The Hyde Park Headsman (23 page)

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “If I did I would be the first to go to him and tell him. But it isn’t only finding the solution.” He bit into his deviled kidneys and savored them with pleasure. He waited till he had swallowed the first mouthful before he continued. “It’s finding the solution that society wants,” he finished.

“Which is what? Some lunatic escaped from Bedlam that we can all disown, and say it has nothing to do with us?” she retorted, stirring the compote viciously. “If it isn’t, then we can hardly blame Thomas.”

“Emily, my dearest, people have blamed the messenger for the contents of the message as long as history has been recorded. Of course they can—and they will.”

“That’s childish.” She swallowed a mouthful and it went the wrong way. She nearly choked before recovering enough to glare at him.

“Of course it is,” he agreed, pouring her a cup of tea and passing it. “What has that to do with it? You don’t have to be in politics long to know that an awful lot of people’s reactions can be childish, and we usually cater to the very worst of those once we begin trying to beat each other.”

“What are you going to say against Uttley? You’ve got to say something. You can’t let him get away with this.”

“I don’t think Thomas will thank me for defending him—” he began.

“Not Thomas,” she interrupted. “You! You can’t sit here and let Uttley bring the battle to you. You’ve got to attack.”

He thought for several moments, and she waited with difficulty, eating the rest of her compote without tasting it.

“There is no point whatever in talking figures to people,” he said thoughtfully, setting down his fork as his meal was finished. “It has no emotion.”

“Don’t defend,” she argued. “You can’t defend effectively anyway. All the criminals caught don’t amount to anything compared with the ones that are still at large—not in people’s minds.” She swallowed. “Anyway, it’s bad to look defensive. It isn’t your fault that the police are inefficient. And don’t let him push you into a position where people imagine it is.” She reached for the silver teapot. “Would you care for some more?”

He pushed forward his cup and she poured for him.

“Attack him,” she went on. “What are his weaknesses?”

“Fiscal affairs, the national economy …”

“That won’t do.” She dismissed it out of hand. “It’s boring, and people don’t understand it anyway. You can hardly talk about shillings and pence on the hustings. People won’t listen.”

“I know that,” he agreed with a smile. “But you asked me what his weaknesses were.”

“Why don’t you do what Charlotte did?” she suggested at length. “Pretend to be naive and ask him to explain himself. You know he can’t abide people laughing at him.”

“That’s very dangerous—”

“So is his present attack on the police, and through them on you. What do you have to lose?”

He looked at her thoughtfully for several moments, then slowly his face relaxed and his eyes lit with enthusiasm.

“Don’t blame me if it explodes in my face,” he warned.

“Of course I shan’t. But let’s go down with a real battle.” She leaned forward and caught hold of his hand where it lay on the table. “Let’s go in with all flags flying and all guns firing.”

“I may have to retire to the country afterwards.”

“Afterwards, perhaps,” she conceded. “But not before.”

Jack contrived the opportunity the next day. Uttley was addressing a considerable crowd at Hyde Park Corner and Jack sauntered up, Emily on his arm. People were drawing closer from all directions, many with pies, sandwiches or peppermint drinks in their hands. The Punch and Judy man abandoned his stall, knowing the real drama was more fun any day. A nursemaid with a perambulator slowed her step and a newsboy and an urchin sweeping the crossing both ceased their shouting and listened.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Uttley began, although the address to ladies was purely a courtesy. No women could vote, so their opinion was superfluous. “Ladies and gentlemen! We are at a crossroads in the life of our great city. It is up to you to decide which way you wish to go. Do you like it as it is, or do you want something better?” He was dressed in a dark coat, double-breasted and with silk lapels, and lighter striped trousers. The sunlight gleamed on his browned face and fair hair.

“Better!” yelled at least a dozen voices.

“Of course you do,” he agreed with enthusiasm. “You want
money in
your pockets, food on your tables, and you want to be able to walk the streets of your city in safety.” He gave a meaningful gesture towards the green expanse of the park behind him and there was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

“How’s he going to manage the money?” Emily whispered to Jack. “Ask him.”

“No point,” he whispered back. “The poor don’t have votes anyway.”

Emily gave a grunt of irritation.

“Never mind the street!”

“What about the parks?” a fat man in a coster’s apron called out. “Can we walk them in safety too?”

