The Hyde Park Headsman (Thomas and Charlotte Pitt Series #14)

( 10 )

Overview

Not since the bloody deeds of Jack the Ripper have Londoners felt such terror as that aroused by the gruesome beheadings in Hyde Park. And if newly promoted Police Superintendent Thomas Pitt does not quickly apprehend the perpetrator, he is likely to lose his own head, professionally speaking. Yet even with the help of Charlotte Pitt’s subtle investigation, the sinister violence continues unchecked. And in a shocking turn of events that nearly convinces the pair of sleuths that they have met their match, the case...

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The Hyde Park Headsman (Thomas and Charlotte Pitt Series #14)

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Overview

Not since the bloody deeds of Jack the Ripper have Londoners felt such terror as that aroused by the gruesome beheadings in Hyde Park. And if newly promoted Police Superintendent Thomas Pitt does not quickly apprehend the perpetrator, he is likely to lose his own head, professionally speaking. Yet even with the help of Charlotte Pitt’s subtle investigation, the sinister violence continues unchecked. And in a shocking turn of events that nearly convinces the pair of sleuths that they have met their match, the case proves to be Pitt’s toughest ever.

From the author of Traitor's Gate comes the latest Victorian mystery starring Police Supervisor Thomas Pitt and his wife Charlotte. When people start losing their heads in London, newly-promoted Thomas Pitt could lose his job! "Captivating."--The Indianapolis Star.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“A corking good story . . . [Perry is] a preeminent writer of Victorian mysteries.”—Chicago Sun-Times

“[Anne] Perry’s strengths: memorable characters and an ability to evoke the Victorian era with the finely wrought detail of a miniaturist.”—The Wall Street Journal
 
“Thrilling . . . [Perry’s] understanding of the historically rich period enables her to devise a plot true to its time yet timeless in its approach to human nature.”—The Orlando Sentinel
 
“Splendidly plotted . . . explores the nature of power while adding detail and color to Perry’s ever more elaborate tapestry of late-nineteenth-century London life.”—Publishers Weekly
 
“Full of suspense, intrigue, politics and psychological insights.”—Winston-Salem Journal
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
In addition to being a splendidly plotted yarn, Perry's 14th Thomas and Charlotte Pitt mystery, following last year's Farrier's Lane , explores the nature of power while adding detail and color to Perry's ever more elaborate tapestry of late-19th century London life. The discovery in Hyde Park of the decapitated corpse of Oakley Winthrop, a naval captain from a titled family, sends a ripple of fear through the city that still has vivid memories of Jack the Ripper. Those at the top clearly expect Thomas, recently named superintendent in charge of the Bow Street station, to catch the murderer summarily. Thomas views the attack as personally motivated and isolated until a second headless corpse turns up in the park. Adding to the pressure on the new superintendent is Nigel Uttley, candidate in a Parliamentary by-election and member of the Inner Circle, a powerful secret society, who uses the murders as fodder for some rousing electioneering at police expense. While Thomas, spurred on by the discovery of yet another body, determinedly searches for a link among the dead men, Charlotte and her sister, Emily Radley, turn their drawing-room skills to information gathering and uncover a secret to which Thomas was blind. By painting her characters' personal dilemmas as vividly as she does their historical context, Perry keeps her series fresh and continually compelling. (Mar.)
Library Journal
Well-known series protagonist Thomas Pitt, newly promoted to police supervisor, faces fierce pressure to apprehend a notorious murderer who beheads his victims. More fine work from a popular historicist.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345514158
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 10/4/2011
  • Series: Thomas and Charlotte Pitt Series , #14
  • Pages: 400
  • Sales rank: 227,721
  • Product dimensions: 8.02 (w) x 5.28 (h) x 0.86 (d)

Meet the Author

Anne Perry
ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of the World War I novels No Graves as Yet, Shoulder the Sky, Angels in the Gloom, At Some Disputed Barricade, and We Shall Not Sleep; as well as five holiday novels: A Christmas Journey, A Christmas Visitor, A Christmas Guest, A Christmas Secret, and A Christmas Beginning. She is also the creator of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England. Her William Monk novels include Dark Assassin, The Shifting Tide, and Death of a Stranger. The popular novels featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt include Long Spoon Lane, Seven Dials, and Southampton Row. Her short story "Heroes" won an Edgar Award. Anne Perry lives in Scotland. Visit her website at anneperry.net.

Biography

Born in London in October 1938, Anne Perry was plagued with health problems as a young child. So severe were her illnesses that at age eight she was sent to the Bahamas to live with family friends in the hopes that the warmer climate would improve her health. She returned to her family as a young teenager, but sickness and frequent moves had interrupted her formal education to the extent that she was finally forced to leave school altogether. With the encouragement of her supportive parents, she was able to "fill in the gaps" with voracious reading, and her lack of formal schooling has never held her back.

