Silence in Hanover Close

9

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

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

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

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

“Mrs. Pitt?” he asked.

She stared at him speechlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You lost summink, ma’am?”

Charlotte closed the cupboard doors and turned round slowly.

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

Gracie blinked, hugging her shawl closer round her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are a coward,” she said witheringly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

Charlotte was stunned. She had not even thought of that, and here it was, so soon. She felt breathless and a little sick.

“Ma’am?” Gracie sniffed fiercely but it did not stop her crying.

Suddenly Charlotte put her arms round her and they clung to each other, letting the tears come in a storm of misery.

It was several moments before Charlotte was able to pull herself together, blow her nose, and go into the kitchen. She splashed her face with cold water and rubbed it dry so fiercely her red eyes hardly showed. Ordering Gracie about was a kind of relief, chopping vegetables savagely helped to calm her while she tried to think.

She told Daniel and Jemima nothing, doing what she could to behave normally. Daniel was too hungry to be observant, but Jemima noticed and asked what was wrong.

“I have a cold,” Charlotte said, forcing herself to smile. “Don’t worry about it.” She might as well get the initial news over now. She was dreading the lies, but the sooner she started the less horrible it would be. “Papa won’t be home for a few days. He’s away on a very special job.”

“Is that why you’re unhappy?” Jemima said slowly, watching her.

The closer she could stay to some kind of truth the better.

“Yes. But don’t worry—we’ll keep each other company.” She tried to smile and knew it was a disaster.

Jemima smiled back, and immediately her lip began to tremble. She had always been quick to grasp Charlotte’s mood, whether she understood it or not: she was like a little mirror reflecting gestures, expressions, tones of voice. Now she knew there was something wrong.

“Yes, I will miss him,” Charlotte repeated. “And I miss Aunt Emily, too, since she went on holiday. Never mind; I shall have to be busy and then the time will pass. Now eat your supper or it will get cold.”

She bent to her own plate, forcing herself to spoon down the stew and mashed potatoes although she was barely aware of their taste. Her throat ached and her stomach felt like stone.

She was barely finished when the doorbell rang. Both she and Gracie stopped, fear returning. Who could it be? For one wild moment Charlotte thought perhaps Pitt had been released and somehow lost his key; then she realized it was far more likely to be some neighbor seeking to confirm the worst, full of curiosity and spurious pity, or worse, another tradesman.

It rang again, more insistently this time.

She looked at Gracie.

“Don’t ’ave me answer it, ma’am!” Gracie said urgently. “Y’never know ’oo it is!” She stood up reluctantly. “Less’n I can ’ave yer word ter shut it in their faces if it in’t nobody good. I don’t say as I can be civil wiv ’em!”

“You have my permission,” Charlotte agreed. “Open it on the chain.”

“Yes ma’am.” And tightening her apron a little and gritting her teeth, Gracie disappeared up the passage. Jemima and Daniel stopped eating, and they all sat, ears straining to hear, as Grade’s heels clicked on the linoleum. There was a moment’s silence, the rattle of the chain on the door latch, a murmur of voices too indistinct to identify, then another rattle and returning footsteps.

Charlotte stood up. “Stay here,” she ordered.

“Who is it, Mama?” Jemima whispered. Daniel stared at her truculently, frightened and ready to fight.

“I don’t know. Stay here.” And Charlotte went out into the passage just in time to meet Jack Radley as he came, white-faced, ahead of Gracie. He put out his arms and she walked straight into them. He held her tight, saying nothing at all, and Gracie squeezed past with a little sniff of relief. She thought very highly of Charlotte, but it always needed a man to sort things out properly. Thank heaven one had come.

Charlotte disengaged herself reluctantly. She could not stand here pretending someone else could mend everything.

“Come into the kitchen,” she said. There was no fire in the parlor—Gracie had not even thought of it—and the weather was too bitter to take anyone into an unheated room. “Gracie, you’d better take the children up and get them ready for bed.”

“I haven’t had any pudding!” Daniel said with burning injustice.

