11

THE DAY AFTER Pitt had his unfortunate experience in the public house in Swan Street, Charlotte also went to the East End, but not before she had first visited Emily, and then together they had gone to see Tallulah.

“We know it was not Finlay,” Emily said decisively, sitting in Tallulah’s bay window overlooking the autumn garden. “And unfortunately we also know it was not Albert Costigan. For all our various reasons, we need to know who it was. We must set about it systematically.”

“I don’t see what we can possibly do that the police haven’t,” Tallulah said hopelessly. “They have questioned everyone. I know that from Jago. They have even questioned him.” It was obvious from her face that the idea of Jago’s guilt had not entered her mind. Her conviction of his goodness was so total that anything but the smallest fallibility was impossible.

Charlotte carefully avoided Emily’s eyes. The same ugly thought had occurred to both of them, and they had both pushed it aside, but it would not disappear.

“We must apply logic,” Emily continued, looking at Tallulah. “Why would you kill anyone?”

Tallulah was startled. “What?”

“Why would you kill anyone?” Emily repeated. “If you were on the streets living from day to day. Make that leap in imagination. What would drive you to do something so extreme, so messy and so dangerous, as to kill someone?”

“If I killed anyone, it would be on the spur of temper,” Tallulah said thoughtfully. “I couldn’t imagine planning it … unless it were someone I was afraid of, and I wasn’t strong enough to do it otherwise. But that doesn’t apply here, does it?”

“So you might if you were afraid of someone,” Emily clarified. “Why else? What would make you lose your temper enough to kill anyone?”

“Maybe if they mocked me?” Tallulah said slowly. “I might hit them, and perhaps it would be too hard. No one likes being made fun of, not if it is something they are very sensitive about.”

“Enough to kill?” Emily pressed.

Tallulah bit her lip. “Not really … perhaps, if I had a very short temper indeed. I’ve seen some men get very angry if their honor is questioned, or perhaps their wife or mother insulted.”

“Enough to lash out, yes,” Charlotte agreed. “But enough to break someone’s fingers and toes first, and then strangle her?”

Tallulah stared at her, the blood draining out of her face, leaving it chalk-white. She moved her mouth as if to speak but made no sound.

With a violent jolt of guilt, and anger with herself, she realized that of course Tallulah would not read newspapers. No one would have told her how the women died. She might have assumed it was just strangling, something quick, a few moments’ struggle for breath and then oblivion. And now she was, in a sentence, hurled into the reality.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said quietly. “I forgot you didn’t know that. I shouldn’t have said it.”

Tallulah swallowed hard. “Why not?” Her voice cracked. “Why should you shelter me from the truth? That is the truth, is it? They were … tortured?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why on earth would anyone do such a thing? Was it … both of them?” Her eyes implored Charlotte to say it was not.

“Yes. I am afraid it was.”

“That’s horrible!” Tallulah shivered and seemed to shrink into herself, as if the bright, warm room with its charming florals and dainty chairs were cold, in spite of the sunlight through the windows and the low fire in the grate.

“There were other things as well”—Emily glanced at Charlotte warningly—”which seem to suggest it was the sort of crime that has to do with …” She hesitated, seeking a way to describe what she meant without further distressing Tallulah, who was not a married woman and was assumed to be still ignorant of many aspects of life. “Relations between men and women,” she finished.

“What … things?” Tallulah asked, her voice husky.

Emily looked unhappy. “Silly things. People sometimes have … odd fancies. Some people …” She stopped and looked at Charlotte.

Charlotte took a deep breath. “All sorts of relationships are odd,” she said quietly. “Sometimes people like to say hurtful things to each other, or establish a dominance. You must have seen it? Well, between a man and woman these things are sometimes sharper, and take a physical form. Of course, most people are not like that. But it looks as if whoever did this … was …”

“I see.” Tallulah made a brave effort to look unshaken. “So that means it was someone with a very strong cruel streak, and a man who had a … a physical relationship with her.” She laughed a little jerkily. “Although since that was her trade, it is hardly surprising. But why should he actually kill her?”

“I don’t know,” Emily replied. “Could she have threatened him in any way?”

“How?” Tallulah was confused. “She was far weaker than he. She must have been.”

“Blackmail?” Emily suggested.

“Two of them?” Charlotte was highly skeptical. “Blackmail over what? Because he visited a prostitute? We don’t speak of it openly, but we know that men do. If they didn’t, then there wouldn’t be any prostitutes.”

“We know it happens,” Emily corrected her, “to someone else! What about if it is your husband? What if he has some of these unusual appetites? If he were important enough, it could ruin him. Let’s say he had a very fortunate marriage in view, or already achieved, and was dependent upon the goodwill of his father-in-law for more preferment? Or he needs a son and heir, and his wife is unlikely to give him one if she knows of his behavior?”

“Good,” Charlotte agreed. “That makes sense. Why both Ada and Nora? And why torture them? Why not simply kill them and get out as soon as possible? The longer he’s there, the more risk he runs of being discovered. Is the torture part of what he does anyway? No, it can’t be. No prostitute is going to have her fingers and toes broken whatever you pay her. Tied up, doused in cold water perhaps, but not injured.”

Tallulah was still very pale, and she sat hunched in her pretty chair.

“Proof,” she said thoughtfully. “She had proof of his behavior, and he tortured her to try to make her give it to him.”

“But she didn’t … because she had given it to Nora for safekeeping!” Charlotte finished.

“What sort of proof?” Emily pressed, but her voice was rising in eagerness. At last there was something which made at least a little sense. “Pictures? Letters? A statement from a witness? What else?”

