The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [101]
“I presume you looked in the garden as well?”
“Of course I did! And before you ask, it’s all covered with paving and flower beds or grass, and none of it has been dug up in years. I even looked in the coal cellar and the gardener’s shed. He wasn’t killed there.” He stared at Pitt, his brows drawn down in thought, his lips pursed. “Are you going to arrest him?”
“No.”
Tellman breathed in and out slowly. “Good,” he said at last. “Because I’m not sure as he didn’t do it. But I am damn sure we haven’t got a thing to prove that he did.” He winced as if he had been hurt. “I hate arresting someone and then not getting a conviction.”
Pitt looked at him, trying to read his face.
Tellman smiled bleakly. “Nor do I want to get the wrong man,” he added grudgingly. “Though God knows who the right one is.”
Emily’s concentration was torn in two directions. It was of primary importance that she give every possible help to Jack, even if all their efforts were almost certainly in vain. But she was also deeply concerned for Pitt. She had heard the remarks of various people with connections in government and political circles, and she knew the climate of fear and blame that prevailed. No one had any ideas to offer, and certainly no assistance, but the incessant public clamor had made them frightened for their own positions, and consequently quick to blame others.
Now that the by-election date had been announced there were speeches and articles to be delivered, and now and then a public appearance of a more social nature at a ball or a concert. Some of these were very formal, such as receptions for foreign ambassadors or visiting dignitaries, some of a more casual kind, such as the soiree this evening. Since Mina Winthrop was obviously in mourning, she could not be invited, similarly Dulcie Arledge, but Emily had done the next best thing by asking Victor Garrick to play the cello as part of the entertainment for her guests, and then naturally as he was there, Thora Garrick was invited as well. Emily was not sure what that might accomplish, but one did not require to see an end in order for it to be achieved.
The guests were almost all included for political purposes, people of influence of one sort or another, and the whole event would be hard work. There would be no time for the pleasant indulgence of gossip. Every word must be watched and weighed. Emily stood at the top of the stairs and gazed across the sea of heads, the men’s smooth, the women’s all manner of elaborate coiffeur, many of them bristling with feathers, tiaras and jeweled pins. She tried to compose her mind. There were at least as many enemies here as friends—not only Jack’s enemies, but Pitt’s as well. Many of them would be members of the Inner Circle, some peripheral, as Micah Drummond had been, hardly even knowing what it really meant. Others would be high in its rungs of power, able to call on debts and loyalties of staggering proportions, even of career or future if need be, and able to pronounce terrible punishments if disobedience or treachery were suspected. But no outsider knew which was which; it could be any innocent, smiling face, any courteous gentleman passing polite inanities, any harmless-seeming man with white hair and benign smile.
Involuntarily she shivered, not only with fear but with anger.
She saw the fair hair of Victor Garrick shining under the chandeliers and began her way down to greet him.
“Good evening, Mr. Garrick,” she said as she reached the bottom and approached him, standing with his cello held very carefully. It was a beautiful instrument, warm polished wood the color of sherry in sunlight, and richly shaped. Its curves made her want to reach out and touch it, but she knew it would be an intrusion. He held the instrument almost as if it were a woman he loved. “I am so grateful to you for consenting to come,” she went on. “After hearing you play