Crescent.
The other possibility, occurring to him even as he walked along the miserable streets towards Tortoise Lane, was that this Clarabelle Mapes was an abortionist, and Sybilla had procured her address for Tassie-that it was after a hasty, ill-done operation that Charlotte had seen Tassie’s return in the night. And what she had mistaken for a look of joy had in fact been a grimace of pain, mixed with intense relief at being safe, back in her own house and relieved of an intolerable disgrace.
It was an unpleasant thought, and he hoped with surprising depth that this was not true. But he knew the frailties of nature well enough to accept that it was not impossible.
The other answer stemmed from George’s affair with Sybilla-William as the wounded husband, in spite of Eustace’s claim that he had wanted to divorce Sybilla until he knew of the child. But Pitt did not believe William March would have killed his unborn child, no matter how furious he was at his wife’s infidelity. And Pitt did not yet know how far that had gone. It could have been no more than vanity and a stupid exhibition of power.
Or was the child Eustace’s, and not William’s at all?
No. If that were so and William knew it, surely he would have killed Eustace, not George, and perhaps felt himself justified. And there would certainly be many who, whatever their public pronouncements, would privately agree with him.
And the pregnancy predated George’s arrival at Cardington Crescent, so he could not be blamed by anyone.
That left Emily and Jack Radley. They might have acted either together or separately, for love, or greed-or both. Emily he refused to think of until there was no other possibility and it was forced upon him; and if that happened, please God Charlotte would know it for herself and he would not have to be the one to tell her.
He turned the last corner and was in Tortoise Lane. It was as shabby and squalid as the others, indistinguishable except to those who understood the labyrinth and could smell and taste in the thick air their own familiar row of crooked jetties and angled roofs. There were two grubby children of about four or five years playing with stones outside number 3. Pitt stopped and watched them for a moment. They had scratched a pattern of squares on the pavement, including about ten of the slabs, and were skidding the marker stone to a chosen one, then doing an elaborate little dance in and out of the squares, bending gracelessly on one leg to pick up the stone when they were finished.
“Do you know the lady in there?” Pitt pointed to the door of number 3.
They looked at him with confusion. “Which lady?” the bigger one asked.
“Are there a lot of ladies?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know Mrs. Mapes?”
“Mrs. Mapes,” the child said soberly. “Course we do!”
“Do you live in there?” Pitt was surprised. He had already half decided it was an abortionist, and children did not fit his preconception.
“Yeah.” The older child answered; the smaller child was pulling at his sleeve, frightened, and Pitt did not want to get them into trouble for the crumb of information they might be able to give him.
“Thank you.” He smiled, touched the child’s matted hair, and went up to the door. He knocked gently, afraid that a peremptory rap would sound like authority and perhaps elicit no answer, or at best put them on their guard.
It was opened after a very few moments by a small, thin girl who might have been anywhere between twelve and twenty. She was wearing a brown stuff dress, taken in from several sizes larger, a mobcap that held back no more than half her hair, and an outsize apron. Her hands were wet and she carried a kitchen knife. Obviously Pitt had disturbed her at her chores.
“Yeah?” she said with a lift of surprise, her eyes washed-out china blue, already tired.
“Is Mrs. Mapes at home?” Pitt inquired.
“Yeah!” The girl swallowed, put the knife in her pocket, and wiped her hands on her apron. “Yer’d better come in.” Turning, she led the way through a dark, rush-matted corridor, past narrow stairs on which sat a child of about seven, nursing a baby and holding by the hand an infant just old enough to stand. But large families were common; what was less so was that so many within a few years of each other should have survived. Infant mortality was enormous.
The girl knocked on the last door, at the very end of the passage before it turned towards the huge kitchens he could see a dozen yards away.
“Come!” a throaty voice called from inside.
“Thank you.” Pitt dismissed the girl and pulled on the handle. It opened easily and soundlessly into a sitting room that was almost a parody of old Mrs. March’s boudoir. It was doubly startling for its contrast with the threadbare outside and the other rooms Pitt had glimpsed as he passed, and for its joke of familiarity.
The windows looked onto the blind walls of an alley rather than the March’s gracious garden, but it was curtained in a similar hectic pink, faded even by this mean and dirt-filtered light. Probably the curtains had hung unmoved for years. The mantel was draped as well, although in smarter houses fashion had freed the beauty of fine wood or stone from such ornate and destructive prudery. A piano was similarly covered, and every table was bristling with photographs. Lamp shades were fringed and knotted and plastered with mottoes; Home, Sweet Home, God Sees All, and I Love You, Mother.
Seated on the largest pink armchair was a woman of ample, fiercely corseted bosom and prodigious hips, swathed with a dress that on a woman half the size would really have been quite handsome. She had stubby, fat hands with strong fingers, and on seeing Pitt they flew to her face in a gesture of surprise. Her black hair was thick, her black eyes large and shining, her nose and mouth predatory.
“Mrs. Mapes?” Pitt asked civilly.
She waved him to the pink sofa opposite her, the seat worn where countless others had sat.
“That’s me,” she agreed. “An’ ’oo are you, sir?”
“Thomas Pitt, ma’am.” He did not yet intend to tell her his office. Policemen were not welcome in places like St. Giles, and if she had some illegal occupation then she would do everything to hide it, probably successfully. He was in hostile territory, and he knew it.
She regarded him with an experienced eye, seeing immediately that he had little money; his shirt was ordinary and far from new, his boots were mended. But his jacket, in spite of its worn elbows and cuffs, had originally been of fine cut, and his speech was excellent. He had taken his lessons with the son of the estate on which his father worked and never lost the timbre or the diction. She summed him up as a gentleman on hard times, but still considerably better off than herself, and perhaps with prospects.
“Well, Mr. Pitt, wot can I do for yer? This ain’t where you live, so wot you ’ere for?”
“I was given your address by a Mrs. Sybilla March.”
Her black eyes narrowed. “Was yer now? Well, Mr. Pitt, me business is confidential, like. I’m sure yer understands that.”
“I take it for granted, Mrs. Mapes.” He was hoping that if he continued he would learn something from her, however tenuous, that he might pursue. Even a clue as to Mrs. Mapes’s occupation might yield something about Sybilla he had not known. At least she had not denied the acquaintance.
“Course yer do!” she agreed heartily. “Or yer wouldn’t be ’ere yerself, eh?” She laughed, a rich gurgle in her throat, and looked at him archly.
Pitt could not remember ever having been quite so revolted. He forced an answering smile that must have been sickly.
“’Ave a cup o’tea, wiv a drop o’ suffin?” she invited. “’Ere!” She reached for a grubby bellpull. “I could do wiv one meself. An’ it’s only perlite ter keep yer company.”
Pitt had not had time to decline when the door opened and yet another girl peered round, eyes wide, face gaunt. This one might have been fifteen.
“Yes, Mrs. Mapes, ma’am?”
“Get me a cup o’ tea, Dora,” Mrs. Mapes ordered. “An’ you make sure Florrie is doin’ the pertaters fer supper.”
“Yes, Mrs. Mapes, ma’am.”
“An’ bring the good pot!” Mrs. Mapes called after her, then turned back to smile at Pitt. “Now wot’s yer
