“Yes, looks like it. Bad bruise under the hair at the back.”
“Enough to render him senseless?”
“Don’t know. Have to see the medical examiner for that.”
“Any guess as to what time he died?”
Tellman shrugged. “About the same, midnight or soon after.”
“Witnesses?”
“Not yet, but I’ll find them.” There was a note of hard deliberation in Tellman’s voice, and looking at his face, Pitt felt sorry for any hapless passerby who refused to swear to all he knew.
“You’d better put someone else onto that, to begin with,” Pitt directed. “Find out who Aidan Arledge was, anything you can about him, where he lived, what he did, who he knew, if he owed money, had a mistress, anything you can.”
“Yes sir. I’ll put le Grange onto it.”
“You’ll do it yourself!”
“But that’s simple, Mr. Pitt,” he protested. “And probably doesn’t matter. Our lunatic won’t give a cuss who the man was. He probably never saw him before last night, and I daresay never knew his name anyway!”
“Maybe,” Pitt agreed. “But I still want a senior officer to go and speak to the widow.”
“Oh, I’ll do that.” Again Tellman bared his teeth. “Unless you think he may have been important enough you should do it yourself, sir?”
“I might. When you find out something about him!”
Tellman’s face hardened again. “Yes sir.” And without waiting to see if Pitt had any further instructions, he turned on his heel and went out, leaving Pitt angry and disturbed.
He sat still for some time, trying to absorb the impact of this new crime, the difference it made to all the conclusions he had come to, albeit tentatively. He had been so sure the murder of Winthrop was a personal crime, now this new development made nonsense of it. No sane lover, however vicious, murdered his rival, then some complete stranger as well. And if it were a grudge based on his professional life, no sailor, no matter how resentful of injustice, real or fancied, would kill an additional random victim also.
And why was Winthrop not robbed? Was it as simple as having been startled by something and fled?
But Arledge had not been murdered on the bandstand. Then where? And above all, why?
It was hard to think in the office. It was too quiet, too comfortable, and too prone to interruption.
He rose suddenly and without bothering to take his hat or jacket, strode out and down the stairs, calling over his shoulder to the desk sergeant, and went into the street.
Immediately the noise and clatter surrounded him and he felt a sudden overwhelming familiarity. This was the scene he was used to, the ordinary people pressing in on him, full of their own business, peddlers, costers, small tradesmen, women bound for markets to buy or to sell, running patterers calling out in their singsong voices the hasty rhymes of the latest news.
Around the corner out of Bow Street, along towards Drury Lane he passed pie sellers, sandwich men, and a woman with peppermint drinks, another with fresh flowers, all calling out after him, some even by name. He waved a hand in acknowledgment, but did not stop. Hansoms drove their way between slower carriages with tops open to show ladies out to see the sights, and to be seen.
He continued on southwards into the Strand. There hoardings advertised drama, music halls, concerts, and recitals. Magical names were written in giant letters: Ellen Terry, Marie Lloyd, Sarah Bernhardt, Eleanora Duse, Lillie Langtry.
Who was Aidan Arledge, and why had someone killed him so brutally? Was it really no more than the accident of having walked alone … He stopped. No, not in Hyde Park, not necessarily. They must find out where he had been killed. That was the most important thing. If it were really no more than a coincidence of place, then they must know what that place was.
Someone bumped into him, apologized icily and strode on.
“ ’Ere guv—wanna newspaper?” a ragged youth shouted cheerfully. “Another ’orrible murder in ’Yde Park! Mutilated corpse found on the bandstand! ’Omicidal madman loose in London! Jack the Ripper come back again! What are the rozzers doin’? ’Ere guv, d’yer want it or not? Read all about it ’ere!”
“Thank you.” Pitt took it absently and handed the boy a copper. He stood back from the fairway, leaning against the wall, and opened up the paper. The words were just as bad as the headlines: sensational horror, columns of speculation, and the inevitable criticism of the police. So far they had not mentioned the second victim’s name. At least Tellman had been swift enough to take the card case and keep it to himself. The widow, if there were one, should not discover her loss because some friend or servant had seen the blaring headlines in the newspaper.
He folded it up again and continued along the Strand. If it were a madman, a chance lunatic with no connection with either Winthrop or Arledge, it would be steady police work which caught him, if anything did. Tellman was good at that. Dammit, he was good at it himself! He knew the underworld and the petty thieves and forgers, macers, kidsmen, cardsharps and tricksters who would have wind of such a creature loose.
Then memory jarred his confidence. No one had caught the Ripper, no one had come anywhere near. There had been suspicions of a few people, but in the end the Ripper had eluded them all. History would remember the name with a shudder, and the superintendent who had been in charge of the case was a byword for his failure. Even Commissioner Warren had had to resign.
He wished fervently that Micah Drummond were still in charge. Promotion was a very double-sided coin. If he succeeded, Tellman could easily take the credit; if he failed, the assistant commissioner would blame him, and justly so. He gave the orders, he made the decisions.
He turned and walked back up towards Bow Street, passing a watch peddler he knew and nodding to him. Why on earth would Winthrop get into a pleasure boat with a stranger? It made no sense at all. There must have been a