“Statement from a witness,” Charlotte answered. “Paintings wouldn’t mean anything; they’re not evidence. No one would take photographs of such a thing. I mean, how could you? You have to sit still for ages for photographs. And who writes letters to prostitutes? It would have to be something to do with a witness. Maybe it happened before? Perhaps there are lots of women who know, and she had statements from all of them?”

“Then where are they now?” Tallulah looked from one to the other. “Does he have them, or did Nora hide them too well from him?”

“What we have to do,” Charlotte said decisively, sitting more uprightly, “is to learn all we can about Nora and Ada. That’s where the answer is. First we need to have proof they even knew each other. We need to find everything in common in their lives, and then see if we can find any other women who knew this man. They would give us a proper description of him. They might even know his name.”

“Marvelous!” Tallulah stood up. “We’ll begin straightaway. Jago will help us. He knew Ada McKinley. He’ll know where we can start, and he might even help us to gain people’s trust so they will talk to us.”

“I …” Emily looked at Charlotte, uncertain how to say what she needed to without hurting irreparably.

“What?” Tallulah demanded.

Charlotte’s mind raced. “Don’t you think that would be rather an unfair way to do it?” she said, making it up as she went along.

“Unfair?” Tallulah was confused. “To whom? The women? We’re looking for a man who murdered two of them! What has fairness to do with it?”

“Not to the women. To Jago.” Charlotte’s brain cleared. “He is their priest. He shouldn’t compromise his work with the people by being seen to help us. After all, he has to stay there as their friend long after we’ve gone.” She could only think of the hideous possibility that it was Jago himself who had killed the women. Who was more vulnerable to blackmail than a priest with a taste for prostitutes? He could be the one sort of man whose image would not survive the accusation that he had slept with a street woman, or even more than one. His work would be finished, not only in Whitechapel but in the Church anywhere.

“Oh.” Tallulah relaxed. “Yes, I suppose so. We had better go alone. We can find it easily enough. I’d rather we went in the daytime.” She flushed uncomfortably. “In the evening …”

“Of course,” Emily agreed quickly. “It will all be sufficiently unpleasant and difficult without our being considered as rivals.”

Tallulah giggled nervously, but it was agreed. They would meet in the early afternoon, proceed by hansom to Old Montague Street and begin their enquiries—suitably attired, of course.

It was not easy to obtain entrance to the house in Pentecost Alley. Madge answered the door, and remembered them clearly from their earlier visit. They were similarly dressed.

“Wot jer want this time?” she said, eyeing them narrowly through the space between the door and its frame. She looked at Charlotte. “An’ ’oo are you, the parlor maid?” She regarded her handsome figure. “You look more like a parlor maid ter me. All got thrown out, did jer? Well it in’t no good comin’ ’ere. I can’t take yer in. On’y got room for one, and that’ll be expensive. Works on yer earnin’s, though we gotta ’ave rent even if yer don’t earn nuffink. Which one of yer wants it?”

“We’ll come in and have a look,” Charlotte said immediately. “Thank you.”

Madge looked at her suspiciously. “Why does a girl wot speaks proper, like you, wanna work the streets ’round ’ere for? W’y don’t yer work up west, w’ere you could make some real money?”

“I might,” Charlotte agreed. “Let’s look at this room first. Please?”

Madge opened the door and let them in. They followed her along the corridor, which was faintly musty smelling, as if lived in too much, with windows that were never opened. She pushed the second door along and it swung wide. Charlotte was in front. She peered in, and instantly wished she had not. It was so ordinary, about the same size as her own bedroom in the house where she had grown up. It was far less pretty, but it had a lived-in air. It was too easy to imagine the woman who had slept here, and conducted her business here, and died here in fearful pain.

She heard Tallulah behind her draw in her breath sharply, and beside her Emily’s body stiffened, though she made no sound.

“D’jer wan’ it?” Madge asked bluntly, her voice harsh.

Charlotte swung around and saw the huge woman’s face tight, red and chapped, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Let’s sit down and talk about it,” Emily suggested. “Have a cup of tea. I brought a little something to add to it. You’ve got to let the room sometime.”

Without speaking Madge led them to the back of the house and the kitchen.

The room was messy, designed for laundry as well as cooking. A black stove gave off a very slight warmth, its front dull and a fine ash coating the floor around it. The kettle was already on, steaming gently. Perhaps it always was. There were dirty mugs on the board next to the basin and two pails of water standing with lids on. Charlotte guessed the water had to be fetched from the nearest well or standpipe. She hoped they boiled it thoroughly before it was offered for tea. She wished Emily had not suggested it. But then perhaps they would have no other chance to talk, and what was a possible upset stomach compared with the disaster that faced Pitt if the crime was never solved? He would always be thought of as the man who hanged Costigan when he was innocent. Perhaps worse than that, he would think of himself that way. He would doubt his judgment, be awake at night and tear his conscience. And there would be those who would believe he had done it knowingly, in order to protect someone else, someone with the money or the influence to reward him appropriately. He would be suspected of far more than a mere error. Errors could be forgiven; they were a human failing. Corruption was something far deeper; it was the ultimate betrayal, that of self.

The tea was strong and bitter, and there was no milk. They all sat around the table on uneven chairs. Emily produced a small flask of whiskey out of her voluminous pocket and put a generous dash in each mug, to Tallulah’s amazement, although she concealed it almost instantly.

“Here’s to your health,” Emily said optimistically, and lifted her mug.

“Here’s to all our health,” Charlotte echoed, more as a prayer than a toast.