There was a bellow of laughter from the crowd and someone whistled.

“Not now!” Uttley looked at him. “Not now, my friend. But you ought to be able to—if the police were doing their job!”

There were one or two cries of agreement.

“Do you want patrols in the park?” Jack asked loudly.

“Good idea, Mr. Radley,” Uttley answered, pointing his finger at him to draw everyone’s attention. “Why didn’t you say that in your last address? You didn’t, you know—not a word!”

Everyone turned to stare at Jack.

Jack surveyed the faces now looking at him.

“Do you want police patrols through the park?” he asked innocently.

“Yeah!” a couple called out, but most were silent. No one spoke against.

“What should they do?” Jack pursued. “Stop you—ask you what your business is? Who it is you are with?” There was a rumble of denial.

“Search you for weapons?” he went on. “Take your name and address?”

“How about stop you from being attacked, robbed or murdered?” Uttley asked. The crowd gave a shout of approval and then a quick burst of laughter.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that,” Jack said, still with bland innocence. “Follow you. Of course. And then when someone approaches, they should come close enough to prevent any sudden blow or lunge. And if the person should prove to be merely an acquaintance …” He stopped amid a few murmurs of anger and glowing faces. “Oh no—that wouldn’t do—because we don’t know that it wasn’t an acquaintance that killed Captain Winthrop and Mr. Arledge. Whoever it is, the policemen had better remain close enough to intervene if it should seem necessary.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Uttley began, but he was drowned out by catcalls and laughter.

“Wouldn’t that require an awful lot of policemen?” Jack asked. “In fact, roughly one each for every person who wanted to take a stroll. Perhaps we should call up the police station and wait for an escort. It would be terribly expensive. Taxes would double or triple.”

There were calls of disapproval and derision, and one man laughed uproariously.

“This is ridiculous!” Uttley shouted above the melee. “You have reduced it to an absurdity! There are perfectly sensible ways of doing it.”

“Then tell us,” Jack invited him, holding his hands wide.

“Yeah,” the crowd called, turning their faces from one to the other. “Go on—tell us!”

Uttley struggled to define them, but it became obvious he had thought only in generalities, and when it came to a specific solution he could not name one. The crowd whistled and catcalled, and Jack had no need to aid in his rival’s undoing. Eventually, red-faced and furious, Uttley turned on him.

“What will you do that’s better, Radley? Give us your answer!”

As one the crowd swiveled to look at Jack, their eyes keen, their jeering as ready to strip him.

“I blame the Irish!” one woman called out, her face red with fury. “That’s who it is—you’ll see!”

“Rubbish!” a black-haired man contradicted her with contempt. “It’s them Jews!”

“Hang ’em!” a man in green shouted, raising his arm. “Hang ’em all!”

“Bring back deportation!” someone else called. “Let Orstralia ’ave ’em! Should never ’ave got rid o’ deportation—that’s wot’s wrong.”

“Can’t do anything until you catch them,” Jack pointed out. “I say get more professional police, men who are trained to do the job, not gentlemen who speak nicely and have good clothes but couldn’t catch a thief if they were locked in a room with him.”

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s right!” someone called out. A thin woman in gray waved her hand approvingly. A stout man with waxed mustaches jeered and whistled. “What you got agin’ gentlemen? You an anarchist, eh? You one o’ them wot wants ter get rid o’ the Queen, are yer?”

“Certainly not,” Jack replied, keeping his equanimity with difficulty. “I’m a loyal subject of Her Majesty. And I like gentlemen—some of my best friends are gentlemen. In fact, at times I am one myself.”

There was a roar of laughter.

“But I’m not a policeman,” he went on. “I don’t have that skill—and I know it. Neither do most other gentlemen.”

“Even some o’ our policemen don’t, an’ all!” the pie seller shouted, to more laughter. “ ’Oo’s the ’Yde Park ’Eadsman, then? Why don’t they catch ’im?”

“They will do!” Jack called out impulsively. “There’s a first-class professional policeman on the case—and if the Home Office helps instead of curbing him, he’ll catch the Headsman!” As soon as he had said it, Emily knew he regretted it, but the words were out.

There was a roar of skepticism from the crowd, and one or two turned to look at Uttley.

