought for a moment, and he waited in silence.
“Is it possible all but one were killed simply to hide the one that someone really wanted dead?” she said after several moments. “Maybe the others were random, and it didn’t matter who they were.”
“Doesn’t make sense.” He shook his head, putting out his hand to push away a stray strand of her hair which had fallen across her brow. “Scarborough was lured out of his own home to be killed. That’s hardly random. Yeats was miles away in Shepherd’s Bush, Arledge we don’t know, and Winthrop was boating on the Serpentine, which in itself is ridiculous. Why would anyone go boating in the middle of the night? No one would do it with a stranger, and even with a friend it is hard to imagine.”
“The Headsman wanted him there so he could kill him over the side,” she answered.
“But how would he get him there? How would you persuade someone to get into a boat in the middle of the night?”
She drew in her breath. “Ah—I should—I should say I had dropped something in the water, off a bridge or something, and if I did not retrieve it, it would be lost,” she said with satisfaction. “I should first have dropped in my hat, or whatever came to mind.”
“Hat!” He sat upright, unintentionally knocking her sideways.
“What?” She scrambled to her feet. “What is it? Thomas?”
“Hat,” he repeated. “There was a hat found when we dragged it! It wasn’t Winthrop’s. We didn’t connect it, but that’s what it could have been. Put there as a reason to lure him into the boat. You are brilliant! It’s so simple, and so effective.” He kissed her with enthusiasm, and then stood up and began to pace the floor. “It begins to make sense,” he went on, his voice rising with excitement. “Winthrop was a naval man. It might be quite natural to appeal to him to assist in getting to the hat before it sank. The Headsman could quite easily affect to be useless with the oars. Many people are.”
He waved his arms eloquently. “He would request Winthrop’s assistance. Winthrop would naturally give it. They would both get into the boat—and the next thing the Headsman points to something in the water, Winthrop leans over the side—and …” He brought down his arms with his hand stiff like a blade. “Winthrop is beheaded.”
“What about the others?” she asked. “What about Arledge?”
“We don’t know. We don’t know where Arledge was killed.”
“But Scarborough? And the omnibus conductor?” she persisted.
“Scarborough was killed on Rotten Row, right where he was found. The horse trough was full of blood.”
“And Yeats?”
“Near Shepherd’s Bush terminal. Then taken in a gig to Hyde Park.”
She thought for a moment. “Makes it look as if Arledge was the one that was most important, doesn’t it,” she said at last. “Except that he wasn’t first. Every time I think it makes sense”—she shrugged, sitting back again —“then it doesn’t.”
“I know.” He stopped and held out his hand. “Enough for now. I’ll start again tomorrow. Come to bed.”
She took his hand and stood up slowly, but her face was still tight in concentration. Even when walking up the stairs her mind was working, turning over ideas, beginning plans. Only when she was in her nightgown and pulling the sheets up around her neck and snuggling closer to Pitt did she finally forget it and think of other things.
In the morning Pitt did not go to Bow Street; there was no point. His mind was whirling with ideas, uncertain, many of them half formed and depending upon facts and impressions he had yet to confirm. He could not serve his purpose by starting until the evening. He spent the day in trivial duties, checking and rechecking of details. Then at a quarter to eight he began. He wanted to see Victor Garrick, but did not have his address. He knew Mina Winthrop would know it, accordingly he took the omnibus to Curzon Street and alighted on the pavement in the clear spring dusk.
“Yes sir?” the parlormaid said inquiringly.
“May I please speak with Mrs. Winthrop?” he asked courteously.
“Yes sir. If you care to come this way, I shall see if she is at home.”
It was the usual polite fiction, and he followed her in and waited obediently. Mina came after less than five minutes, looking charming in pale lavender muslin. As soon as she saw his surprise she blinked.
“Good evening, Superintendent. I am afraid you have caught me unexpectedly. I am not suitably dressed.” It was an understatement. She looked years younger than when he had seen her immediately after her husband’s death, dressed entirely in black and looking frightened and bewildered. Now her cheeks had color, her long, slender neck was bare but for a heavy bead necklace, and only because he knew it was there could he see the faintest purpling of bruises. To anyone else they would merely have seemed shadows. There was a spontaneity in her movement, as if she were full of purpose.