“What’s the area like?” Emily asked with interest.

“S’all right,” Madge replied, taking a good swig of her scalding tea and sucking her teeth appreciatively. “That’s very civil of you,” she added, nodding her head towards the whiskey bottle. “Can make a fair livin’ if yer prepared ter work for it.”

“Ada did well, didn’t she?” Emily continued. “She was bright.”

“An’ good at it,” Madge agreed, taking another slurp.

“Hope they catch that bastard who killed her,” Emily said fiercely.

Madge breathed out a long sigh.

“And poor Nora,” Charlotte put in with a shiver. “Did you know Nora?”

“Did you?” Madge asked, looking at her narrowly.

“No. What was she like?”

“Pretty. Little, sort o’ skinny for some tastes.”

Considering Madge’s twenty stone that remark was open to personal interpretation. Charlotte felt a momentary desire to giggle, and controlled it only with an effort.

“But good at it?” she asked, hiccuping.

“Oh yes!” Madge agreed. “Though some says as she were gonner quit and get married.”

“Do you think that’s true?” Tallulah spoke for the first time, her voice hesitant, high in the back of her throat.

“Mebbe.” Madge stopped. “Saw ’er around wi’ Johnny Voss. ’E weren’t bad orff. Could ’a’ married ’er, I s’pose. Although ’e were said ter be keen on Ella Baker, over in Myrdle Street. Mebbe ’e switched ter Nora. Edie said she seen Nora kiss ’im good-night abaht a couple a’ weeks ago.”

“I’ve kissed people good-night,” Tallulah said in response. “That didn’t mean they were going to marry me.”

“Did you now.” Madge looked at her more closely. “ ’Ow long yer bin in the trade, duck? Yer wanna watch yerself. This in’t no place for beginners!”

“I’m … I’m not a beginner,” Tallulah said defensively, then stopped with a little squeak of pain as Emily kicked her under the table.

“If yer kissin’ people, y’are.” Madge stated it as an unarguable fact. “Kissin’ is fer family, people as yer care abaht. Customers get wot they paid fer, nothin’ more. Yer gotta keep summink as is real, summink as is yer own an’ can’t be bought.”

Tallulah stared at her, two bright specks of color in her cheeks.

“Yer need someone ter look aht fer yer, teach yer ’ow ter be’ave,” Madge said gently. “Take the room, an’ I’ll teach yer.”

Tallulah was speechless. The thoughts racing through her mind could only be guessed at.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said quickly. “That’s very kind of you. That might be a very good idea. We could always look elsewhere. There must be other places in the neighborhood. I suppose poor Nora’s room is to let now?”

“I in’t ’eard,” Madge replied. “But yer could ask. If it’s gorn, yer could go an’ ask Ma Baines over on Chicksand Street. She’s usually got summink free. In’t the best, but yer could take it, and then w’en summink better comes up, yer’d be placed ter move on, like. She in’t bin ’ere all that long, but I ’eard say she in’t bad. Gotta get all yer own clothes. Got yer own, ’ave yer?”

“M-my own clothes?” Tallulah stammered.

“Yeah. Lor’, you are the beginner, in’t yer?” Madge shook her head. “Still, yer in’t got a bad face. Nice ’air. We’ll make summink of yer yet.” She patted her on the hand comfortingly, then she looked at Charlotte and Emily in turn. “You two can look arter yerselves.” She regarded Charlotte. “You got a bit o’ flesh on yer. Yer’ll do. An’ lots o’ ’air. Yer face in’t bad.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said a trifle dryly.

Madge was impervious to sarcasm. She looked Emily up and down.

“Yer not so good, bit thin, but yer got a nice enough face, nice skin. An’ men always like yeller ’air, ’specially wot curls like yours do. Look like yer got a bit o’ spark too. You’ll do.”

“Can you tell us where to find this Ma Baines?” Emily ignored the personal assessment and returned to the point.

“Yeah, course I can,” Madge responded. “Twenty-one Chicksand Street. Next one up towards Mile End. Anyone will tell yer.”

It looked as if they were about to be dismissed any moment, and they had learned too little to give up.

“Ada and Nora knew each other,” Charlotte plunged on. “Were they at all alike? Did they have friends in common?”

Madge blinked. “W’y the ’ell der you care?”

“Because I don’t want to get my fingers and toes broken and end up strangled with my own stockings,” Charlotte answered tersely. “If there’s some lunatic around here, I want to know what sort of women he picks on, so I can be a different sort.”

“ ’E picks on one sort o’ woman, duck,” Madge said wearily. “The sort o’ woman wot sells theirselves to any man wot ’as the money, ’cos she needs ter eat an’ feed ’er kids, or ’cos she don’ wanna work in the watch factories an’ end up wi’ phossie jaw an’ ’er face ’alf rotted off, or in a sweatshop stitchin’ shirts all day an’ ’alf the night for too little money ter feed a rat! Layin’ on yer back is easy money, while it lasts.” She poured more tea from the pot into the mug, and refilled the others, looking hopefully at Emily.

Emily topped them up again with whiskey.

“Ta,” Madge acknowledged it.

“Course there is danger,” she went on. “If yer wanted life wi’out danger yer should ’a’ bin born rich. Yer’ll mebbe end up wi’ a disease, or mebbe not. Yer’ll get beaten now an’ agin, slashed if yer luck runs aht. Yer’ll get so yer never wants ter see another man in all yer born days.”

