The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [168]
“Whether I am welcome or not is a matter of complete indifference,” Pitt answered, still facing, not Bart, but Mina. “Mrs. Winthrop, if I were to ask your servants, would they bear out your story of a domestic pet’s death?”
Mina looked very white and her hands were shaking. She opened her mouth to speak, but found no words. Her lips were dry.
“Mrs. Winthrop,” he said grimly, hating the necessity for this. “We know that your husband beat you—”
Her head jerked up, her face white with horror. “Oh no, no!” she said involuntarily. “It was … accidental … he … it was my own fault. If I were less clumsy, less stupid … I provoked him by …” She trailed off, staring at Bart.
Victor looked at Mina, his eyes wide and hard, waiting.
“It is not your fault!” Bart said between his teeth. “I don’t care a damn how stupid or persistent or argumentative you were! Nothing justifies—”
“Bart!” Her voice rose close to a shriek, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re wrong! You’re wrong! It was nothing! He never intended to hurt me! You misunderstand all of it. Oakley wasn’t … cruel. It was the whiskey. He just …”
Victor looked at Mina’s terror, and at Bart, white-faced and torn with indecision.
“Didn’t it hurt?” he asked very gently.
“No, no Victor dear, it was all over very quickly,” she assured him. “Bart is just a little”—she hesitated—“protective of me.”
“That’s not true!” Victor’s voice was thick, almost choking. “It hurts—it frightens! It’s in your face! You were terrified of him. And he made you feel ashamed all the time, and worthless …”
“No! No, that’s not true. He didn’t mean it. And I am all right, I promise you!”
“Because the swine is dead!” Bart spat. He was about to add something more, but he got no further. Mina burst into tears, her shoulders hunched over as dry sobs racked her and she sank onto the sofa. Bart strode forward, almost knocking Victor out of the way, and took Pitt roughly by the arm, propelling him towards the door. Victor remained immobile.
In the hallway Pitt made no protest, and a few moments later, feeling the bruises of Bait’s fingers on his arm a trifle tenderly, he walked along the footpath towards the main thoroughfare. It was a clear evening, and still just light. He was not expecting anything to happen for some time.
He spent a tense fifteen minutes taking a glass of cider in a public house, then continued his way as the cloud cover grew heavier and the daylight dimmed. It was some time before he was sure he was being followed. At first it was only a sensation, a consciousness of a sound which echoed his footsteps, stopping when he did, resuming when he did.
By the time he reached Marylebone Road it was dark, and he had great difficulty in not increasing his speed. It was an odd, prickling feeling, and most unpleasant. If he were correct in his guesses, tenuous as they were, built on impressions and a few threads of tangible, definite evidence, then it was the Headsman who was now behind him, watching, coming closer, waiting his chance. He would have the weapon with him. He would have taken it from its hiding place and left the house, hurrying to catch up.
In spite of his resolution to appear natural, he could not keep his step from hastening. He heard the rapid, slightly uneven tap, tap of his boots on the pavement, and behind him, closer now, the echoing feet, swift and light, of his follower.
Marylebone Road turned into the Euston Road. A landau passed him, carriage lamps yellow, horses’ hooves loud on the cobbles. He was walking now as fast as he could without actually running. The lamplighter was passing, tipping his long pole to each wick and one by one they sprang to life, a row of brilliant isolated globes, between which stretched areas of darkness, hiding passersby, people on their way home, weary from the day or expectant of the evening. He saw the tall outline of a stovepipe hat against the light as a man hurried by.
Euston station was only a hundred yards