by Anne Perry
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.
“And you think it was Finlay?” Jago asked. “Can’t you trace this man? Someone else must have seen him after he left Myrdle Street. Where did he go? There are all sorts of people around at that time of the afternoon. Why on earth would Finlay come to Whitechapel at that hour? It doesn’t make sense. I assume he can’t prove where he was, or you wouldn’t be here asking me this.” He kept his voice low, so Tallulah, who was almost finished, would not hear him.
“No, he can’t,” Pitt agreed. “And no one saw this man after he left the house in Myrdle Street.”
“Who have you asked?” Jago screwed up his face in concentration.
Pitt listed off all the names he could remember of the neighbors he and Ewart had spoken to. “Where were you, Reverend?” he said at the end.
Jago laughed abruptly. “Playing shove halfpenny with half a dozen urchins in Chicksand Street, then I went back to the vicarage for tea, to meet with some charitably minded ladies. I didn’t go anywhere near Myrdle Street, and I certainly didn’t see Finlay … or whoever it was.”
“No one saw him leave.” Pitt shrugged. “Which doesn’t seem possible. Is everyone lying?”
“No.” Jago seemed certain. “If no one saw him, then either you’ve described him so inaccurately they don’t recognize him from what you say … or he didn’t leave.”
Pitt stared at him. Perhaps that was true? Perhaps whoever it was had not left at all, but gone up or down the stairs and remained on one of the other floors of the tenement?
Or else he had changed his appearance so much he no longer seemed a young man with fair wavy hair and good clothes.
“Thank you,” he said slowly. “At least I know where to try again.”
“Be careful,” Jago warned. “Remember to take a constable with you. The mood is still ugly. No one liked Costigan when he was alive, but he’s a convenient hero now. Anger and despair run deep, and there are always men who are willing to use it, make some poor stupid beggar stick the police for them, take the blame, and leave them to reap the political reward.”
“I know.” Pitt was eager to start. “Don’t worry, I shall be careful. I don’t want to be responsible for a riot as well as a hanging.” And without waiting any longer he started out towards the Whitechapel Police Station and a constable to accompany him back to Myrdle Street.
11
THE DAY AFTER Pitt had his unfortunate experience in the public house in Swan Street, Charlotte also went to the East End, but not before she had first visited Emily, and then together they had gone to see Tallulah.
“We know it was not Finlay,” Emily said decisively, sitting in Tallulah’s bay window overlooking the autumn garden. “And unfortunately we also know it was not Albert Costigan. For all our various reasons, we need to know who it was. We must set about it systematically.”
“I don’t see what we can possibly do that the police haven’t,” Tallulah said hopelessly. “They have questioned everyone. I know that from Jago. They have even questioned him.” It was obvious from her face that the idea of Jago’s guilt had not entered her mind. Her conviction of his goodness was so total that anything but the smallest fallibility was impossible.
Charlotte carefully avoided Emily’s eyes. The same ugly thought had occurred to both of them, and they had both pushed it aside, but it would not disappear.
“We must apply logic,” Emily continued, looking at Tallulah. “Why would you kill anyone?”
Tallulah was startled. “What?”
“Why would you kill anyone?” Emily repeated. “If you were on the streets living from day to day. Make that leap in imagination. What would drive you to do something so extreme, so messy and so dangerous, as to kill someone?”
“If I killed anyone, it would be on the spur of temper,” Tallulah said thoughtfully. “I couldn’t imagine planning it … unless it were someone I was afraid of, and I wasn’t strong enough to do it otherwise. But that doesn’t apply here, does it?”
“So you might if you were afraid of someone,” Emily clarified. “Why else? What would make you lose your temper enough to kill anyone?”
“Maybe if they mocked me?” Tallulah said slowly. “I might hit them, and perhaps it would be too hard. No one likes being made fun of, not if it is something they are very sensitive about.”
“Enough to kill?” Emily pressed.
Tallulah bit her lip. “Not really … perhaps, if I had a very short temper indeed. I’ve seen some men get very angry if their honor is questioned, or perhaps their wife or mother insulted.”
