Hyde Park Headsman

A very slight amusement touched his lips.

“Do I gather from your choice of words that you will not necessarily abide by his decision, Mrs. Pitt?”

“Yes—I think that is so.”

“You are a woman of remarkable self-will—and perhaps of courage.”

She rose to her feet, forming a smile.

“Qualities of very dubious attraction,” she said lightly. “But you have been most charming, Mr. Mitchell, and generous with your hospitality, especially in such trying circumstances. Thank you.”

He stood up in a single movement and bowed very slightly.

“Thank you for your friendship to my sister—as thoughtful and considerate as it is at this particular time.”

“I look forward to it,” she replied noncommittedly, and inclined her head in acknowledgment. He saw her to the door, which the maid opened, handing her her cape, and she walked swiftly along Curzon Street towards the omnibus stop, her mind teeming with questions.

Pitt was late home, and Charlotte found it difficult waiting for him. Gracie had gone to bed and Daniel and Jemima were long asleep. Impatience consumed her so she could not sit down and do anything useful. There was mending waiting her attention, and it lay in her sewing box untouched. There were certainly letters to write.

Instead she pottered around the kitchen, picking up this, and poking at that, half cleaning the stove, emptying things from one jar into another, dropping the tea caddy and spilling its contents all over the floor. No one was there to see her sweep it up hastily and replace it all. The floor was perfectly clean, and it would be scalded with water anyway.

When at last she did hear his key in the door she straightened her skirts for the tenth time, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and ran down the hall to meet him.

His first reaction was alarm, in case there were something wrong, then when he saw her face he was delighted and held her tightly until after a few moments she pushed him away.

“Thomas, I have discovered something really important today.”

“About the house?” He tried to sound interested, but she heard the weariness in his voice.

“No—that is not the same sort of important,” she dismissed it totally. “I went to see Mina Winthrop—actually about papering the dining room.”

“What?” He was incredulous. “What on earth do you mean? That’s nonsense!”

“About what color to choose,” she said impatiently, leading him back to the kitchen. “Not about doing it.”

He was totally confused. “How would she know what color you should use?”

“She is very gifted at that sort of thing.”

“How do you know?” He sat down at the kitchen table. “There are tea leaves on the floor here.”

“I must have spilled a little,” she said airily. “I discussed it with her at the memorial service for Oakley Winthrop. I went to see her today—Will you please listen, Thomas. This is important.”

“I am listening. Can you put the kettle on at the same time? It’s hours since I had a cup of tea.”

“It is on. I’m about to make tea. Are you hungry too?”

“No, I think I’m too tired to eat.”

She ran a bowl of water, putting something into it he did not see, and put it down on the floor in front of him. “Feet,” she said absently.

“I’m not walking a beat,” he answered with a smile. “Have you forgotten, I’m a superintendent now?” He bent forward and unlaced his boots, slipping his feet out with intense pleasure.

“Don’t superintendents’ feet get hot in boots?”

He smiled and put his feet gingerly into the cold water. “What’s in it?”

“Epsom salts, same as always. Mrs. Winthrop has been beaten. And Oakley Winthrop may have been a sadist who liked to beat women anyway. I mean prostitutes—that sort of thing.”

“What?” He looked up at her sharply. “How do you know? Did she tell you that?”

“No, of course not. She spilled hot water on her wrist, and I undid her cuffs to see it. She is purple and green with bruises.”

“An accident …”

“No it wasn’t. There were finger marks. And I’m almost sure her neck was bruised as well, and who knows what else on the rest of her body. That’s why she wears long cuffs and high necks: to hide the bruises.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do! And what is more, I am almost sure Bart Mitchell knows it too.”

“How?”

“Because I spoke to her, and I watched her. She was bitterly ashamed, and embarrassed, and she didn’t tell me how it happened. She would have, if it had been all right. Her husband did it, Thomas. The good Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop beat his wife.”

“What makes you so sure Mitchell knows about it?”

“Because he saw the bruises as well, and said nothing, of course. If he’d not known he’d have been horrified and asked her what had happened!”