Although Perry held down many jobs—working at various times as a retail clerk, stewardess, limousine dispatcher, and insurance underwriter—the only thing she ever seriously wanted to do in life was to write. (In her '20s, she started putting together the first draft of Tathea, a fantasy that would not see print until 1999.) At the suggestion of her stepfather, she began writing mysteries set in Victorian London; and in 1979, one of her manuscripts was accepted for publication. The book was The Cater Street Hangman, an ingenious crime novel that introduced a clever, extremely untidy police inspector named Thomas Pitt. In this way an intriguing mystery series was born…along with a successful writing career.

In addition to the Thomas and Charlotte Pitt novels, Perry crafts darker, more layered Victorian mysteries around the character of London police detective William Monk, whose memory has been impaired by a coach accident. (Monk debuted in 1990's The Face of a Stranger.) She also writes historical novels set during the First World War (No Graves as Yet, Shoulder the Sky, etc.) and holiday-themed mysteries (A Christmas Journey, A Christmas Secret, etc), and her short stories have been included in several anthologies.

Good To Know

Some fun and fascinating outtakes from our interview with Anne Perry:

The first time I made any money telling a story I was four and a half years old—golden hair, blue eyes, a pink smocked dress, and neat little socks and shoes. I walked home from school (it was safe then) with my lunchtime sixpence unspent. A large boy, perhaps 12 or 13, stopped me. He was carrying a stick and threatened to hit me if I didn't give him my sixpence. I told him a long, sad story about how poor we were—no food at home, not even enough money for shoes! He gave me his half crown—five times sixpence! It's appalling! I didn't think of it as lying, just escaping with my sixpence. How on earth he could have believed me I have no idea. Perhaps that is the knack of a good story—let your imagination go wild, pile on the emotions—believe it yourself, evidence to the contrary be damned. I am not really proud of that particular example!

I used to live next door to people who had a tame dove. They had rescued it when it broke its wing. The wing healed, but it never learned to fly again. I used to walk a mile or so around the village with the dove. Its little legs were only an inch or two long, so it got tired, then it would ride on my head. Naturally I talked to it. It was a very nice bird. I got some funny looks. Strangers even asked me if I knew there was a bird on my head! Who the heck did they think I was talking to? Of course I knew there was a bird on my head. I'm not stupid—just a writer, and entitled to be a little different. I'm also English, so that gives me a second excuse!

On the other hand I'm not totally scatty. I like maths, and I used to love quadratic equations. One of the most exciting things that happened to me was when someone explained non-Euclidean geometry to me, and I suddenly saw the infinite possibilities in lateral thinking! How could I have been so blind before?

Here are some things I like—and one thing I don't:

  • I love wild places, beech trees, bluebell woods, light on water—whether the light is sunlight, moonlight, or lamplight; and whether the water is ocean, rain, snow, river, mist, or even a puddle.

  • I love the setting sun in autumn over the cornstooks.

  • I love to eat raspberries, pink grapefruit, crusty bread dipped in olive oil.

  • I love gardens where you seem to walk from "room to room," with rambling roses and vines climbing into the trees and sudden vistas when you turn corners.

  • I love white swans and the wild geese flying overhead.

  • I dislike rigidity, prejudice, ill-temper, and perhaps above all, self-righteousness.

  • I love laughter, mercy, courage, hope. I think that probably makes me pretty much like most people. But that isn't bad.
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      1. Also Known As:
        Juliet Hulme
      2. Hometown:
        Portmahomack, Ross-shire, U.K
      1. Date of Birth:
        October 28, 1938
      2. Place of Birth:
        Blackheath, London England

    Read an Excerpt

    “Oh George.” Millicent let out her breath in a sigh of happiness. “Isn’t it beautiful? I’ve never been out in the park at this time of the morning before. The dawn is so romantic, don’t you think? It’s the beginning of everything!”

    George said nothing, but tiptoed a little more rapidly over the wet grass.

    “Look at the light on the water.” Millicent went on ecstatically. “It’s just like a great silver plate.”

    "Funny shape for a plate," George muttered, regarding the long, narrow, snake of the Serpentine with less enthusiasm than she.

    “It will be like a fairyland out there.” Millicent had no respect for the practical at a time like this. She had crept out through the park to sail on the dawn-lit water alone with George. What place had the literal at such a point? She picked up her skirts to keep them from getting soaked in the dew; this much was merely common sense, which was a totally different thing. No one wanted the wet, heavy fabric flapping around their ankles.

    “There’s someone already out,” George said with disgust. And in the broadening light it was quite plain that there was indeed one of the small boats about three yards from the shore, but the figure in it was curiously bent over, as if looking for something in the bottom of the boat by his feet.