She sniffed. “But yer’ll not be ’ungry, and yer’ll not be cold once yer orff the streets an’ inside. An’ yer’ll ’ave a few good laughs!” She sighed and sipped her tea. “ ’Ad some good times, we did, Nora an’ Rosie and Ada and me. Tol’ each other stories an’ pretended we was all fine ladies.” She sniffed. “I ’member one summer evenin’ we took orff an’ went up the river in one o’ them pleasure boats, just like anyone. All dressed up, we was. Ate ’ot eel pies and sugared fruit, an’ drank peppermint.”

“That must have been good,” Charlotte said quietly, imagining them, even though she did not know their faces.

“Yeah, it were,” Madge said dreamily, the tears brimming her eyes. “An’ we tol’ each other ghost stories sometimes. Scared ourselves silly, we did. Course there was the bad times too. But then I s’pose it’s them ’ard times as tells yer ’oo yer friends is.” She sniffed again and wiped her hand over her cheeks.

“That’s true,” Emily agreed. “I’m sorry about Ada. I hope they catch whoever did it.”

“Geez, why should they?” Madge said miserably. “They never caught the Ripper. Why should they catch this one?”

Tallulah shivered. Two years afterwards, his name still chilled the body and sent the mind stiff with fear.

Charlotte found herself cold as well, even with the tea and whiskey inside her, and the heat of the small, closed kitchen. There was no other sound in the house. All the women were sleeping after their night’s work, bodies exhausted, used by strangers to relieve their needs without love, without kisses, as one might use a public convenience.

She looked at Tallulah and saw a whole new comprehension dawning in her face. She had seen one new world with Jago, feeding the poor, the respectable women, downtrodden by hunger, cold and anxiety. This was another world, altogether darker, with different pains, different fears.

“Do you get many gentlemen down here?” she asked suddenly, the words coming out jerkily, as if speaking them hurt her.

“Men wi’ money?” Madge laughed. “Look, duck, any man’s money is as good as any other.”

“But do you?” Tallulah insisted, her face tense, her eyes on Madge’s.

“Not often, why? Yer like gentlemen, yer should go up west. ’Aymarket, Piccadilly, that way. Cost yer ter rent rooms by the hour, though, an’ competition’s ’igh. Yer’d be better ’ere, beginners like you are. I’ll look after yer.”

Tallulah was aware of the gentleness in the older woman and it touched her unexpectedly. Charlotte could see it in her face.

“I … I just wondered,” she said unhappily, looking down at the table.

“Sometimes,” Madge replied, watching her.

“Was it a gentleman who killed Ada?” Tallulah would not give up. Her slender fingers were clenched around the cup with its dark tea and odor of whiskey.

“I dunno.” Madge shrugged her huge shoulders. “I thought as it were Bert Costigan, but I s’pose it couldn’t ’a’ bin, now Nora got done the same.”

“So it could have been a gentleman?” Emily looked from one to the other of them. “But would it be likely? Wouldn’t it maybe be someone who knew them both?”

“Maybe it was a gentleman who knew them both.” Charlotte took it a step further. “One who was a bit bent in his ways.”

Madge finished the last of her tea and set the mug down with a bang on the hard tabletop.

“Don’t you go startin’ talk like that ’round ’ere,” she said sharply, pointing her finger. “Yer’ll only get everyone all scared witless, an’ it don’t do no good. We all gotta work whether there’s a lunatic out there er not. Yer go see Ma Baines. She knows ’er job. She’ll find yer a place. An’ don’t yer go makin’ a noise as you leave. My girls is still sleepin’, like yer’d be if you’d worked all night.” She looked at Emily. “Ta fer the drink. That were nice manners of you.” Her face softened as she looked lastly at Tallulah. “I’ll ’old the room for yer till termorrer, duck. Can’t ’old it arter that, if I gets an offer.”

“Thank you,” Tallulah answered, but as soon as they were outside beyond the alley she shivered violently, and walked so close to Emily she almost pushed her off the narrow footpath into the street.

They followed directions up to Chicksand Street and found the huge shambling tenement where Ma Baines kept her establishment. They had expected someone else like Madge—obese, red-faced, suspicious. Instead they found a cheerful woman with a large bosom, but narrow hips and long legs. She had rather a plain face and a mass of fading yellow hair tied up loosely in pins which were in imminent danger of falling out.

“Yeah?” she said when she saw the three young women.

“We understand you might have rooms,” Charlotte began without hesitation. It was getting towards the time in the afternoon when women began to work.

“This is a workin’ ’ouse,” Ma Baines said warningly. “Rent is ’igh. I got no place fer sweatshop girls. In’t even enough fer a night, let alone a week.”

“We know that,” Charlotte replied, making herself smile. “Do we look like seamstresses?”

Ma Baines laughed, a sound of generous amusement without bitterness.

“You look like West End tarts ter me, ’cept fer yer dress. They look like maids on their day orff. Terrible respectable, an’ abaht as darin’ as a vicar’s wife.”

“We’re off duty,” Emily explained.

“Aren’t never orff duty, luv,” Ma Baines responded.

“Are if you haven’t a room,” Charlotte pointed out. “I don’t do my business in the street.”

Ma Baines stepped back. “Then yer’d better come in.”

They followed her. The place was narrow and stale-smelling, but quite clean, and there was an old carpet on the floor, making their footsteps quiet as they were led to a small sitting room at the back of the house, again reminding Charlotte ridiculously of the housekeeper’s room in the house where she had grown up.

