Pentecost Alley

by Anne Perry

  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—”

  “I have no love for Augustus FitzJames,” Vespasia interrupted firmly, looking at Pitt, then at Cornwallis. “But making public the evidence against his son is likely to provoke a hysterical reaction which will not only be unjust, but will almost certainly make it a great deal harder to discover the truth. And whatever my personal feelings towards him, and indeed whatever his own morality, I do not wish to see him punished for something he did not do. Even if no one will punish him for what he did,” she added ruefully.

  Cornwallis regarded her gravely, weighing what she had said, then he turned to Pitt. “Just how much is Finlay FitzJames implicated in this second crime? First tell me what you know, then give me your opinion.” He began to eat his small portion of fish slowly. From his expression of intense concentration on Pitt, it was impossible to tell if he was even aware of what was on his plate.

  Pitt told him exactly what he had found in Nora Gough’s room and what Finlay had said about his whereabouts.

  The dishes were removed and steak-and-kidney pie and vegetables served. Gracie came and went in efficient silence, but she knew who Cornwallis was, and she watched him with the utmost suspicion, as if she feared that at any moment he might pose some threat to her beloved family.

  Cornwallis seemed unaware of her keen little face so often turned towards him. His attention never left Pitt.

  “And your opinion?” Cornwallis prompted the moment Pitt concluded.

  Pitt thought hard. He was acutely aware that Cornwallis would value what he said, possibly base his actions and his own judgments upon it.

  “I really believed Costigan was guilty,” he answered after a moment. “It wasn’t proved beyond any doubt whatever, but he admitted it. I never did understand why he was so brutal with her. He denied that to the end.” He remembered Costigan’s face with a sick churning in his stomach. “He was a nasty little man, pathetic and vicious, but I didn’t sense in him the streak of sadism which would have driven him to break or dislocate her fingers and toes.”

  “She cheated him out of part of her earnings,” Cornwallis said dubiously. “He considered she belonged to him, so it was a kind of betrayal. Weak men can be very cruel.” His face tightened. “I’ve seen it in the navy. Give the wrong man a little power and he’ll abuse those below him.”

  “Oh, Costigan was abusive, all right,” Pitt agreed. “But the garter, the boots! It all seems more than just ordinarily vicious. It doesn’t seem like hot temper … more like …”

  “Something calculated,” Charlotte supplied for him.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you had doubts that Costigan was guilty?” Cornwallis said with anxiety pinching his face but no sense of accusation. He had spent his life in naval command, and he gave without question the same loyalty to his crew that he expected from them in return. On such trust he had faced, and would face again, whatever the forces of nature and the guns of battle could offer.

  “No.” Pitt met his eyes candidly. “No, I didn’t then. I just thought I hadn’t read him very well.” He tried desperately to clear his mind and remember exactly what he had felt as he had talked to Costigan, seen his face, felt his terror and self-pity. How honest had he been? How much was he influenced by relief and an inner determination to prove the case so they could all escape the shadow of having to pursue Augustus FitzJames’s son?

  “He never denied killing her,” he went on, staring across the dining room table at Cornwallis. The food was almost ignored. Gracie was standing by the kitchen door, a clean cloth in her hand for holding hot dishes, but she was listening as intently as any of them.

  “But he always denied torturing her,” Pitt continued painfully. “And no matter how hard I pressed, he always denied knowing anything about FitzJames, or the badge, or the cuff link.”

  “Did you believe him?” Vespasia asked quietly.

  Pitt thought for a long time before replying. There was silence in the room. No one moved.

  “I suppose I did,” Pitt said at last. “As it wouldn’t have gone on worrying me. At least … I didn’t believe he could have done it alone, or that he had any reason to.”

  “Then we’re back to where we started,” Cornwallis said, looking from one to the other of them. “It doesn’t make sense. If it was not Costigan, and there can be no doubt it is not him this time, then who can it be? Is it someone we have not thought of? Or can it be what I think we are all dreading, and FitzJames is guilty of both crimes?”

  “No, he isn’t guilty,” Charlotte said, looking at the table in front of her.

  “Why not?” Vespasia asked curiously, setting down her fork on her plate. “What do you know, Charlotte, which makes you speak with such certainty?”

  Charlotte was thoroughly uncomfortable, and Pitt knew why, but he did not intervene.

  “Tallulah FitzJames saw him the night Ada McKinley was killed,” Charlotte replied, lifting her eyes to meet Vespasia’s.

  “Indeed?” Vespasia said with caution. “And why did she not say so at the time? It would have saved a great deal of trouble.”

  “She couldn’t say so because she was somewhere she should not have been,” Charlotte replied unhappily. “And she had already lied about it, so no one would have believed her anyway.”

  “That does not surprise me overmuch.” Vespasia nodded. “But it would seem that you believe her. Why?”

  “Well … actually, Emily does.” Charlotte bit her lip. “It was Emily she told. Finlay really is a pretty good wastrel, and not a particularly worthy person. But he didn’t kill Ada.”

