The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [24]
Lord Winthrop himself, when he closed the door silently behind him and stood facing Pitt, was a man of indeterminate features, sandy hair and an expression which was lugubrious in the extreme, although whether that was his nature or the present circumstances it was not possible to say. Pitt felt in his mind it was the former. There seemed no softening in his face, no mellower lines around the eyes. He looked as if laughter did not come easily to him. He reminded Pitt queasily of the bloodless face in the morgue, the same features, the same mottled coloring. Of course today he was dressed entirely in black.
“Good morning, Mr….” He looked at Pitt, trying to gather some impression of him, to place his social status to know how to treazt him.
“Superintendent Pitt.” He still liked the sound of the title, and then felt self-conscious for having spoken it The man might prove to be pompous and superficial, but he had just lost a son in a fearful manner. His grief and his shock would be real. To judge him now would be a far greater offense than any he was likely to 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,