Silence in Hanover Close (31 page)

“You lost summink, ma’am?”

Charlotte closed the cupboard doors and turned round slowly.

“No, thank you, Gracie, I have it. I must go out. I don’t know when I shall be back; it may be late. I took the meat for Mr. Pitt. You’ll have to find something else for us.”

Gracie blinked, hugging her shawl closer round her.

“Ma’am, you look terrible white. ’As summink ’appened?” Her little face was pinched with dismay.

There was no point in lying; Charlotte would have to tell her soon enough.

“Yes. They have arrested Mr. Pitt; they say he killed some woman in Seven Dials. I’m going to take—to take some things for him. I—” Suddenly she was on the edge of tears, she could feel her throat tighten and her voice would not come.

“I always thought some o’ them constables was daft!” Gracie said with profound contempt. “Now they really ’as gorn the ’ole way. “ ’Ooever made that mistake’ll spend the rest of ’is life eatin’ worms! An’ serve ’im right! Are you goin’ ter see the commissioner o’ police, ma’am? They can’t know ’oo they got! Why, there in’t nobody in Lunnon solved more murders than Mr. Pitt. Sometimes I think some o’ them couldn’t detect an ’ole in the ground if’ n they fell in it!”

Charlotte smiled bleakly. She looked into Gracie’s plain, indignant little face, and felt reassured.

“Yes I will,” she said more firmly. “I’ll take these things to Mr. Pitt first, then I’ll go and see Mr. Ballarat at Bow Street.”

“You do that, ma’am,” Gracie agreed. “An’ I’ll take care o’ everythin’ ’ere.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Gracie,” and she turned away quickly and hurried downstairs before emotion could overtake her again. Best not to talk. Action was easier and infinitely more useful.

But when she reached the massive gray tower and gates of Her Majesty’s House of Correction and asked to go in, they would not allow her to see Pitt. A red-nosed jailer with a perpetual cold took her basket with the food and the linen, promising lugubriously to see that they reached the prisoner. But she could not come in, it was not visiting hours, and no, he could not make an exception, he would not take a note for her. He was sorry but rules was rules.

There was no argument against such bleak refusal, and when she saw the unreachable uninterest in his watery eyes she turned and left, walking back along the wet footpath, the wind in her face, trying to think of what she would say to Ballarat. Temper passed quickly, fury at the stupidity and the injustice, and she began to think how to be practical. What would be the best way to make Ballarat act immediately? Surely a reasoned and calm explanation of the facts. He could not know what had happened or he would have done something already. He would have contacted the police station which had made such a blunder, and Pitt’s release would have been assured as soon as the appropriate message was received.

She took the next public omnibus, which was crowded with women and children. She paid her fare to the “cad,” as conductors were known, and squeezed in between a fat woman in black bombazine with a bosom like a bolster and a small boy in a sailor suit. She tried to occupy her mind by staring round her at the other passengers—the old lady with the withered face and out-of-date lace cap, the girl in the striped skirt who kept smiling at the youth with the side whiskers—but sooner or later every thought came back to Pitt and her terrible sense of being shut off from him, the threatening wave of panic at her helplessness.

By the time she got off in the Strand and walked up Bow Street to the Police station Charlotte’s heart was knocking in her chest and her legs felt shaky and uncertain. She breathed in and out deeply, but that did not steady her. She went up the steps, tripping on the top one because her feet no longer seemed coordinated. She pushed the door open and went in, suddenly realizing she had never been here before. Pitt came here every day and spoke about it so often she had assumed it would look familiar, but it was much darker and colder than she had expected. She had not imagined the smell of linoleum and polish, the worn brass of the door handles, the shiny patches on the bench where countless people had rubbed against it, waiting.

The duty constable looked up from the ledger where he was writing in studious copperplate. “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for yer?” He sized up her respectability instantly. “Lorst summat, ’ave yer?”

“No.” She swallowed hard. “Thank you. I am Inspector Pitt’s wife. I should like to see Mr. Ballarat, if you please. It is most urgent.”

The man’s face colored and he avoided her eyes. “Er— yes, ma’am. If—if yer’ll wait a few moments I’ll go an’ see.” He closed the ledger, put it away under the shelf, and disappeared out of the glass-paned door into the passageway. She could hear his muffled voice speaking hurriedly to someone beyond.

