Free The Hyde Park Headsman by Anne Perry

commit.
    “Oh—yes,” Winthrop agreed as if memory were returning. In spite of being a big man and broad shouldered, he was not imposing. His size seemed more of an encumbrance to him than an asset. “Good of you to come.” But his voice suggested that it was merely Pitt’s duty, and his own thanks were a question of courtesy, no more. “Of course Lady Winthrop and I are most anxious to know what progress you have made in this terrible affair.” He looked at Pitt, waiting for him to reply.
    Pitt swallowed the desire to explain that his errand was one of discovery. Then the thought occurred to him that perhaps it was he who was mistaken. Micah Drummond’s job had included a large element of diplomacy. It was something he would have to learn if he were to fill his shoes. Odd, but now that he was more senior, he was also less his own master. He was accountable in a way he had not been before.
    “We have witnesses, sir,” he said aloud. “People who passed by the park at various times during the evening and certain parts of the night, and it would seem as if the crime must have been committed at about midnight—”
    “You mean someone saw it?” Lord Winthrop was incredulous. “Good God, man! What is the world coming to when such an act can be perpetrated in a public place in London, and men see it and do nothing! What is happening to us?” His face was growing darker as the blood suffused his cheeks. “One expects barbarity in heathen countries, outposts of the Empire, but not here in the heart and soul of a civilized land!” There was both anger and fear in his voice. He stood in the middle of his familiar room with all its trappings of social and economic safety, a frightened man, confusion threatening him in spite of it all. “Brutal murders in Whitechapel eighteen months ago, and nobody even caught for it.” His voice was rising. “Scandal about the Royal Family, whispers everywhere, moral decay setting in, vulgarity in everything.” Self-control was fast escaping him. “Anarchists, Irishmen all over the place. The whole of society is on the brink of ruin.” He took a deep,shaky breath, then another. “I apologize, sir. I should not allow my personal feelings to be so—outspoken …”
    “I am sure you are not alone in believing we live in most trying times, Lord Winthrop,” Pitt said tactfully. “But actually I did not mean that anyone saw a crime committed, only that there was no one on the Serpentine when a young couple passed at ten o’clock, that two men were seen walking in Rotten Row a little bit before midnight, and that at two in the morning there was a boat on the water, apparently drifting. Since Captain Winthrop died approximately between eleven and midnight, as an estimate, that would seem to suggest it was midnight.”
    Lord Winthrop’s voice leveled with an effort. “Ah—yes, I see. Well, what does that prove? It hardly apprehends anyone!” His expression tightened as if he had smelled something distasteful. “Only too obviously there are gangs of murderous thieves at loose in the heart of London. What are you doing about it, I should like to know. I am not one to criticize the established authorities, but even the most lenient of us has to say that the police force has a great deal to do to justify itself.” He was standing in front of the mantel shelf, with a very traditional Chelsea vase on it, and behind his shoulder, on the wall, a painting of a calm, ordered landscape. “You have much to do to redeem your reputation, sir, after the Whitechapel affair,” he continued. “Jack the Ripper, indeed! What about madmen who would”—he swallowed—“decapitate a man for a few pounds?”
    “It is not likely that he was robbed, sir,” Pitt interposed.
    Lord Winthrop’s nostrils flared. “Not robbed? Rubbish, sir! Of course he was robbed! Why else would a gang of cutthroats set on a complete stranger who was merely taking an evening stroll in the park? My son was a man of