It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to tell him he would have to do without, until she looked at his face and saw the fear in it, blind, knowing only that she was frightened, too, and his world was threatened. She made an intense effort and controlled her own feelings.

“You’re quite right, and I forgot to make any. I’m very sorry. Will you accept a piece of cake instead, if I bring it upstairs for you?”

He regarded her with great dignity. “Yes, I will,” he conceded, and climbed down from his chair.

“Thank you.”

When they had gone she looked at Jack.

“I read it in the newspaper,” he said quietly. “For God’s sake, what happened?”

“I don’t know. A constable came this morning and told me Thomas had been arrested for killing a prostitute in Seven Dials. It must be Cerise. I bought a newspaper myself, but I haven’t had time to look at it yet. I daren’t take it out— Jemima can read. I’ll look at it this evening, and then put it straight into the stove.”

“I’d put it in the stove now,” he said, biting his lip. “There’s nothing in it you want to read. He went into Seven Dials to find the woman in cerise. He said he was told where she was by a running patterer—a man who sells news stories—and when he went into the house he was shown upstairs to her room. He says he found her dead, neck broken, and the people in the house say she was all right when they last saw her, and no one else went up except regulars, and they are all accounted for.”

“That can’t be true!”

“Of course it can’t! They’re lying, and I daresay well paid for it. But for the time being, they won’t be shaken. It’s going to take some work—but we’ll do it. Only this time we don’t have Pitt to help us.”

She sat down again on one of the kitchen chairs, and he took Gracie’s.

“Jack, I don’t know where to begin! I went to see Mr. Ballarat. I was sure he would be moving heaven and earth to find the truth, and all he did was talk to me as if I were a child, and tell me to go home and leave everything to him. Only I’d swear he isn’t going to do anything at all. Jack—” She hesitated, wondering if what she was thinking would sound hysterical to him, but what alternative did she have? “Jack, I think he wants Thomas to stay in prison. He’s afraid of him!” She expected disbelief and hurried on to explain herself. “He’s afraid of what Thomas will uncover that’s embarrassing to people who matter, the Yorks and the Danvers, or the people in the Home Office. Ballarat wants to sweep the whole lot under the carpet. He hopes if he says nothing it will all go away, and he’d rather that, and that someone should get away with treason and murder, than be the one who has to expose what everyone will hate! People can be very unjust, they can hate the person who makes them see what they would prefer not to, who topples idols and shows their clay feet. They blame them for the truth, and the responsibility it leaves us. We don’t often forgive those who destroy our illusions. Ballarat doesn’t want to be that person, and he will be, by implication, if Thomas discovers what Cerise knew. That’s why they killed her—it has to be!”

“Of course it has,” he agreed. He reached out across the table and took her hands, quite gently. It was in no way a familiarity, just friendship, and she found herself gripping him back, hard, hanging on. “Do you want me to fetch Emily?” he asked.

“Yes—please do. I don’t trust myself to go to the Yorks’.” She searched for an excuse. “You’ll have to tell her it’s family illness or something. I don’t know how you’ll explain knowing her, but you can scrape up a good lie before you get there.” The thought of seeing Emily was such a relief, almost like someone lighting a fire in a cold room. Perhaps she would even come and stay with Charlotte. They could work together, as they had done in the past on other cases, ones that mattered infinitely less than this.

“Then what would you like me to do?” he asked. “I’ve never tried detecting before, and this is a damn sight too important for amateurs, but I’ll do whatever I can.”

“I don’t know where to begin,” she said, her misery returning. “Cerise is dead. Apart from the murderer she may be the only one who knew the truth.”

“Well, at least we know she wasn’t the murderer herself,” he pointed out. “Someone killed her, and it would be too much to assume it’s coincidence, just as Thomas found her. And we must suppose someone, almost certainly the same person, killed poor Dulcie.”

She stared at him. “That means someone in the York house, or one of the Danvers, or Felix or Sonia Asherson.”

“That’s right.”

“But what would any of them be doing in a place like Seven Dials?”

