see. No one could do what has been done and look like an ordinary person.”
Pitt did not argue, there was no point, and he was spared the necessity of an answer by Bart Mitchell’s returning with an address book which he held out in his hand.
“There you are, Superintendent. I think it may prove very useful. There is a full list of his ship’s company and their home addresses. The more I think of it, the more I agree you are right, and that it is probably some quarrel or fancied injustice which someone has brooded upon, perhaps drunk too much, and temporarily lost all reason.” His face brightened. “And that would account for the weapon. After all, it is not inconceivable that a naval officer might have in his possession a cutlass or some such sword.” He looked hopeful.
Mina put both her hands up to her face.
Victor let out his breath in a little gasp and straightened himself as if he had momentarily lost his balance.
“Really, Bart,” Thora said reprovingly. “I am sure you did not mean to, but you are being rather indelicate, my dear. It is a most distressing thought, and one we do not need to pursue. I am sure the superintendent is much more used to this kind of matter, and we do not need to point the way for him.”
“Oh—I’m sorry.” Bart was contrite. He turned to his sister. “Mina, my dear, I do beg your pardon.” Then he looked at Pitt. “I don’t think there is anything else we can do for you, Superintendent. If you will be good enough to leave us, I would like to take care of my sister and begin whatever arrangements are most advisable in the circumstances.”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “Thank you for sparing me so much of your time. Good day, Mrs. Winthrop, Mrs. Garrick, Mr. Garrick.” And he inclined his head very slightly and took his leave, collecting his hat from the pale-faced butler in the hallway before stepping out into the sharp spring sunshine. His mind whirled with impressions of grief, anxiety, close family pain, and something else he could not as yet grasp clearly enough to name.
Later Pitt performed that other necessary but most disagreeable task at the outset of any such investigation: he visited the mortuary to look for himself at the body of Oakley Winthrop. He did not expect it to tell him anything that he could not have deduced from Tellman’s report. But there was always the remote chance that he would observe something, even gather some impression, however faint, which later would clarify into meaning.
He hated mortuaries, their very bareness smelled sour and sickly and there was always a chill, even in summer. He found himself shivering as he told the attendant his purpose. There had been no need to give his name, he was already only too familiar.
“Oh, yes sir,” the attendant said cheerfully. “I bin expectin’ yer. Thought as this one’d bring yer ’ere. Nasty, it is. Very nasty.” And turning on his heel, he led Pitt briskly to the room where the body was laid out under a sheet, its form unfamiliar, inhuman without the bump where one looked for the head. “There y’are, Mr. Pitt, sir!” He whipped off the sheet with the air of a conjurer producing flowers from a hat.
Pitt had seen many corpses before, and each time he tried to prepare himself, and as always, failed. He felt a sinking in his stomach and a strange, slightly dizzy sensation in his head and throat. The remains of Oakley Winthrop lay naked and very white on the marble slab of the table. Without a head, a face, he seemed without dignity, even without humanity.
“What have you done with his head?” Pitt said involuntarily, then wished he had not. It exposed the rawness of his emotion.
“Oh …” the attendant said absentmindedly. “I put it on the bench. I suppose I’d better put ’im all together.” He went to the bench in question and carefully picked up a large object covered with a cloth, unwrapped it dextrously and brought it over to Pitt. “There y’are, sir. That’s all of ’im.”
Pitt swallowed. “Thank you.”
He looked conscientiously, avoiding nothing, but he did not learn any more than he already knew from Tellman’s report, and what the coroner would have said in time. Oakley Winthrop had been a big man, broad shouldered, deep chested, muscular but now running to softness and the beginning of fat. He looked well fed, smooth, his hands very clean. There were no marks or bruises on him at all, except the lividity Pitt had expected from the natural settling of blood in a corpse when its heart no longer pumped. There was no other discoloration, no breaking of the skin. His hands were immaculate, nails unbroken.
Then he looked at the head. The hair was sandy brown and clipped short. Across the top of the scalp there was hardly any at all. He did not try it, but he knew it would be impossible to pick it up that way. He turned to the features. They were unremarkable, and without expression or life it was hard to guess what character they had betrayed. He could not detect the marks of humor or imagination, but it was unfair to judge.
Finally he forced himself to look at the wound, if one could call a complete severing such a thing. It was fairly clean, done by a simple, very powerful blow with some very sharp weapon, possibly designed for the purpose. It might have been a person of great strength, or alternatively someone perfectly balanced and striking from a considerable height, and using the force of weight and a long swing, as with a broadax.
The smell of the place was catching in his throat, and he was very cold.
“Thank you. That’s all, at least for now.”
“Yes, Mr. Pitt. Want ter see ’is clothes? ’E were dressed very smart, like; naval captain, they say. Nice uniform. Pity about the blood. Never seen so much in all me life.”
“Anything in his pockets?”
“Only what yer’d expect, a little money, letter from ’is wine merchant, that’s ’ow we knew ’is name, I reckon. A few keys, reckon wine cupboard or desk or the like; domestic anyway. ’Andkerchief, couple o’ callin’ cards, cigar cutter. Nothing interestin’, no threatening letters.” He smiled sepulchrally. “Got another nasty one, Mr. Pitt. I reckon there’s a madman loose somewhere.”
“Do you,” Pitt said dryly. “Well cover him up and let us know when the coroner has been.”
“Yes sir. Good night sir!”
“Good night.”
Pitt arrived home tired and still unable to shake from himself the smell of the mortuary. He let himself in the door and took his boots off before going along to the warmth and light of the kitchen.
Charlotte did not turn around immediately; she was busy stirring a steaming pan on the large black cooking range.
