Pentecost Alley

9

THE FOLLOWING DAY the outcry in the newspapers was far worse. It was not only the less reputable publications that were printing sensational headlines, but even The Times itself questioned the justice of Costigan’s trial, and through that, not only the efficiency of the police but their probity as well.

Farther into the paper there was another article reexamining the evidence put forward. It suggested very plainly that some of it was morally suspect and had been a matter of desire rather than fact. The whole case might have been conducted with more intention of finding a culprit quickly, and without embarrassment to the Force for its ineptitude, including those who had rested their political reputations in backing it, than a genuine concern for justice. Costigan had been the victim of these two less than admirable forces.

Several less reputable newspapers actually suggested that the officers in charge had been either threatened or bribed in order to close the case quickly. Pitt was likened to the unfortunate Inspector Abilene who had been unable to solve the previous outbreak of murders in Whitechapel, and Commissioner Warren, whose retirement the failure had forced upon him.

Several letters were printed raising a plea that Costigan should be pardoned posthumously, and his family, if they could be found, paid a handsome reparation for his wrongful death.

Pitt folded them up after reading them. Gracie snatched them from him and would have put them on the fire, except that she knew that so much paper ash would block it from drawing air, and she would only have to clean the whole thing out and relight it.

Charlotte said nothing. She knew Pitt already understood everything there was to say about it, which was little enough. She knew he had acted honestly. To say so now would only suggest that there could be a question about it. Her greatest concern was to protect Daniel and Jemima. There was nothing she could do to save Pitt any of the hurt ahead except share it with him, and at the same time try not to show it too much.

She debated whether to allow the children to go to school, or if perhaps it would be better to keep them at home, at least for today. Then they would not overhear the remarks or have to endure the torments and the questions of other children or of people in the street. She could not be there all day to argue back or to explain to them what people meant, why they were angry, and why they were wrong.

She could even take them to her mother’s house for a while. They would be safe there, anonymous. A week or two away from school would not do any harm. They could catch up when this horrible business was over, and the truth was known.

But what if it was never known? What if it was like the Ripper all over again, and never solved? It could happen. Pitt was clever. He never gave up. But he did not solve all his cases. He had never failed with a murder yet, but there had been robberies, frauds, arson, where nothing was recovered and no one caught.

If she took them to Caroline’s, she would have taught them that when things are unpleasant, and when you are afraid, then run away and hide. It may disappear, and you won’t have to face it.

But if you do have to, it is twice as hard. You have not only told other people you are a coward, you have believed it yourself.

“It’s time for school.” She heard her own voice saying it before she knew she had made up her mind. She looked across and saw Pitt’s eyes on her. She could not read his face. She did not know whether he approved her decision or not. “I’ll walk with you again. Come on.”

Pitt spent the day in Whitechapel, and it was one of the worst days of his life. He questioned all the women in the tenement in Myrdle Street again, trying to learn anything further about Nora Gough. Could she possibly have known Ada? Had she quarreled with anyone? Had she known Costigan? Had she lent or borrowed money? Was there anything at all which could provide a motive for her death?

Her pimp was a huge, avuncular man with curly black hair and a filthy temper. But he could also account for his whereabouts all the relevant day, with unimpeachable witnesses. And he seemed genuinely distressed by Nora’s death. She was his best girl, earned him the most money and gave him no trouble.

In the early afternoon as Pitt was walking along Commercial Road East there was an ugly gathering of men and women outside one of the larger public houses. Someone started to shout. “Let’s ’ear it for Bert Costigan! Three cheers for Costigan!”

“’Ooray for Costigan!” another yelled, and the chorus was taken up all around.

“ ’E were a martyr ter the rich wot comes dahn ’ere ter use our women!” a thin man said loudly.

“An’ murder ’em!” someone else added to a loud cheering.

“ ’E were innocent!” a woman with pale hair chimed in. “They ’anged ’im fer nuffin’!”

“They ’anged ’im fer bein’ poor!” a fat man said furiously, his face twisted with rage. “It’s them as oughta be ’anged!”

“Nah then! Nah then!” The landlord came to the door, a cloth in his hand, his apron askew. “Don’ want no trouble ’ere. Go orff ’ome with yer! Don’ talk daft.”

