The Hyde Park Headsman Read Online Free PDF Page A

immaculate. No dust and no signs of use marred its virgin surface.
    What manner of man had Captain Winthrop been? He gazed around the room seeking some clue as to character, some touch of individuality. He saw nothing. It was essentially a masculine place, dark greens and wines, leather upholstery, books, prints of ships on the wall, a heavy carved mantel with bronze statuary of lions at one end and two hunting dogs at the other. There was a heavy Waterford crystal whiskey decanter, a quarter full, on the side table. He had the powerful feeling of being in a room prepared for a man, rather than one a man had chosen for himself.
    The door opened and the butler stood in the entrance.
    “Mrs. Winthrop will see you, sir, if you care to come to the withdrawing room.”
    Pitt left the library with a sense of incompleteness and followed the butler back across the hallway and towards the rear of the house, where the long withdrawing room stretched towards the open lawn and formal rose beds. He had time only to be aware of excellent architectural proportions, spoiled by curtains which were too ornate for the windows, and a heavy carved white-and-gray marble mantel. Wilhelmina Winthrop was dressed entirely in black, as was to be expected, but the totality of it startled him until he realized why. She was a very slender woman, in fact unkind judgment would have said thin. Her fairish hair was swept up in heavy coils, making her neck look even more fragile. Her black gown, swirling around the chair in which she sat, was adorned by a black lace fichu covering her throat up to her chin, and her long sleeves came down in lace points over the backs of her hands, almost to her knuckles. It was the most alarmingly somber garb he had ever seen, and it made her look vulnerable. He thought at first glance that she was much younger than he had supposed, perhaps in her twenties. Then as he approached her more closelyhe saw the fine lines in her face and the skin around her eyes. He adjusted his judgment. She was nearer her mid-thirties.
    Behind her stood a man of medium height, not heavy but of athletic build, thickly curling brown hair, and a subtly aquiline face, the skin of which had been burned to a warm, deep color as from a climate where summer followed summer unceasingly.
    “Good afternoon, Mrs. Winthrop,” Pitt said gravely. “May I offer you my deepest sympathies upon your loss.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Pitt,” she answered; her voice was soft and her diction clear and most pleasing. Her smile was only the barest expression of good manners.
    The man behind her frowned. “You must have some more profound purpose than expressing your condolences, Superintendent. I am sure you will understand if we ask that you make this as brief as possible. It is hardly a time when my sister wishes to receive people, however necessary or well-intentioned.”
    “Please, Bart.” She put up a hand towards him. “Mr. Pitt, this is my brother, Bartholomew Mitchell. He has come to be with me at this most—most trying time. Please excuse his manner being a trifle abrupt, but he is solicitous for my welfare. He does not mean to be rude.”
    “Certainly I shall not trespass on your time any longer than need be, ma’am,” Pitt agreed. There was no easy or pleasant way to do this, even if he came after Tellman and had no news, simply questions to ask. Still they were intrusive and painful when she would almost certainly rather be alone to allow her mind and her heart to absorb the shock and begin to realize her new situation, the reality of death, aloneness, the beginning of grief and the long road which from now on would be without companionship or support.
    “Have you any further news for us?” Bart Mitchell asked, leaning forward over his sister’s chair.
    “No—I am afraid not.” Pitt was still standing. “Inspector Tellman is busy asking people who were in the park and who might have seen something, and of course looking for material