The Hyde Park Headsman by Anne Perry Page B

some chance madman, probably very little,” Pitt replied. “Unless he kills again and leaves more evidence next time.”
    “Good God! What a fearful thought! I assume that you do not think it was a band of robbers? No, I must say it seems unlikely. They would not have left anything on him, and you say there were coins in his waistcoat pocket, and a gold watch and the chain commonly known as an albert.” He moved his elegant head in a motion of denial. “And anyway, why on earth would thieves take off the poor man’s head? Thieves come armed with knives or cudgels, or even a garrote, but not an actual cutlass. So in your opinion it resolves to either a madman or someone he knew?” His lips tightened. “How very unpleasant.”
    “Less frightening to the public than a gang of thieves who behead their victims,” Pitt observed.
    “Oh true, quite true.” Huriwood gave a ghost of a smile. “Nevertheless we must clear it up as soon as possible. What I would like to know, if you can tell me, is if it has anything to do with the navy, in your opinion. It is not unnatural that the Admiralty should wish to know.”
    Pitt caught a whiff of fear, and could imagine the preparation for denial, and thence, the disclamation.
    “There is no evidence to suggest it yet,” he replied carefully. “I have been to Portsmouth and spoken to his lieutenant, who says that he had no quarrel there, and he was not killed until eight days after he came up to London.”
    “Indicative.” Hurlwood nodded his head, relaxing a fraction. “A long time to wait if one has a murderous quarrel. Hardly the heat of the moment. Still, not enough to rule it out.” He was easier; his long, elegant hands were no longer clenched, but he was not naive enough to accept escape so swiftly.
    “I also checked as many as possible of his colleagues and friends to see if they were in Portsmouth on the night of his death,” Pitt added. “So far they were all in Portsmouth at times close enough to midnight of that night that they could not have been in London, even on the fastest of trains.”
    “I see. Yes, that would be conclusive.” Hurlwood rose to his feet in a single, graceful motion. His clothes were beautiful. He made Pitt feel shabby. Micah Drummond would not have felt so far short in the comparison. He was not a dandy, but he had the elegance that comes without effort to the true gentleman.
    Pitt stood up also, his jacket bulging where his pockets were stuffed with notes the desk sergeant had given him and a ball of string from which he had recently tied up a parcel.
    “So you are left with a personal motive,” Hurlwood continued. “All the same, I imagine you will give it your fullest attention, Superintendent, in view of the nature of the crime and the distinguished family of the victim.” It was not a question but an assumption.
    “Naturally,” Pitt agreed. “But it is not a matter in which haste will be appropriate.”
    Hurlwood flashed him a broad smile. His teeth were excellent, and no doubt he was aware of it, but there was genuine humor in him, an appreciation of all that Pitt had not said.
    “Of course,” he agreed. “I do not envy you, Superintendent. Very courteous of you to spare me your time. Good day, sir.”
    “Good day, Mr. Hurlwood,” Pitt replied, smiling himself at the euphemism. The day could hardly be good for any of them.
    *  *  *
    Hurlwood had been gone only half an hour when the sergeant returned, eyes wide again, breath catching in his throat. This time it was Giles Farnsworth, the assistant commissioner, who was a step behind him. He was smooth-faced, cleanshaven and perhaps ten years younger than Hurlwood. Today he looked angry and harassed. His white shirt was immaculate, his winged collar high and a trifle tight, his fair brown hair was thick and brushed back off his broad brow, but there was anxiety in his expression and the beginnings of a ragged temper.
    “Good afternoon, Pitt.” He closed the door