A young woman with a missing front tooth pushed her way forward aggressively. “’Oo a’ you callin’ daft, eh? Bert Costigan were ’anged fer summink ’e din’t do! That’s nuffink wif you, is it? Pay yer money an’ drink up, an’ never mind if yer gets ’anged fer some rich bastard ’oo comes dahn ’ere from ’is fancy ’ouse up west, an’ murders our women! Tha’s all right, is it?”

“I din’t say that!” the landlord protested. But by now there was more shouting and pushing and a youth was knocked over. Instantly a scuffle began, and within moments half a dozen men were throwing punches.

Pitt moved in, trying to force them apart and see that no injury was done, especially to some of the women who were now screaming. He took it to be fear, only to discover—too late, when he was in the thick of it—that it was rage and encouragement.

Someone was yelling Costigan’s name like a sort of war chant.

Pitt was being battered from all sides. The landlord was in the middle of it somewhere.

A police whistle shrilled and someone screamed.

The fight grew worse. Pitt was knocked off his feet and would have fallen over except that the landlord cannoned into him from the left, and both of them landed on top of a sprawling youth with red hair and a bloody nose.

More police arrived, and the mêlée was broken up. Three men and two women were arrested. Eight people were hurt more or less seriously. One had a broken collarbone. Two had to be sent to the surgeon for stitching.

Pitt left feeling severely bruised—and with his collar torn, one elbow ripped out of his jacket, and thoroughly covered in dirt and several bloodstains.

Naturally it all made the evening newspapers, along with much comment and criticism, and renewed calls for a pardon for Costigan and questions about the whole structure and justification of the police force in general, and Pitt in particular.

Comparisons were drawn between this case and the previous Whitechapel murders two years ago, flattering to no one.

More riots and the breakdown of public order were predicted.

Pitt returned home at about seven o’clock, worn out, bruised in mind and in body, uncertain even which way to turn next. He had no idea who had murdered either of the women, or where Costigan or Finlay FitzJames fitted in, or if they did at all.

He recognized Vespasia’s carriage outside in the street and was not sure whether he was pleased or sorry. He did not want her to see him at his worst. He was ragged, dirty and exhausted. Her good opinion of him mattered very much. He would far rather she thought of him as able to rise above such crisis and failure as this. On the other hand, it would be good to hear her advice—in fact, just to see her and know her strength and resolve. Courage was just as contagious as despair, perhaps more so.

What took him by surprise when he went into the parlor was to find Cornwallis there as well, looking grim and extremely shaken.

Charlotte stood up immediately, even before Pitt had time to greet anyone.

“You must be tired and hungry,” she said, going directly to him. “There’s fresh hot water upstairs, and dinner will be ready in half an hour. Aunt Vespasia and Mr. Cornwallis are staying. There will be time to talk to them.” It was almost a dismissal, but he was glad enough to accept it. He knew his clothes carried the stench of the middens, the spilled beer, the dust of the street where he had fought, and the stale sweat of frightened, jostling people. Even the fear and the anger seemed to cling to him.

He came down again thirty minutes later, still exhausted and stiffening, bruises darkening on his face, but he was clean and ready to face the inevitable discussion.

It began as soon as the first course was served. None of them wished to pretend.

“There are two ways we must approach this,” Cornwallis said earnestly, leaning a little forward. “We must do all we can to discover, and prove, who killed this second woman. And we must show that the arrest of Costigan was based on solid evidence, fairly obtained, and his trial was conducted honorably.” His lips tightened. “I don’t know how we can prove that we did not conceal evidence that would implicate anyone else.” His voice dropped and his eyes fixed on the flowers in the blue bowl in the center of the table. “I fear perhaps we did—”

“I have no love for Augustus FitzJames,” Vespasia interrupted firmly, looking at Pitt, then at Cornwallis. “But making public the evidence against his son is likely to provoke a hysterical reaction which will not only be unjust, but will almost certainly make it a great deal harder to discover the truth. And whatever my personal feelings towards him, and indeed whatever his own morality, I do not wish to see him punished for something he did not do. Even if no one will punish him for what he did,” she added ruefully.