  “Was no one else at this place who would testify?” Cornwallis asked, looking at Charlotte, then at Pitt. “Why did they not come forward? Surely Finlay would have asked them to? Or if he really did not remember where he was, why did his sister not ask them to speak? The whole issue could have been cleared up immediately!” He was puzzled and there was an edge of anger in his voice.

  Vespasia turned to Charlotte, food now entirely forgotten. “Just what sort of a place was this that no one is prepared to admit having been there? I confess, my curiosity is aroused. Do we live in such a very squeamish age? I cannot think of anywhere whatever that a robust young man would be too delicate to admit having attended. Was it a dogfight, or a bare-knuckle boxing match? A gambling den? A brothel?”

  “A party where they drank too much and took opium,” Charlotte replied in a very small voice.

  Cornwallis’s expression darkened.

  Vespasia bit her lip; her eyebrows arched. “Stupid, but not so very extraordinary. I would not deny having been in such a place if I could save a man’s life by admitting to it.”

  Charlotte said nothing, but Pitt knew that it was not doubt so much as indecision as to how she could phrase what she meant.

  Cornwallis, who did not know her, was watching Vespasia.

  “Then if we could find these people,” he said decisively, “we could at least clear FitzJames of the first crime, and by inference, of the second also.” He turned to Pitt. “Did you know this? Why didn’t you mention it before?”

  “I only learned it when it seemed already irrelevant,” Pitt replied, and saw Charlotte blush.

  Cornwallis observed the exchange, as did Vespasia, but nei
ther of them made comment.

  “At least it solves one question,” Cornwallis resumed, sitting back and taking up his fork again.

  “Now it remains to discover why someone placed his belongings at the scene, and of course who, but those two are basically the same question. The answer to one will provide the answer to the other. Surely that must be one man.”

  He looked at Vespasia, then Pitt. “I find it hard to imagine it could be someone living in Whitechapel and an associate of either woman. It must be someone who hates FitzJames profoundly, a personal enemy of an extraordinary nature. Which brings us back to investigating FitzJames, but that is unavoidable.”

  “Could it be some form of conspiracy?” Vespasia asked, also now eating her steak-and-kidney pie. Charlotte was very good at a suet crust.

  Both men looked at her.

  “You mean one person to kill the woman, the other to provide the evidence, and perhaps even to place it?”

  Pitt did not believe it. It was too complicated, and far too dangerous. If there had been anyone else involved that Costigan knew of, he would have said so. He would not have gone to the rope alone.

  But Cornwallis’s eyes were on Vespasia.

  Charlotte cleared her throat.

  “Yes?” Pitt asked.

  She was acutely uncomfortable, but there was no escape. Now they were all looking at her.

  “It isn’t really proof that Finlay was at the party,” she said very slowly, her face pink. She avoided Pitt’s eyes. “You see … I think almost everyone there was so preoccupied with their own enjoyment, and so … so affected by whatever they were drinking, or otherwise taking, that the evidence would not really be a great deal of use. One could have taken a troop of dancing horses through there and no one would have been sure afterwards whether it happened or they had imagined it.”

  “I see.” Cornwallis accepted it with good grace but could not mask his disappointment. “But you believe the sister? She was sober enough to be sure she saw him there?”

  This time she met his eyes.

  “Oh, yes. She was only there for a very short while. When she realized what was going on, she left.”

  “And did Emily tell you all this?” Vespasia enquired innocently.

  Charlotte hesitated.

  “I see.” Vespasia said nothing more.

  Charlotte kept her gaze on her plate and began to eat again, very slowly.

  Gracie had retreated into the kitchen.

  “I must answer this question of having Costigan pardoned,” Cornwallis said grimly. “Although I am not sure how much of it rests upon me, other than to take the blame for the prosecution. A pardon will be up to the judge and the Home Secretary, possibly the Queen. I wish to God we’d waited another week. Then the poor devil would still be alive and we could pardon him to some effect!”

  Pitt did not approach the subject of hanging. It was one about which he felt profoundly, but this was not the time. And no doubt others would do so in the all-too-near future.

  “Could Costigan be guilty, and this be a second murderer, copying the method of the first?” Cornwallis asked, looking at Pitt but without any hope or belief.

  “No,” Pitt answered unhesitatingly. “Unless it is one of us, and that is as close to impossible as matters. Only Constable Binns, Inspector Ewart, and Lennox, the police surgeon, knew the details of the first.”

  They all waited expectantly, Cornwallis leaning forward, back stiff, Vespasia with her hands resting on the table edge.

  “Binns was patrolling his usual beat and was attracted by the panic of a witness leaving Pentecost Alley,” Pitt said in answer to the unspoken question. “Ewart was at home with his wife and family, and Lennox was called from another case he’d been attending. It was close by, but he’d been with the patient all evening. Hadn’t left them at all until he was sent for.”

  “That seems to make it plain,” Cornwallis said bleakly.

  Charlotte stood up and cleared away the plates, some unfinished. Then, with Gracie, she brought in the rice pudding, which was golden on top, sprinkled with nutmeg. There were stewed plums to go with it.

