Pentecost Alley (45 page)

“Pay yer every time ’e kills some poor bitch, does ’e?”

“ ’Ow much, eh? ’Ow much is one o’ our women worth to yer, Rozzer?”

Pitt opened his mouth to speak, and someone hit him. It was a glancing blow, but it shocked him and sent him off balance.

There was a cheer, then someone laughed.

Pitt straightened up onto his feet.

He was taller than the man had expected, and bigger. The man stepped back.

Another man squared up beside him, ready to join him. It was becoming extremely unpleasant. Pitt felt a sharp tug of fear and sweat broke out on his body. He would not go down without a fight, but he would have no chance whatever of beating this many men. They would injure him badly, perhaps even kill him.

The man nearest him rocked gently on the balls of his feet, ready to begin, his eyes moving from one side to the other, his face glistening with the sweat of excitement. Pitt could smell it sharp in the air.

“Go on!” a high voice yelled. “Wot yer waitin’ fer?”

The first man glanced sideways to make certain he would not be starting alone. He saw confirmation in the other’s eyes and stepped forward, fists high, clenched.

Pitt altered his weight, ready for the first blow.

“Stop it!”

Everyone froze. There was command in the voice. It was not a shout, but it carried across the full extent of the room.

Pitt’s breath caught in his throat and almost choked him.

The crowd was elbowed aside and Jago Jones forced
his way through. His face was set like iron, his eyes blazing.

“What the devil’s going on here?” he demanded, staring at one man, then another.

“No need for you, Reverend,” one man said sharply. “You go on about ’elpin’ the sick and them as wants yer. We don’t want yer ’ere!”

There was a murmur of agreement. Someone stretched out a hand towards him to push. He ignored it.

“In’t your business ’ere, Reverend,” another man said roughly. “Go on wi’ yer own business an’ aht o’ ours!”

“What are you trying to do?” Jago stared at him without wavering. “Commit another murder and prove we are the ignorant and stupid people the rich would like to believe? Murder a police superintendent who’s only doing his job and they’ll have the army in here before you can turn ’round.”

There was a low grumble of complaint, but one by one they stepped back, or were pulled, leaving Jago facing Pitt.

“Are you finished with your lunch?” Jago asked, but his face made it plain it was an order rather than a question.

Pitt swallowed. There was still a good deal of his sandwich left, and half his cider. He picked up the glass and drained it, then took the sandwich in his hand.

“Yes.”

Jago turned to face the way out. For several seconds no one moved. They stood together, belligerently, daring Jago to brave them.

“Are you going to attack me too?” he said with only the faintest catch in his throat. “Is this your idea of courage and intelligence? This how you want the people up west to think of you … beasts who set upon priests and policemen?”

There was a growl of anger, but several moved back a step.

Jago led the way through the silent crowd. Their eyes
were sullen, and many fists were still clenched tight. No one moved any farther to let them pass, and Pitt actually brushed two of them as he went.

Outside the air was colder and smelled of horse manure and drains, but Pitt gulped it as if it had been as sweet as the bright, clean wind off the sea.

“Thank you,” he said shakily. “I … I didn’t realize the feeling was so deep … or so bad.”

“There’s always someone to take advantage of trouble,” Jago replied, striding out along the street back towards St. Mary’s Church. “Political opportunists, or simply people full of hate and failure who need to blame someone for it. You were a natural target. You were a little naive not to have seen it.”

Pitt said nothing. Jago was right.

They walked side by side, rapidly. Pitt had come because he could not rid himself of the painful suspicion that Jago was the link between Finlay FitzJames and Whitechapel, between the past and the present. He was the only person who unarguably knew both Ada and Finlay. He probably knew Nora Gough as well. Pitt hated the thought. He hated even more having to broach the subject to Jago, who had just rescued him, possibly at some risk to himself.

Pitt drew breath and was about to ask when Jago stopped abruptly.

They had gone up Mansell Street and were at the corner of the Whitechapel Road. The traffic was heavy, mostly commercial.

