understood. His own anger was intense, like a white-hot coal somewhere deep inside him.
He left Ewart to post a constable in Pentecost Alley. The room had no lock, and it would have been futile to trust to that anyway. There were enough picklocks within a hundred yards of the place to make such a gesture useless. Not that there was much evidence to destroy, but the body would have to be removed in a mortuary wagon, and Lennox would have the grim duty of a closer examination. It would be very unlikely to produce anything helpful, but it must be done.
He wondered as he rode home through the early-morning streets-hectic with traffic, drays, market carts, even a herd of sheep-whether Ada McKinley had any relatives to receive the news that she was dead, anyone who would grieve. She would almost certainly have a pauper’s grave. In his own mind the decision was already made that he would go to whatever form of funeral she was given, even if it was simply an interment.
He rode west through Spittalfields and St. Luke’s, skirting Holborn. It was quarter past seven.
Bloomsbury was stirring. Areaways were busy with bootboys and scullery maids. Smoke trickled from chimneys up into the still air. Housemaids were starting the fires in breakfast rooms ready for the day.
When he reached his own house in Keppel Street, and paid off the cabby, there was a streak of blue sky eastwards over the City, and the breeze was stirring. Perhaps it would blow the clouds away.
The front door was already unlocked, and as soon as he was inside and had hung up his coat, he smelled the warmth and the odor of cooking. There was a scamper of feet and Jemima arrived at the kitchen door.
“Papa!” she shouted happily, and started towards him at a run. She was eight years old now and quite conscious of her own dignity and importance, but not too ladylike to love to be hugged or to show off. She was dressed in a blue underfrock with a crisp white pinafore over it and new boots. Her hair, dark brown and curly, like Pitt’s, was tied back neatly and she looked scrubbed and ready for school.
He held out his arms and she ran into them, her feet clattering with amazing noise for one so slim and light. He was still mildly startled by how loud children’s feet were.
He hugged her and picked her up quickly. She smelled of soap and fresh cotton. He refused to think of Ada McKinley.
“Is your mother in the kitchen?” he asked, putting her down again.
“ ’Course,” she replied. “Daniel lost his stockings, so we’re late, but Gracie’s making breakfast. Are you hungry? I am.”
He opened his mouth to tell her she should not repeat tales, but she was already leading him towards the kitchen, and the moment was gone.
The whole room was warm and full of the smells of bacon and new bread, scrubbed wood and steam from the kettle beginning to sing on the stove. Their maid, Gracie, was standing on tiptoe to reach the tea caddy, which Charlotte must inadvertently have put on the middle shelf of the dresser. Gracie was nearly twenty now, but had not grown appreciably since they had acquired her as a waif of thirteen. All her dresses still had to be taken up at the bottom, and usually lifted at the shoulders and tucked at the waist as well.
She made a final jump and succeeded only in pushing it to the back of the shelf.
Pitt walked over and picked it up.
“Fank you, sir,” she said almost abruptly. She had immense respect for Pitt, and it grew with each new case; and she was perfectly used to being helped in such manner, but the kitchen was her domain, not his. One must keep an order in things.
Charlotte came in with a smile, her eyes bright to see him but also searching. They had been married too long and too closely for him to be able to hide from her the nature of the call he had received or how it had affected him. The details he could and would refuse her.
She looked at him carefully, his tired eyes, his unshaven cheeks, the sadness in the lines around his mouth.
“Can you eat?” she asked gently. “You should.”
He knew he should.
“Yes, a little.”
“Porridge?”
“Yes, please.” He sat down on one of the smooth, hard-backed chairs. Jemima carried the milk jug over from the larder, carefully, using both hands. It was blue-and-white-striped, and the word
The door burst open and six-year-old Daniel came in, waving his socks triumphantly.
“I’ve got them!” He saw Pitt with delight. Too often he was already up and gone before the children came for breakfast. “Papa! What’s happened? Aren’t you going to work today?” He looked at his mother accusingly. “Is it a holiday? You said I have to go to school!”
“You do,” Pitt said quickly. “I’ve already been to work. I’ve only come back for breakfast because it’s too early to call on the people I have to see. Now put your socks and boots on, and then sit down and let Gracie bring your porridge.”
Daniel sat on the floor and pulled on his socks, then considered his boots carefully before deciding which one went on which foot. Finally he climbed onto his chair, still regarding his father. “Who are you going to see?”
Charlotte was looking at him too, waiting.
“A man called FitzJames,” Pitt answered them both. “He has his breakfast later.”
“Why?” Daniel said curiously.
Pitt smiled. Half of Daniel’s conversation consisted of whys.
“I’ll ask him,” Pitt promised.
A marmalade-striped kitten came running in from the scullery, then stopped suddenly, its back arched, and took half a dozen steps crabwise, its tail bristling. A coal-black kitten charged in after it and there were squawks and squeals as they tumbled with each other, spitting and scratching harmlessly, to the children’s entertainment. Porridge was ignored, and no one argued.
Pitt sat back as Jemima disappeared under the table to watch, and Daniel pushed his chair back so he could see too. It was all immensely comfortable, trivial and a different world from Pentecost Alley, and the people who lived and died there.
2
It was nearly nine o’clock when Pitt alighted in Devonshire Street and went to the front door of number thirty-eight. The police station at Bow Street had sent him a messenger with FitzJames’s address and a note from Ewart to say that he would inform Pitt of any further evidence, should he discover it. He was about to question Ada McKinley’s pimp and see if he could locate her earlier clients of the evening, but he held little hope.
Pitt knocked on the door and stepped back. The wind from the east had risen and cleared some of the overcast. It was brighter, and warmer. The morning traffic was no more than the occasional hansom. It was too early for ladies to be making calls, even upon their dressmakers, so there were no private carriages out yet. An errand boy strode past, whistling and tossing a sixpenny piece, reward for his diligence.
The door opened to reveal a long-nosed butler with a surprisingly agreeable expression.
“Good morning, sir. May I help you?”
“Good morning,” Pitt said quickly, taken aback by such pleasantness. He pulled out his card, more elegant than his old ones, stating his name but not his calling. Police were never welcome, no matter how senior. “I am afraid a matter has arisen in which it is necessary I see Mr. Finlay FitzJames most urgently,” he explained.
“Indeed, sir.” The butler offered his tray. It was small and of most exquisitely simple Georgian silver, and Pitt dropped his card onto it. The butler stepped back to allow Pitt inside into the magnificently paneled hall, which was hung with portraits. Most of them were grim-faced men in the dress of the previous century. There were also one or two scenes of farmland and cows grazing under heavy skies, which Pitt thought, if they were originals, would be extremely valuable.
“I believe Mr. FitzJames is taking breakfast, sir,” the butler continued. “If you would care to wait in the morning room, it faces the garden and will not be disagreeable. Are you acquainted with Mr. FitzJames, sir?”
It was a polite way of asking if FitzJames had the slightest idea who Pitt was.