“Murdering Cerise to keep her silent,” he answered very quietly, his face more somber than she had ever seen it. There was an anger in him, a weight she had not found before. “I think that means they knew where she was all the time,” he went on. “They could hardly have run into her by chance.”

“One of the Yorks, the Danvers, or the Ashersons,” she said again. “Emily—” She stopped. Emily was alone in the York house, unable to defend herself except by a disguise of ignorance, and Pitt was imprisoned in Coldbath Fields awaiting trial for murder. Both could end in death.

But Emily was free; at least she could fight for herself!

But surely justice—! The truth? Ballarat would—

She must stop behaving like a child, deceiving herself into comfort, finding excuses to avoid the painful. Ballarat would do nothing.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said quietly. “Don’t ask Emily to come home. The only way she can help Thomas is by staying where she is. Whoever murdered Cerise, and Robert York and Dulcie, is in Hanover Close, and the only way we are going to find that person is by watching them so closely we see what emotions lie behind the facades, who is frightened, who is lying.”

He sat still. For a moment she was afraid he was going to argue, point out the dangers to Emily, perhaps even tell her all the accidents that could be made to happen; but he said nothing.

“You and I can keep going as often as possible,” she went on. “But we can never see them in their unguarded moments as she can. Have you any idea how much a woman trusts her lady’s maid?”

For the first time he smiled. “I imagine about as much as a man trusts his valet,” he answered. “Or perhaps a trifle more: women spend more time at home, and on the whole give more attention to appearance.”

There was another aspect that needed explaining, Charlotte realized.

“Jack, she probably won’t see a newspaper. Maids don’t, especially if there is something sensational in it. The butler will keep it from them.” She saw the surprise in his face. “Of course he will! He won’t want all his maids swapping horror stories under the stairs, and up half the night with nightmares.” It was plain from Jack’s face that he had never thought of that, and she realized with a brief shadow of pity that he had very few roots. He was an eternal guest, never a host, too well-bred to be poor, but without the means to keep up with his peers. But there was no time for such issues now. Then she remembered that already one of her own servants had left, and if Pitt was not cleared very soon there would be pressure on Gracie too. Her mother would try to persuade her to find a better place. And come to think of it, Charlotte had no money and she would not be able to keep Gracie anyway, or anyone else. She had enough of her allowance from her own inheritance to eat, at least for a few weeks—The fear loomed up again. She was not only afraid of isolation and insufficient means, but worst of all, life without Pitt. There was not even time to make up for the stupid arguments, to be to him all the things she wanted to be.

She must not think of it, it would destroy her. She took a long breath, her lungs hurting as if the air were sharp. She must fight—anybody and everybody if necessary.

“Please ask Emily to stay there,” she repeated.

“I will.” Jack hesitated, and for the first time he looked awkward, his eyes avoiding hers, scanning the tabletop, the row of blue-ringed dishes on the dresser beyond. “Charlotte—have you any money?”

She swallowed. “For a while.”

“It’s going to be hard.”

“I know.”

He colored faintly. “I can give you a little.”

She shook her head. “No. Thank you, Jack.”

He searched for words. “Don’t—don’t let pride—”

“It’s not pride,” she assured him. “I’m all right for now. And when I’m not ...” Please God she would have found the murderer by then, and Pitt would be free! “When I’m not, Emily will help.”

“I’ll go and tell her. I’ll say it’s a family illness—they’ll let e in for that. Even the butler wouldn’t be martinet enough to deny anyone the right to that sort of news.”

“But how will you explain knowing it? You’ll have to explain that, or they’ll be suspicious.” Always at the front of her mind was the necessity to learn the truth, before everything else. “They won’t leave you alone with her, you know. There’ll be the housekeeper there, or the other lady’s maid, for propriety if nothing else.”

He looked taken aback for a moment, then he brightened. “Write a letter. I’ll say it’s from her family, explaining the situation. She can ask for a day off, to come and visit you on your sickbed.”

