“We don’t know that he was in the park.”
“Of course he was in the park, man. Why else was he killed? He must have been in the park. Where was he last seen alive?”
“At the end of his route, in Shepherd’s Bush.”
“Shepherd’s Bush?” Farnsworth’s voice rose almost an octave. “That’s miles from Hyde Park.”
“Which raises the question of why the Headsman brought him back to the park to leave firm,” Pitt said.
“Because his madness has something to do with the park, of course,” Farnsworth replied between his teeth, his patience fast wearing out. “He’ll have knocked him senseless when he found him, and brought him to the park to take his head off there. That’s obvious.”
“If he didn’t find him in the park, why kill him at all?” Pitt asked calmly, meeting Farnsworth’s eyes.
“I don’t know,” Farnsworth said angrily, turning away. “For God’s sake, man, that’s your job to find out, and a dammed slow business you are making of it.” He looked back, his expression controlled. “The public have a right to expect more of you, Pitt, and so do I. I took Drummond’s counsel to promote you, against my own instincts, and I may say it looks as if I’ve made a mistake.”
He seized the newspaper he had dropped on the desk. “Have you seen this? Look!” He opened it to show a large cartoon of two small policemen standing with their hands in their pockets and looking at the ground, while the giant figure of a masked man with an executioner’s ax towered over a terrified London.
There was nothing to say. Farnsworth had no better ideas, but to point that out would be useless. He already knew it, which was part of what made him so angry. He too was helpless, and had to answer to the political pressures above him. This failure could end the hopes of his career. The men above him were not interested in excuses, or even reasons. They judged by results alone. They answered to the public, and the public was a fickle, frightened master who forgot quickly, forgave very little, and understood only what it wanted to.
He slammed the newspaper down on the desk.
“Get on with it, Pitt. I expect to hear something definite by tomorrow.” And with that he turned and stalked out, leaving the door still open.
As soon as Farnsworth’s footsteps had died away down the stairs, Bailey’s head appeared around the door, pale and apologetic.
“What is it?” Pitt looked up.
Bailey pulled a face. “Don’t take no notice of ’im,” he said tentatively. “ ’E couldn’t do no better, an’ we all know it.”
“Thank you, Bailey,” Pitt said sincerely. “But we’ll have to do better if we’re going to catch this—creature.”
Bailey shivered very slightly. “D’yer reckon as ’e’s mad, Mr. Pitt, or it’s personal? What I don’t understand is why that poor bleedin’ little bus conductor? Gentlemen you can understand. They might ’ave done somethink.”
Pitt smiled in spite of himself.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” He rose to his feet. “I’m going to find out what Arledge’s keys open, for a start.”
“Yes sir. Shall I tell Mr. Tellman, sir, or not—as I don’t really know where you’re goin’.” He opened his eyes wide. “I can’t say as I recall what you said.”
“Then if I don’t repeat it, you won’t know, will you?” Pitt said with a smile.
“No sir, I won’t,” Bailey agreed happily.
Pitt took the two sets of keys and left for Mount Street. He hailed a cab and sat back to think while the driver eased his way through the traffic, stopping and starting, calling out encouragement and abuse.
Dulcie Arledge received him with courtesy, and if she were surprised to see him she concealed it with the sort of sensitivity he had come to expect of her.
“Good morning, Mr. Pitt.” She did not rise from the sofa where she was seated. She was still dressed entirely in black, but it was gracefully slender in the new line, with little peaks at the point of the shoulder.
She wore an exquisite mourning brooch of jet and seed pearls at her throat and a mourning ring on her slender hand. Her face was composed and she managed to smile. “Is there something further I can help you with? I hear that there has been another death. Is that true?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am afraid it is.”
“Oh dear. How very dreadful.” She swallowed painfully. “Who—who was it?”
“An omnibus conductor, ma’am.”
She was startled. “An omnibus conductor? But—but why would anyone—I mean…” She turned away as if embarrassed by her confusion. “Oh dear, I don’t know what I mean. Was it in Hyde Park again?”
He hated having to tell her at all. It seemed such an added offense to a woman of such courage and sensibility.
“Just outside it,” he said gently. “At least that is where he was found. We don’t know where he was killed.”
She looked up at him, her eyes dark and troubled. “Please sit down, Superintendent. Tell me what I can possibly do to help. I cannot think of any conceivable connection between my husband and an omnibus conductor. I have been searching my mind to think if Aidan ever mentioned Captain Winthrop, but I can think of nothing which would be of service. He knew a great many people, a large proportion of whom I never met.”
“Concerned with his music?” he asked, accepting the invitation to sit.
“Indeed. He really was very gifted, and so in great demand.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He was a remarkable man, Superintendent. It is not only I who will miss him.”
