“Tall. Tall as me, I reckon, at least. Why? She someone you know? I an’t seen ’er since then. I can’t ’elp yer. She must ’ave moved uptown, or got married—which in’t likely, ter be honest wiv yer. More like she come to a bad end. Got some sickness, or someone carved ’er up. Mebbe she got the pox, or the cholera.”
“Maybe. Can you describe the man she was with? How did she leave? Which direction did she go?”
“You are keen! I didn’t take no notice o’ the gent she was wiv, ’cept ’e were dead elegant as well. Looked better-class than most yer get rahnd ’ere. ’E weren’t no clerk or tradesman out for an evenin’. ’E were definitely a toff come slummin’. But yer gets a few o’ them, if they wants a bit o’ relaxation wivout the missus, ner anyone as they know as’d tell on ’em.”
“Where did they go? Did they go together?”
The youth looked at Pitt scornfully. “ ’Course they went together! No toff treats no tart to an evenin’ at the theayter, ’owever classy she is, just ter wish ’er good night on the steps arterwards!”
“In a cab, or a carriage?”
“A cab, o’ course! Don’t take their own carriages if’n they’re out on the sly! Use a bit o’ common, guv!”
“Good. Where is the nearest rank of cabs from here?”
“Rahnd the corner an ’baht ’undred yards down the street.”
“Thank you.” And before the youth could express his doubts, Pitt had disappeared into the swirl of falling snow beyond the canopy of the theater.
“Crazy,” the boy said cheerfully and curled his fingers round the pennies in his pocket. “ ’Am sammiches! Fresh ’am sammiches! Only a penny each!”
Over the next two days Pitt plowed through the snow, feet freezing, legs wet from the slush in the gutters, as he coughed in the smoke and fog clamped over the city roofs by an icy sky. He found every cabdriver from the rank and questioned them all. He also found two crossing sweepers who had worked the area at the relevant time. One had come up in the world and had an interest in a hot coffee stall, the other had found a better crossing. None of them could do more than describe Cerise and say that she had arrived at the hotel and the theater in a cab and left in one.
Only one cabbie could remember where he had taken her, and that was to Hanover Close.
Pitt returned home so cold he was sick inside. His hands and feet hurt, and failure seemed to close round him as completely as the thick sourness of the night.
It was long after midnight and the house was silent. Only the light just inside the hall was on. He put his key in the lock, finding it carefully with the tips of his frozen fingers. It took him several moments.
Inside it was warm. Charlotte had banked up the fire and there was a note pinned on the parlor door where he could not miss it.
Dear Thomas,
The kitchen fire is still warm, the kettle is full, and there is hot soup in the pan if you want it. The oddest man came just before dark and left a letter for you. He said he knew about the woman in pink—I suppose he means Cerise. He was a “running patterer,” whatever that is. I left the letter on the parlor mantelpiece.
Wake me up if I can help.
Love, Charlotte
He pushed open the parlor door and felt for the knob of the gas lamp and turned it up. He saw the letter and tore it open, ripping out the paper and straightening it.
Dear Mr. Pitt,
I heard as you been asking around after the woman who wears a strange color of pink, and you are very desirous of finding her. I know where she is, and if you are willing to make it worth my trouble I will take you to her.
If you are interested come to the Triple Plea public house in Seven Dials tomorrow evening about six o’clock.
S. Smith
Pitt smiled and folded the letter carefully, putting it in his pocket. He tiptoed through to the kitchen.
The following evening he walked slowly through the fine ice-cold drizzle, woolen muffler high round his ears, along a gray alley in the district of Seven Dials. He knew why the man had chosen this part of the city; it was, as the flower girl had said, where the news sheets were printed and the natural headquarters of the running patterers. They made their living selling news or song sheets by the yard, constantly on the move crying the thrills and dramas within their pages. Most were based on the latest crime—the more gruesome, the better. Occasionally it was love letters of the utmost indiscretion. They might be of a famous person, an international beauty, or more tantalizingly an unnamed “lady of this neighborhood—to a gentleman not a hundred miles away!” If the truth were currently a little flavorless, then they had wit and imagination enough to retell some of the old favorites: wronged women who murdered either their faithless lovers, or the poor infants of the union, which well told, would bring tears to many a reader’s eye. Running patterers were usually men of some enterprise and a keen observation of human nature; it did not surprise Pitt that it should be one of these who had noticed and remembered Cerise. The man’s occupation was the retelling of tales of passion, murder, and beautiful women.
It was bitterly cold, and the narrow alleys made funnels for the wind. The dim figures Pitt passed were hunched forward, heads sunk into their shoulders, faces averted. In doorways sleepers piled together like sacks for the heat of each other’s bodies. The splinters of a broken gin bottle caught a gleam of light from a gas lamp.
Pitt found the Triple Plea after only one false turn. Pushing his way through the raucous drinkers in the public bar, he reached the counter. The landlord, in a beer-stained calico apron, shirt sleeves at half mast, looked at his unfamiliar face warily.
“Yeah?”
“Anyone asking for me?” Pitt asked quietly. “Name’s Pitt.”