“Half day,” she corrected automatically. “She hasn’t been there long enough for one yet, but they might give it to her on grounds of compassion. Please do, Jack—go today. I’ll write a letter straightaway, and I’ll tell her to burn it as soon as she’s read it. There are plenty of fires.” She stood up even as she was speaking and went hastily into the parlor, turning up the lights, not noticing how cold it was till her fingers touched the icy surface of the desktop. She took out paper, ink, and pen and began to write.

Dearest Emily,

Something completely appalling has happened—Thomas found Cerise but she was already dead. Someone broke her neck, and they have arrested him for her murder. They have taken him to “the Steel” in Coldbath Fields, to await trial. I went to Mr. Ballarat, but he will do nothing. Either they have told him to leave it alone, or he is simply a coward and is only too glad to be rid of Thomas before he unearths something embarrassing about someone in power.

It is all up to us now, there is no one else. Please stay where you are and be very, very careful! Remember Dulcie! Half of me wants to beg you to come home with Jack immediately, tonight, so you will be safe; the other half knows you and I are Thomas’s only chance. He must have been close on the trail of someone very powerful and very dangerous. Please Emily, be careful. I love you,

Charlotte

She blotted it rather clumsily. It was scribbled, and her fingers were stiff. Then without rereading it she folded it, not very straight, and slipped it into an envelope. She sealed it, put the top back on the ink, and turned the gas down before going back to the kitchen. She gave the letter to Jack.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promised. “We must plan.”

She nodded, overwhelmed with loneliness now that he was going. With him here she did not feel so frightened; even with Gracie’s loyalty, and the children, she would be alone when he was gone. Then there would be time to think, and nothing to do all the long, cold night. She dreaded waking in the morning.

“Good night.” She forced the moment to come, because waiting for it was worse, and she did not want to weep again. It was pointless, and too hard to stop.

“Good night.” Now at the point of going he also seemed reluctant. He was worried for her, and she knew it. Perhaps he really did love Emily. What an unspeakable way to discover it!

Jack hesitated a moment more, then as he could think of nothing further to say, turned and went to the door. She followed to let him out and watched him step into the street, where the wet cobbles shone in the dim gaslight, globes hung like baleful moons in haloes of rain.

He touched her cheek gently, then walked rapidly away towards the main road and the passing hansoms.

She was so tired she should have slept well, but her dreams were filled with fear, and she woke up many times, fighting for breath, her body aching with tension and her throat sore. The darkness seemed interminable, and when at last the gray dawn came, with rain beating on the window, it was a relief to get up. She was so tired she fumbled with her gown when she went downstairs to draw the pitcher of hot water, then changed her mind and washed in the kitchen anyway; it was warmer. Before dressing she decided to have a cup of tea. The taste of it would wash away some of the gritty feeling and its heat might wash out the tightness in her throat.

She was still sitting at the kitchen table when Gracie came in, also in her dressing gown, her hair down over her shoulders. She looked like a child. Charlotte had never noticed how threadbare her nightclothes were before. She must get her new ones—if she could ever afford it again. She wished she had done it sooner.

Gracie stood still, eyes wide, afraid to speak and uncertain what to say. But her gaze was perfectly steady and hot with loyalty. She longed to ask Charlotte if she was all right but did not dare, in case it seemed impertinent.

“Have a cup of tea before we begin,” Charlotte offered. “The kettle’s still just about boiling.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Gracie accepted with some awe; she had never in her life before sat at the kitchen table taking tea in her nightgown.

But from then on the day got worse. The baker’s boy did not call but passed on down the street. The fishmonger’s boy, on the contrary, rang loudly, presented the account up to date, and demanded payment in full, with the warning that should madam be buying fish in future—which he appeared to doubt—all transactions would be strictly for payment in cash and on delivery. Gracie told him to be about his business and all but boxed his ears on the doorstep, but she was sniffing fiercely and her eyes were red when she came back to the kitchen.

Charlotte thought of sending her for bread, then realized how unfair that would be, and perhaps rash; obviously her loyalty was intense and she would retaliate against any jibes, even if only overheard. Charlotte was older and surely could learn to keep the peace. She should not hide behind a girl.

