Read Online The Hyde Park Headsman by Anne Perry - Free Book Online Page B

full implications, but he could not keep the urgency and the lift out of his voice.
    “In a pleasure boat? Nonsense,” Pitt dismissed it.
    “Then yes, sir, the whiskers were wet—I think.”
    “Blood?”
    “No—not a lot.” Tellman did not take his eyes from Pitt’s.
    “Wouldn’t there have been a lot if the head had simply fallen where he was killed?” Pitt asked.
    Still Tellman was cautious. “I don’t know, sir. It’s not something I ever experienced before. I would think so, yes. Unless one held the head up to kill him.”
    “How?”
    “What?”
    “How would one hold the head up? He had hardly any habón top.”
    Tellman breathed out, his eyes bright. He gave in at last.
    “Then I expect you’re right. I daresay he was killed in the boat, leaning over the side, and his head fell in the water. We’ll never prove it.”
    “Look at the boat carefully,” Pitt ordered, leaning back in his seat. “There may be a mark in the wood somewhere, a nick or a scratch. It must have been a very powerful blow, not easy to control. It would prove our theory.”
    “Yes sir,” Tellman said steadily. “Anything else, sir?”
    “Not unless you have something further to report.”
    “No sir. What would you like after that, sir?”
    “I’d like you to find that weapon, and continue to learn whatever you can about the man’s movements that night. Someone may have seen him.”
    “Yes sir.” The old insolence returned as if he could not help it. The resentment was too deep. The truce was over. “And what about Mrs. Winthrop? Are you going to look into her a lot more? See if she had a lover? Or would that be too offensive to the family?”
    “If I find out anything relevant, I’ll inform you,” Pitt said coolly. “Offensive or not. Now go and drag the Serpentine.”
    “Yes sir.”
    Pitt would rather have dragged the Serpentine than do the job he knew he should do next. He had been turning it over in his mind since leaving Portsmouth, debating whether it was really necessary or not. It might well prove useless in that it would turn up no new information, but that was not the only aspect to consider. There was the professional courtesy, and the fact that if he did not, the omission could prove expensive. Above all, he questioned himself, would Micah Drummond have gone; and he knew the answer without hesitation. He would have.
    Accordingly, in the late morning Pitt found himself in the library of Lord Marlborough Winthrop’s house in Chelsea, not more than a stone’s throw from the Thames. It was a solid, gracious house, but lacking in any individuality of style, and the library where Pitt was waiting was unimaginative in its use of leather, gold tooling, rich mahogany, and heavy, pillared mantel shelf. After barely one glance around it he could have closed his eyes and described the rest of what he would see, and he was not mistaken.
    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 gathersome 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