Pentecost Alley (40 page)

“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 Charlotte 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.

Maybe she would understand Charlotte’s own fear for Pitt now far more intensely than she had believed. She had never considered they were alike. Perhaps in that she was wrong. They were different generations, with all the values and experiences that that meant, but their natures held more in common than ever separated them. The excuses she had prepared vanished.

“Will you look after Daniel and Jemima for me for a few days, please?” Charlotte asked, following as Caroline led the way into the old, familiar withdrawing room. “I dare not leave them at home. Gracie would do anything necessary for them, but she is so furious with everyone who criticizes Thomas she might start a fight in the street, before I could stop her, especially if the children are frightened or upset. And anyway, it is not fair to expect her to comfort them if appalling things are said about their father.”

“Where will you be?” Caroline asked, her expression conveying that her willingness need not even be questioned. She sat down and indicated one of the other chairs for Charlotte.

“Emily knows the sister of the man Thomas suspects may be behind it all,” Charlotte started to explain, sitting a little sideways, ignoring her skirts. “At least his family and his enemies are. I must do something to help. I can’t just sit at home and commiserate. Mama, they are attacking him at every side! Liberal writers and politicians, the very people who should be most on his side, because he agrees with them, are accusing him of corruption.”

Her voice was rising and she could hear it herself, and yet her emotion was too strong to govern. “They are saying he had Costigan charged and convicted to satisfy people’s fears after the other Whitechapel murders two
years ago, and didn’t care whether it was the right man or not. He should have investigated the well-born young men who use prostitutes instead of their own class of women, and that the establishment don’t care what happens to the poor, as long as it doesn’t cause a scandal in their own circles. If—”

“I know,” Caroline interrupted. “I know, my dear. I read the newspapers now. Of course it is facile and stupid, and bitterly unjust. But did you not expect them to say something of the sort?”

“I …” Charlotte leaned forward and rested her chin on the heels of her hands. Here in these half-familiar surroundings, the old shapes within the new colors, she could so easily remember her first meeting with Pitt, how he had infuriated her, made her think. Even at her angriest she had never been able to dislike him. He had shown her new worlds, a different kind of pain, of joy and of reality from the safety of the dreams she had known before. She could not bear to see him so vilified, all he had built so carefully destroyed, and by people who thought they were fighting for justice and compassion. Well-meaning, and so desperately wrong.

“It is beside the point at the moment,” she answered, swallowing down the ache in her throat which threatened to choke her. “I can’t prevent that. I can go to the FitzJames house, with Emily, and learn a great deal more about them, in a way Thomas never could. I’m going to visit Emily, right now.”

“Of course,” Caroline agreed. “I shall see that Daniel and Jemima are perfectly all right. I … I suppose there is no point in saying to you, be careful?”

“None at all,” Charlotte replied. “Would you?”

“No.”

Charlotte smiled briefly, then rose, hugged Caroline, and went out to the front door. In the street she turned sharply towards the thoroughfare where she would find a hansom. She had no intention of taking care of herself, but she was going to be meticulously careful of every
piece of information she acquired and every step she took to obtain it.

“Of course,” Emily agreed immediately when Charlotte asked her. She had gone straight from Caroline’s house to Emily’s. “But if we are to achieve anything of value, we must see Finlay as well as Tallulah. We had better go later this afternoon, when he is likely to be home from the Foreign Office. Although frankly, I’m not sure how much work he really does. And it had better be before he dresses and goes out for the evening.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” Charlotte acquiesced, although it would be hard to master her impatience until then. “We must get some sure evidence of Finlay’s having been at this wretched party,” she went on. “If we can at least prove his innocence of the first crime, then we can prove the reason Thomas didn’t prosecute him was that he knew he was innocent, and that who he was had nothing to do with it.”

They were in Emily’s favorite room, the small sitting room which opened into the garden, with moss-green carpet and yellow floral curtains. It always seemed to feel warm, whether the sun was shining or not. There was a vase of chrysanthemums on the low rosewood table.

“The next thing,” she continued, “will be to find out who could have killed both women. They lived near enough to each other, they might have known some of the same people.” She bit her lip, caught between suppressing the fear—not giving it words—and the slight comfort of sharing it.

“Do you suppose it’s another lunatic, Emily?”

“Not unless I have to,” Emily said with a bleak smile. “Let’s try to clear Finlay first. And have some luncheon. We can plan what we are going to say. Better to be prepared, and hunger won’t help.”