Cornwallis regarded her gravely, weighing what she had said, then he turned to Pitt. “Just how much is Finlay FitzJames implicated in this second crime? First tell me what you know, then give me your opinion.” He began to eat his small portion of fish slowly. From his expression of intense concentration on Pitt, it was impossible to tell if he was even aware of what was on his plate.

Pitt told him exactly what he had found in Nora Gough’s room and what Finlay had said about his whereabouts.

The dishes were removed and steak-and-kidney pie and vegetables served. Gracie came and went in efficient silence, but she knew who Cornwallis was, and she watched him with the utmost suspicion, as if she feared that at any moment he might pose some threat to her beloved family.

Cornwallis seemed unaware of her keen little face so often turned towards him. His attention never left Pitt.

“And your opinion?” Cornwallis prompted the moment Pitt concluded.

Pitt thought hard. He was acutely aware that Cornwallis would value what he said, possibly base his actions and his own judgments upon it.

“I really believed Costigan was guilty,” he answered after a moment. “It wasn’t proved beyond any doubt whatever, but he admitted it. I never did understand why he was so brutal with her. He denied that to the end.” He remembered Costigan’s face with a sick churning in his stomach. “He was a nasty little man, pathetic and vicious, but I didn’t sense in him the streak of sadism which would have driven him to break or dislocate her fingers and toes.”

“She cheated him out of part of her earnings,” Cornwallis said dubiously. “He considered she belonged to him, so it was a kind of betrayal. Weak men can be very cruel.” His face tightened. “I’ve seen it in the navy. Give the wrong man a little power and he’ll abuse those below him.”

“Oh, Costigan was abusive, all right,” Pitt agreed. “But the garter, the boots! It all seems more than just ordinarily vicious. It doesn’t seem like hot temper … more like …”

“Something calculated,” Charlotte supplied for him.

“Yes.”

“Then you had doubts that Costigan was guilty?” Cornwallis said with anxiety pinching his face but no sense of accusation. He had spent his life in naval command, and he gave without question the same loyalty to his crew that he expected from them in return. On such trust he had faced, and would face again, whatever the forces of nature and the guns of battle could offer.

“No.” Pitt met his eyes candidly. “No, I didn’t then. I just thought I hadn’t read him very well.” He tried desperately to clear his mind and remember exactly what he had felt as he had talked to Costigan, seen his face, felt his terror and self-pity. How honest had he been? How much was he influenced by relief and an inner determination to prove the case so they could all escape the shadow of having to pursue Augustus FitzJames’s son?

“He never denied killing her,” he went on, staring across the dining room table at Cornwallis. The food was almost ignored. Gracie was standing by the kitchen door, a clean cloth in her hand for holding hot dishes, but she was listening as intently as any of them.

“But he always denied torturing her,” Pitt continued painfully. “And no matter how hard I pressed, he always denied knowing anything about FitzJames, or the badge, or the cuff link.”

“Did you believe him?” Vespasia asked quietly.

Pitt thought for a long time before replying. There was silence in the room. No one moved.

“I suppose I did,” Pitt said at last. “As it wouldn’t have gone on worrying me. At least … I didn’t believe he could have done it alone, or that he had any reason to.”

“Then we’re back to where we started,” Cornwallis said, looking from one to the other of them. “It doesn’t make sense. If it was not Costigan, and there can be no doubt it is not him this time, then who can it be? Is it someone we have not thought of? Or can it be what I think we are all dreading, and FitzJames is guilty of both crimes?”

“No, he isn’t guilty,” Charlotte said, looking at the table in front of her.

“Why not?” Vespasia asked curiously, setting down her fork on her plate. “What do you know, Charlotte, which makes you speak with such certainty?”

Charlotte was thoroughly uncomfortable, and Pitt knew why, but he did not intervene.

“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 repayment 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 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.”

They arrived in Devonshire Street at a quarter past four, and were received by Tallulah in her own boudoir, the sitting room specifically for ladies. She was delighted to see Emily, but taken aback when she saw that she was accompanied by someone else, and a stranger.

“My sister, Charlotte,” Emily introduced them. “I was sure you would not mind my bringing her. She is most resourceful, and I thought she might help us with the dilemma we face. She is already familiar with something of the circumstances.”