“I’ve got to go and call on a woman whose husband was drowned last week,” Jago said as clearly as he could above the rattle of wheels and clatter of hooves. “I’d be careful around here, Superintendent. Don’t wait in any place too long. If you have to question a crowd, take some constables with you. I presume you are no further …” The rest of what he said was drowned out by a passing dray.

“No,” Pitt replied when it had gone. “Not much.”

Jago gave him a quick, brilliant smile of sympathy, then set out across the street, dodging between the traffic, and disappeared.

Pitt went to find Lennox. It was just possible there was some fact he might have noticed that he had omitted to mention, some strand of difference, even something he might know about the nature of a man who would do such a thing to another human being.

He found him in a makeshift shelter of half-rotted timber crates by the river stairs. He was treating an old man whose bent body shook with delirium, although whether from fever or the effects of raw alcohol Pitt did not know. Apparently Lennox did not care. He spoke to the man gently, easing him up in his makeshift bed, straightening out the rumpled blankets. He fetched him water and produced from his own pocket half a loaf of bread, which the man took, bit into, then chewed very slowly, barely able to swallow.

Pitt waited until he had finished, and then as he left, walked with him across the alley to the broader street. Every now and then the afternoon sun was overcast by clouds driving up from the east over the river.

“How can I help you, Superintendent?” Lennox asked curiously. He still looked strained, but there was less tension in his body than the last time Pitt had seen him, and less tiredness in his face.

“I’m achieving nothing with this case,” Pitt answered frankly. “You examined both bodies. Were there any differences at all in the way in which they were treated?”

Lennox kept on walking, his eyes straight ahead.

“No.”

“Nothing at all?” Pitt persisted. “I know the stockings used to strangle both women were their own, and tied in the same way. But then there are only a number of ways you tie a noose to strangle someone. What about the fingers and toes? Were they the same ones broken or dislocated?”

“Yes.” Lennox’s face was hard and tight, as if he were still feeling in his own mind the pain it must have inflicted. The corners of his mouth were white. There was a tiny muscle ticking in his temple.

“Exactly the same?” Pitt pressed.

“Yes, exactly. If you are trying to say it was two different men committed the murders, then I am afraid I can’t help you. I know Costigan is hanged, and I’m sorry. I wish I could comfort you … but I can’t.” He was dogged, head forward, eyes almost blind; so absorbed was he by his emotions, he nearly stepped off the footpath into the road. Only Pitt’s hand jerking his arm prevented him. A hansom swept by, the rush of air causing his hair to blow back off his brow.

“What about fingernails?” Pitt said after Lennox had composed himself, but not spoken. The roadway was clear and they set off together, matching step for step until they reached the far side.

“Fingernails?” Lennox asked.

“Yes. One of Ada’s was torn where she tried to get the stocking off her neck. She fought, but only for a few moments. Nora had small bruises, and blood in one nail. She was a much smaller woman, very light, yet she seems to have fought for longer.”

“Is that a question?” Lennox asked, skirting around a pile of refuse on the pavement.

“Yes.” Pitt went around the other side of it. “Why was Nora able to fight longer? That’s a difference!”

“I don’t know.” Lennox looked puzzled, a furrow across his brow. “Maybe he took Ada by surprise? Some people do fight harder than others. No idea why. Same with illness. Some people succumb, die of things you think they should have recovered from quite easily. Others cling onto life and survive illnesses or injuries which should have killed them, would have killed anyone else. It’s to do with will, not physical size or strength.”

Pitt was waiting for him to go on, but he did not.

“But the medical evidence suggests to you that it is the same person who killed them both?” Pitt said after a minute or two.

Lennox stopped and turned to face him. His eyes were shadowed, confusion and pain in them, his mouth pinched with memory.

“I don’t know, Superintendent. All I know is what I see. It is your job to deduce guilt or innocence. I can’t help you any more. If I could, and I could point to someone and say ‘That is the man,’ I would. Surely to God you know that? I have seen two young women tortured, subjected to humiliation and terror and pain, and then killed!” His voice caught in his throat and for a moment he lost control of himself, the emotion within him was so violent. He gasped for breath, swallowing, trying to regain at least mastery of his face.

