Silence in Hanover Close (30 page)

Fred leaned against the doorpost. “Wot yer want ter go and do that fer?” he said sadly. “Yer didn’t ’ave to kill ‘er.”

“I didn’t,” Pitt repeated. “I wanted her alive! I needed to ask her some very important questions.”

“Oh, yeah. Treason!” Fred snorted. “Well, ye’re original, I’ll say that for yer. Poor little cow!”

“How long has she been here?” Pitt asked. He might as well make use of the time.

“I dunno. Couple o’ days.”

“Only a couple of days?” Pitt was surprised. “Where was she before that?”

“ ’Ow the ’ell do I know? She paid ’er rent, that’s all I care about.”

Pitt felt inexpressibly weary. It was all so pathetic. Cerise, whatever her name really was, had had a childhood somewhere, then a brief career as a courtesan, glittering by night, perhaps dangerous even then; hidden by day. Then fortune had changed, her looks had faded and she had fallen out of fashion, reduced to the status of an ordinary prostitute. Finally she had had her neck broken in some senseless quarrel in this shabby rented room.

He turned back to look at her. This was the woman who had held such power, briefly, over Robert York and either Julian Danver or Garrard, such power that she had entered their houses, flouting every convention, running desperate risks. What if Veronica had seen her, or Loretta, or even Piers York? Loretta would not have turned the other way as Adeline had; she was of far more ruthless mettle. She would have tackled Robert and told him precisely where he should conduct his amours.

He looked down at the thin form on the bed. Her skin was dark, almost olive, and smooth as an old sepia print over her shoulders. But above the brilliant magenta ribbon round her neck it was already coarse-textured, and there were fine lines in her face, purplish shadows under her eyes. The bones were delicate, the mouth full-lipped, but it was hard to tell now if she had once been beautiful. But life could have wrought magic. She might have had wit, that rare smile that lights a face, the gift for listening with the kind of attention that makes the speaker feel for a moment that he is the center of all laughter and wisdom. Pretty faces were a shilling a dozen, charm was something else altogether.

Poor Cerise.

Pitt was jerked out of his thoughts by the heavy tramp of feet in the passage beyond Fred’s motionless figure. He heard Rosie’s voice, shrill and indignant, and somewhere a man wailed.

The constable appeared, his blue cape wet with the fine rain and his bull’s-eye lantern at his belt, truncheon ready in his hand.

“Well?” he demanded. “Where’s this ’ere woman you said as was dead, then?”

“ ’Ere,” Fred answered sullenly. He did not like policemen, and it was grudgingly he conceded the necessity now. “And this is the geezer wot killed ’er—Gawd knows why. But I let ’im in ’ere quarter hour ago, ’cause ’e was askin’ for ’er most partic’lar. Then I ’as ter come up ’ere fer suffink else, and she’s as dead as mutton, poor beggar. So I sends Rosie to tell Jacko ter fetch yer. She’ll tell yer the same.”

The constable pushed past Fred and stared into the room, his round face puckering with a mixture of sadness and distaste. He looked at Pitt and sighed.

“Now wot yer go an’ do a fing like that fer? In’t yer wife, or anyfink like vat, is she?”

“No, or course not!” Pitt said angrily. Suddenly all the pretense seemed ludicrous. “I’m a police officer, Inspector Pitt from the Bow Street station, and we’ve been looking for this woman for weeks. I tracked her down here, but I was too late to stop her being murdered. She was an important witness.”

The constable looked up and down at Pitt’s knitted muffler, his old coat, rather shapeless trousers, and worn boots. Disbelief was patent in his face.

“Check with Bow Street!” Pitt snapped. “Superintendent Ballarat!”

“I’ll take yer ter Seven Dials; they can send ter Bow Street,” the constable said stolidly. “Yer make no fuss and yer won’t get ’urt. Get nasty an’ I’ll ’ave ter get rough wiv yer.” He turned to Fred. “ ’Oo else ’as bin up ’ere since you seen ’er”—he gestured to the dead woman on the bed— “alive?”

“Geez! A little skinny geezer wiv Newgate knockers,” he said, putting his fingers up in a spiral to describe the cheek curls, “fer Clarrie. But she came down an’ fetched ’em. An’ a bald-’eaded feller, ’baht fortyish, fer Rosie, an’ I brought ’im up ’ere and saw ’im inter Rosie’s room. But ’e’s a reg’lar.”