She stood on the worn linoleum floor and waited. No one came back, and she knew they were too embarrassed to face her, not knowing what to say. It frightened her. She had expected anger, defensiveness, repeated assurances that it must be a mistake and would be put right immediately. This evasion must mean either that they doubted Pitt themselves or that they dared not express their feelings. Was there no loyalty among them at all, no trust, even after all the years they had known him?

Panic rose inside her, making her sick. Without realizing it she stepped forward, desperate to make a noise, to shout till someone came, even to scream.

The door swung open suddenly and she jumped. The same constable looked at her, this time meeting her eyes.

“If yer’d like ter come this way, ma’am.” Still he did not use her name, as if he were ashamed somehow and wanted to pretend she was someone else.

She stared at him coldly. “Mrs. Pitt,” she told him.

“Mrs. Pitt, ma’am,” he repeated obediently, even the tops of his ears turning pink.

She followed him along the passage, up the stairs, and across into Ballarat’s large, warm office. A fire was burning on the grate and Ballarat himself was standing in front of the hearth, feet slightly apart, boots shining.

“Come in, Mrs. Pitt,” he said expansively. “Come in and take a seat.” He waved his arm at the leather easy chair, but he did not move to allow her the fire.

She sat on the edge, upright. The constable closed the door and fled.

“I’m deeply sorry that I had to send such a message,” Ballarat began before she could speak. “It must have been a dreadful shock for you.”

“Of course it was,” she agreed. “But that is hardly important. What is happening to Thomas? Don’t they realize who he is? Have you been to Coldbath Fields and told them? Perhaps they don’t believe a letter.”

“Certainly they know who he is, Mrs. Pitt.” He nodded several times. “Naturally, I made certain of it immediately. But I’m afraid the evidence is quite unarguable. I don’t want to distress you by recounting it. I do think, my dear lady, it would be better if you were to go home, perhaps to your own family, and—”

“I have no intention of doing anything so perfectly useless as going home to my family!” She tried to swallow back her fury but her voice was shaking. “And I’m perfectly capable of hearing the supposed evidence, whatever it is!”

He looked uncomfortable, his rather florid face becoming even more mottled. “Ah.” He cleared his throat to give himself time to order his thoughts. “If you will allow me to know better, that is because you do not understand what it is. I assure you, it would be far better if you were to leave your interests in my care, and go home—”

“What are you doing to show his innocence?” she interrupted fiercely. “You know he didn’t do it! You must find the evidence.”

“My dear lady”—he held up his hands, plump and well manicured, the firelight catching a gold signet ring—“I must abide by the law, just like everyone else. Of course,” he said carefully and with a patience so obvious she could taste it in the air, “of course I wish to believe the best of him.” He nodded again. “Pitt has been a good police officer for years. He has served the community in many ways.”

She opened her mouth to retaliate against such condescension, but he was not to be interrupted.

“But I cannot override the law! If we are to uphold justice, we must abide by due process, like everyone else.” He was well launched now. “We cannot set ourselves above it.” He opened his eyes very wide. “Naturally, I do not for a moment believe Pitt would do such a thing. But with all the best will in the world, I cannot and must not say that I know!” He smiled very slightly, showing the superiority of male reason over emotionalism. “We are not infallible, and my judgment of a man is not enough to clear him before the law—nor should it be.”

She stood up, facing him with tight, cold rage.

“No one is asking you to be judge, Mr. Ballarat.” She glared at him. “What I had expected, before I met you, was that you were loyal enough to fight to defend one of your own men, whom you know perfectly well would not have committed such a crime. Even if you did not know him, I would have assumed you would suppose him innocent and do everything to check the evidence over and over again to find the flaws.”

“Really, my dear,” he said soothingly, taking a step forward and then meeting her eyes and stopping. “Really, my dear lady, you must accept that you do not understand! This is police business, and we are experts—”

“You are a coward,” she said witheringly.

He looked startled, then regained his composure with a smooth, glassy gaze. “Of course you are upset. It is to be expected. But believe me, when you have taken a rest and had a little time to think about it—perhaps it would be wise to leave the matter to your father? Or if you have a brother, or brother-in-law?”

She swallowed hard. “My father is dead, so is my brother-in-law; and I have no brother.”