The experience was worse than she expected. She had never been more than civil to most of her neighbors. They knew from her speech, her manner, the quality of her clothes—though cut down from previous years—even the sight of Emily’s carriage now and then, that Charlotte was not of their background or stock. On the surface they were civil, even friendly from time to time, but resentment lay close under the surface, fear of the different, envy of privilege; though most of it was long in the past now, it was not forgiven.

She walked down the pavement with the wind pulling at her coat and the rain soaking her skirts. She was glad to reach the corner and the shelter of the grocer’s shop. As she went in the door the few women inside stopped talking and stared at her. One of them had a son who was a petty thief, serving six months in the Scrubs. She hated all police, and now was her chance to gain a little revenge with impunity. No one could blame her for it, nor defend the wife of a man who imprisoned other men, and then murdered a prostitute himself. She glared at Charlotte, hitched her basket onto her hip, and walked out of the shop, passing her so roughly that Charlotte was nearly knocked off balance, bruising her and leaving her startled by the suddenness as much as the pain. The other women tittered with amusement.

“Good mornin’, Mrs. Pitt, I’m sure!” one of them said loudly. “An’ ’ow are we today, then? Not so ’igh an’ mighty? Take our turn with the rest, will we?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte replied coldly. “I am quite well, thank you. Is your mother better? I heard she caught a chill in the rain.”

“She’s poorly,” the woman said, taken aback that Charlotte had not retaliated more in kind. “What’s it ter you?”

“Nothing at all, Mrs. Robertson, except good manners,” Charlotte answered. “Have you finished your purchases?”

“No I ’aven’t! You wait yer turn!” And she moved to stand square in front of the counter again, her eyes roving slowly over the shelves, deliberately taking as long as she could. There was nothing for Charlotte to do but contain her temper and wait.

The grocer shifted from one foot to the other, weighing where his profit lay, and chose the obvious. He ignored Charlotte and smiled toothily at Mrs. Robertson.

“I’ll ’ave ’alf a pound o’ sugar,” she said with satisfaction, tasting power like a sweet in her mouth. “Hif you please, Mr. Wilson.”

The grocer dipped into his sack and put half a pound little by little into the scales, then emptied it into a blue paper bag and gave it to her.

“I changed me mind.” She glanced at Charlotte maliciously, and then back at the grocer. “I’m feelin’ rich this mornin; I’ll ’ave an ’ole pound.”

“Yes, Mrs. Robertson. O’ course.” The grocer weighed another half pound carefully and gave it to her.

The door opened and the bell rang as another woman entered and took her place behind Charlotte.

“An’ I’ll ’ave some Pears’ soap,” Mrs. Robertson added. “Fer the complexion. It’s very good, in’t it, Mrs. Pitt? Is that wot you use? Not that yer’ll be able ter afford it now! Come down in yer ideas a bit, won’t yer?”

“Possibly. But it takes more than a bar of soap to make a beauty, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte said coldly. “Did you ever find your umbrella?”

“No I didn’t!” Mrs. Robertson said angrily. “There’s a lot o’ people round ’ere in’t as honest as they makes out. I reckon as somebody stole it!”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Call a policeman,” she said with a smile.

The woman glared at her, and this time it was the other woman who sniggered under her breath.

But the verbal victory was brief and gave her no pleasure, and at the baker’s it was worse, no jibes, only silence, until she was leaving, when there were whispers behind hands and a nodding of heads. She was asked for cash, and it was counted carefully before being put into the till with a snap. If things became hard, there would be no credit for her, she knew without asking—no allowances, and probably from now on no deliveries. The greengrocer made some excuse about being short of help, even though there was a boy standing idle over the sack of potatoes, obviously waiting for something to do, and Charlotte had to carry her heavy bags home herself. A boy of about nine or ten ran past her yelling, “Haya! Rozzer’s in the Steel! They’ll ’ang ’im fer sure! Dingle dangle, see ’im dance!” and did a little skip in and out of the gutter.

She tried to ignore him, but the words struck black terror in her, and by the time she got home, soaking wet, her arms aching, shoulders dragging with the weight of her purchases, she was close to despair.

