Pentecost Alley (38 page)

“Can you substantiate any of that, sir?” Pitt asked, almost certain before he spoke that he could not. If he could, Augustus would have said so at the outset, and he would have done so triumphantly. He could have dismissed Pitt, not sought for help. The fear in his voice was his answer.

“No, I don’t think so. The … the matter was a favor for a friend, a rather stupid matter he had got himself into,” Finlay overexplained. “Money, and a woman, all very sordid. I was trying to help him settle the matter once and for all without ruining anyone’s reputation. I didn’t particularly want to be seen by anyone I knew. Didn’t stop and speak to anyone.”

“I see.” All Pitt saw was the futility of it. “Is this your handkerchief, Mr. FitzJames?” He offered him the handkerchief found under Nora Gough’s pillow.

Finlay did not touch it.

“It might be. I have at least half a dozen like that, but so has almost everyone I know.”

“With ‘F.F.J.’ in the corner?”

“No, of … of course not. But … one can …” He swallowed. “One can have any initials sewn into a handkerchief one wishes. It doesn’t mean it was mine. I suppose you found it somewhere near this new corpse? I thought so. I can see it in your face.” His voice was rising. “Well, I didn’t kill her, Superintendent! I’ve never heard of her, and I’ve never been to Myrdle Street! Some … madman … is trying to ruin me, and before you ask, I haven’t the faintest idea who … or why! I …” He did not finish what he had been going to say. “Perhaps you should look at Albert Costigan’s friends? Someone is trying to incriminate both of us, Superintendent. Make us look like murderers, and you as an incompetent … indirecüy a murderer too.” There was challenge in his eyes and a small, bright victory. “I think it is as much in your interest as in mine to find out who it
is and bring him to justice. If I could help you, I would, but I have no idea where to begin. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll begin with a reconsideration of anyone who might believe they have cause to dislike you, Mr. FitzJames,” Pitt answered. “And proceed with those in whose professional or personal way you might stand. And perhaps a reexamination of the original members of the Hellfire Club.”

“I can’t do that!” Finlay said intensely, all the momentary elation vanished. “We were good friends. They simply are not that kind of person, not remotely. Friends of one’s youth are … well … it is not one of them, I assure you. I’ll consider all the other possibilities, and then make a list for you.”

“So shall I,” Augustus added. “You will have our fullest cooperation, Superintendent.” The ghost of a smile touched his humorless mouth. “Our interests are common, at least in this instance.”

Pitt could only agree.

“And somewhat urgent,” he added wryly. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Finlay. “Mr. FitzJames, good day.”

9

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
the outcry in the newspapers was far worse. It was not only the less reputable publications that were printing sensational headlines, but even
The Times
itself questioned the justice of Costigan’s trial, and through that, not only the efficiency of the police but their probity as well.

Farther into the paper there was another article reexamining the evidence put forward. It suggested very plainly that some of it was morally suspect and had been a matter of desire rather than fact. The whole case might have been conducted with more intention of finding a culprit quickly, and without embarrassment to the Force for its ineptitude, including those who had rested their political reputations in backing it, than a genuine concern for justice. Costigan had been the victim of these two less than admirable forces.

Several less reputable newspapers actually suggested that the officers in charge had been either threatened or bribed in order to close the case quickly. Pitt was likened to the unfortunate Inspector Abilene who had been unable to solve the previous outbreak of murders in Whitechapel, and Commissioner Warren, whose retirement the failure had forced upon him.

Several letters were printed raising a plea that Costigan should be pardoned posthumously, and his family, if they
could be found, paid a handsome reparation for his wrongful death.

Pitt folded them up after reading them. Gracie snatched them from him and would have put them on the fire, except that she knew that so much paper ash would block it from drawing air, and she would only have to clean the whole thing out and relight it.

Charlotte said nothing. She knew Pitt already understood everything there was to say about it, which was little enough. She knew he had acted honestly. To say so now would only suggest that there could be a question about it. Her greatest concern was to protect Daniel and Jemima. There was nothing she could do to save Pitt any of the hurt ahead except share it with him, and at the same time try not to show it too much.

She debated whether to allow the children to go to school, or if perhaps it would be better to keep them at home, at least for today. Then they would not overhear the remarks or have to endure the torments and the questions of other children or of people in the street. She could not be there all day to argue back or to explain to them what people meant, why they were angry, and why they were wrong.

She could even take them to her mother’s house for a while. They would be safe there, anonymous. A week or two away from school would not do any harm. They could catch up when this horrible business was over, and the truth was known.

But what if it was never known? What if it was like the Ripper all over again, and never solved? It could happen. Pitt was clever. He never gave up. But he did not solve all his cases. He had never failed with a murder yet, but there had been robberies, frauds, arson, where nothing was recovered and no one caught.

If she took them to Caroline’s, she would have taught them that when things are unpleasant, and when you are afraid, then run away and hide. It may disappear, and you won’t have to face it.

But if you do have to, it is twice as hard. You have not only told other people you are a coward, you have believed it yourself.

“It’s time for school.” She heard her own voice saying it before she knew she had made up her mind. She looked across and saw Pitt’s eyes on her. She could not read his face. She did not know whether he approved her decision or not. “I’ll walk with you again. Come on.”