Ma Baines invited them to sit, and she herself took the largest and most comfortable chair. It was as if she were interviewing prospective servants. Charlotte felt the desire to giggle coming back, a sort of wild hysteria at the insanity of it. A few years ago her mother would have fainted at the very thought of her daughter’s even knowing about such a place, let alone being there. Now she might conceivably understand. Her father would simply have refused to believe it. Heaven only knew what Aloysia FitzJames would think if she knew Tallulah was here.

Ma Baines was talking about rent and rules, and Charlotte had not been listening. She tried to look as if she were paying attention, fixing her eyes on Ma’s face.

“That sounds all right,” Emily said dubiously. “Although we’re not absolutely sure about the area.”

“Cost yer more up west,” Ma pointed out. “Yer can always go up west from ’ere, long as yer bring back yer share o’ yer take an’ don’ cheat.” Her face was still pleasant, but there was a relentless ice-gray in her eyes, cold as a winter sea.

“It wasn’t that,” Charlotte explained. “It was the murders you’ve had here. We’d want a place where if we got a bad customer there we could be sure there were other people about to hear us yell.” She did not add that she knew there were other people close enough to have helped Ada and Nora, but no scream was heard, and no one came.

“Don’t make no difference w’ere yer are,” Ma said with a bitter laugh. “There’s lunatics everywhere, all depends on luck.”

“But there’ve been two pretty horrible murders here in Whitechapel,” Tallulah said, staring at Ma Baines, her voice low and shivery. “That hasn’t happened anywhere else.”

“Course it ’as!” Ma said abruptly. “Were one just like these w’en I were in Mile End. Six year ago, mebbe seven.”

“What do you mean … just like these?” Charlotte’s voice came out huskily, as if she had something in her throat.

“Jus’ the same,” Ma repeated. “ ’Ands tied, fingers and toes broke or pulled out o’ joint, garter ’round ’er arm, an’ soaked in cold water … all over the place, ’ead, shoulders, ’air.”

Tallulah gasped as if she had been struck.

Emily turned and stared at Charlotte.

For seconds there was icy, pricking silence. The floorboards creaked overhead as someone walked across them on the story above.

“Who did it?” Charlotte forced the words out at last between frozen lips.

Ma shrugged. “Gawd knows. ’E weren’t never found. Rozzers stopped lookin’ arter a while. Jus’ like they will this time, w’en they don’ find no one.”

“What … what kind of a girl was she?” Emily asked, her voice also hoarse.

Ma shook her head.

“Dunno ’er name. Forget it. Jus’ young, though, a beginner. Probably ’er first week or so, poor little thing. Pretty, ’bout sixteen or seventeen, so they said.” Her face pinched with momentary pity. “Funny, but they never made that much fuss about it. Papers din’t write it up too much. O’ course that were before the Ripper an’ all. Still, they’re sure as ’ell burns takin’ it out on the rozzers this time. Wouldn’t wanna be one o’ them now.” She lifted one broad shoulder. “But then ’oo wants ter be a rozzer anyway?” She looked at Emily. “D’yer want the rooms or not, luv? I in’t got time ter sit an’ talk wif yer.”

“No thank you,” Charlotte answered for them. “Not at the moment. We’ll think a bit harder. Maybe it’s not what we’re looking for right now.” And she rose to her feet, steadying herself on the arm of the chair a moment. Her knees were wobbling. She made her way back along the corridor and out into Chicksand Street with Emily at her elbow and Tallulah, moving as if in a dream, a pace behind. The cold air hit her face like a slap, and she barely noticed it.

Pitt had slept badly the previous night. It seemed as if half the night he lay motionless in bed, afraid to move in case he woke Charlotte. When she was troubled she slept lightly. When one of the children was ill, the slightest noise reached her and she sat up almost immediately. Since the second murder she had been aware of his nightmares and of the fact that he could not rest. Even if he turned over too frequently, she would be disturbed and waken.

He lay in the dark, eyes wide open, watching the faint pattern on the ceiling from the distant gas lamps in the street through the bedroom curtains. If he slept he dreamed of Costigan’s despairing face, his self-loathing and his fear. Why had he all but admitted killing Ada, if he did not? Were his words—“I done ’er”—intended only to mean that in some way he felt responsible for her behavior, and thus for her death, but only indirectly? He had confessed to a quarrel, to striking out at her. Was it possible he had knocked her insensible but not actually been the one to kill her? He had always denied the cruelty, the fingers and toes. He had even denied the garter, which was hardly an offense, and the water.

Why, if it was true? It could hardly make any difference. He would be hanged exactly the same either way. And since the wardens believed it of him, it would not mitigate their treatment of him either.

Certainly he could not have been guilty of killing Nora Gough.

Who was the fair-haired man who had been seen going into Nora’s room shortly before she was killed? How could he possibly have left without any one of the dozen or so people around having seen him?

Jago Jones’s words swirled around in his head. Surely they had to be the answer … either when he left he had looked so different no one had recognized him as the same man or else, simpler still, he had not left!

Was the fair wavy hair a wig? Had he actually left with a different coat on, and different hair? Then what had happened to the coat? Did he carry it? And the wig? His own hair could be any color or texture at all.

Pitt needed to go back and question all the people again, to see if they remembered anyone at all leaving who could have been disguised with a wig.

How could they know that? You can carry a wig in a pocket. Then they would have to have a pocket. A trouser pocket would be too small, it would make a bulge. Perhaps they might remember the coat. Not many people in Myrdle Street had full-length overcoats, let alone well-cut ones.

What about the other possibility, that he had not left at all but had gone to another floor in the same building? He had not thought of looking upwards, to the women on the floor above. They may have continued doing business with whoever was already in the building. The police presence on the floor below would deter new custom, but those already there might well fill in their time pleasantly. They could not leave until the police had gone, from the very natural desire not to be identified. That would need no further explanation.

