Pentecost Alley

by Anne Perry

  “Naturally.” Pitt took the paper, although he did not expect it to reveal anything interesting. “I don’t suppose there are all that many dealers in such things in a small area like this. Any of them answer the description?”

  “Not so far. Most of them are middle-aged and were at home with their families at the time.” Ewart relapsed into his hopeless air, leaning back in his chair, slumped over.

  “Anything from Lennox?” Pitt asked.

  “No. She was killed in exactly the same way,” Ewart answered, his face pinched, pain written all through him, and a driving, consuming anger. “Tortured the same. All the details match, even those no one else knows but us. It had to be the same person.”

  “Anything different at all?” Pitt said quietly. The shabby room was claustrophobic, too small to contain the huge emotions within it.

  “No, not a thing,” Ewart answered.

  “Anything at all found, apart from the button and the handkerchief?” Pitt went on.

  “No.”

  “Odd, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “That all the evidence at both scenes implicates Finlay FitzJames …”

  “Circumstantial,” Ewart said too quickly, then slipped down in his chair again, white-faced.

  “I was going to say,” Pitt continued, puzzled and unhappy, “that it doesn’t seem natural. The more I look at it, the more it seems as if the evidence in both cases was put there by someone specifically so we should find it. Has anyone in either building ever seen Finlay FitzJames before?”

  Ewart sat upright with a jolt. “No!” A spark of hope lit in his face. “I’ll ask them all again, but I’m sure they haven’t. You’re right! It’s too much of a coincidence to suppose that he came here for the very first time and killed a woman he’d never even met before. Why would he, unless he’s mad? He might do it once, if …” He swallowed hard, as though his throat were almost closed with the strain. “If he were drunk, or … or crazed with … with lust, or anger, or whatever grips people. But that once would scare him out of his senses. He’d never come back less than two months later and do it again. Especially when he knows we already suspect him.”

  He was leaning over the desk now, his face sharp with eagerness. “You’ve met him, Pitt. Did he seem to you like a man possessed by insanity? Or like a young man who’d occasionally behaved like a fool, lost his self-control in the past, drank a bit too much and couldn’t remember the night before, and was terrified he’d be blamed for something he didn’t do? Terrified of letting down his family, of having his father despise him and make life exceedingly unpleasant for him for several months, if not years?”

  It was exactly how Finlay had impressed Pitt. He could not have worded it more perfectly himself. It was an acutely perceptive characterization of the man he had seen. He had underrated Ewart’s judgment.

  “You’re right,” he said aloud. “It comes back every time to someone else trying to blame him.” He looked at Ewart steadily. “Were we wrong with Costigan? I was so absolutely sure I was right. I couldn’t explain the boots or the garter, but I was sure he killed her.”

  “So was I,” Ewart said quickly, seriously. “I still think so. The boots and the garter must have been the customer before.”

  “And the second time, with Nora?” Pitt asked. “Not the same customer?”

  “No, that’d be done by whoever put the handkerchief and the button there, to add to it looking like the same person.” His mouth tightened. “I’m sorry, sir, but it looks like your Reverend. Bit of a fanatic anyway. I mean … why would a high-living gentleman suddenly give up everything and study to be a minister, then choose to come to work here in Whitechapel?” He shook his head. “People like him don’t have to work at all. Take the rest of the old Hellfire Club members … Helliwell works in the City, but only when he feels like it. Doesn’t really have to. Just likes to live high. Got a wife to keep, and I daresay children now. Runs a carriage, big house, servants, gives parties. His wife’s dress allowance is probably more than Jago Jones makes in a decade.”

  Pitt could not argue. Other thoughts raced into his mind.

