Pentecost Alley tp-16

by Anne Perry

  “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 neither 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 repaym
ent 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.”

  Pitt stared at him. It was indeed an irony that the people Pitt most disliked, and disagreed with, were forced into defending him; while those with whom his natural sympathies lay were in the vanguard of the attack.

  “Except Somerset Carlisle,” Jack said with a sudden smile. “He’s a dyed-in-the-wool liberal, and he’s defending you without qualm or question, and at some cost to his own political reputation. I suppose you know why?”

  It was one very oddly sweet memory in the present bitterness.

  “Yes, I know why,” Pitt replied. “I did him a favor several years ago. A rather absurd affair in Resurrection Row. He was acting in a matter of conscience, although I don’t think anyone else would have seen it that way. He’s a trifle unorthodox, but a man who is committed to his beliefs. I’ve always liked Somerset Carlisle. I’m … I’m very glad he’s on my side … whether he’s able to do any good or not.” He found himself smiling, even though he was not quite sure why, perhaps simply at the thought of the strange, unmentioned and rock-firm loyalty which stretched from one bizarre tragedy to another.

  It flickered through Pitt’s mind to tell Jack that Emily at least was certain that FitzJames was innocent. Then he thought of all the questions Jack might ask as a result of that remark, and he preferred not to answer them, at least at present, so he said nothing.

  “I am afraid the Palaee is displeased,” Jack added, his eyes on Pitt’s face. “I suppose some busybody had to tell her?”

  Pitt was surprised. “Does that make any difference?”

  “I didn’t know you were so politically innocent, Thomas! She isn’t likely to intervene, but the mere mention of her name will alter things. It will send a goodly number of people scurrying around interfering and making themselves important. It just makes it all more prominent, more difficult … gives more people an excuse to make comments. And it will certainly be fuel to the columnists in the newspapers, as if there weren’t enough already.”

  “I haven’t sensed the terror there was two years ago,” Pitt said cautiously. “It seems to be more … anger!”

  “It is,” Jack agreed. “Anger, and a lot of talk of political and police corruption.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I’m sorry. I would very much rather not have had to tell you this, but my silence won’t alter it, only rob you of the modicum of defense forewarning might give you.” He looked straight at Pitt, suddenly a trifle self-conscious. “And for what it is worth, I don’t believe you made an error of judgment of this proportion, and I know damn well that you are as honest as it is possible to be. We all delude ourselves a little, see what we want to see, or expect to see, but you less than most of us. And I’ve never known you to take advantage of another man’s misfortune.” And before Pitt could stumble towards an answer, Jack rose to his feet, gave an awkward little mock salute and went out.

  That morning Charlotte made the decision to pack some clothes and take Daniel and Jemima to their grandmother, not because she was running away but because she intended to do something about the situation. If Emily knew Tallulah FitzJames socially, and was privy to her secrets, indeed had established a considerable trust, then this was the obvious way to help Pitt. To do that effectively would take time, and she must be free to do whatever was called for. She could not afford to be worrying about her children’s welfare.

  Caroline welcomed her in but looked extremely anxious. The whole house seemed at once familiar and oddly different since her marriage to Joshua Fielding, like an old friend who has suddenly adopted quite alien dress and mannerisms. She too had changed. All the conventions she had followed since childhood were abandoned, with pleasure, but new ones had taken their places.

  The decorations Charlo
tte had grown up with had gone. The sense of solidity, of dignified servants running an establishment to a precise regime, had vanished altogether. Charlotte regretted it at the same moment that she smiled to see her mother so happy. The old order had had a kind of safety in it. It was familiar, full of memories, most often happy ones.

  The antimacassars were gone from the backs of the chairs. She had laughed at them as a child, but they were part of the continuity, the sameness which made the house comfortable. Instinctively she looked at the wall for the dark, rather drab still-life pictures her father had been given by his favorite aunt. He had hated them-they all had-but they had kept them there for Aunt Maude’s sake.

  They were gone. So was her father’s walking stick from the umbrella stand. Of course it was. There was no real reason why it should not have been given away when he died, it simply had been overlooked.

  It was oddly painful, like a tearing up of roots, something broken.

  There were new things here as well: a Chinese vase on the hall stand. Caroline always used to hate chinoiserie. She had thought it affected. There was a red lacquer box as well, and half a dozen playbills. A silk shawl of brilliant colors hung carelessly from the newel post. There was nothing wrong with any of it. It was simply strange.

  “How are you?” Caroline asked, looking at her with concern. She hugged the children, then sent them through to the kitchen for cake and milk so she could speak to Charlotte alone.

  “I saw the newspapers. It’s frightful. And so terribly unjust.” A wry amusement filled her face. “Although since I have been married to a Jew, I am a great deal more aware of instant judgments than I was in the past, and how incredibly stupid they can be. I used to be so careful of what people would think. Now most of the time I simply do what I want to and be the person I want to be. One moment it’s marvelous, and the next it terrifies me and I am afraid I shall lose everything.”

  Charlotte looked at her mother with amazement. She had never thought of her as so aware of her own vulnerability, or so calculated in her risks. She had imagined her love for Joshua had overwhelmed all knowledge of what the cost to her might be. And she was wrong. Caroline was perfectly aware. She had chosen intentionally, and without denying the risk.