Pitt spent the day in Whitechapel, and it was one of the worst days of his life. He questioned all the women in the tenement in Myrdle Street again, trying to learn anything further about Nora Gough. Could she possibly have known Ada? Had she quarreled with anyone? Had she known Costigan? Had she lent or borrowed money? Was there anything at all which could provide a motive for her death?

Her pimp was a huge, avuncular man with curly black hair and a filthy temper. But he could also account for his whereabouts all the relevant day, with unimpeachable witnesses. And he seemed genuinely distressed by Nora’s death. She was his best girl, earned him the most money and gave him no trouble.

In the early afternoon as Pitt was walking along Commercial Road East there was an ugly gathering of men and women outside one of the larger public houses. Someone started to shout. “Let’s ’ear it for Bert Costigan! Three cheers for Costigan!”

“’Ooray for Costigan!” another yelled, and the chorus was taken up all around.

“ ’E were a martyr ter the rich wot comes dahn ’ere ter use our women!” a thin man said loudly.

“An’ murder ’em!” someone else added to a loud cheering.

“ ’E were innocent!” a woman with pale hair chimed in. “They ’anged ’im fer nuffin’!”

“They ’anged ’im fer bein’ poor!” a fat man said furiously,
his face twisted with rage. “It’s them as oughta be ’anged!”

“Nah then! Nah then!” The landlord came to the door, a cloth in his hand, his apron askew. “Don’ want no trouble ’ere. Go orff ’ome with yer! Don’ talk daft.”

A young woman with a missing front tooth pushed her way forward aggressively. “’Oo a’ you callin’ daft, eh? Bert Costigan were ’anged fer summink ’e din’t do! That’s nuffink wif you, is it? Pay yer money an’ drink up, an’ never mind if yer gets ’anged fer some rich bastard ’oo comes dahn ’ere from ’is fancy ’ouse up west, an’ murders our women! Tha’s all right, is it?”

“I din’t say that!” the landlord protested. But by now there was more shouting and pushing and a youth was knocked over. Instantly a scuffle began, and within moments half a dozen men were throwing punches.

Pitt moved in, trying to force them apart and see that no injury was done, especially to some of the women who were now screaming. He took it to be fear, only to discover—too late, when he was in the thick of it—that it was rage and encouragement.

Someone was yelling Costigan’s name like a sort of war chant.

Pitt was being battered from all sides. The landlord was in the middle of it somewhere.

A police whistle shrilled and someone screamed.

The fight grew worse. Pitt was knocked off his feet and would have fallen over except that the landlord cannoned into him from the left, and both of them landed on top of a sprawling youth with red hair and a bloody nose.

More police arrived, and the mêlée was broken up. Three men and two women were arrested. Eight people were hurt more or less seriously. One had a broken collarbone. Two had to be sent to the surgeon for stitching.

Pitt left feeling severely bruised—and with his collar torn, one elbow ripped out of his jacket, and thoroughly covered in dirt and several bloodstains.

Naturally it all made the evening newspapers, along with much comment and criticism, and renewed calls for a pardon for Costigan and questions about the whole structure and justification of the police force in general, and Pitt in particular.

Comparisons were drawn between this case and the previous Whitechapel murders two years ago, flattering to no one.

More riots and the breakdown of public order were predicted.

Pitt returned home at about seven o’clock, worn out, bruised in mind and in body, uncertain even which way to turn next. He had no idea who had murdered either of the women, or where Costigan or Finlay FitzJames fitted in, or if they did at all.

He recognized Vespasia’s carriage outside in the street and was not sure whether he was pleased or sorry. He did not want her to see him at his worst. He was ragged, dirty and exhausted. Her good opinion of him mattered very much. He would far rather she thought of him as able to rise above such crisis and failure as this. On the other hand, it would be good to hear her advice—in fact, just to see her and know her strength and resolve. Courage was just as contagious as despair, perhaps more so.

What took him by surprise when he went into the parlor was to find Cornwallis there as well, looking grim and extremely shaken.

Charlotte stood up immediately, even before Pitt had time to greet anyone.

“You must be tired and hungry,” she said, going directly to him. “There’s fresh hot water upstairs, and dinner will be ready in half an hour. Aunt Vespasia and Mr. Cornwallis are staying. There will be time to talk to them.” It was almost a dismissal, but he was glad enough to accept it. He knew his clothes carried the stench of the middens, the spilled beer, the dust of the street where he had fought, and the stale sweat of frightened, jostling people. Even the fear and the anger seemed to cling to him.

He came down again thirty minutes later, still exhausted and stiffening, bruises darkening on his face, but he was clean and ready to face the inevitable discussion.

It began as soon as the first course was served. None of them wished to pretend.

“There are two ways we must approach this,” Cornwallis said earnestly, leaning a little forward. “We must do all we can to discover, and prove, who killed this second woman. And we must show that the arrest of Costigan was based on solid evidence, fairly obtained, and his trial was conducted honorably.” His lips tightened. “I don’t know how we can prove that we did not conceal evidence that would implicate anyone else.” His voice dropped and his eyes fixed on the flowers in the blue bowl in the center of the table. “I fear perhaps we did—”