A butterfly drifted past them, fluttering in the sun. Far in the distance a dog barked.
“A Hellfire Club badge was found under the body of a murdered woman last night,” Pitt replied.
“Good God! How extraordinary!” Thirlstone’s black eyebrows shot up, wrinkling his brow dramatically. “Why does it concern you? Are you related to her? I’m fearfully sorry.” He extended his hand in a gesture of sympathy.
“No. No I’m not,” Pitt said with some awkwardness.
“Then … you’re not police, are you? You don’t look like police. You are!” He seemed almost amused, as if the fact had some esoteric humor of its own. “How unutterably squalid. What in heaven’s name do you want from me? I know nothing about it. Who was she?”
“Her name was Ada McKinley. She was a prostitute.”
Thirlstone’s face showed a trace of pity, something lacking in Finlay FitzJames and Helliwell. Then suddenly he was absolutely sober. The slight air of banter vanished completely. Under his superficial manner his concentration was total. His eyes were narrowed, his body motionless, so that suddenly Pitt was aware of the breeze and the slight stirring of the flowers.
“There were only four of us, Superintendent, and each badge had a name on it.” Thirlstone’s voice was so level it was unnatural. “Are you saying it was my badge you found?”
“No sir.”
Thirlstone’s body relaxed and he could not keep a flood of relief from his face.
“I’m glad. I haven’t seen it for years.” He swallowed. “But one never knows …” He regarded Pitt with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. “Whose was it? I … I cannot believe any of us would be so foolish as to …” He did not complete his sentence, but his meaning hung in the air, unmistakably.
A young couple walked past a dozen yards away, their footsteps crunching on the gravel.
“I have already spoken to Mr. FitzJames and Mr. Helliwell,” Pitt said almost casually. “But I have not been able to find Jago Jones.”
“It would hardly be Jago!” This time there was complete conviction in Thirlstone’s voice.
“Why not?”
“My dear fellow, if you knew Jago you wouldn’t need to ask.”
“I don’t know him. Why not?”
“Oh …” Thirlstone shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly. “Perhaps I don’t know as much as I imagine. It’s your job to find out, thank God, not mine.”
“Where would I find Mr. Jones?” Pitt did not expect an answer.
He did not receive one, only a shrug and a bemused look.
“No idea, I’m afraid. None whatsoever. In the streets. In the slums. That’s the last thing I remember hearing him say, but I have no notion if he meant it.” Thirlstone lifted his face to the sun again, and Pitt was effectively dismissed.
He walked back past an army officer on leave, splendidly dressed in red coat and immaculate trousers, buttons gleaming, to the excitement of several young ladies in pastel dresses all muslin and lace, and the envy of a nursemaid in a white starched apron wheeling a perambulator. The noise of a barrel organ drifted from somewhere beyond the trees.
At four o’clock Pitt had eaten a late luncheon, but he was so tired his eyes felt gritty and his head ached from lack of sleep. He had no real belief that Jago Jones might somehow have dropped Finlay FitzJames’s belongings in Pentecost Alley, but he must prove it, were it only for elimination. It was not impossible.
He returned to Devonshire Street and asked the genial butler if he could speak to Miss Tallulah FitzJames. He knew it was a time of day when she might quite easily be at home, before dressing for the evening and going out to dine and be entertained.
She came into the morning room in a swirl of soft fabric of so pale a pink it was almost white, a blush pink rose at her waist, long satin ribbons hanging. Had her face been rounder, less full of intelligence and will, the effect would have been cloyingly innocent. As it was, it presented a challenging contrast, and from the way she stopped just inside the door and leaned against the knob, Pitt was quite certain she knew it.
“Well!” she said in surprise. “You back again? I heard about that poor creature’s death, but you can’t possibly imagine Finlay could have anything to do with it? It’s too preposterous. I mean, why should he? Mama would like to think he never goes near such places, but then one’s parents tend to be rather like the very best carriage horses, don’t they? Work excellently together as long as the harness lasts, look very good in town, are the admiration of one’s friends, and can’t see a thing except what’s directly in front of them! We blinker ours, to keep their attention from straying or have them take fright at things on the footpath.”
Pitt smiled in spite of himself.
“Actually it was the address of Mr. Jago Jones I came for.” He saw her body stiffen under its silk and muslin gown and her slim shoulders set rigid. He could imagine her hands clenched at the doorknob behind her. Very slowly she straightened up and came towards him.
“Why? Do you think Jago did it? You can’t know how ridiculous that is, but I assure you, I’d sooner suspect the Prince of Wales. Come to think of it-much sooner.”
“You have a very high regard for Mr. Jones?” Pitt said with surprise.
“Not … especially.” She turned away and the sunlight caught her unusual profile-nose a little too big, mouth wide and full of laughter and emotion, dark eyes bright.
“He’s … he’s rather proper, actually. Something of a bore.” She still looked studiously out of the window at the sun on the leaves beyond. “But he couldn’t do anything like that,” she went on. “He’s about Finlay’s age, and when Finlay was in his twenties and I was about sixteen, Jago was fun. He could tell the best jokes, because he could make his face look like all the different characters, and his voice too.” She shrugged elaborately, as if it could be of no possible interest to her. “But he’s religious now. All good works and saving souls.” She swung around to look at Pitt. “Why does the Church make people such crashing bores?”
“The Church?” Pitt did not hide his surprise.
“Didn’t you know? No, I suppose you didn’t. Finlay was stupid, pretending he didn’t know the Hellfire Club anymore. I suppose it might be his idea of protecting them. It must be Norbert Helliwell or Mortimer Thirlstone, if it’s any of them.” She shook her head slightly. “It wouldn’t be Jago, and of course it wasn’t Finlay. Most likely the woman stole it, and then someone else killed her. It seems fairly obvious, doesn’t it?” Her eyes challenged him. “Why would one of the other members have Finlay’s badge, anyway? If they wanted one, they had their own.”
“Not on purpose,” Pitt explained. “But the engraving on the back is very small and very fine. It would be easy enough to pick up someone else’s in error.”
“Oh.” She breathed in deeply, the sheer silk draped across her shoulders and bosom rising, the light gleaming in it. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Where would I find Mr. Jones?”
“Saint Mary’s Church, Whitechapel.”
Pitt drew in his breath sharply. He knew St. Mary’s. It was a few hundred yards from Pentecost Alley. Old Montague Street ran parallel to the Whitechapel Road before it turned into Mile End.
“I see. Thank you, Miss FitzJames.”
“Why do you look like that? Saint Mary’s means something to you, I can see it in your face. You know it!”
There was no point in lying to her.
“The woman was killed in an alley off Old Montague Street.”
“Is that close?” She was too anxious to be offended that he might think her familiar with such an area.
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She turned away again, presenting a silk-swathed shoulder to him. “Well, you won’t find Jago Jones involved. He couldn’t be after a woman like that except to save her soul.” There was a sudden hurt in her voice, almost bitterness. “I presume she wasn’t bored to death?”
“No, Miss FitzJames, she was strangled.”
She winced. “If I could help you, I would,” she said quietly. “But I really don’t know anything.”
“You’ve given me Mr. Jones’s address, which I appreciate. Thank you for seeing me at what must be an inconvenient time. Good evening.”
She did not reply, but stood in the middle of the floor staring at him as he went to the door and let himself
