by Anne Perry
“So you tied her up, broke her fingers and toes, and then strangled her,” Pitt said with loathing.
Her face was pasty white, but her eyes blazed.
“No I bleedin’ didn’t! I ’ad a row wif ’er an’ I ’it ’er. We fought an’ I ’eld ’er by the throat. Yeah, I strangled ’er, but I never touched ’er fingers an’ toes. I dunno ’oo did that, an’ I dunno why!”
Pitt did not believe her, he could not. Yet his instincts were hard and bright that she was not lying.
“Why did you kill Ada?” he repeated.
“I din’t!” she shouted back at him. “I din’t kill Ada! I never even know’d ’er! I thought it were Bert Costigan, jus’ like you did. If it weren’t ’im, I dunno ’oo it were!”
He remembered with a sickening jolt Costigan’s denials that he had broken Ada’s fingers and toes, his indignation and confusion that he should even be accused. His eyes looked just like hers, frightened, indignant, utterly bewildered.
“But you killed Nora!” he repeated. He meant to sound certain of it. It was not a question, it was a charge.
“Yeah … I s’pose there in’t no use denyin’ it now. But I never broke ’er fingers, an’ I never touched Ada! I never even bin there!”
Pitt had no idea whether he believed her or not. Looking at her, hearing her voice, he felt sure she spoke the truth; but his brain said it was ridiculous. She was admitting killing Nora. Why deny killing Ada? The punishment would be no worse, and no one would believe her anyway.
“I never killed Ada!” she said loudly. “I never did them things to Nora neither!”
“Why did you try to implicate Finlay FitzJames?” he asked.
She looked nonplussed. “ ’Oo?”
“Finlay FitzJames,” he repeated. “Why did you put his handkerchief and button in Nora’s room?”
“I dunno wotjer talkin’ abaht!” She looked totally bewildered. “I never ’eard of ’im. ’Oo is ’e?”
“Didn’t you once work in the FitzJames house?”
“I never worked in any ’ouse. I were never a bleedin’ ’ousemaid ter nobody!”
He still did not know whether to believe her or not.
“Perhaps. But it doesn’t make a lot of difference now. Come on. I’m arresting you for the killing of Nora. Don’t make it more unpleasant for yourself than it has to be. Let the other women see you leave with some dignity.”
She jerked her head up and ran her hands through her glorious hair, staring at him defiantly. Then the spirit went out of her, and she drooped again, and allowed him to lead her out.
“Well, thank God for that,” Ewart said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair in the Whitechapel police station. “I admit I didn’t think we’d do it.” He looked up at Pitt with a smile. All the tension seemed to drain out of him, as if an intolerable burden had been lifted and suddenly he could breathe without restriction, free from inner pain. Even the fear which had haunted him from the beginning was gone. He did not grudge Pitt the respect due him. “I should say you did it,” he corrected. “I didn’t do much, as it turned out.” He folded his hands over his stomach. “So it was Ella Baker all along. I never thought of a woman. Never crossed my mind. Should have.”
“She swears she didn’t kill Ada,” Pitt said, sitting down opposite him. “Or break Nora’s fingers and toes.”
Ewart was unperturbed. “Well, she would, but that doesn’t mean anything. Don’t know why she bothers. Won’t make any difference now.”
“And she swears she didn’t implicate Finlay FitzJames,” Pitt added. “She says she’s never heard of him, and never been in domestic service.”
Ewart shrugged. “I suppose she’s lying, although I’ve no idea why she should bother. Anyway, it hardly matters.” He smiled. “The case is solved. And without any really unpleasant effects. That’s a damned sight more than I dared hope for. I always thought FitzJames was innocent,” he added quickly, for a moment uncomfortable again. “I just … thought it would be very difficult to prove it.”
Pitt stood up.
“Are you going to tell FitzJames?” Ewart asked. “Put the family’s mind at rest.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Good.” He smiled, a curious, half-bitter expression. “I’m very pleased. You deserve that.”
