Pitt swallowed the desire to explain that his errand was one of discovery. Then the thought occurred to him that perhaps it was he who was mistaken. Micah Drummond’s job had included a large element of diplomacy. It was something he would have to learn if he were to fill his shoes. Odd, but now that he was more senior, he was also less his own master. He was accountable in a way he had not been before.
“We have witnesses, sir,” he said aloud. “People who passed by the park at various times during the evening and certain parts of the night, and it would seem as if the crime must have been committed at about midnight —”
“You mean someone saw it?” Lord Winthrop was incredulous. “Good God, man! What is the world coming to when such an act can be perpetrated in a public place in London, and men see it and do nothing! What is happening to us?” His face was growing darker as the blood suffused his cheeks. “One expects barbarity in heathen countries, outposts of the Empire, but not here in the heart and soul of a civilized land!” There was both anger and fear in his voice. He stood in the middle of his familiar room with all its trappings of social and economic safety, a frightened man, confusion threatening him in spite of it all. “Brutal murders in Whitechapel eighteen months ago, and nobody even caught for it.” His voice was rising. “Scandal about the Royal Family, whispers everywhere, moral decay setting in, vulgarity in everything.” Self-control was fast escaping him. “Anarchists, Irishmen all over the place. The whole of society is on the brink of ruin.” He took a deep, shaky breath, then another. “I apologize, sir. I should not allow my personal feelings to be so—outspoken …”
“I am sure you are not alone in believing we live in most trying times, Lord Winthrop,” Pitt said tactfully. “But actually I did not mean that anyone saw a crime committed, only that there was no one on the Serpentine when a young couple passed at ten o’clock, that two men were seen walking in Rotten Row a little bit before midnight, and that at two in the morning there was a boat on the water, apparently drifting. Since Captain Winthrop died approximately between eleven and midnight, as an estimate, that would seem to suggest it was midnight.”
Lord Winthrop’s voice leveled with an effort. “Ah—yes, I see. Well, what does that prove? It hardly apprehends anyone!” His expression tightened as if he had smelled something distasteful. “Only too obviously there are gangs of murderous thieves at loose in the heart of London. What are you doing about it, I should like to know. I am not one to criticize the established authorities, but even the most lenient of us has to say that the police force has a great deal to do to justify itself.” He was standing in front of the mantel shelf, with a very traditional Chelsea vase on it, and behind his shoulder, on the wall, a painting of a calm, ordered landscape. “You have much to do to redeem your reputation, sir, after the Whitechapel affair,” he continued. “Jack the Ripper, indeed! What about madmen who would”—he swallowed—“decapitate a man for a few pounds?”
“It is not likely that he was robbed, sir,” Pitt interposed.
Lord Winthrop’s nostrils flared. “Not robbed? Rubbish, sir! Of course he was robbed! Why else would a gang of cutthroats set on a complete stranger who was merely taking an evening stroll in the park? My son was a man of excellent physique, Mr. Pitt, superb in sports, especially the noble arts of self-defense. ‘A healthy mind and a healthy body’ was his motto, and he was always as good as his word.”
Pitt was reminded suddenly of Eustace March, Emily’s uncle-in-law, insensitive, pompous, opinionated and insufferable—and in the end tragic. Had Oakley Winthrop been like that? If so, it was not surprising someone had murdered him.
“There must have been several of them, and well armed, to have overcome him,” Lord Winthrop continued, his voice rising as his anger mounted. “What are you doing to permit the situation to have reached this monstrous proportion, I should like to know.”
“As you say, sir.” Pitt kept a picture of Micah Drummond in his mind’s eye, the long, rather serious face with its aquiline nose and gray, innocent eyes. It was the only way he could control his temper. “Captain Winthrop was a fine man in the prime of life, in excellent health, and skilled in sport. He must have been attacked either by a greatly superior force, such as that of several people, possibly well armed, or else he was taken by surprise by someone he believed he had no cause to fear.”
Lord Winthrop stood motionless. “What are you implying?”
“That there appears to have been no struggle, sir,” Pitt explained, wishing he could move to ease the tension in himself, and yet the quiet room seemed to forbid anything but utter concentration on the tragedy in hand. “Captain Winthrop had no bruises upon his body or arms,” he continued. “No scratches or other marks, no contusions on his knuckles, nor were his clothes torn or scuffed. Had there been any struggle—”
“Yes, yes, yes! I am not a fool, man,” Lord Winthrop said impatiently. “I realize what you are saying.” He moved suddenly away from the mantel to stare out of the window onto the overgrown patch of dark laurels, his shoulders high, back rigid. “Betrayed—that is what it amounts to. Poor Oakley was betrayed.” He swung back again. “Well, Superintendent whatever-your-name-is, I expect you to find out who it was and see that he is brought to justice. I hope you understand me?”
Pitt bit back the response that rose to his lips.
“Yes, sir. Of course we will.”
Lord Winthrop was only partially mollified. “Betrayed. Good God!”
“Who was betrayed?” The door had opened without either of them noticing, and a slender woman with dark hair and large, heavy-lidded blue eyes stood just inside the room. Her manner was imperious and her face was full of passion, intelligence and anger. “Who was betrayed, Marlborough?”
Lord Winthrop turned to look at her, his face suddenly ironed of emotion.
“You do not need to concern yourself with it, my dear. It is better that you do not know the details. I shall tell you, naturally, when there is any news.”
“Nonsense!” She closed the door behind her. “If it has to do with Oakley, I have as much right to know as you.” She looked at Pitt for the first time. “And who are you, young man? Has someone sent you to apprise us of the situation?”
Pitt took a deep breath. “No, Lady Winthrop, I am in charge of the case and I came to assure you of every effort we can make, and to inform you of what little information we have already.”
“And is that indeed that my son was betrayed?” she asked. “Although if you have not caught the assassin, how can you possibly know that he was betrayed?”
“Evelyn, it would surely be much better …” Lord Winthrop began.
She ignored him completely. “How can you know anything of the sort?” she demanded of Pitt again, coming farther into the room and standing on the heavy ornate carpet. “If you are in charge of the case, why are you not
