The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [119]
Pitt was confused. Was Bart Mitchell referring to Winthrop’s death? And what did Thora Garrick know of this?
“Well?” Lismore asked.
Pitt recalled his attention. “Did you hear the reply?”
“Only in part. She was in some distress, and not entirely coherent.”
“And the part you heard?”
“Oh—she insisted it was her fault, that she had caused whatever it had been by her foolishness, and that he really should not be so angry, it was not an uncommon event, or something of the sort. I am sorry, I really was most uncomfortable to have overheard any of it at all.”
“Did you see Mr. Mitchell with Mr. Arledge?” Pitt persisted. “What was his manner?”
“No—no I did not.” Lismore shook his head. “So far as I can remember, Aidan had left in order to conduct the second half of the performance when I saw Mr. Mitchell take Mrs. Winthrop out towards the door and, I presume, leave the premises. They seemed to have resolved whatever difference it had been by then. Apparently he had persuaded her he was right, and she seemed pleased about it.”
“Thank you. You have been extremely helpful.” Pitt rose to his feet with his mind whirling. “Thank you for your time and your frankness.” He turned towards the door. “Good day, Sir James.”
“Good day, Superintendent,” Lismore said with some confusion, and obvious curiosity.
Emily had enjoyed the party, in spite of its having been an entirely political affair. There were many aspects of the campaign she did not care for in the slightest. Speaking in the streets was sometimes fun, other times more tiring, dispiriting or even dangerous. Helping Jack to write articles and speeches for specific audiences was a chore, and one she entered into only because she was loyal to him and wished him to fight with every possible advantage she could give, even if it were a battle he had little realistic chance of winning.
Although in the last few days that had changed markedly. The signs were quite subtle to begin with, an altered tone from one of the principal columnists in the Times, a questioning of Uttley’s motives for the criticisms he had made of the police, even the suggestion that perhaps Jack Radley’s loyalties were more what was desired at the moment. A question of patriotism was raised.
But this evening had been fun. She had danced and chattered, seemingly artlessly, but in fact with the greatest imaginable art. She had flattered and laughed, been amusing and, once or twice, as fitted the moment, even been astute in her observations, politically wise, to the amazement and delight of several portly and middle-aged men of influence. Altogether the whole event had been a resounding success.
As she and Jack took their leave she was on the crest of a wave, and swept out on his arm to walk the short way home to Ashworth House in the balmy late spring evening. The moon was high like a silver lantern above the trees, and the air smelled of night-scented flowers. The shadows of carriages, lanterns gleaming, clattered past them and left them in the darkness between the lampposts almost as if the gentleness of the night were wrapped around them.
Jack was singing under his breath and walking with a very slight swagger. It was not the result of too much indulgence, simply elation and a tremendous sense of well-being.
Emily found herself smiling widely and humming along with him.
They turned the corner from the broad, well-lit avenue into a quieter road, trees overhanging the high garden walls, shadowing the lamps on their slender posts.
Suddenly Jack let out a cry and lurched against her, catching her roughly and knocking her sideways into the gutter before he fell forward onto his hands, only saving himself at the last moment from injuring his face