Tallulah looked a little startled. She had obviously not considered that Emily might have confided their situation to anyone else.

Emily ignored her expression and plunged on, looking innocent. “It has come to the stage when we must prove the matter once and for all.” She shook her head a little and her face was full of sympathy. “You are going to have to admit that you were at that wretched party and that you saw Finlay.”

“No one will believe me!” Tallulah said with exasperation, glancing at Charlotte nervously, then back to Emily again. They were all seated in small, floral-covered easy chairs, but Tallulah hunched herself uncomfortably on the edge of hers. “We’ve been over all that,” she protested. “If it would have been the slightest use, I would have said so in the beginning. Do you think I would have allowed Finlay to be suspected at all if I could have helped it? What kind of a person do you think I am?” Her eyes were very bright, as if filled with tears, and her hands were clenched in her lap.

Charlotte wondered whether it was Emily’s opinion which hurt her or some other, perhaps that of Jago Jones. There was so much they did not know about Tallulah, about Finlay, about all the emotions which seethed below the surface of polite exchanges between those who lived beneath one roof, who seemed to share so much of daily life, of heritage, of status in the world and in society, who had known each other all their lives and yet had so little idea of what mattered or what hurt.

Emily was thinking how to phrase her reply so it did not make a fragile situation worse.

“I think you are frightened for a brother you love,” she answered at length. “As I would be. I love my sister, and would do anything I could to save her from an unjust punishment.” She smiled apologetically. “I might even go to some lengths to mitigate a just one, were it necessary. As she would for me … as she has done.” She looked at Tallulah gently. “But because I care so much, I would also be unable to think as clearly as I might were it someone less close to me.”

She waited, watching Tallulah.

Slowly Tallulah relaxed. “Of course. I’m sorry. This is such a nightmare. And I have not been myself lately.” She looked at Emily, as if her last remark were not merely a figure of speech but something she meant more literally.

Emily perceived the difference.

“Who have you been?” she said, not quite jokingly.

“Someone much more virtuous,” Tallulah replied, also as if she were not quite certain if she were serious or not. “Someone who doesn’t go to exciting parties, or waste time, or wear very expensive and fashionable clothes.” She sighed. “In fact, someone really pretty tedious. I’m trying to be good, and all I’m being is a bore. Why is being good such a list of things you mustn’t do? And it’s almost everything that’s any fun. Being virtuous seems to be so … so bland! So … gray!”

“Doing good works can be gray,” Charlotte replied, remembering something Aunt Vespasia had said. “Being good isn’t, because that involves feeling, caring about what you do. It isn’t a bloodless sort of thing at all. Selfishness is gray, in the end. It may not look it to begin with, but when you realize someone is essentially interested only in themselves, and if they even have to choose between what they like and what you need, you will lose. That’s gray. Cowardice is gray … the people who run away and leave you to fight alone when it looks as if the danger is real and you might not win. Liars are gray, people who tell you what you want to believe whether it’s true or not. It’s generosity, courage, laughter and honesty which are really the bright colors.”

Tallulah smiled. “You say that as if you really mean it. Mama thinks I’m trying to mend my reputation. Papa thinks I’m being obedient. Fin hasn’t even noticed.”

“Does any of that matter?” Emily asked.

Tallulah shrugged.

“No, not really.”

“And Jago?”

Tallulah tried to laugh and failed. “He thinks it’s a pose, and very silly. If anything, he despises me even more for being artificial.” Her face was full of pain and confusion. “I don’t know how to be better, except by behaving as if I were. What does he expect me to do?” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I think he wouldn’t really like me no matter what I did.” Suddenly she was angry, the pain of rejection flaring up inside her. “And anyway, I don’t want to be liked! Who on earth wants to be liked? It’s a pale, tepid sort of thing! I like rice pudding!”

“Why?” Charlotte said suddenly.

Tallulah turned to look at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Why do you like rice pudding?” Charlotte repeated.

Tallulah could not hide her impatience. “Because it tastes pleasant. What on earth difference does that make? It hardly matters, does it?”