  “And Thirlstone,” Ewart went on, an edge to his voice. “Plays at being an artist. Doesn’t make any money at it. Doesn’t need to. Just enjoys himself. Drifts from one stupid conversation to the next. Walks in the Park, goes to studios and exhibitions. FitzJames wants to be an ambassador or a Member of Parliament, but he doesn’t actually work every day, like you or me. Goes to the Foreign Office when he feels like it. A lot of what he does is cultivate the right people, be seen at the right places.”

  Pitt said nothing. He heard the contempt in Ewart’s voice and he understood it, perhaps even shared it.

  “But Jones works from morning till night,” Ewart concluded. “Sundays as well. I don’t know what they pay him, but they don’t say ‘poor as a church mouse’ for nothing. Wears old clothes, eats the same as the rest of ’em ’round there. Probably as cold in winter as they are, worse than I am. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Pitt stood up. “But you’re right, it requires an answer. You had better keep on looking for this man who last saw Nora.”

  “I don’t know who else to question,” Ewart protested. “We’ve spoken to all the women in the building, the people in the bottle factory, local residents, shopkeepers.”

  “Even the beggars and workers in the street,” Pitt said from the doorway. “Keep on trying them. Someone must have seen him. He didn’t walk out of there and disappear.” He turned the handle. “Unless you’ve got any better ideas?”

  He left Ewart in the dark, untidy office and went back to Myrdle Street. The question of the customer who had disappeared nagged at his mind. He had to be the one who killed her, but the fact that no one admitted seeing him leave was significant. In fact, no one even admitted seeing him arrive. The house was a brothel. There were always people about. It was not only a fact of business, it was part of their safety. Every woman who worked the streets was aware of the dangers of a client who was violent, abusive, refused to pay, or had tastes and demands beyond those she was willing to satisfy.

  He walked briskly from the police station along the gray streets filled with traffic: men and women bustling along the pavements, tradesmen, petty clerks, errand boys, deliverymen, peddlers and news sellers. Nora’s death was still on every front page, along with protests of Costigan’s innocence and the call for reform. Some even asked for abolition of the police because of their failure to catch the first Whitechapel mass murderer, and now a second.

  Pitt hurried by, wanting to look the other way and yet drawn to them against his will. His imagination painted lurid headlines. What he saw was even worse. He was spared nothing.

  “Police getting nowhere!” screamed one. “Whitechapel lives in terror again!” And another sandwich board read, “Has Jack the Ripper returned? Police helpless!” “Senior policeman Pitt going ’round in circles! Or is he? Does he know something he dare not tell? Who is the Whitechapel murderer?”

  He arrived at the house in Myrdle Street tense, miserable and out of breath. No one was up yet. Business had resumed as usual. The demands of debt do not wait upon a decent mourning period, and the fact that a murder had been committed on the premises had not apparently deterred the clientele.

  He roused Edie with some difficulty, and she came into the kitchen at the back, her long black hair tangled, her face puffed with sleep, a loose robe wrapped around herself. Her trade had robbed her of any pretension to modesty.

  “Yer wastin’ yer time,” she said sourly, sitting down on one of the hard-backed chairs. “We don’t none of us know nuffink as we ’aven’t already told yer. We saw no one else come nor go that night ’cept our own customers. We dunno ’oo the geezer was wif the fair ’air wot went inter Nora’s room, an’ we didn’t ’ear nuffink.”

  “I know.” Pitt tried to be patient. “Nobody outside saw him either. Doesn’t that strike you as peculiar?”

  “Yeah. So
wot? Yer sayin’ as we got a ghost wot comes in ’ere, strangles Nora, an’ goes aht agin?” She shivered, her heavy flesh dragging at her robe. “Yer mad! In’t no such fing. Someone’s lyin’, that’s all. Somebody seen ’im. They just in’t sayin’.”

  “Several people,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “Why?”

  “I dunno. It don’t make no sense. I want the bastard caught and topped!” She put her slender-fingered hands up to her face. “Nora were a cheeky bitch, but nobody deserved wot ’appened to ’er. Could’ve slapped ’er meself a few times. But then reckon as we all get across each other some days.”