    Millicent could hardly contain her disappointment. Where was the romance if someone else was present, someone not part of the idyll? One could pretend Hyde Park, in the middle of London, were a wood in some European archdukedom and George a prince, or at least a knight, but some other mundane-minded oarsman would definitely spoil it; apart from the fact that she should not be here, unchaperoned, and a witness was not welcome.

    “Maybe he’ll go away,” she said hopefully.

    “He’s not moving,” George replied with annoyance. He raised his voice. “Excuse me, sir. Are you quite well?”He frowned. “I can’t see the fellow’s face at all,” he added to Millicent. “Wait here. I shall see if he will be a gentleman and move a little away.” And he strode down towards the bank regardless of his shoes getting soaked, hesitated on the verge, then stumbled to his knees and slid with a violent splash into the water.

    ‘Oh!” Millicent was horrified, painfully embarrassed for him, and having difficulty stifling her intense desire to giggle. “Oh, George!” She ran down the grass to where he was thrashing around in the shallows making a fearful noise and stirring up mud without seeming to regain his feet. Extraordinarily, the man in the boat took no notice whatsoever.

    Then in the fast strengthening light, Millicent saw why. She had assumed he was bent forward, as had George. It was not so. His head was absent. There was nothing above his shoulders but the blood-soaked stump of his head.

    Millicent crumpled into total oblivion and fell headlong onto the grass.

    “Yes, sir,” the constable said smartly. “Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop, R.N. Found ’eadless in one o’ them little rowboats on the Serpentine. This morning’ about dawn. Two young lovers off for a romantic trip.” He invested the word romantic with infinite scorn. “Poor souls fainted clean away–got no stomach for the like o’ that.”

    “Not unnatural,” Superintendent Thomas Pitt said reasonably. “I should find it a very worrying thought if they had.”

    The constable quite obviously did not understand him.

    “Yes sir,” he said with bland obedience. “The local bobby were called, when the gentleman pulled hisself together and got out o’ the water. I gather ’e fell in wi’ the shock o’ the event, like.” His lips twitched very slightly but his voice was carefully ironed of even the suspicion of humor. “Constable Withers, that was ’im what was called, ’is bein’ on duty in the park, like. ’E took one look at the corpse an’ knew as ’e’d got a real nasty one, so ’e sent for ’is sergeant, an’ they looked a bit closer, like.” He drew in his breath, waiting for Pitt to say something.

    “Yes?” Pitt prompted.

    “That’s when they found ’oo the dead man were,” the constable continued. “ ’Im being an important naval man, and an ‘Honorable,’ like, they thought it should be someone of your rank to ’andle it–sir.” He looked at Pitt with satisfaction.

    Pitt was newly promoted to superintendent. He had fought it long because he knew his real skill, which was very considerable, lay in working with people, both with the denizens of the semiunderworld, the poor or the truly criminal, and with the inhabitants of the servants’ quarters, the front parlors, and the withdrawing rooms of the gentry.

    Then in the late autumn of last year, 1899, his superior, Micah Drummond, had retired from office in order to marry the woman he had loved ever since the appalling scandal that had ruined her husband and finally taken his life. He had recommended Pitt to fill his place on the grounds that although Pitt was not a gentleman, as Drummond most certainly was, he had the experience of actual police work, at which he was undoubtedly gifted, and had proved himself able to solve even the most delicate cases involving the politically or socially powerful.

    And after the fiasco of the Whitechapel murders, still unsolved and perhaps destined to remain so, and the fierce unpopularity of the police, the public lack of faith in them, it was time for a bold change.

    So now in the spring of 1890, the dawn of a new decade, Pitt was in charge of the Bow Street station, with special responsibility for sensitive cases which threatened to become explosive if not handled with both tact and extreme dispatch. Hence P. C. Grover was standing in front of him in the beautiful office which he had inherited from Micah Drummond, telling him of the decapitation of Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop, knowing that Pitt would be obliged to handle the case.

    “What else do you know about it?” Pitt asked, looking up at Grover and leaning back in his chair, although at times like this he still felt it to be Drummond’s chair.

    “Sir?” Grover raised his eyebrows.

    “What did the medical officer say?” Pitt prompted.

    “Died of ’avin’ ’is ’ead cut orf,” Grover replied, lifting his chin a little.

    Pitt considered telling him not to be insolent, but he was still feeling his way with the men in his command. He had not worked with them closely before, always having one sergeant with him at most, more often no one at all. He was regarded more as a rival than a colleague.

    They had obeyed Drummond because he was from a distinguished family with private means and had a career in the army behind him, and thus was of a class doubly used to command. Pitt was totally different, a gamekeeper’s son who spoke well only because he had been educated, by grace, with the son of the estate. He had neither the manner nor the appearance of one born to lead. He was tall, but he frequently stood awkwardly. His hair was untidy, even on his best days. On his worst it looked as if he had been blown in by a gale. He dressed with abandon, and kept in his pockets a marvelous assortment of articles which he thought one day might prove handy.