Pitt put out his hand and took the younger man’s arm. He felt the muscles in spasm beneath the cloth of his jacket.

“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you for more. Of course it’s the same person. I … I can’t bring Costigan back, and I don’t seem able to find who it is that really did it. I’m getting desperate.”

Lennox drew in his breath as if to speak, then stared at Pitt in utter misery.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Lennox,” Pitt apologized. “I’ve waited too long to face something I dread, but it’s time I did. Thank you for your time. I’m sorry to have taken you away from your patients.” He let go of him and turned on his heel, walking back towards the Whitechapel Road and St. Mary’s Church. It was time to confront Jago Jones.

Actually he found Jago in Coke Street, as he had before, handing out mugs of hot soup to the hungry and the homeless, only this time he was helped by a tired and smut-smeared woman Pitt barely recognized—Tallulah FitzJames. He stopped close to them and watched
without attempting to draw their attention. Tallulah looked utterly different from the blithe and brittle woman he had seen in Devonshire Street. Were it not for the individuality of her face, he would never have known her. She was absorbed in what she was doing, although every now and again he saw a fleeting look of revulsion come over her face, and her effort to wipe it away as she reapplied herself to the work of helping, lifting, spooning out.

There was a bay of used clothes in which every now and then she searched, found something, and took it out, passing it to eager hands.

For one grimy child with a runny nose she took a little extra trouble, searching through the drab clothes until she discovered something bright, cheerful, with a pattern of red on it.

“There you are,” she said with a smile. She was too tactful to mention its warmth as well. “You’ll look really pretty in that!”

The child swallowed and sniffed. She had never even thought of being pretty before. It was a dream, something only for other people.

“Take it,” Tallulah urged. “It’s yours.”

The mother looked up, speechless.

The child had no words. Her eyes widened. She looked up at Tallulah, then took a step towards her, and another, then she threw her arms around her.

For an instant Tallulah froze, her whole body stiff with an instinctive revulsion. Then she made an effort of will which was there in her face only an instant, then gone again. She smiled and bent down, putting her own arms around the child in response.

Then the moment was gone, and she moved on to the next person in line, but a softness remained in her face as if her wide eyes still saw something precious.

The people in the line moved by slowly, one by one. Men were resentful, hating to take charity. Women, gaunt-faced, holding grubby children, had no such pride. To
them the cold and hunger of a child was sharper than any diminution of status or confession of need.

When the last mug had been filled and Jago and Tallulah were left alone with the cart, Pitt went over to them. Tallulah was picking up the now-empty sack from which the clothes had been taken. He wondered if perhaps she had brought it herself, a material contribution as well as her labor.

Jago walked over and greeted him civilly enough, but his eyes were wary and tired. Tallulah was some yards away, still tidying up.

“What can we do for you, Superintendent? I don’t know anything more than I did last time we spoke.”

“Did you know Nora Gough?” Pitt asked quietly. “I didn’t have the chance to ask you then.”

Jago smiled in spite of himself. “No you didn’t, did you! Yes, I knew her slightly. A pretty girl. Very young. Very confident. I think she might well have been one of those who go on to marry and become quite respectable. It happens, you know?” He looked at Pitt to see if he believed it.

“Yes, I know it does,” Pitt agreed. “I’ve seen it a few times.”

Jago sighed. “Of course you have. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to patronize you.”

“Any reason you say that … about Nora?”

“Not directly. Just an impression. She may have said something. Why? Do you think it has any relation to her being killed?”

“I’m looking for anything at all. A handkerchief with Finlay’s initials on it was found under her pillow.”

Jago cleared his throat sharply, his face suddenly very pale.

“You can’t think …” He let out a long sigh. “What do you want of me, Superintendent? I know nothing about who killed either woman. I … I find it hard to believe it was Finlay, and I would regret it more profoundly than you could know if it were.” He did not look at Tallulah.
It did not seem at that instant as if her pain was what was uppermost in his mind.

“A man resembling Finlay was the last customer to be seen leaving Nora’s room,” Pitt went on, watching Jago’s face.