“So no one else ’as bin up ’ere but ’im?”

“An’ the girls,” Fred finished. “Ask ’em.”

“Oh, I will, you can be sure o’ vat. An’ yer better all be ’ere when we wants yer, or yer’ll be ’unted down an’ arrested fer ’idin’ hevidence in a murder—an’ end up in Coldbath Fields, or Newgate.” He looked at Pitt. “Nah, you comin’ quiet, or do I ’ave ter be unpleasant wiv yer? Gimme yer ’ands.”

“What?” Pitt was startled.

“Yer ’ands, mister! You take me for a fool? I in’t a walkin’ yer back through the streets in the dark wivout the bracelets on yer.”

Pitt opened his mouth to protest, then realized the point-lessness of it, and thrust out his hands obediently.

Two hours later, sitting in the Seven Dials police station, still manacled, he was beginning to feel panic rising hot inside him. A message had been sent to Bow Street, and a neatly written answer had been returned. Yes, they knew Thomas Pitt, who answered the description precisely, but they could not agree that he had been sent to arrest anyone. They knew of no prostitute in a pink dress, and as far as they were concerned there was nothing of the sort connected with the case upon which Pitt was working. He had been assigned to look more carefully into the robbery at the home of Piers York in Hanover Close some three years ago, and the murder by an intruder of his son, Robert York. As far as Superintendent Ballarat knew, Pitt had failed to discover anything of material interest. The officer in charge of this unfortunate murder must handle it with all the justice and dispatch of which he was capable. Of course, Superintendent Ballarat wished, as a professional courtesy, to be kept informed of events as they should transpire, with the profound hope that Thomas Pitt was not guilty of anything except foolishness, and perhaps the kind of immorality that men fell prey to from time to time. Nevertheless, justice must be done. There could be no exceptions.

When Fred had first found him Pitt had only been able to think of Cerise, the futility of finding her when it was too late, the shabby reality of death. That they had mistaken him for the murderer had seemed farcical at the time. But now it was becoming appallingly clear that they did not believe him, and all his protestations, instead of making the truth obvious, were falling uselessly on their ears, like the excuses of any other criminal caught red-handed. And Ballarat had no intention of risking Society’s indignation and his superiors’ displeasure by stepping forward to defend Pitt or his actions. He did not want there to have been treason, he did not want to have to investigate the Yorks or the Danvers, or Felix Asherson, and he was only too happy to be rid of the one man who was pressing him to do it. If Pitt were convicted of murder he would be even more effectively silenced than if he were dead.

The sweat broke out on Pitt’s skin, then chilled instantly, leaving him shivering and a little sick. What would happen to Charlotte? Emily would see to her financially, thank God! But what about the disgrace, the public shame? Policemen had few friends; a policeman hanged for murdering a prostitute had none at all. Charlotte would find every hand turned against her: neighbors and erstwhile friends would abhor her; the underworld that normally had some care for its own, who might have given something to an ordinary hanged man’s widow, would have no pity for a policeman’s family. And Daniel and Jemima would grow up with the shadow of the gibbet across their hearts, always hiding who they were, trying to defend him, never really knowing—Pitt stopped; these thoughts were unbearable.

“Come on!” The voice yanked him from his inner misery back to the urgency of the present. “Coldbath Fields fer you; yer can’t sit ’ere all night. Let’s be ’avin’ yer!”

He looked up to see the chill boiled-blue eyes of a constable regarding him with the kind of loathing that police reserve for their own kind who have betrayed everything they have given their lives to preserve.

“On yer feet! Gotter learn ter do as ye’re told, you ’ave!”

C
HARLOTTE HAD EXPECTED
Pitt to be late getting home, so she went to bed a little before eleven, unhappy that things between them were still unresolved. She woke with a start in the morning, aware even before she opened her eyes that something was wrong. There was a coldness, a silence. She sat up. Pitt’s side of the bed was as neat and untouched as it had been when she put the sheets on clean the day before. She scrambled out and reached for her robe without any clear idea of what she was going to do. Perhaps there was a note downstairs. Could he have come in and had to go out again without time to sleep at all? For the moment she dared not think beyond that. She did not even bother with slippers and she winced as her bare feet touched the cold floor in the passageway.