“Enough to lash out, yes,” Charlotte agreed. “But enough to break someone’s fingers and toes first, and then strangle her?”
Tallulah stared at her, the blood draining out of her face, leaving it chalk-white. She moved her mouth as if to speak but made no sound.
With a violent jolt of guilt, and anger with herself, she realized that of course Tallulah would not read newspapers. No one would have told her how the women died. She might have assumed it was just strangling, something quick, a few moments’ struggle for breath and then oblivion. And now she was, in a sentence, hurled into the reality.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said quietly. “I forgot you didn’t know that. I shouldn’t have said it.”
Tallulah swallowed hard. “Why not?” Her voice cracked. “Why should you shelter me from the truth? That is the truth, is it? They were … tortured?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why on earth would anyone do such a thing? Was it … both of them?” Her eyes implored Charlotte to say it was not.
“Yes. I am afraid it was.”
“That’s horrible!” Tallulah shivered and seemed to shrink into herself, as if the bright, warm room with its charming florals and dainty chairs were cold, in spite of the sunlight through the windows and the low fire in the grate.
“There were other things as well”—Emily glanced at Charlotte warningly—”which seem to suggest it was the sort of crime that has to do with …” She hesitated, seeking a way to describe what she meant without further distressing Tallulah, who was not a married woman and was assumed to be still ignorant of many aspects of life. “Relations between men and women,” she finished.
“What … things?” Tallulah asked, her voice husky.
Emily looked unhappy. “Silly things. People sometimes have … odd fancies. Some people …” She stopped and looked at Charlotte.
Charlotte took a deep breath. “All sorts of relationships are odd,” she said quietly. “Sometimes people like to say hurtful things to each other, or establish a dominance. You must have seen it? Well, between a man and woman these things are sometimes sharper, and take a physical form. Of course, most people are not like that. But it looks as if whoever did this … was …”
“I see.” Tallulah made a brave effort to look unshaken. “So that means it was someone with a very strong cruel streak, and a man who had a … a physical relationship with her.” She laughed a little jerkily. “Although since that was her trade, it is hardly surprising. But why should he actually kill her?”
“I don’t know,” Emily replied. “Could she have threatened him in any way?”
“How?” Tallulah was confused. “She was far weaker than he. She must have been.”
“Blackmail?” Emily suggested.
“Two of them?” Charlotte was highly skeptical. “Blackmail over what? Because he visited a prostitute? We don’t speak of it openly, but we know that men do. If they didn’t, then there wouldn’t be any prostitutes.”
“We know it happens,” Emily correct
ed her, “to someone else! What about if it is your husband? What if he has some of these unusual appetites? If he were important enough, it could ruin him. Let’s say he had a very fortunate marriage in view, or already achieved, and was dependent upon the goodwill of his father-in-law for more preferment? Or he needs a son and heir, and his wife is unlikely to give him one if she knows of his behavior?”
“Good,” Charlotte agreed. “That makes sense. Why both Ada and Nora? And why torture them? Why not simply kill them and get out as soon as possible? The longer he’s there, the more risk he runs of being discovered. Is the torture part of what he does anyway? No, it can’t be. No prostitute is going to have her fingers and toes broken whatever you pay her. Tied up, doused in cold water perhaps, but not injured.”
Tallulah was still very pale, and she sat hunched in her pretty chair.
“Proof,” she said thoughtfully. “She had proof of his behavior, and he tortured her to try to make her give it to him.”
“But she didn’t … because she had given it to Nora for safekeeping!” Charlotte finished.
“What sort of proof?” Emily pressed, but her voice was rising in eagerness. At last there was something which made at least a little sense. “Pictures? Letters? A statement from a witness? What else?”
“Statement from a witness,” Charlotte answered. “Paintings wouldn’t mean anything; they’re not evidence. No one would take photographs of such a thing. I mean, how could you? You have to sit still for ages for photographs. And who writes letters to prostitutes? It would have to be something to do with a witness. Maybe it happened before? Perhaps there are lots of women who know, and she had statements from all of them?”