She was barely inside and had just taken off her wet boots and was setting them near the stove in the kitchen when she heard the front doorbell. Gracie looked at her and without being asked went to open it. She came back a moment later, her feet light along the passage, her skirt swishing round the door.

“Ma’am! Ma’am, it’s your mama, Mrs. Ellison. Shall I bring ’er through ’ere? It’s terrible cold in the parlor. I’ll make yer a cup o’ tea, then I’ll go upstairs an’ get on wiv the bedrooms.”

Charlotte felt little of Gracie’s trust; she was much less certain of what Caroline would have to say. She stood up quickly.

“Yes—yes, you’d better.” There was no alternative: she could not ask anyone to sit in the freezing parlor, nor could she bear to herself. Her wet feet were still numb, and the edges of her skirts were steaming as the kitchen’s warmth reached them. “I’ll make the tea,” she added. It would give her something to do. And it would allow her an excuse to turn her back.

“Yes ma’am.” Gracie disappeared, her feet tip-tapping lightly on the linoleum.

Caroline came in, having already divested herself of her coat, and since she had naturally come in a carriage, she was not wet except for the soles of her neat high-button boots.

“Oh, my dear!” She held her arms open. Perfunctorily, because there was nothing else to do, Charlotte responded, holding her for only a moment before stepping back. “I’ll make us a cup of tea,” she said quickly. “I’ve only just come in myself and I’m perished, and wet.”

“Charlotte, my dear, you must come home.” Caroline sat down a little gingerly on one of the kitchen chairs.

“No thank you,” Charlotte said instantly. She reached for the kettle and filled it, setting it on the hob.

“But you can’t stay here!” Caroline argued, her voice ringing with reason. “The newspapers are full of the story! I don’t think you realize—”

“I realize perfectly!” Charlotte contradicted her. “If I hadn’t before I went to the shops, I certainly do now. And I am not running away.”

“Darling, it’s not running away!” Caroline stood up and came over as if to touch her again, then sensed her daughter’s resentment. “You must face reality, Charlotte. You have made a mistake which has turned out tragically for you. If you come home now, take your maiden name again, I can—”

Charlotte froze. “I will not! How dare you suggest such a thing! You’re speaking as if you imagined Thomas were guilty!” She turned round slowly, cups and saucers in her hands. “For the children’s sake you can take them, if you will. If you won’t, then they’ll have to stay here as any ordinary man’s would have to. I’m not ashamed of Thomas—I’m ashamed of you for wanting me to run away and deny him instead of fighting! I am going to find out who killed that woman, and prove it, just as I did for Emily when they thought she murdered George—for which she had far more reason!”

Caroline sighed and kept her patience, which made it worse. “My dear, that was quite different,” she began.

“Oh? Why? Because she is ‘one of us’ and Thomas isn’t?”

Caroline’s face tightened. “If you insist on putting it that way—yes.”

“Well, you’ve been glad enough to have him ‘one of us’ when you needed him!” Charlotte could feel herself close to losing control, and it made her furious, both with herself and with Caroline.

“You must be realistic,” Caroline began again.

“You mean desert him quickly, so people can see I have nothing to do with it?” Charlotte demanded. “How honorable you are, Mama! How brave!”

“Charlotte, I’m only thinking of you!”

“Are you?” Charlotte’s disbelief was strident, because she thought what Caroline said was probably honest. It was what other people would think too, and it terrified her. She did not care if she was being unjust, she wanted to hurt. “Are you sure you aren’t thinking of the neighbors, and what your friends will say about you?” she went on, mimicking their voices savagely. “ ‘You know that nice Mrs. Ellison, well you’ll never believe it, but her daughter married a policeman—isn’t that dreadful—and now he’s gone and committed a murder! I always said no good comes of marrying beneath you.’ ”

“Charlotte! I didn’t say that.”

“But you thought it!”

“You are being quite unfair! And the kettle is boiling. You are filling the kitchen with steam and it’ll boil dry. For goodness’ sake make the tea and have a cup. Perhaps you will be able to think a little more clearly. Loyalty to Thomas is all very well, but it is self-indulgent. This has happened, and you must be practical and think of the children.”