“Superintendent Pitt,” Uttley said with a jeering smile. “A gamekeeper’s son. I know why Mr. Radley has such confidence in him—they are brothers-in-law! Do you know something the public have not been told, Radley? Something secret, perhaps? What are the police doing? What is Pitt doing?”

Now the crowd was looking at Jack with suspicion, and an ugliness shadowed their faces. The mood had changed again.

“I know he’s a brilliant policeman, working as hard as any man can,” Jack shouted back. “And if he isn’t hobbled by the powers in the Home Office and the government, trying to protect their own, then he’ll catch the Headsman.”

There was a low, angry rumble and again the mood swung right around and directed the anger at Uttley.

“Yeah!” a fat man said loudly. “Give us real police, not some bleedin’ toff in fancy clothes wot won’t get his ’ands dirty.”

“That’s right,” the woman with the peppermint drinks added. “Get rid of them wot’s protecting their own. The ’Eadsman maybe ain’t a poor lunatic at all. Maybe ’e’s one o’ them fancy gents wot’s got something personal agin’ other gents.”

“Maybe they was perverts wot picked up women an’ got done by their pimps for something real nasty?”

Uttley opened his mouth to deny it, then saw their faces and changed his mind.

“They are our police, and it’s our city,” Jack said finally. “Let’s give them our support and they’ll catch this monster—whoever he is: gentleman or lunatic—or both.”

There was a cheer from the crowd, and one by one they began to drift away.

Uttley jumped down from the carriage steps where he had been standing and walked over to Jack and Emily, his eyes hard and narrow, the small muscle in his jaw pinched. “A little
cheap laughter,” he said between his teeth. “Half a dozen men who can vote—maybe. The rest is dross.”

“If they were no use, what were you doing here?” Emily said before she thought.

Uttley glared at her. “There are issues here, madam, you know nothing about.” He looked at Jack with a steady, unblinking stare. “But you do, Radley. You know who is on my side … and who on yours.” His lips parted in a very slight smile. “You made a bad mistake last time, and it will tell against you. You’ve made enemies. It will be enough—you’ll see.” And with that he turned on his heel, strode back to his carriage and swung himself up into it in a single movement. He shouted at his coachman and without hesitation the horses threw themselves forward as the whip lashed over their backs.

“He means the Inner Circle, doesn’t he?” Emily said with a shiver as though the sun had gone in, although actually it was as bright as the moment before. “Can it really make so much difference?”

“I don’t know,” Jack answered honestly. “But if it can, it’s a very black day for England.”

Charlotte was in the kitchen after Pitt had left for the day, and the breakfast dishes were cleared away. Daniel and Jemima were preparing to leave for school, and Gracie was at the sink.

Five-year-old Daniel coughed dramatically, then as no one paid him any attention, Charlotte being busy with seven-year-old Jemima’s hair, he did it again.

“Daniel has a cough,” Jemima said helpfully.

“Yes I have,” Daniel agreed immediately, and went into a paroxysm to demonstrate it.

“Don’t do that anymore, or you’ll have a real sore throat,” Charlotte said unsympathetically.

“I have,” he agreed, nodding his head, his eyes on hers, bright and clear.

She smiled at him. “Yes, my dear, and it is my considered deduction that you also have arithmetic today, yes?”

He was too young to have learned successful evasion.

“I don’t think I’m well enough for arithmetic,” he said candidly. The sun through the windows shone on his bright hair, gleaming with the same auburn as hers.

“You’ll get better,” she said cheerfully.

His face fell.

“Or on the other hand,” she went on, finishing Jemima’s hair and tying a ribbon on it. “If you really are ill, then you had better stay at home …”

“Yes!” he said with instant enthusiasm.

“In bed,” she concluded. “We’ll see if you are well enough to get up tomorrow. Gracie can make you some eel broth, and maybe a little light gruel.”

Daniel’s face filled with dismay.

“Then you can catch up with your arithmetic when you are well again,” Charlotte added heartlessly. “Jemima will help you.”

“Yes I will,” Jemima cut in. “I know how to do sums.”

“I think maybe I’ll be all right,” Daniel said slowly, giving Jemima a filthy look. “I’ll try hard.”

Charlotte gave him a radiant smile and touched his head gently, feeling the soft hair under her fingers.