“Good,” Augustus FitzJames said tersely when Pitt informed him that Ella Baker had been arrested and charged with the murder of Nora Gough. “I assume you will charge her with the death of the other woman as well?”
“No. There’s no evidence of that, and she doesn’t admit to it,” Pitt replied. Once again they were in the library, and this time the fire was lit, casting a warmth in the chilly evening.
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Augustus was not particularly interested. “She’ll hang for the second one. Everyone will know she committed the first as well, since they were apparently identical. Thank you for coming to inform me, Superintendent. You have done an excellent job … this time. Pity about the man … er … Costigan. But there’s nothing to be done about it.” His tone was dismissive. He rocked very gently back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Sort of man we’re all better without anyway. Filthy trade, living on the immoral earnings of women. Belonged in jail, if not on the end of a rope. Might have finished up there sooner or later anyway.”
If Pitt had not been responsible for Costigan’s death, he would have retaliated with his opinion of such thoughts, the deep horror they inspired in him, but his own part was too profound.
“Did Ella Baker ever work for you, Mr. FitzJames?” he asked, tangled threads, questions unanswered still tugging at the back of his mind.
“Don’t think so.” Augustus frowned. “In fact, I’m sure she didn’t. Why?”
“I wondered how she obtained your son’s belongings in order to leave them at the scene of her crimes, and above all, why she should want to.”
“No idea. Stole them, I expect,” Augustus said tersely. “Hardly matters now. Thank you for coming yourself, Superintendent. It is good to know the police are not as incompetent as some of our most lurid and ill-informed newspapers would have us believe.” He pursed his lips. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment this evening. Good day to you.”
Pitt opened his mouth to protest further, but Augustus had already reached for the bell rope to summon the butler to show Pitt out, and there was nothing more he could say. Augustus was obviously unprepared to discuss the matter any further.
“Good evening, Mr. FitzJames,” Pitt replied, and had to leave as the butler opened the door and smiled at him.
12
PITT RETURNED HOME late and tired, but it was the weariness of victory, even if there were still aspects of the case which puzzled him profoundly and which he feared he would now never resolve. It was already dark and the gas lamps were haloed with mist. There was a damp in the air, and a smell of rotting leaves, turned earth and the suggestion of the first frost.
He opened his front door and as soon as he came in the hallway he saw Charlotte at the top of the stairs. She was dressed in a very plain skirt and blouse, looking almost dowdy, and her hair was coming out of its pins. She came down so quickly he was afraid she was going to slip and fall.
“What is it?” he asked, seeing the eagerness in her face. “What’s happened?”
“Thomas.” She took a deep breath. She was too full of her own news to notice that he also had something urgent to say. “Thomas, I did a little investigating myself. It was all quite safe….”
The very fact that she mentioned safety told him immediately that it was not.
“What?” he demanded, facing her when she was on the bottom step. “What did you do? I assume Emily was with you?”
“Yes.” She sounded relieved, as if that were a good thing, something in mitigation. “And Tallulah FitzJames. Listen to me first, then be furious afterwards if you must, but I found out something really important, and terrible.”
“So did I,” he re
torted. “I discovered who killed Nora Gough, and why, and obtained a confession. Now, what did you discover?”
She was startled.
“Who?” she demanded. “Who, Thomas?”
“Another prostitute. A woman named Ella Baker.” He outlined how they had assumed it was a man because of the coat, and how she had been able to disappear without anyone’s seeing her. They were still standing in the hall at the bottom of the stairs.
“Why?” she asked, her face reflecting none of the sense of victory he expected.
“Because Nora took the man she was going to marry, her escape from the life she had. And maybe she even loved him as well.” He put his hands up and touched her shoulders, holding her gently. “I’m sorry if I spoiled your news. I know you want to investigate for my sake, and I am not ungrateful.” He bent to kiss her, but she pulled away, frowning.
“Why did she kill Ada McKinley?”
“She denies it,” he replied, aware as he said it of the weight of dissatisfaction heavy inside him. It was a thin victory, and the substance of it seemed weaker every hour he thought of it.