  “Why did Nora get across you?”

  Edie pulled a face of self-mockery touched with a kind of humor.

  “ ’Cos she were pretty, I suppose. An’ she could really get the men. ’Ad a way wif ’er.” She looked at Pitt with contempt. “I don’ mean nicked yer customers. I mean yer own men. Took a few as I fancied.”

  “Not customers?” Pitt asked. “Not paying men?”

  “Geez. Yer can do it for fun too, yer know,” she said indignantly. “Well … not often, mebbe. But it’s good ter ’ave someone ’oo likes yer. No money. Treats yer like yerself, not like they bought yer. Nice ter ’ave jus’ a cuddle an’ a laugh.”

  “Yes, of course it is. And Nora would take your man, and other people’s?”

  “ ’Ere, not reg’lar. Just mine once, only a geezer wot I fancied, nuffink def’nite. Made an ’abit of it, and we’d ’a’ ’ad ’er thrown aht! She weren’t bad, Nora. An’ if I knew ’ow ter ’elp yer get ’oo it was as done ’er, I’d bust meself ter do it. Bloody useless lot y’are too.” She ran her fingers through her black hair. “Geez! Anyway that little sod Costigan sure as ’ell din’t do it. And yer in’t caught the real bastard wot did, even though ’e’s done it twice now. Gonna wait till ’e does it again, are yer? Catch ’im the third time? Or will it be like in ’eighty-eight, and ’e’ll thumb ’is nose at the lot o’ yer.” She stood up, pulling her robe around her. “I dunno nuffink more, an’ I’m goin’ back ter me bed. I dunno wot they pay yer for. If I weren’t no better at me job than you are, I’d starve.”

  Pitt roused Pearl and Mabel, and learned nothing else of use. They only repeated what they had already said.

  It was lunchtime, and he was hungry. He walked towards the river and the nearest public house, the same one in Swan Street where he and Ewart and Lennox had met two evenings before Costigan’s trial.

  Was he wrong about Costigan? Could he possibly have been so eager to believe him guilty he had misinterpreted what he said? He had to think back, but he could not remember the words, only his own certainty that it was an admission.

  He went to the bar and asked for a pint of cider and a sandwich with cheese and pickle. He took it to a table and sat down, eating without tasting. The room was noisy, packed with porters, draymen and laborers. The smells of sawdust and ale were everywhere, the sounds of voices and occasional laughter. He had been there several minutes and was more than halfway through when a large man with an open jacket stared at him pointedly.

  “Rozzer!” he said slowly. “Yer that rozzer wot ’anged Costigan, ain’t yer?”

  Pitt looked up at him.

  “I didn’t hang him,” he corrected. “I arrested him. The court tried him, the jury found him guilty, and the judge sentenced him.” He took another mouthful of his sandwich and turned away.

  Several people close by stopped talking.

  “That’s right!” The man raised his voice. “Stuff yer face. Look the other way from us. Wot der we matter? Jus’ poor folks from Whitechapel. ’Ang some poor bastard an’ go ’ome ter yer bed.” The jeering in his voice grew sharper, uglier. “Sleep easy, do yer, Rozzer? Only Costigan in’t gonna wake up agin, is ’e? ’Cos you ’anged ’im! But it don’t stop some bloody toff comin’ ’ere from up west, usin’ our women and then torturin’ ’em an’ stranglin’ ’em, do it?”

  Another man joined in, his face tight with hatred.

  “ ’Ow much they pay yer, eh? Judas!”

  “Judas!” came the cry from half a dozen other throats. No one was eating anymore. All other conversations stopped.

  Someone stood up.

  The landlord yelled for order and was told to keep his mouth shut.

  They moved closer to Pitt’s table, faces ugly.

  “Wot yer come back ’ere fer, eh? ’Opin’ ter be paid agin, are yer?”

  “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 se
a.

  “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.