Hyde Park Headsman

“Nothing that we yet know the meaning of,” he answered. Her distress hurt him far more than Farnsworth’s abuse or the criticism written with such a free hand in the newspapers.

“Nothing at all?” she pressed. “You have no idea who is doing these terrible things?” They were in the withdrawing room, which was still warm and restful, a large bowl of flowers on the table by the far wall.

“We have still found no link to connect your husband with Captain Winthrop,” he replied. “And even less with the bus conductor.”

“Please sit down, Superintendent.” She indicated the chair nearest to him, and sat in another opposite, folding her hands in her lap. It was a graceful pose and she looked almost at ease, but her back was perfectly straight, as she had probably been taught to sit since nursery days. Charlotte had told him how good governesses would pass by and poke a ruler, or some other such sharp, hard instrument, at the bent backs of their less diligent girls.

Pitt accepted and crossed his legs comfortably. In spite of the circumstances, and the errand on which he had come, there was something about her presence which was extraordinarily agreeable, at once sharpening perception and yet leaving him with a sense of well-being. The thoughts and confidences shared last time were like a warm memory between them.

“Is there something else I can tell you?” she inquired, watching his face. “I have been searching my mind for anything at all. You see, the trouble is there is so much of Aidan’s life in which I had no part.” She smiled, and then bit her lip suddenly. “Oh dear. Far more than I meant, even when I said that. What I was thinking of was his music. I am very fond of music, but I could not possibly go every evening there was a concert, and it would have been out of the question to attend all the meetings and rehearsals.” She searched his eyes to see if he understood, and did not find her culpable for such an admission.

“No woman goes to his art or profession with her husband, Mrs. Arledge,” Pitt assured her. “Many women are not even fully aware what business their husbands have, let alone where it is or who else is concerned.”

She relaxed a little. “No, of course you are right,” she said with a smile of gratitude. “Perhaps it was a foolish thing to say. I am sorry. I just find—oh dear—please excuse me, Mr. Pitt, I fear my mind is all at sixes and sevens. The Requiem is weighing very heavily with me. It is in two days’ time, and I still hardly know what to do.”

Pitt wished he could help, but the police would be inappropriate even as a presence, let alone assisting.

“Surely he had many friends who would be privileged to help in any way at all?” he asked earnestly.

“Oh yes, yes naturally,” she agreed. “Lady Lismore is being marvelous. She is a pillar of strength. Sir James knows all the people who should be invited. And Mr. Alberd, too. He will deliver an address. He is very well respected, you know?”

“I imagine it will still be a harrowing time for you, though,” he said gently, imagining the grief she would feel, the overwhelming emotion as she heard his beloved music and his friends paying tribute, still blindly ignorant of the terrible secret which might all too soon be in every newspaper and billboard.

She swallowed with difficulty, as if there were an obstruction in her throat. “Yes, I am afraid so. So many thoughts keep whirling through my mind.” She looked at him with sudden candor. “I am ashamed of many of them, Superintendent, and yet no matter how hard I try, I don’t seem to be able to control them.” She rose to her feet and walked over towards the window. She spoke with her back to him. “I am ashamed of myself for my weakness, but I am dreading it. I do not know who the man is whom Aidan—I cannot bring myself to use the word loved—and I shall end in looking at everyone and wondering.” She turned back to face him. “That is very wrong, isn’t it?” She said nothing of the storm of ridicule and contempt which would break when someone was arrested and it became public, but the knowledge was silent between them.

“But very understandable, Mrs. Arledge,” he said softly. “I think we might all of us feel the same.”

“Do you think so?” she asked. The slightest of smiles touched her mouth. Bailey had been right, she had the sort of face that became more pleasing the longer one knew her. “You are most comforting. Will you be present, Mr. Pitt? I should like it very much if you were, as a friend—as my friend, if you feel you are able?”

“Most certainly I shall attend, Mrs. Arledge.” He felt guilty as he said it, and yet deeply complimented. He was obliged by the case to be there. Perhaps she understood that. He thought she was quite capable of asking him simply to make him feel less intrusive, and yet the warmth inside him was not lessened by the knowledge.

“There is to be a small reception afterwards,” she continued. “I shall not hold it here, I really don’t feel able.” She was staring at the flowers on the table. “Sir James suggested we should have it at the home of one of Aidan’s friends who both admired his work and was fond of him. That would be convenient for everyone, and much less distressing for me. I shall not be responsible in the same way, and if I wish to leave earlier, I may do so, and return home to be alone with my thoughts and memories.” A small, rueful smile crossed her face and vanished. “Although I am not sure that is entirely what I wish.”

There was nothing for him to say that was not trite.

“It is to be at the home of Mr. Jerome Carvell, in Green Street,” she continued. “Do you know that?”

For a moment he was robbed of words.

“I am familiar with Green Street,” he replied at last, his breath catching in his throat so that he spoke with difficulty. He hoped profoundly that she saw nothing in his face. “I expect that will be very suitable,” he went on. “And as you say, relieve you of the main responsibility.” Did his answer sound as meaningless as he felt it?

She forced a smile. “They will take care of refreshments, and of course we shall have music at the Requiem itself. They have attended to all of that also.” Absently she rearranged one or two of the flowers, putting one a trifle farther out, handling a leaf here or there, nipping off a stem that was out of place. “Aidan knew so many excellent musicians. There will be many to choose from. He particularly loved the cello. Such a sad instrument. The tones are darker than those of the violin. Appropriate for such an occasion, don’t you agree?”

“Yes.” His mind immediately conjured a picture of Victor Garrick playing after Oakley Winthrop’s funeral. “Who will play? Do you know yet?”

She turned away from the flowers.

“Some young man Aidan was fond of, someone I believe he helped and encouraged,” she replied, looking at him with quickened interest. “Do you care for the cello, Mr. Pitt?”

“Yes.” It was more or less true. He enjoyed it profoundly on the rare occasions when he had the opportunity to listen.

“I believe the young man is most gifted. He is an amateur, but has both technique and extraordinary emotion,