“Why?” she asked. “That doesn’t make any sense, Thomas. They can’t hang her twice!” Her face was very pale, even in the glow of the gaslight from the hall chandelier. “Or three times.”
“No, of course they can’t,” he agreed. “What do you mean ‘three times’? There were only two murders.”
“No there weren’t.” Her voice was barely audible. “That’s what I was going to tell you that we found out. There was a third, about six years ago … a young girl, just a beginner. She had only been on the streets for a week or two. She was killed in Mile End, exactly the same way as the others … the garter, the fingers and toes, the cross-buttoned boots, even the water … everything. They never found who did it.”
He was stunned. For long seconds he stood motionless, as if he had not truly understood what she had said, and yet it filled his mind. Another crime, six years ago, in Mile End. It had to be the same person. Hadn’t it? There could not possibly be two … three people who would commit exactly the same gruesome, senseless murder, three people unconnected? And who was the first victim? Why had he not heard of her? Why had Ewart not known, and told him?
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said very quietly. “It doesn’t help, does it?”
He focused his eyes again, looking at her.
“Who was she? Do you know anything about her?”
“No. Only that she was new on the streets. I didn’t learn her name.”
His mind was still whirling.
“Couldn’t Ella Baker have killed her too?” Charlotte asked. “Maybe she tried to take something from her? Did she say why she wanted to implicate Finlay?”
“No.” He turned and walked towards the parlor. He was suddenly cold standing in the hall, and very tired. He wanted to sit down as close to the fire as he could.
She followed him and sat opposite, in her usual chair.
The fire was burning a little low. He put more coal on it, banking it high and prodding it with the poker to make it burn up more rapidly.
“No,” he went on. “She denied it. Claimed she had never heard of the FitzJameses, and Augustus said he had never heard of her.” He sat back in his chair again. The flames were mounting in the fireplace as the new coal caught, the heat growing, tingling the skin. “And Ewart doesn’t care,” he added. “He’s so damned glad it’s over, without having to arrest FitzJames, he doesn’t want to know anything more about it.”
“And Mr. Cornwallis?”
“I haven’t seen him yet. It was late by the time I’d been to the FitzJameses’. I’ll tell him in the morning. And speak to Ella Baker again. Perhaps I’d better find out about the other crime first. Six years ago?”
“Yes, about that.”
He sighed.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked. “Or cocoa?”
“Yes … yes please.” He left her to decide which to bring, and sat hunched in his chair in the slowly increasing warmth while the fire strengthened and flames leaped up the chimney.
In the morning he was in the bitter chill of Newgate asking to see Ella Baker, memories of Costigan’s face, white and frightened, filling his mind. Of all the duties he ever had to perform, this was perhaps the worst. It was a different kind of pain from that of going to tell the relatives of a victim. That was appalling, but it was a cleaner thing. It would eventually heal. This wrenched him in a way that was always sickeningly real and new. Time did not dull it or inure him in any measure at all.
Ella was sitting in her cell, still dressed in her own clothes, although they were not particularly different from prison garb. He had arrested her before she was dressed for work.
“What you want?” she said dully when she saw him. “Come ter gloat, ’ave you?”
“No.” He closed the cell door behind him. He looked at her pale face, hollow hopeless eyes and the glory of hair over her shoulders. Curiously, although he had seen both Ada and Nora, and seen their broken hands, their dead faces, disfigured in the last struggle, all he could see now was Ella and her despair. “I have no pleasure in it,” he told her. “A certain relief because it’s over, but that’s all.”
“So wot yer come for?” she said, still half disbelievingly, although something in his eyes, or his voice, touched her.
“Tell me about the first one, Ella,” he replied. “What did she do to you? She was only young, a beginner. Why did you kill her?”
She stared at him with total incomprehension.
“Yer mad, you are! I dunno wot yer talkin’ abaht! I ’it Nora, then we fought an’ I throttled ’er. I never broke ’er fingers ner toes, ner chucked water over ’er, ner did up ’er boots! I never touched Ada McKinley. I never ’eard of ’er till she were killed. An’ as fer another, I dunno wot yer on abaht. There weren’t no other, far as I knowed.”