“I know that you meant you like rice pudding because you were contrasting a bland and unimportant feeling with one of passion and intensity,” Charlotte explained, trying for a few moments to put her own desperate need to help Pitt from the front of her mind and think wholly of Tallulah. “But the point I am trying to make is that the liking you are thinking of is purely subjective. What you mean is not that you like rice pudding but that you enjoy it. You like the way it makes you feel.”

Tallulah stared at her without comprehension. Only inbred good manners kept her from saying something dismissive.

“When we speak of affections for a person,” Charlotte continued as she would have to Jemima, “we might be speaking only of the way they make us feel, but if it is really a love, or even liking, we should also be speaking of some concern for what they feel. Isn’t love supposed to be an unselfish thing? A placing of someone else’s well-being before your own?”

There was complete silence in the room. It was a typical boudoir of a young woman of fashion and a good deal of money, where she could receive her visitors in privacy. It was richly decorated in florals, all pinks and blues with dashes of white. Actually, for someone of Tallulah’s originality, it was surprisingly conventional. Perhaps she had not been allowed to decorate it herself. From what Emily had said of her, Charlotte would have expected something more inventive, perhaps Oriental, or Turkish, or even a touch reflecting the current fascination with ancient Egypt, not these conventional flowers.

“I … I suppose so,” Tallulah said at last. “I hadn’t thought of it like that….”

Charlotte smiled. “Yes, you had. Your concern for your brother is unselfish. You are prepared to get into a considerable amount of unpleasantness yourself in order to clear him of suspicion. It will not enhance your reputation—with society in general, or Jago in particular—if you admit to having been at that party. Nor will your father be inclined to view it favorably. You may well find your freedom curtailed, or your dress allowance cut short or even suspended altogether.”

Tallulah was very pale. “Yes,” she said softly. “I know. But that’s different.” Her hands clenched in her lap. “Fin is my brother. I’ve known him all my life. If I don’t stand by him, who will?”

“Probably no one,” Charlotte said honestly. “But please don’t think so lightly of liking someone. It’s terribly important. It is a kind of loving, you know, and one that frequently lasts a lot longer than romance. You can fall out of love, as well as in. Most of us do, especially if you don’t actually like the person as well. It doesn’t always grow into love by any means, but sometimes it does.”

Tallulah blinked and frowned.

“Would you care to spend the rest of your life with someone you didn’t actually like?” Charlotte added.

“No, of course not.” Tallulah looked at her closely, as if trying to judge what kind of woman she was. “Would you marry someone you merely liked, and who no more than liked you?”

Charlotte had to smile broadly. “No, I wouldn’t even entertain the idea. I married highly unsuitably because I loved my husband wildly, and still do.”

“Well, Jago doesn’t love me,” Tallulah said with flat desperation. “And the whole discussion is pointless because he doesn’t even like me either.”

“Don’t give up yet,” Emily cut in. “Merely not going to parties and being extravagant is not enough. It is negative, a case of not doing things. Your heart isn’t in it, and he knows that. You must find something to do that you care about, a cause to fight for. We’ll think about it after we have won this battle. We have a pretty big cause in these terrible murders. If no one is going to believe you, then we must find someone else who was there, and sober enough to recall seeing Finlay, or if not Finlay, then at least seeing you. That would prove you were there. It might push someone’s memory. Are you willing to do that?”

“Of course I am.” Tallulah was very white, but she did not hesitate. “As soon as he comes home, we shall speak with him.” She reached for the bell and rang it. When the parlor maid answered, expecting a request for tea, Tallulah asked her to inform them as soon as Mr. Finlay should come in.

“Yes, miss. Is there any message?”

“Only that there is something most urgent I have to see him about,” Tallulah replied. “It concerns him, and it may be of service to him. Please be sure to let him know immediately, and then tell me.”

The maid had no sooner gone than there was a knock on the door, and before Tallulah had time to respond, it opened and Aloysia FitzJames came in. She was a handsome woman with a quiet, well-bred manner. There was a serenity in her face, as if she deliberately closed out that which was ugly and, by strength of will, created her own world.

“Good afternoon,” she said as they rose to greet her. “How pleasant of you to call.” It was now considerably after the appropriate hour for formal calls, or even informal ones. Their presence needed some explanation.

