The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [25]
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 excellent physique, Mr. Pitt, superb in sports, especially the noble arts of self-defense. ‘A healthy mind and a healthy body’ was his motto, and he was always as good as his word.”
Pitt was reminded suddenly of Eustace March, Emily’s uncle-in-law, insensitive, pompous, opinionated and insufferable—and in the end tragic. Had Oakley Winthrop been like that? If so, it was not surprising someone had murdered him.
“There must have been several of them, and well armed, to have overcome him,” Lord Winthrop continued, his voice rising as his anger mounted. “What are you doing to permit the situation to have reached this monstrous proportion, I should like to know.”
“As you say, sir.” Pitt kept a picture of Micah Drummond in his mind’s eye, the long, rather serious face with its aquiline nose and gray, innocent eyes. It was the only way he could control his temper. “Captain Winthrop was a fine man in the prime of life, in excellent health, and skilled in sport. He must have been attacked either by a greatly superior force, such as that of several people, possibly well armed, or else he was taken by surprise by someone he believed he had no cause to fear.”
Lord Winthrop stood motionless. “What are you implying?”
“That there appears to have been no struggle, sir,” Pitt explained, wishing he could move to ease the tension in himself, and yet the quiet room seemed to forbid anything but utter concentration on the tragedy in hand. “Captain Winthrop had no bruises upon his body or arms,” he continued. “No scratches or other marks, no contusions on his knuckles, nor were his clothes torn or scuffed. Had there been any struggle—”
“Yes, yes, yes! I am not a fool, man,” Lord Winthrop said impatiently. “I realize what you are saying.” He moved suddenly away from the mantel to stare out of the window onto the overgrown patch of dark laurels, his shoulders high, back rigid. “Betrayed—that is what it amounts to. Poor Oakley was betrayed.” He swung back again. “Well, Superintendent whatever-your-name-is, I expect you to find out who it was and see that he is brought to justice. I hope you understand me?”
Pitt bit back the response that rose to his lips.
“Yes, sir. Of course we will.”
Lord Winthrop was only partially mollified. “Betrayed. Good God!”
“Who was betrayed?” The door had opened without either of them noticing, and a slender woman with dark hair and large, heavy-lidded blue eyes stood just inside the room. Her manner was imperious and her face was full of passion, intelligence and anger. “Who was betrayed, Marlborough?”
Lord Winthrop turned to look at her, his face suddenly ironed of emotion.
“You do not need to concern yourself with it, my dear. It is better that you do not know the details. I shall tell you, naturally, when there is any news.”
“Nonsense!” She closed the door behind her. “If it has to do with Oakley, I have as much