“About six years ago, in Mile End,” he elaborated.
“Six year ago!” She was incredulous, then she started to laugh, a high, harsh sound, full of pain, dark with fear beyond control. “Six year ago I were in Manchester. Married an’ went up there. Me ’usband died. I come ome an’ took ter the streets. On’y way ter keep a roof over me ’ead, ’ceptin’ the match factory. ’Ad a cousin ’oo died o’ phossie jaw. Ter ’ell wi’ that. Sooner be ’anged.” Suddenly tears filled her eyes. “Jus’ as well, eh?”
Pitt ached to be able to say something to comfort her. He felt the terrors closing around her, the darkness from which there was no escape, but there was nothing. Pity was no use now and to talk of hope was a mockery.
He smiled in answer to her bitter humor. There was some courage in it. He could admire that.
“What was your husband’s name?” he asked.
“Joe Baker … Joseph. You gonna check on me?” She sniffed. “A good man, Joe were. Drunk too much, but ’e weren’t bad. Never ’it me, jus’ fell over ’isself. Stupid sod!”
“What did he do?”
“ ’E worked the canals till ’e ’ad an accident an’ drowned. Drunk again, I s’pose.”
“I’m sorry,” Pitt said quietly. He meant it.
She shrugged. “Don’ matter now.”
Pitt went from Newgate to the Mile End police station and asked to see the most senior officer present who had been there over six years. He was shown, by a somewhat puzzled young sergeant, up to the cramped office of Inspector Forrest, a lean man with receding black hair and sad, dark eyes.
“Superintendent Pitt,” he said with surprise, rising to his feet. “Good morning, sir. What can we do for you?”
“Good morning, Inspector.” Pitt closed the door behind him and took the proffered seat. “I understand you were here in Mile End six years ago?”
“Yes. I see in the newspapers you got our murderer.” Forrest sat down behind his desk. “Well done. Damn sight more than we ever managed. Mind, I was only a sergeant then.”
“So you did have one exactly the same?” Pitt
found it difficult to keep the anger out of his voice.
“Yes. Far as I can tell,” Forrest agreed, sitting forward in his chair. “Right down to the last detail. Weren’t much in the papers about ours, but I’ll remember it for the rest of my life. Poor little thing. Can’t ’ave been more than fifteen or sixteen. Pretty, they say, before he did that to her.”
“She,” Pitt corrected.
“Oh.” Forrest shook his head. “Yes … she. Sorry, I just had it fixed in my mind all these years that it was a man. Looked like a crime rooted in sex to me, the kind of perverted sex of a man that has to hurt and humiliate before he can get any pleasure. Sort of person who has to have power over someone, see them totally helpless. Evil. Still can’t believe it was a woman. Though, s’pose it must be, if she confessed.”
“No, she didn’t confess, except to the last one, Nora Gough. In fact, she said she was in Manchester six years ago.”
Forrest’s eyes widened. “Well, it has to have been the same person. Even in London, sink that it is, we can’t have two lunatics going around doing that to women.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your case?” Pitt asked, trying not to sound accusatory, and failing.
“Me?” Forrest looked at him with surprise. “Why didn’t I tell you?”
“Yes. For heaven’s sake, it might have helped us! We should at least have known! We could have found out what they had in common and who might have known all three.”
“I didn’t tell you because … Didn’t Inspector Ewart tell you? He was on the case!”
Pitt froze.
“I took it for granted that he’d have told you,” Forrest said reasonably. “You saying he didn’t?” There was disbelief in his face and in his voice. He was watching Pitt as if he could scarcely believe him.
Pitt could scarcely believe it himself. Images of Ewart filled his mind, memories of his anger, his misery, the fear in him.
But there was no point in lying. The truth was obvious anyway.
“No, he never mentioned it.”
Now it was Forrest’s turn to sit in silence.