“Mama,” Tallulah began, “these are my good friends, Mrs. Radley and her sister, Mrs….” She was obliged to hesitate, not having been told Charlotte’s name.

“Pitt,” Charlotte supplied.

It was a moment before Tallulah realized what she had said. She glanced at Emily, saw the consternation in her face, turned to Charlotte and saw it there also. Anger flamed up inside her, a sense of betrayal which she held in check only with extreme difficulty.

Aloysia noticed nothing.

“How do you do, Mrs. Radley, Mrs. Pitt,” she said with a smile. “Tallulah my dear, are your guests remaining for dinner? I think now would be an appropriate time to inform Cook.”

“No.” Tallulah forced out the word between clenched teeth. “They have previous matters to attend to which would make that impossible.”

“What a shame,” Aloysia said with a slight shrug.

“It would have been pleasant to have an interesting conversation over the dinner table. Men tend to talk about politics so much of the time, don’t you think?”

“Yes indeed,” Emily agreed. “My husband is in the House. I hear a great deal too much of it.”

“And your husband, Mrs. Pitt?” Aloysia enquired.

“We already know Mrs. Pitt’s husband,” Tallulah said viciously. “He is a policeman!” She turned to Charlotte. “I imagine you hear about all manner of things over the dinner table? Thieves, arsonists, prostitutes …”

“And murderers … and politicians,” Charlotte finished with a bright, brittle smile. “Usually they are separate, but not invariably.”

Aloysia was totally bemused, but she did not falter. She had kept up a calm, agreeable conversation in worse circumstances than this.

“I feel very sorry for these women that have been killed,” she said, regarding Emily and then Charlotte. “Perhaps if we could make prostitution illegal, then such things wouldn’t happen?”

Tallulah stared at her.

“I don’t think it would help, Mrs. FitzJames,” Charlotte said quite gently. “There isn’t much point in making a law you can’t enforce.”

Aloysia’s eyes widened. “Surely the law must be a matter of ideals, Mrs. Pitt? We cannot call ourselves a civilized or a Christian people if we make laws only on those issues where we feel we have control. All crime must be against the law, or the law is worthless. My husband has said that many times.”

“If you pass a law against something, that defines it as a crime,” Charlotte argued, but still with perfectly conceded patience. “There are a multitude of things which are sins, such as lying, adultery, malice, envy, ill temper, but it would be completely impractical to make them against the law, because we cannot police them, or prove them, or punish people for them.”

“But prostitution is quite different, my dear Mrs. Pitt,” Aloysia said with conviction. “It is utterly immoral. It is the ruination of good men, the betrayal of women, of families. It is unbelievably sordid! I cannot believe you really know what you are talking about….” She took a deep breath. “Neither do I, of course.”

“I hold no advocacy for it, Mrs. FitzJames,” Charlotte replied, suffocating an intense desire to giggle. Tallulah was so furious she could scarcely contain herself. “I simply believe it is impossible to prevent. If we really wished to do so, we would have to address the issues which cause prostitution, both the women who practice it and the men who use them.”

Aloysia stared at her.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Charlotte gave up. “Perhaps I am not very good at explaining myself. I apologize.”

Aloysia smiled charmingly. “I’m sure it doesn’t matter. Perhaps you will come again one day? It was charming to have met you, Mrs. Radley, Mrs. Pitt.” And with that she made some comment about the weather and excused herself.

Tallulah glared at Emily, pointedly ignoring Charlotte.

“How could you?” she said furiously. “I suppose you contrived my acquaintance right from the beginning. You must have found my confidences very entertaining, if not particularly instructive.”

She swung around on Charlotte. “It still hasn’t cleared your husband of the blame for hanging the wrong man, has it? Are you here now trying to help him hang the person you believe to be the right one this time?”

Emily opened her mouth to explain, but Charlotte cut in before her. “If what you say is true—and I believe you—then it is certainly not your brother. Is it not as much in your interest as mine that he should be cleared, and that beyond question? Proving he was somewhere else the first time would be an excellent start, but proving that someone else is definitely guilty would be even better. That would remove the slightest speculation.” She took a deep breath. “I would have thought you would also be very keen to know who it is that is so determined to incriminate him. I would, if he were my brother … or indeed anyone I cared about.”

