man like Aidan Arledge. There was nothing uncouth or predatory in his nature. It is an affront to civilization itself. What have you done about it?” His look narrowed. “Why are you here?”
“I am trying to learn where he went and whom he saw in the last few days—” Pitt began, but was interrupted.
Alberd threw up his hands. “Good heavens, what for? Do you suppose this madman knew him personally?”
“I think their paths may have crossed,” Pitt acceded. “I do not think he was chosen entirely at random. Can you help me? Your name was given me by his widow.”
“Ah yes, poor soul. Well—” Alberd sat down on the piano stool and flexed his fingers, cracking the knuckles. His hands were extraordinarily wide with long, spatulate fingers. Pitt found himself fascinated watching them. Had anyone been strangled, those hands with their power would have haunted his dreams.
Pitt waited.
“He was killed on a Tuesday, as I recall. Found Wednesday morning, yes?” Alberd began, then apparently not requiring an answer, he continued. “Well on the Monday I saw him. Middle of the afternoon. We discussed a recital next month. I shall have to find someone else to conduct now. I confess, I had not even thought of that.” He cracked his knuckles again. “When he left me he said he was going to visit a friend, I forget whom. It was of no concern to me, not anyone I knew—not a musical person, I believe.”
“If you could remember …”
“Good heavens, Superintendent, surely you don’t imagine …? No, I assure you, it was a friend of long standing. I believe a close friend.” He looked at Pitt with amusement.
“What else can you tell me about his work, who else may know his movements that week, Mr. Alberd?”
“Oh, let me see …” He thought for several moments, staring at the floor, then finally gave Pitt a list of his own engagements for the time, and all those occasions in which his path had crossed that of Aidan Arledge, or in many instances, places or functions he knew Arledge would have attended. When he had finished it was a surprisingly complete picture.
“Thank you.” Pitt excused himself and took his leave with considerable hope.
He also visited Lady Lismore, and from her suggestion several others. Three days later he had learned where Aidan Arledge had been most of the last week of his life, and several places he visited regularly. Certain names occurred again and again. He determined to question them all.
In between he returned to Bow Street, often late in the evening, to learn what Tellman had found.
“Don’t know where Arledge was killed,” he admitted sourly, looking at Pitt with irritation. “I’ve had men searching the length and breadth of the park, and every man on the beat for a mile in every direction has been told to keep his eyes open. Nothing!”
“What about Yeats, the bus conductor?” Pitt looked up at him without expectation.
“Don’t know where he was killed either.” Tellman sat sideways in the chair. “But there are one or two likely places in Shepherd’s Bush. At least we know where the gig came from. A man called Arburthnot reported it stolen from outside his house in Silgrave Road.”
“I presume you looked in that immediate area for a murder site?” Pitt asked.
Tellman withered him with a glance. “Of course we did. One of the most likely was in the railway siding just off Silgrave Road. Ground is so soaked with oil and covered with cinders and the like, it’s hard to tell if there’s been blood there or not.”
“Anyone see Yeats after he left the bus?”
Tellman shook his head.
“No one that’ll say so. Driver saw him off, said good-night, and said Yeats started along Silgrave Road. He lives in Osman Gardens, about four or five streets away.”
“Did anyone else get off the bus at the same time?”
“Half a dozen people.” Tellman pulled a face. “Says he can’t remember any of them because he had his back to them throughout the journey, and at the end all he could think of was getting home and putting his feet in a bowl of Epsom salts.”
“What about regular passengers?” Pitt asked. “They will have noticed if there was anyone unusual. What do they say?”
“Could only find one regular,” Tellman said grimly. “It’s not the sort of time for anyone who works, or goes to any place of trade or entertainment. It’s later than the theaters. Anyway, who goes to the city theaters from Shepherd’s Bush on a bus?”
Pitt was losing patience. “What did your one regular say? Have you learned anything at all, man?”
“As far as he could remember, there were six or seven people on the bus by the time it got to Shepherd’s Bush. At least four of them were men, one young, three older, and as far as he could tell, biggish. He couldn’t recall any of them. He was tired and had a toothache.” Tellman’s chin came up and his long face was tight. “And what have you learned … sir? Anything that would be of help to us?”
“I think Arledge kept a mistress, and I expect to find her within the next day or two,” Pitt replied, rather rashly.
“Ah …” It was hard to know from Tellman’s wince if he were interested or not. “Could explain Arledge’s death, if the lady was married, but why Winthrop? Or was he her lover as well?”
“I won’t know that until I have found her,” Pitt answered, standing up and walking over towards the window. “And before you ask, I don’t know what Yeats has to do with it either, unless in some way he knew something and was a blackmailer.” Below him in the street a hansom had stopped and a large man was alighting with difficulty. An urchin with a broom did not bother to hide his amusement.
Tellman raised his eyebrows. “The lady lived in Shepherd’s Bush?” he asked sarcastically.