“Oh.” He looked confused, an avenue of escape had closed unexpectedly. It was damnable that there was no man to take care of her—for everyone’s sake. “Well . . .” he floundered.

“Yes?” she inquired, staring at him furiously.

His eyes wavered and slid away. “I’m sure everything will be done that can be, Mrs. Pitt. But I am also sure you would not wish me to interfere with the law, even if I were able.” He was satisfied with that; his tone grew stronger. “You must compose yourself and trust in us.”

“I am perfectly composed,” she said chokingly, and left the second half of the reply deliberately unsaid. “Thank you for your time.” And without waiting for him to summon any polite parting words, or offering him her hand, she turned on her heel and went to the door. She flung it open and walked out, leaving it swinging.

But anger was a short comfort. It died quickly when she was out in the icy street, brushed by indifferent people, splashed by a passing carriage when she stood too close to the curb. Gradually, as she walked along the Strand towards the omnibus stop, the meaning of it all sank in: Ballarat was not going to do anything. She had expected him to be only a little less outraged man she was—after all, Pitt was one of his own men, and probably the best. He should have been up in arms, doing everything to get this appalling mistake put right. Instead he was backing out, equivocating, finding excuses for doing nothing. Perhaps he was even relieved that Pitt had been silenced. And how more effectively could Pitt be stopped from asking embarrassing questions or unearthing anything that implicated the Yorks, or the Danvers, or Ballarat’s superiors at the Home Office and the diplomatic departments that had been penetrated by treason?

She stopped short and a man with a tray of pies bumped into her, swearing in his surprise.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. She stood rooted to the gray footpath as people jostled and grumbled past her. Could that be it? Was it conceivable Ballarat himself—No, surely not. He was only weak, and ambitious. But who had murdered Cerise? What had she known that was still so dangerous, even now, that someone had sought her out in a back room in Seven Dials and broken her neck?

Someone she could still betray—that was obvious. And whoever had done it was afraid Pitt was too close. If it were mere coincidence that she had been murdered just as he reached her, then Ballarat would be doing everything he could to uncover the truth.

She started to walk again, quickly now. She had hold of a definite fact: Ballarat was part of the conspiracy, either because he was implicated or because he was merely weak.

She thought the latter. She and Emily must do something about it, there must be ways—

Then the chill made her gasp. How could she reach Emily? She was a lady’s maid at the Yorks’; she might as well be in France! Charlotte could not even be sure a letter would be given to her promptly.

“Extra! Extra!” The newsboy’s voice cut into her thoughts as he shouted sharp and high. “Extra! Policeman murders woman in pink! Extra!” He stopped next to her. “ ’Ere, lady, yer wan’ a paper? Thomas Pitt, a famous rozzer, killed a—” He glanced at her face and amended what he had been going to say. “Killed a woman o’ the streets.”

Her voice barely came through her lips. “No thank you.”

The boy turned away and drew in his breath to shout again. Then she realized it was foolish to run away from it. If she were to be of any use she needed to know. “Yes please! Yes, I will buy one,” she called after him, fishing in her reticule for a coin and offering it to him.

“There y’are, lady. Ta.” He gave her a penny change and went on his way. “Extra! Rozzer commits ’orrible murder in Seven Dials!”

She pushed it under her arm, out of the way. She would rather look at it alone. The omnibus had nearly arrived, and when it came she climbed on, giving her fare to the “cad,” and sat down, this time oblivious of the other passengers.

When she got off it was raining heavily and she was thoroughly soaked by the time she reached her own front door and got inside. She was greeted almost immediately by Gracie, her eyes red-rimmed and her apron filthy. Charlotte took off her sodden coat and hung it up without caring where it dripped.

“What is it, Gracie?” she said impatiently.

“Oh, ma’am—I’m terrible sorry.” Gracie was on the edge of tears again, her voice thick with crying.

“What?”

“Mrs. Biggs ’as gorn, ma’am. Never so much as did the floors. Said she wouldn’t work for nobody what murdered women. I’m terrible sorry, ma’am—I wouldn’t ’a’ told yer, but I ’ad to say as why she went, an’—” She gulped deeply, tears running down her cheeks. “An’ the butcher wouldn’t give no credit. As good as said as ’ow ’e’d sooner we got our meat somewheres else!”