Tallulah regarded her with intense dislike, which only gradually softened as she realized the truth of what Charlotte had said.

“We all have the same interests, even if it is for slightly different reasons,” Emily pointed out practically. “And I assume we all believe that Finlay is innocent?”

“Yes,” Charlotte answered.

“I know he is,” Tallulah agreed.

Emily smiled charmingly. “Then shall we pretend that we are still friends, at least for the time being?”

Tallulah accepted with surprising grace, considering her rage only a few moments earlier.

When Finlay arrived home he came almost immediately to the boudoir and was startled to see two other women there. He did not know Charlotte, and he did not remember Emily. Tallulah introduced them, omitting Charlotte’s surname but being surprisingly gracious about her, speaking of her desire to help as if she had been aware of it from the beginning.

Finlay looked doubtful, although there was a flicker of humor in his eyes.

Charlotte returned his gaze, trying not to peer at him with the curiosity she felt. He must already be sensitive to the speculative thoughts of others, intrusive, on occasion prurient, considering the crime of which he was suspected.

He was a handsome man, but he had not the kind of looks she found appealing. She could not see in him the strength she admired, or the width of imagination which excited her. She thought she saw something vulnerable in him, something which should be guarded from injury, because it would not recover, would not heal.

He turned away from Charlotte. The name meant nothing to him, and she herself did not spark his interest.

“Thank you for your confidence,” he said dryly, touching Tallulah lightly on the shoulder. It was a familiar gesture, but one of affection, and perhaps gratitude. “Are you really prepared to face what Papa will say if you tell him you were there? It may not be very easy to find anyone else willing to admit it. I can’t remember anything. Except I know perfectly well I wasn’t anywhere near Pentecost Alley. The first thing I can remember clearly was having a cracking headache the next morning. It could be that most other people will feel the same way.” His face looked bleak. “I couldn’t swear before a jury as to who was there.”

“Some of the others might have been soberer than you, Fin,” Tallulah pointed out.

He gave a halfhearted laugh, glancing at Emily with a smile. “Well, I can give you a list of the sort of people who were likely to have been there. I can ask them if they were and if they remember seeing me. I daresay one of them might own up to it.”

“It’s me they need to have seen,” Tallulah pointed but. “Then people will believe me when I say I saw you. It won’t have to be public. At least …” She looked at Charlotte. “Will it? I mean, it is not as if the whole of society will have to know?”

“Or the Foreign Office?” Finlay added. “Although I’m not sure how much difference that will make now.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and paced across the floor and back again. “None at all, if they charge me with killing Nora Gough. Or even if they suspect me of it and no one else is charged.” He looked hopeless. There was a kind of blank fear in his eyes, as if he knew disaster was inevitable but he still did not understand where it had come from, or how it had happened to him.

“Someone is very determined to incriminate you, Mr. FitzJames,” Charlotte said gravely. “They took your belongings and put them at the scenes of two murders. It must be someone who hates you with almost insane passion—”

“Or hates my father,” Finlay interrupted. “I can’t imagine anyone hating me so much. A few people dislike me, naturally. And quite a few might be envious of the family wealth, or opportunity. I daresay there are several who don’t think I deserve my position, let alone an ambassadorship in the future.” He looked at Charlotte, then at Emily. “But I haven’t ravished anybody’s wife, welched on any debts, stolen anything, or … well, anything.” He stood at the far side of the room staring at them, defiant and helpless, as if an ugly reality had come to him, drying up what he had been going to say.

“Well, perhaps it is your father,” Charlotte agreed. “But there is another point, Mr. FitzJames. Whoever it is has considerable knowledge of you. He had your original club badge and your cuff link. And not only that, but he knew you were unable to account for where you were that night. There would have been little point in trying to blame you if you had been at dinner with your family, or with friends, or at the opera, for example. All of which were pretty likely. How did he know that you weren’t?”

Finlay stared at her, a terrible comprehension dawning in his face.

Charlotte waited.

Emily stared at him too. No one spoke.

“What?” Tallulah demanded, her voice high and sharp. “Who is it, Fin?”