When he went back to Myrdle Street tomorrow, he must also question all the women on the floor above to get descriptions of all their clients of the night. He should have done it at the time. That was a bad oversight.

He lay staring up at the darkness. Charlotte was breathing evenly beside him. He listened and there was no variation in the soft sound. She was deeply asleep. Or else lying there also pretending to be and not wanting to disturb him, let him know that she too was sleepless, and worried, and frightened.

Cornwallis would back him, but he might not be able to save his job if Costigan were pardoned, or even if he were not. And perhaps he should not be able to. If Pitt had caused an innocent man to be hanged, perhaps he should lose his job. Maybe he was not man enough to fill Micah Drummond’s position anyway? He was promoted beyond his ability. Farnsworth would have smiled at that. He never thought Pitt was ready for command … not the right background or breeding.

Vespasia would be hurt. She had always had confidence in him. She would be let down. She would never say so, but she would not be able to help feeling it. Most of all, he would have let Charlotte down. She would not say anything either, and in a way that would almost make it worse.

He drifted into uneasy sleep, and woke again with a start.

What if it was Jago Jones, after all, with a fair wig on? He was laughing at Pitt, making the suggestion himself, because he was so sure Pitt could never piece it together, or even if he did, he could not prove it.

It was nearly morning. He was stiff, longing to stretch and turn, even to get up and pace the floor to help him to think. But if he woke Charlotte now she would not get back to sleep again. This would be selfish, unnecessary.

He lay still until six o’clock, and unintentionally went back to sleep.

He woke with a start at half past seven, with Charlotte touching him gently, shaking him a little.

It was half past nine before he was back in Myrdle Street, and highly unwelcome. As usual the women were in bed after a long night, and no one wanted to talk to a policeman and answer questions they had already answered several times. He started on the floor above, disturbing the residents one by one and having to wait while they roused themselves, threw a little water on their faces to startle themselves awake, and then put on a robe or a shawl and stumbled through to the kitchen, where Pitt sat with the kettle on, topping up the teapot regularly and asking endless, patient questions.

“No, I don’t ’ave no customer wif fair, wavy ’air.”

“No, ’e were bald, like a bleedin’ egg.”

“No. Even ’is muvver wouldn’t ’a’ said he were young! Geez, she must ’a’ bin dead since Noah landed ’is ark! ’E’s fifty if ’e’s a day!”

“No, ’e were gray.”

“Could he have looked fair in the gaslight?”

“Mebbe … but not wavy. Straight as stair rods.”

And so it went on. He questioned every woman meticulously, but no one had seen any man who could have answered the description Edie had given of Nora’s last customer.

He went back down again, and found Edie herself, by now almost ready to consider getting up in the normal course of her day. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

“Describe him again,” he said wearily.

“Look, mister, I din’t even see ’is face, just ’is back as ’e went in!” she said in exasperation. “I din’t take no notice. ’E were jus’ anuvver customer. I din’t know ’e were gonna kill ’er, let alone …” She stopped and shuddered, her fat body tight under her robe.

“I know. Just close your eyes and bring back what you saw, however briefly. Take a moment or two. You saw the man who killed her, Edie.” He spoke gently, trying not to frighten her. He needed her to clear her mind so she could concentrate. “Describe exactly what you saw. You may be the only way we shall catch him.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.

She caught it, in spite of his effort.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know I’m the only one wot saw ’im, ’ceptin’ them wot ’e killed.” She stopped, leaning over the kitchen table, her fat elbows resting on it, pulling her robe tight, her black hair over her shoulders, her eyes closed.

Pitt waited.

“ ’E were quite tall, like,” she said at last. “Not ’eavy—in fact, ’e looked sort o’, well, not thickset. I reckon as I thought ’e were young. Jus’ the way ’e stood.” She opened her eyes and looked at Pitt. “But I could be wrong. Tha’s just wot I felt.”

“Good. Go on,” he encouraged. “Describe his coat, the back of his head, whatever else you saw. Tell me exactly. What was his hair like? How was it cut? Was it long or short? Did he have side-whiskers, did you see?”

She closed her eyes obediently. “ ’Is coat were sort o’ gray-green. The collar were … were turned up ’igh, over the bottom of ’is ’air, so I reckon ’is ’air must ’a’ bin quite longish. I couldn’t see the ends of it. Could’ve bin cut any’ow. Come ter that, could’ve gorn all down ’is back!” She gave an abrupt, jerking laugh. “An’ I din’t see no side-whiskers. Reckon ’e din’t turn ’is ’ead enough. Beautiful ’air, ’e ’ad, though. Wouldn’t mind ’air like that meself. Makes me think o’ Ella Baker, wot lives up the street. She got gorgeous ’air, just like that.” She opened her eyes and looked at Pitt again. “Mebbe she ’as a bruvver?” she said jokingly. “An’ mebbe ’e’s a lunatic an’ all.”

Pitt stared at her.

“She in’t got a bruvver!” she said in amazement. “Yer can’t think as … I don’ mean …” Then she stopped, her eyes widening with a slow, terrible horror.

“What?” Pitt demanded. “What is it? What do you know, Edie?”

“She an’ Nora did fall out summink awful over Johnny Voss….”

“Why? Who’s Johnny Voss? Is that the man Nora was going to marry?”

