“Maybe he beat her?”
“Why would he? And anyway, she’s afraid for him, Thomas, I’m sure of that. She is terrified he was the one who killed Winthrop.”
“You mean you are not sure of it,” he corrected. “People always say they are sure when what they mean is they think so, but they are not sure. Your kettle is boiling.”
“It won’t come to any harm.” She waved a hand at it. “Thomas, Mina is afraid Bart killed Oakley Winthrop because of the way he treated her.”
“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “And how did you come upon the information about the man who beats prostitutes in the park? Mina Winthrop didn’t tell you that, did she?”
“No of course not.”
“I am waiting.”
She took a deep breath. “Thomas, please don’t be angry—she did it because she is afraid for you. If you don’t forgive her, and say nothing whatever, I shall not forgive you.”
“Forgive me for what?” His eyebrows rose.
“For not forgiving her, of course!”
“Who? Is it Emily?”
“Perhaps I had better not say.” She had not even thought of blaming Emily, but it was an excellent idea. Emily was not Thomas’s responsibility.
“However, she knew about it?” he said very carefully. “At least give me the truth of that.”
“She went into the park at night, and one of the prostitutes told her. I mean, she got into a conversation— naturally …”
“Naturally,” he agreed dryly. “Does Jack know about this? I doubt it will improve his parliamentary chances.”
“Oh no. And you mustn’t tell him!”
“I would not think of it.”
“You promise?”
“I do.” He smiled, although the amusement was very double edged.
“Thank you.” She turned around and made the tea, giving it a moment to brew, then poured him a steaming mugful and brought it back to him. She watched him carefully as he took his feet out of the water and she gave him the warm towel.
“Thank you,” he said after several moments.
“For the tea,” she said gravely, “or the towel?”
“For the information. Poor Mina.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Have my tea and go to bed. I can’t think any more tonight.”
“I’m sorry. I should have waited.”
He reached up and kissed her, and for some time Mina Winthrop and her troubles were forgotten.
At dawn the following morning, Billy Sowerbutts was driving his cart slowly along Knightsbridge towards Hyde Park Corner when he was forced to come to a stop because the traffic ahead of him was packed solid. He was put out; in fact come to think of it, he was definitely angry. What was the point in getting up early, when you ached to stay in bed and sink back into sleep, if you were going to spend half the bleeding morning sitting as still as Nelson’s monument because some idiot ahead has stopped and is holding everything up?
For a hundred yards people were beginning to shout and curse. Someone’s horse shied and backed, and two carts collided, locking wheels.
That was really the last straw. Billy Sowerbutts tied the reins of his animal to the rail and jumped down. He strode past everyone else right up to the offending vehicle, a gig, which extraordinarily had no animal between the shafts, as if someone had pushed it there by hand and then abandoned it, leaving it lying askew, its rear end sufficiently far into the line of traffic to have blocked the way.
“Idjut!” he said harshly. “What kind of a fool leaves a gig in a place like this. ’ere! What the ’ell’s the matter wif yer? This in’t no place ter take a kip!” He strode around to the recumbent figure lolling in the back amid piles of old clothes. “Wake up, yer bleedin’ idjut! Get out of ’ere! Yer ’oldin up the ’ole street!” He leaned forward and shook the man’s shoulder, and felt his hand wet. He pulled it back, and in the broadening light saw his fingers dark with something. Then he leaned forward again and peered more closely at the man. He had no head.
“Jesus, Joseph and Mary!” he said, and fell over the shaft.
6
P
“Knightsbridge, just outside the park,” Tellman repeated. “Headless, of course.” His long face showed no inner triumph or superiority this morning. “He’s still out there, Mr. Pitt; and we aren’t any closer to the swine than we were in the beginning.”