    The Bow Street men were slow to get used to him, and he was finding leadership alien to his nature. He was used to disregarding the rules, and being tolerated because he succeeded. Command placed quite different obligations on him and required a stiffer and less eccentric example to be set. Suddenly he was responsible for other men’s orders, their successes and failures, even their physical safety.

    Pitt fixed Grover with a cold eye. “Time of death, Constable,” he said levelly. “That would be more instructive to know. And was he killed in the boat or brought there afterwards?”

    Grover’s face fell. “Oh, I don’t think we know that, sir. Not yet. Bit of a risky thing to do, though, chop a man’s head orf right there in the park. Could ’ave been seen by anyone out for a walk.”

    “And how many people were out for a walk at that hour, Grover?”

    Grover shifted his feet.

    “Oh, well, don’t seem as if there were nobody but them two as found ’im. But your murderer couldn’t ’ave counted on that, could ’e.” It was a statement rather than a question. “Could’ve been anyone comin’ home late from a party, or a night out, takin’ the air . . .”

    “That is if it was done in daylight,” Pitt pointed out. “Perhaps it was done long before that. Have you found anyone else who was in the park yet?”

    “No sir, not yet. We came to report it to you, Mr. Pitt, as soon as we realized as it were someone important.” It was his ultimate justification, and he knew it was sufficient.

    “Right,” Pitt agreed. “By the way, did you find the head?”

    “Yes sir, it was right there in the boat beside ’im, like,” Grover replied, blinking.

    “I see. Thank you. Send Mr. Tellman up, will you.”

    “Yes, sir.” Grover stood to attention momentarily. “Thank you, sir.” And he turned on his heel and went out, closing the door softly behind him.

    It was less than three minutes before Tellman knocked, and Pitt told him to enter. He was a lean man with a narrow aquiline face, hollow cheeks and a tight sarcastic mouth. He had come up through the ranks with hard work and ruthless application. Six months ago he had been Pitt’s equal, now he was his junior, and resented it bitterly. He stood to attention in front of the large leather-inlaid desk, and Pitt sitting in the east chair behind it.
    “Yes, sir,” he said coldly.

    Pitt refused to acknowledge he had heard the tone in Tellman’s voice. He looked across at him with innocent eyes. “There’s been a murder in Hyde Park,” he said calmly. “A man by the name of Oakley Winthrop, Captain the Honorable, R.N. Found a little after dawn in one of the pleasure boats on the Serpentine. Beheaded.”

    “Unpleasant,” Tellman said laconically. “Important, was he, this Winthrop?”

    “I don’t know,” Pitt said honestly. “But his parents are titled, so we can assume he was, at least in some people’s eyes.”

    Tellman pulled a face. He despised those he considered passengers in society. Privilege stirred in him a raw, bitter anger that stretched far back into his childhood memories of hunger, cold, and endless weariness and anxiety, a father beaten by circumstances till he had no pride left, a mother who worked till she was too tired to talk to her children or laugh with them.

    “I suppose we will all be trudging holes in our boots so we can get the beggar who did it,” he said sourly. “Sounds like a madman to me. I mean, why would anyone do anything so–” He stopped, uncertain what word he wanted. “Was his his head there? You didn’t say.”

    From the Paperback edition.

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    Sort by: Showing all of 10 Customer Reviews
    • Anonymous

      Posted December 31, 2000

      Typical Perry

      While not containing so many 'shocks' as her William Monk novels, this is a good read. It's not one of Perry's very very best, but it's still better, and more attention-holding, than most other mystery novels. Although the astute reader may be able to guess the connections, the criminal comes as a complete surprise.

      1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted May 14, 2014

      Did not receive

      Did not receive this book. I love these books, how can they do this. They are expensive.



      No book. Paid and waited. Still no book. Big money. Very unhappy.
      I really love the pitt and charlotte series. I love all the characters. Wish perry would have stayed away from so much politics. Char and pitt not the same, miss who they use to be.







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    • Posted March 30, 2013

      Another great book

      I love the Thomas & Charlotte Pitt mysteries

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    • Posted March 8, 2013

      Highly Recommend the H.P. Headsman

      While I am moving right along reading all the books in order, this one really keeps you guessing. Most of the regular characters are there, but Thomas is now a newbee superintendent and Charlotte is busy trying to renovate a new home for the family. Emily is on vacation in this one, but that does not stop all the conflict and new associations. Speaking of associations, what is the association with all the murdered victims? Between the conflict of solving the murders, the pressure on our favorite Thomas to prove himself to unsupportive management, Aunt V's former admirer, and the settin and dresses, this was one I had a hard time putting down. Very well done, Anne!

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