there. “Did she tell you her name, Fanny?”
Fanny’s face remained glazed, her eyes faraway.
Pitt looked at the floor, willing her to remember, clenching his hands inside his pockets where she could not see.
“Prudence,” Fanny said clearly. “She said as ’er name were Prudence Wilson. I let ’er in an’ told Mrs. Mapes as she was ’ere. Mrs. Mapes sent me back ter aks ’er business.”
“And what was her business?” Pitt was buoyed up by a surge of hope, and yet at the same time, giving a name to the hideously used corpse, learning of her loves and hopes, made her death so much deeper an offense.
Fanny shook her head. “I dunno, mister, she wouldn’t say, ’cept to Mrs. Mapes.”
“And Mrs. Mapes didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
Pitt stood up. “That’s fine. Thank you, Fanny. Stay here and look after the little ones. The constable will stay too.”
“’Oo are yer, mister, an’ wot’s ’appenin’?” the eldest girl asked with her face screwed up. They were frightened of change; it usually meant the loss of something, the beginning of new struggle.
Pitt would like to have thought this time would be different, but he could not delude himself. They were too young to earn their way in any legal occupation-not that there were many for women except domestic service, for which they had no references; sweatshops barely afforded survival. And without Clarabelle Mapes to connive and cheat monthly money out of desperate women, on the pretense of minding children they were unable to keep themselves, there was no means to support this present group of infants in Tortoise Lane. It would probably mean the workhouse for most of them.
He did not know whether to lie to them and keep fear at bay a little longer, or if that only added to the patronage, the robbery of dignity. In the end cowardice won; he had simply worn out all the emotion he had.
“I’m a policeman, and until I’ve made a few more calls I don’t know for certain what’s happening. I’ve got to discover more about Prudence Wilson. Fanny, did she say where she came from?”
Fanny shook her head. “No.”
“Never mind, I’ll find out.” He went to the door, giving the constable instructions to remain there until he returned or sent relief.
Outside in Tortoise Lane he walked smartly towards Bloomsbury. It was the obvious place to begin. It was a reasonable assumption that Prudence Wilson had walked to the nearest such place as Mrs. Mapes’s, that she lived in at her own employment as housemaid or parlormaid, as the police surgeon had suggested.
Therefore Pitt went to the Bloomsbury Police Station, and by ten past eight he was facing a tired and short- tempered sergeant who had been on his feet all day and was so thirsty for a pint of ale he could taste dust in his mouth.
“Yes, sir?” he said without raising his eyes from the enormous ledger in front of him, where he was writing in a careful copperplate hand the details of a charge of vandalizing a fence, brought against a small boy.
“Inspector Pitt, Metropolitan Police,” Pitt said formally, to give the man time to correct his attitude accordingly.
“Not ’ere, sir. Don’t belong to this station. I’ve ’eard of ’im, does murders an’ the like. Try Bow Street, sir. If they don’t ’ave ’im, they maybe know ’oo ’as.”
Pitt smiled wearily. This pedestrian misunderstanding had a kind of sanity about it that was vaguely comforting. “I am Inspector Pitt, sergeant,” he replied. “And I am here about a murder. I would be obliged for your attention, if you please.”
The sergeant blushed a hot pink and stood up smartly, not even wincing as he banged the toe of his boot against the chair leg, aggravating his corns. He faced Pitt with wide eyes, inarticulate with apology.
“I am looking for record of a Miss Prudence Wilson, probably a maid in domestic service, maybe in this area. I am hoping she has been reported missing, about three or four weeks ago. Does the name sound familiar to you?”
“People don’t usually report ’ousemaids missin’, Mr. Pitt, sir.” The sergeant shook his head. “Terrible suspicious in their thoughts, people is-and usually right, too. Thinks they’s run off wiv some man, an’ like as not they ’ave, an’ …” He let the sentiment remain unexpressed; it was indiscreet. Personally he wished them luck. His own marriage was a happy one, and he would not willingly have seen anyone bound to a life of service in someone else’s house rather than having their own. “But could ’a bin.” He showed his agreeability by going for the ledger where such things were noted and pulling it out. Dutifully he turned it back four weeks and began to read forward. After six pages he stopped with his finger on an entry. He looked up at Pitt, his eyes surprised and sad.
“Yes, sir, ’ere it is. Young man by the name o’ ’Arry Croft came an’ says as she was ’is betrothed, an she’d gone ter fetch ’er little girl from someone as was keepin ’er, lookin’ after ’er, like, an’ never came back. Terrible upset ’e was, sure as somethin’ ’ad ’appened to ’er, since they was ter be married and she was real ’appy about it. But o’ course we couldn’t do nuffin. Young women don’t ’ave ter be found by a man they ain’t married ter, ain’t daughters of, and ain’t employed by, not as if they don’t want ter. An’ we didn’t know different as she’d gone off on ’er own with the little girl.”
“No,” Pitt agreed. It was fair, and even if they had known, by then it was already too late. “No, of course you couldn’t.”
The sergeant swallowed. “Is she dead, sir?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant did not take his eyes from Pitt’s face. “Was she-was she the body wot was found in-in the parcels, sir?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
The sergeant gulped again. “’Ave you got the man wot done it, Mr. Pitt?”
“It was a woman, and yes, we’ve got her. I’m going to charge her now, and take her in.”
“I’m off duty any minute now, sir-I’d thank yer dearly if I could come along with yer, sir. Please.”
“Certainly. I may need an extra man; she’s a big woman, and there are a lot of children to be taken somewhere-I suppose, the workhouse.”
“Yes, sir.”
By the time they were back in Tortoise Lane it was fifteen minutes to nine. It was still a clear evening, and at this high-summer time of the year there was another hour of daylight and twenty minutes beyond that of fading dusk, while the color slowly ebbed away and the shadows joined themselves together into a solidity broken only by the gas lamps on the main streets and the occasional lantern or candle in St. Giles.
They stopped outside number 3 and Pitt went in without knocking. There was no sense of triumph; he felt only a vindictiveness uncharacteristic of him. He strode along the corridor to Mrs. Mapes’s sitting room and threw the door open. The constable was still standing, as uncomfortable as when he had left, and Mrs. Mapes was sitting in her own chair, her taffeta skirt spread round her, her black ringlets shining and a satisfied smile on her mouth.
“Well, Mr. Pitt?” she said boldly. “Wot now, eh? Yer goin’ ter stand ’ere all night?”
“No, none of us are going to be here all night,” he replied. “In fact, I doubt if we shall ever be here again. Clarabelle Mapes, I arrest you for the murder of Prudence Wilson when she came to collect her child, whom you had sold.”
For an instant she was still prepared to brazen it out.
“Why? Why should I kill ’er on purpose? Don’t make no sense!”
“Because she threatened to make your trade public!” he said bitterly. “You’ve killed too many babies entrusted to you, rather than feed them. You’d go out of business if that was known.”
This time she was shaken; sweat stood out on her upper lip and across her brow. Her skin was suddenly gray as the blood drained from it.
“Right, constable,” Pitt commanded. “Bring her along.” He turned and went out of the door again and along the passage to the kitchens. “Constable Wyman! I’ll send someone to relieve you. Get these children cared for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll have to inform the parish authorities.”
“You takin’ ’er away, sir?”
“Yes-for murder. She’ll not be back-”