She looked first in the kitchen, but there was nothing; the kettle was where she had left it and the cups were unused. She went to the parlor, but there was nothing there either. She tried to fill her mind with good reasons for Pitt’s absence, so her fears could not intrude: he was on the trail of something, and so close to victory he could not leave it; he had actually made an arrest and was still at the police station; there had been another murder, and he was so busy with it he could not come home, and he had not sent a messenger during the night because he did not want to waken her, and no stranger could get in without his key—but her common sense stopped her there. There was always the letter box; it would have been simple to slip a note in to tell her.

Well, any minute now someone would come, perhaps even Pitt himself. She should get dressed. She was shuddering with the chill and her bare feet were numb. There was no point in standing here. Gracie would be up soon and the children must have breakfast. She turned and went upstairs quickly, into the oddly empty bedroom. She took off her robe and nightgown, still shivering, and put on her camisole, petticoats, stockings, and an old, dark blue dress. Her fingers were clumsy this morning and she could not be bothered to do anything with her hair except wind it in a loose coil and pin it up. She would wash her face in the kitchen downstairs where the water was hot. Surely by then there would be a message.

She had just reached for a rough, dry towel and felt its clean abrasiveness on her skin when the doorbell rang. She dropped the towel onto the bench accidentally dragging it with her elbow and pulling it onto the floor. She ignored it, running along the passage to the front door, which she flung open. A red-faced constable stood on the doorstep, misery so heavy in his features that she was instantly afraid. Her breath stopped.

“Mrs. Pitt?” he asked.

She stared at him speechlessly.

“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” he said wretchedly. “But I ’as ter tell yer that Inspector Pitt ’as bin arrested fer killin’ a woman in Seven Dials. ’E said as ’er neck was already broke when ’e found her—no doubtin’ it was. ’E’d never do such a fing. But fer ve time bein’ ’e’s bin took to the ’Ouse o’ Correction at Coldbath Fields. ’E’s all right, ma’am! There’s no need ter—ter take on!” He stood helpless, unable to offer any comfort. He did not know how much she knew of “the Steel,” but lies were useless: she would find out soon enough. Its nickname was a corruption of Bastille, and with good reason.

Charlotte remained frozen. At first she felt relief: at least he was not dead. That had been the fear she had not dared to name. Then a kind of darkness closed round her as if it were dusk, not dawn. Arrested! In prison? She had heard more than even Pitt knew of the houses of correction like Coldbath Fields. They were the short-term jails where people were taken before trial, or for brief sentences. No one could survive for more than a year in them; they were crowded, brutal and filthy. It had been one of Aunt Vespasia’s passions to get rid of at least the worst of the epidemic jail fever.

But surely Pitt would only be there for a few hours—a day at most—until they realized their mistake.

“Ma’am?” the constable interrupted anxiously, his blue eyes puckered and very earnest. “Mebbe you should sit down, ma’am, take a cup o’ tea.”

Charlotte looked back at him in surprise. She had forgotten he was still there. “No.” Her voice seemed to come from far away. “No, I—I don’t need to sit down. Where did you say he was—did you say Coldbath Fields?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He wanted to say something else but the words eluded him. He was used to horror and misery, but he had never had to tell a colleague’s wife that he was charged with murder—of a prostitute! His face was blurred with pity for her.

“Then I’ll have to take his things.” She was reaching for a solid idea, something practical she could latch on to, something she could do to help him. “Shirts. Clean linen. Will they feed him?”

“Yes, ma’am. But I’m sure a little extra won’t come amiss, if it’s plain like. But ’ave yer got a brother, or someone as could go for yer? It in’t a very nice place fer a lady.”

“No, I haven’t. I’ll go myself. I’ll just make sure the maid is up to care for the children. Thank you, Constable.”

“Yer sure, ma’am? In’t nuffin’ I can do?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Leaving him on the step, she closed the door gently and walked back towards the kitchen on wobbling legs. She bumped into the door lintel on the way in, but her mind was so dazed it was moments before the pain of it registered. In time there would be a purple bruise, but all she could think of now was Pitt, cold, hungry, and at the mercy of the warders of the Steel.

Very carefully she cut the fresh loaf, buttered the slices, and then carved the cold meat that was to have done them all for the next two days. She wrapped the sandwiches and put them in a basket. Next she went upstairs and took out his newly laundered underlinen and a good shirt, then realized that was foolish and chose the oldest ones instead. She was still at the press on the landing when Gracie came down from her attic bedroom and stopped on the last stair.