  “Thank you,” Cornwallis accepted, then winced as his mind returned to the problem. “It seems all we can do is present a brave face, make no excuses, no accusations until we have absolute proof; blame no one else; and keep on investigating both FitzJames and the material evidence around Nora Gough’s death, exactly as we would if we had no suspects at all. Pitt, I would prefer it if you handled the FitzJames end of the case. It is extremely sensitive and will no doubt get worse. I would like to think the newspapers would leave us alone, but it would be quite unrealistic to expect it. I am afraid we have enemies, and they will not lose such an opportunity to strike at us. I’m sorry.” He looked distressed. “I wish I were able to offer you more protection….”

  Pitt forced himself to smile.

  “Thank you, sir, but I am quite aware of the restrictions upon you, or anyone in your position. There is no defense.”

  And so it proved. Pitt interviewed everyone he felt might be of the slightest assistance regarding the FitzJames family, and anyone so injured by them, intentionally or not, that they might wish revenge. He enquired both personally and professionally, and learned a great deal about Augustus FitzJames and the nature of his financial empire—and the means whereby he had forged it and now maintained it. It was ruthless. There was no deference paid to loyalties or friendships, but it was never outside the law. He settled his debts to the letter, never above. He seldom lent, but when he did, he expected repayment to the farthing.

  He was a cold man, yet apparently not unattractive to women, and had been known to carry on affairs with several acquaintances. But in his circle he was far from the only one, and it had never provoked scandal, and most certainly never a divorce. No one’s reputation had been marred.

  As Cornwallis had foreseen, the press became more strident. Costigan was rapidly becoming elevated to the status of a folk hero, a martyr to the inefficiency and corruption of the police, whose creation some were now beginning to say had been a mistake. Pitt’s name was mentioned several times. One agitator even suggested that he was personally responsible for having placed the evidence which incriminated Costigan and for having removed evidence which would have implicated someone else, a man of breeding and money, able to purchase his immunity.

  It was slanderous, of course, but the only defense of any value was to prove him wrong. And that Pitt was so far unable to do.

  He was sitting in his office in Bow Street late in the afternoon of the third day after Nora Gough’s death when Jack Radley came to see him. He was formally dressed, as if he had just left the House of Commons, and in spite of the smooth, handsome lines of his face, he looked tired and harassed. He closed the door behind him and walked over to one of the chairs.

  “It’s not very good, Thomas,” he said thoughtfully. “They raised it in the House this afternoon. A great deal was said.”

  “I can imagine.” Pitt pulled a rueful face. “The police have enemies.”

  “You have personal enemies too,” Jack replied. “Although they are not all where you might have expected.”

  “Inner Circle,” Pitt said unhesitatingly. He had been invited to join the ranks of that secret society, and had declined. Quite apart from the members he had exposed at one time and another, that was a sin for which he would not be forgiven.

  “Not necessarily.” Jack’s dark blue eyes widened. His usual carefree, half-amused expression was absent. There were unaccustomed lines of anxiety between his brows and from nose to mouth. He leaned back in his chair, but his attention was still absolute, and there was no ease in his body.

  “If it were not so damned serious, it would be quite funny watching them decide which side to be on,” he went on. “Those who are either friends of FitzJames, or afraid of him, find themselves on the same side as you, no matter how much they may dislike it. And those who, for whatever reason, don’t want to see the chaos
which a police or judicial error of this sort made public can cause are also very uncertain where to lay the blame, and so the majority of them are keeping silent.”

  “So who is speaking out?” Pitt asked, tasting the irony of it. “FitzJames’s enemies who are powerful enough not to need to be afraid of him? Perhaps we’ll find the killer among them? Or at least the man who put young FitzJames’s belongings there for us to find.”

  “No.” Jack did not hesitate. There was complete certainty in his voice. “I’m afraid your most vociferous enemies are those who believe Costigan was wrongly convicted, and that it was largely a matter of a new appointee placed to deal with politically sensitive cases, listening to the voice of his masters, and making a scapegoat of a wretched little East Ender in order to protect some idle and lecherous young blueblood. Although FitzJames’s name didn’t appear in the newspapers, no one has mentioned him, and I daresay only a very few know who it is who is actually suspected.”

  “How do they know anyone is suspected at all?” Pitt asked.

  “They know who you are, Thomas. Why would you have been called into the case at all if it were not either politically or socially sensitive? If it were simply another squalid little domestic murder—in other words, had there been no suspicion of anyone except Costigan, or his like—then why were you brought in … the very night it was discovered?”

  Pitt should have seen that. It was obvious enough.

  “Actually”—Jack stretched his legs and crossed his ankles—“very few people have any idea who is involved, but word gets around. I imagine FitzJames has called in a few old debts, so some very surprising people are defending the police.” He gave a little grunt of disgust. “It’s entertaining, in a fashion, knowing how much they loathe having to defend you. But their only alternative is to come out in the liberal view and question hanging.”