She was quite right at least in that the room was filling with steam. Charlotte made the tea, burning her hand on the kettle and refusing to admit it. She set the teapot on the table and fiddled furiously in the cupboard for biscuits. When she found them she spilled them onto a plate and set it down, then poured the tea and passed it. Finally she sat down, hardly more composed.

“I would be very grateful if you took the children,” she said carefully. “It would protect them from—from the worst, at least—” She stopped. She had been going to say, “for the time being,” and even that thought was a betrayal.

“Of course,” Caroline said quickly. “And as soon as you want to come, too, you know there is always a place for you.”

“I—am—not—coming,” Charlotte said very slowly and deliberately.

“Then go and stay with Emily in the country,” Caroline urged her. “Thomas would understand. He wouldn’t expect you to stay here. What can you do? Make a show of being brave and letting everyone know you believe he is innocent? My dear, it will only get you hurt, and it will make no difference at all in the end. Leave it to the police.”

Charlotte felt the tears running down her face. She fished out a handkerchief and blew her nose, then took a sip of her tea before replying. She could hardly tell her mother that Emily was no more in the country than Pitt was.

“The police are perfectly happy to leave it as it is,” she said coldly. “Thomas has discovered something they would prefer not to know. I have no wish to join Emily. I have written to her, of course. But I am a very good detective myself; I shall discover who killed Robert York, and it will be the same person who killed this woman in pink.”

“My dear, you cannot know what really happened, or why Thomas was in Seven Dials with this—this woman in pink.” Caroline’s face was very pale. “We don’t know really as much about our husbands as we sometimes imagine.”

Out of her own pain Charlotte was deliberately cruel. “You mean, as you didn’t know about Papa?”

Caroline flinched and the words died before they reached her lips.

Charlotte was sorry, but it was too late. “But he didn’t kill those girls, did he!” she said, finishing what she had begun.

“No, and I was grateful to the police for proving it,” Caroline admitted. “But I could not give back the knowledge of what he had done, nor ever stop wondering at how little I had known him, how much I simply thought I did. Don’t press for the truth, Charlotte. You would be much wiser to leave it to the police, and hope they will tell you only what you have to know.”

“If that is the best you can offer, it would be better if we did not discuss it.” Charlotte stood up, leaving the rest of her tea. “I’ll go and pack some things for the children and you can take them with you now. It will be easier than saying long good-byes. Anyway, there’s no point in your going and then having to come back for them. Thank you; I appreciate it,” and without waiting for Caroline to offer any answer she went straight out of the kitchen and upstairs, leaving her mother at the table with the teapot and the biscuits.

After Caroline was gone, taking Daniel and Jemima with her, holding onto their hands as she had with Charlotte and Emily when they were children, Charlotte felt truly ashamed. She had been unjust. She had expected Caroline to understand things that were completely outside her world. But her mother did not have Charlotte’s experience, and it was both unfair and stupid to suppose she could think as Charlotte did. It was not so long ago Pitt had had to be patient with her, excuse her prejudices and assumptions. And what was worse, she had reminded Caroline of pain, disillusionment that still cut deep, tarnishing old memories, which—now that Edward was dead—were all she had. Charlotte had known what she was doing, and done it just the same. When this was all over Charlotte would say something to her; now she was too frightened, too worried to find the words, or to trust herself to deliver them.

She started by being practical. How much money was there, and what had to be done with it? If it came to a choice between food and coal, how should she portion out the resources? The best thing was to check the cellar and see what there was. From now on it would be more potatoes and bread, and less meat. She would have to ask Gracie where the cheapest places were to shop.

Jack came a little before three. It was heavily overcast and the light was already beginning to fade. Gracie let him in and he went straight to the kitchen.