“Yeah. On’y ’e were goin’ ter marry Ella first … at least she thought ’e were. Actual—I thought ’e were too. Then Nora come along … an’ ’e fancied ’er instead, an’ she made the most of it. Well, yer would, wouldn’t yer? ’Oo wouldn’t sooner be married ter a decent sort o’ bloke than make yer way like this?” She barely looked around her, but her gestures drew in the whole shabby, shared room, the tenement, its occupants and their lives.

“Yes,” Pitt agreed. There was no need for more words than that. “Thank you, Edie.” He left the kitchen and went back to the room in which Nora had died. It was still as she had left it, bed unmade, sheets rumpled, only the pillows were in the center where he had tossed them after finding the handkerchief.

He stood in the center of the floor for several moments, wondering what he was looking for, where even to begin. The bed. The floor around it.

He bent down and began with the floor, peering for anything at all that would bear out his theory. There would be nothing here to prove it, only small things that might help.

There was nothing.

He stood up and threw the bedcovers aside, running his hands gently, very slowly, over the sheets.

He found it on the top sheet, first one, then another, then several—golden fair hairs, very long, sixteen or eighteen inches, and wavy … hair that would never come from a man’s head, and far too fair for Nora Gough.

Ella Baker, with her hair tucked under her high coat collar, a coat borrowed from a client or a friend, and a pair of men’s trousers, perhaps over her own skirts tucked up, just under the coat’s length. She would let the skirts down as she left, undo her hair, and she would be invisible. It would explain why this had been more of a fight. She was taller and stronger than Nora, much heavier, but still far short of the strength of a man.

But why on earth would she have killed Ada McKinley? And what was her grudge against FitzJames? That could be anything … a slight, an abuse in the past, an injury not necessarily to her but to someone she loved … even a child lost. Perhaps she had been employed by the FitzJames family at some point in the past. That was an aspect he had never considered. He should have. A servant abused and dismissed would have a bitter grudge. When he heard about the butler who had got Ada pregnant, he should have looked at all the servants the FitzJameses had ever had. Young FitzJames would not be above seducing a handsome parlor maid and then having his father put her out in the street.

It all looked obvious now.

He left the house rapidly and walked down Old Montague Street and along Osborn Street, where he found Binns on his beat, then they went the few hundred yards’ distance to the tenement where he knew Ella Baker lived. He remembered Ewart had questioned her before about the possibility of her having seen the man leave, or of even having seen Finlay FitzJames. Ewart had said she was distressed then, obviously under pressure of extreme emotion. He had supposed it to be the natural terror and pity they all felt, knowing there had been another murder, and the shock and dismay that Costigan should have been hanged for a crime it now looked impossible for him to have committed.

And yet she had allowed him to be hanged. That was a double guilt that must have torn at her.

He banged on the door until the pimp who also lived on the premises came and opened it. He was unshaved and smelled of stale beer.

“What yer want?” he said abruptly, looking at Pitt and not seeing Binns behind him. “Yer too early. Geez, can’t yer wait till evenin’, yer bastard?”

Binns moved forward.

“Police,” Pitt said curtly. “I wish to talk to Ella Baker now!”

The man looked at Pitt’s face and Binns’s bulky form, and decided against arguing. He allowed them in, sullenly, and led them to Ella’s door. He knocked on it and shouted her name.

After a moment or two she came. She was a handsome woman, in a big, clean-cut way. Her features were strong, a trifle coarse. Her glory was her hair, thick, waving, the color of ripe wheat, dark, dull gold. It hung around her shoulders and down her back.

“Thank you,” Pitt dismissed the pimp, who went off sullenly, grumbling to himself. Pitt went inside the room and closed the door, leaving Binns standing outside it. The windows were small and two stories up.

“What you want this time?” Ella asked, staring at him, her brow furrowed.

“I can understand your killing Nora,” he said levelly. “She took Johnny Voss from you, and your one chance of marrying and getting out of here. But why Ada McKinley? What did she do to you?”

All the blood drained from her face. She swayed, and for several moments he thought she was going to faint. But he did not move to help her. He had been caught that way before, and had someone turn in an instant to a clawing, scratching fury. He remained where he was, his back to the door.

“I …” She gasped, choking on the sudden dryness of her own throat. “I … I never touched Ada, swear ter Gawd!”

“But you killed Nora….”

She said nothing.

“If I were to pull away that high neck of your dress, I’d see where she scratched you, trying to fight you off, fighting for her life….”

“No I never!” she denied, glaring at him. “You can’t prove I did!”

“Yes I can, Ella,” he said calmly. “You were seen.”

“ ’Oo seen me?” she demanded. “They’re a liar!”

“You stole a man’s coat, a good one, well-cut, and hitched your dress up so your skirts wouldn’t be seen. You had your hair under the coat. You looked like a man, but your hair was recognized. Not many people have hair like yours, Ella, beautiful, long, gold hair.” He watched her white face. “I found strands of it in Nora’s bed, where you struggled and she pulled some of it out, fighting for her life….”

“Stop it!” she shouted. “Yeah, I killed the greedy little cow! She took my man. Did it deliberate. She knew ’ow I felt abaht ’im, an’ she still did it. Proud of ’erself she were. Gloated. Tol’ me as she would move up ter Mile End an’ ’ave a nice ’ouse, all to ’erself, an’ ’ave kids an’ never ’ave ter be touched by another drunken layabaht or sleazy sod cheatin’ on ’is wife again.”

“So you tied her up, broke her fingers and toes, and then strangled her,” Pitt said with loathing.

Her face was pasty white, but her eyes blazed.

“No I bleedin’ didn’t! I ’ad a row wif ’er an’ I ’it ’er. We fought an’ I ’eld ’er by the throat. Yeah, I strangled ’er, but I never touched ’er fingers an’ toes. I dunno ’oo did that, an’ I dunno why!”