Finlay looked straight ahead of him, his face pasty, his eyes full of fear.

“Who?” Tallulah said even more sharply.

“Jago,” Finlay replied in a whisper, then coughed, avoiding turning his head towards her. “I saw Jago Jones that afternoon, and I mentioned to him that I was going to a party in Chelsea. I said where it was. Joked about it not being the sort of thing he would go to, being so self-righteous these days. He—”

“That’s impossible!” Tallulah said abruptly. “That’s a wicked thing to say … and stupid. You know perfectly well Jago would never hurt anyone … let alone …” She stopped. Her voice filled with tears, and her face was so white she looked about to collapse.

“Of course not,” Emily said quickly, and without conviction. “But he may have mentioned it, unwittingly, to someone else….”

“Who?” Tallulah demanded, swinging around in panic, her eyes glittering with tears. “Why would he tell anyone about Finlay going to some drunken party? Who would Jago know that had ever even heard of Fin?” She turned back to her brother again. “Who else did you tell? Someone must have invited you? Think!” Her voice was rising, angry and raw with pain. “Don’t stand there like a … a fool. Anyone could have seen you there and left early. For the love of heaven, Fin, use your brains!”

“I don’t know!” He shouted back at her. “If I knew, don’t you think I’d tell you? For God’s sake, Tallulah, I’m the one they’ll hang … not bloody Jago!”

“Stop it!” Charlotte said sharply. “They aren’t going to hang you if we can prove you couldn’t be guilty. But we’ve got to use our wits. Turning on one another won’t accomplish anything. Control yourself, and think.”

Finlay stared at her, his mouth open.

“She’s right,” Tallulah said grudgingly. “Anyone who was there could have seen you and the state you were in. Or simply known you well enough to be sure you couldn’t remember the night, and neither would most other people.”

“And there’s also the fact that most people would be unwilling to admit they were there either,” Emily added.

“Try your friends,” Charlotte instructed. “Surely one of them at least will have the honor to own up to you having been there, and having seen you, if not at the relevant time, at least earlier. He may know who else was there at the beginning.”

“What are you going to do?” Tallulah asked, mainly of Charlotte, but including Emily.

Charlotte’s mind was racing ahead.

“I assume you are going to do something?” Tallulah continued. “After all, the question is as urgent for you as it is for us … at least almost.”

“Hardly,” Finlay said bitterly.

“Oh, yes it is,” Tallulah argued with a flash of temper. “If we never find who did it, you will be ruined because of the mystery and the whispers. Nothing bad will happen to you, but neither will anything good.”

“I know that!” Finlay said, self-pity sharp in his voice and his face.

“And Mrs. Pitt’s husband will be ruined as well,” Tallulah finished. “Because he hanged the wrong man and never caught the right one.”

Finlay looked up at Charlotte, his eyes wide, then a tide of scarlet rushed up his cheeks.

“Pitt! Pitt—of course.” His voice was thick. “I never connected it! I never even thought of policemen as having wives, let alone ones who could pass for ladies!” And he began to laugh, a thin, sharp note of hysteria creeping into it and rising up the scale, louder and more shrill.

Tallulah looked as if she would like to have hit him.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Charlotte, her face pink. “I shall send a message as soon as I learn anything which could be of value.”

“So will we,” Emily promised a trifle mendaciously, then she and Charlotte took their leave.

“He’s frightened,” Emily said as soon as they were seated in her carriage and moving along Devonshire Street.

“So would I be,” Charlotte replied vehemently, “if I knew I had an enemy prepared to go to these lengths to have me hanged.” She shivered, for a moment uncontrollably, cold deep inside her. “He has tortured and killed two women just to destroy Finlay. To hate anyone that much is insane.”

Emily hugged her arms around herself.

“What are we going to do next?” she asked very quietly.

“I don’t know. Try to see if there is any connection between Ada McKinley and Nora Gough, I suppose. Why did he choose them? Why not somebody else?”

“Maybe it didn’t matter who it was,” Emily said miserably. “Maybe there isn’t a reason. It could just as easily have been anyone.” She looked even more wretched. “What if it is Jago Jones?”

“If it is, it will be terrible,” Charlotte replied. “But we shall have to live with it.”