“I saw Emily,” he said immediately. “I told the butler a wonderful lie about her sister being ill and that I knew it through Lady Ashworth, for whom Emily—sorry. For whom Amelia had worked before. They swallowed it all.” He swung his coattails aside elegantly out of habit and sat down at the table. He looked at Charlotte very soberly. “She agreed to stay there; in fact, she insisted. I hope to God she’ll be all right. I’ve racked my brain for some way to protect her, but I can’t think of anything. She’s got a half day off on Saturday, and she said she’ll meet you in Hyde Park on the first seat as you go in nearest Hanover Close, at two in the afternoon, regardless of the weather. Until then, what can I do?”

“I don’t know,” Charlotte admitted. “I went to the prison yesterday, but they wouldn’t let me see Thomas. I only know what I read in the newspapers.”

“I went out and got them all.” He could not keep the anxiety from his face. “They say he asked people all over the city where he could find Cerise. Several street sellers will swear to that. It seems the running patterer who actually took him to Seven Dials only watched Pitt go in; he didn’t go in himself. It was a brothel, of sorts, and the landlord says Pitt asked him to describe the woman very closely and only wanted to see her if she was the right one. The landlord took him up. No one else passed, and when the man went up a few minutes later he found Pitt bending over with his hands around her neck.” He was very pale. “I’m sorry.”

She searched his face, but his gaze did not waver.

“Then there’s no point in going to Seven Dials,” she said as calmly as she could. “Not that I ever thought there would be. The answer is in Hanover Close. I must go and see Veronica York again. Will you take me?”

“Of course. And I’ll take you to Coldbath Fields as well. You shouldn’t go alone.”

“Thank you.” She tried to think of something else to say, and failed.

This time she was allowed into the prison, a great cold place whose massive walls were like misery set in stone, condensation making even the inner corridors feel cold and sour. Everywhere was the smell of human sweat and stale air. The warden did not look at her as he spoke, and she was led into a small room with a scarred wooden table and two upright chairs. This privilege was granted only because Pitt was still technically an innocent man.

It took all the strength she possessed not to weep when she saw him. His clothes were dirty, the clean shirt she had brought him was already torn, and there were bruises on his face. She dared not imagine what there might be on his body that she could not see. Neither wardens nor prisoners had any love for a policeman turned murderer. The warden commanded Charlotte and Pitt to sit at opposite sides of the table while he stood upright in the corner like a sentry and watched them.

For several moments she just sat and stared. It would be ridiculous to ask him how he was. He knew she cared; that was all that was necessary, and there was nothing she could do to alter any of it.

Then the emotion became too strong and she spoke simply to break the tension.

“Mama has taken the children. It will be easier for them, and for me. Gracie is wonderful. I sent a letter to Emily. Jack Radley took it to her. I asked her to stay where she is—don’t argue with me. It is the only way we shall learn anything.”

“Charlotte, you must be careful!” He leaned forward, then as the jailer stepped towards them, realized the uselessness of it. “You must get Emily out of there—it’s too dangerous!” he said urgently. “Someone has already killed three times to keep the silence over what happened that night in Hanover Close. You mustn’t go again. Send a letter to say you are sick, or that you’re going back to the country. That would be better. Promise me! Leave it to Ballarat, he’ll handle it now. They haven’t told me who he’s put on the case, but whoever it is will come and see me, and I’ll tell him all I know. We must be getting close for them to have killed Cerise. Promise me, Charlotte!”

Her hesitation was only momentary. She would defend him in whatever manner necessary, and by whatever means she could find. She did not stop to think, or weigh judgment, any more than she would have done had Daniel or Jemima been in the street in front of a runaway horse. It was as instinctive as gasping for breath when the water closes over your head.

“Yes, Thomas, of course,” she lied without a flicker. “Emily will stay with me for a while, or I’ll stay with her. Don’t worry about any of us, we’ll be perfectly all right. Anyway, I’m sure Mr. Ballarat won’t take long to discover the truth. He must know perfectly well that you couldn’t have killed Cerise. Whyever should you?”

Some of the fear eased out of his face and he tried to smile. “Good,” he said quietly. “At least I know you’re all right. Thank you for your promise.”

There was no time for guilt; the hangman waited. She smiled back. “Of course,” she said with a gulp. “Don’t worry about us.”