Pitt did not believe her, he could not. Yet his instincts were hard and bright that she was not lying.

“Why did you kill Ada?” he repeated.

“I din’t!” she shouted back at him. “I din’t kill Ada! I never even know’d ’er! I thought it were Bert Costigan, jus’ like you did. If it weren’t ’im, I dunno ’oo it were!”

He remembered with a sickening jolt Costigan’s denials that he had broken Ada’s fingers and toes, his indignation and confusion that he should even be accused. His eyes looked just like hers, frightened, indignant, utterly bewildered.

“But you killed Nora!” he repeated. He meant to sound certain of it. It was not a question, it was a charge.

“Yeah … I s’pose there in’t no use denyin’ it now. But I never broke ’er fingers, an’ I never touched Ada! I never even bin there!”

Pitt had no idea whether he believed her or not. Looking at her, hearing her voice, he felt sure she spoke the truth; but his brain said it was ridiculous. She was admitting killing Nora. Why deny killing Ada? The punishment would be no worse, and no one would believe her anyway.

“I never killed Ada!” she said loudly. “I never did them things to Nora neither!”

“Why did you try to implicate Finlay FitzJames?” he asked.

She looked nonplussed. “ ’Oo?”

“Finlay FitzJames,” he repeated. “Why did you put his handkerchief and button in Nora’s room?”

“I dunno wotjer talkin’ abaht!” She looked totally bewildered. “I never ’eard of ’im. ’Oo is ’e?”

“Didn’t you once work in the FitzJames house?”

“I never worked in any ’ouse. I were never a bleedin’ ’ousemaid ter nobody!”

He still did not know whether to believe her or not.

“Perhaps. But it doesn’t make a lot of difference now. Come on. I’m arresting you for the killing of Nora. Don’t make it more unpleasant for yourself than it has to be. Let the other women see you leave with some dignity.”

She jerked her head up and ran her hands through her glorious hair, staring at him defiantly. Then the spirit went out of her, and she drooped again, and allowed him to lead her out.

“Well, thank God for that,” Ewart said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair in the Whitechapel police station. “I admit I didn’t think we’d do it.” He looked up at Pitt with a smile. All the tension seemed to drain out of him, as if an intolerable burden had been lifted and suddenly he could breathe without restriction, free from inner pain. Even the fear which had haunted him from the beginning was gone. He did not grudge Pitt the respect due him. “I should say you did it,” he corrected. “I didn’t do much, as it turned out.” He folded his hands over his stomach. “So it was Ella Baker all along. I never thought of a woman. Never crossed my mind. Should have.”

“She swears she didn’t kill Ada,” Pitt said, sitting down opposite him. “Or break Nora’s fingers and toes.”

Ewart was unperturbed. “Well, she would, but that doesn’t mean anything. Don’t know why she bothers. Won’t make any difference now.”

“And she swears she didn’t implicate Finlay FitzJames,” Pitt added. “She says she’s never heard of him, and never been in domestic service.”

Ewart shrugged. “I suppose she’s lying, although I’ve no idea why she should bother. Anyway, it hardly matters.” He smiled. “The case is solved. And without any really unpleasant effects. That’s a damned sight more than I dared hope for. I always thought FitzJames was innocent,” he added quickly, for a moment uncomfortable again. “I just … thought it would be very difficult to prove it.”

Pitt stood up.

“Are you going to tell FitzJames?” Ewart asked. “Put the family’s mind at rest.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Good.” He smiled, a curious, half-bitter expression. “I’m very pleased. You deserve that.”

“Good,” Augustus FitzJames said tersely when Pitt informed him that Ella Baker had been arrested and charged with the murder of Nora Gough. “I assume you will charge her with the death of the other woman as well?”

“No. There’s no evidence of that, and she doesn’t admit to it,” Pitt replied. Once again they were in the library, and this time the fire was lit, casting a warmth in the chilly evening.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Augustus was not particularly interested. “She’ll hang for the second one. Everyone will know she committed the first as well, since they were apparently identical. Thank you for coming to inform me, Superintendent. You have done an excellent job … this time. Pity about the man … er … Costigan. But there’s nothing to be done about it.” His tone was dismissive. He rocked very gently back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Sort of man we’re all better without anyway. Filthy trade, living on the immoral earnings of women. Belonged in jail, if not on the end of a rope. Might have finished up there sooner or later anyway.”

If Pitt had not been responsible for Costigan’s death, he would have retaliated with his opinion of such thoughts, the deep horror they inspired in him, but his own part was too profound.

“Did Ella Baker ever work for you, Mr. FitzJames?” he asked, tangled threads, questions unanswered still tugging at the back of his mind.

“Don’t think so.” Augustus frowned. “In fact, I’m sure she didn’t. Why?”

“I wondered how she obtained your son’s belongings in order to leave them at the scene of her crimes, and above all, why she should want to.”

“No idea. Stole them, I expect,” Augustus said tersely. “Hardly matters now. Thank you for coming yourself, Superintendent. It is good to know the police are not as incompetent as some of our most lurid and ill-informed newspapers would have us believe.” He pursed his lips. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment this evening. Good day to you.”

Pitt opened his mouth to protest further, but Augustus had already reached for the bell rope to summon the butler to show Pitt out, and there was nothing more he could say. Augustus was obviously unprepared to discuss the matter any further.

“Good evening, Mr. FitzJames,” Pitt replied, and had to leave as the butler opened the door and smiled at him.

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