Hyde Park Headsman

“No of course it isn’t, but apparently he has a mistress.”

“How very ordinary,” Charlotte said with disgust. “In fact it’s perfectly tame. He is a very striking-looking man. I am not at all surprised. Do you suppose his wife would be surprised if she knew?”

“She died a short while ago,” Emily replied with certainty. “I suppose it’s not very interesting really.”

“What is Mr. Uttley’s wife like?”

“Really quite nice, in a sort of a way,” Emily conceded grudgingly. “I suppose …”

“Be careful, Emily.” Charlotte became serious. “Jack refused the Inner Circle once. They won’t forgive him for it. I expect Mr. Uttley knows about it. Unless I have everything completely mistaken, Mr. Uttley is a member and will use his influence to beat Jack in any way he can. Don’t do anything to give him a weapon with which to wound you.”

“I won’t,” Emily said with equal gravity. “And believe me, Charlotte, Jack is not the only one in danger. They have no love for the police either, except those of them who are in the Circle themselves. They will make things as difficult as they can for Thomas. And this Winthrop murder will not be solved quickly, I think. If it was someone who knew him, a personal enemy of a very terrible kind, then Thomas has a mighty task ahead of him, and no forgiveness from the public or the government, who cannot afford another embarrassment, and no help from anyone who is of the Inner Circle, because he is not one of them.”

“You are right,” Charlotte said grimly. “Perhaps we had better try a little harder?”

“Well I am with you all the way,” Emily promised. “Anything I can do, or any other help I can give, it is yours.”

“Thank you, thank you, my dear. Now let us go and speak to people and see if we can learn anything further about the late Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop, and his family, and those who profess to have come here to mourn him.” And she took Emily’s arm as they moved forward together.

4

TOM ILES WAS a musician of very moderate ability but immense enthusiasm. There was hardly anything which dampened his natural delight, and as he strode through Hyde Park towards the bandstand, he was singing cheerfully to himself, his trumpet swinging in his hand in its leather case. His sheet music was in his pocket, folded up, which made it harder to read but so much easier to carry. It meant he could stride out with a swagger, expressive of his soaring spirits.

He fully expected to be the first to arrive; he frequently was. Although today he was even more previous than usual. The long early morning light was almost turquoise on the dew-laden grass and there were clouds of small birds chattering in the trees.

He saw the octagonal outline of the bandstand ahead and increased his pace, singing a little more loudly. Then he stopped, observing with surprise an odd sense of irritation that he was not the first after all. There was someone sitting in one of the seats, apparently asleep. Now that really was an offense! If the indigent had to sleep in the open, then they should do so somewhere else. Tom Iles would tell him so.

“Good morning, sir!” he called out from some dozen yards away. “I say—you really can’t stay here, you know. This is a bandstand and we shall be practicing any moment. Sir! I say!”

The wretched fellow was slumped with his head so far forward it was invisible.

“I say!” Tom Iles leaped up the step and then tripped over nothing in particular as his legs gave way under him. He landed hard, bruising himself painfully. His heart was beating with such violence it sent the blood thumping in his ears, his mouth was dry and his stomach lurching.

Slowly he straightened up. Yes, it was still there. He really had seen the appalling thing that was imprinted on his mind. The man sitting in the bandstand had no head. But it was there—on the floor—a little to the left of his feet, the dark hair with its silver streaks still quite smooth, the face turned down into the floor. Thank God for that!

He stayed on his knees for several more minutes. It was ridiculous, but there was no strength in him. His arms wobbled as if he had just exerted himself lifting an enormous weight. He felt sick.

He must go and tell someone. There was bound to be a constable on the beat somewhere near here! He must find him. He must stand up—but not for a minute or two. Wait until his brain stopped spinning and his stomach calmed down.

“Arledge, sir,” Tellman said, staring at Pitt. “Aidan Arledge.” He stood in front of Pitt’s desk. It was half past eight in the morning and already he looked tired. His long, thin face had a gauntness built into the bones and the lines of exhaustion around his mouth and eyes. “Found in the bandstand in Hyde Park this morning, about a quarter to seven. Trumpet player going to practice. Got there before anyone else —and found him.”

“Beheaded, I assume?” Pitt said quietly. “From the fact you brought it to me immediately.”

“Oh yes, sir, taken right off and left on the floor near his feet,” Tellman said with something not unlike satisfaction. His lip twitched as he met Pitt’s eyes.

“Who is he? What sort of a man, do you know?” Pitt asked.

“Tall, distinguished-looking, about fifty-five or so,” Tellman replied. “Thin, very light, I should think. Gentleman. Soft hands. Never done a day’s work with them.”

“How do you know his name?”

“Cards on him. Nice little silver card case, with his name engraved and half a dozen cards inside.”

“Address?” Pitt asked.

“No. Just his name. Oh, and a little musical note. Affected,” Tellman said with contempt. “Why on earth would anyone put a musical note on their card?”

“Singer?” Pitt suggested. “Composer?”