“Shut up, you!” Fred snapped. “Rosie! Get yerself ’ere afore I comes and gets yer!”
The huge blonde appeared, wrapped in a voluminous pink sheet and flushed with irritation. “Look, Fred, I pays good rent ’cos I do the business ’ere! I don’t look to get yelled at an’ disturbed every—” She stopped, sensing something serious. “Wot’s the matter? Wot ’appened?”
“This ’ere geezer done fer the girl wot wears that ’orrible pink color. Strangled ’er, by the looks.”
“Poor little cow.” Rosie shook her head. “In’t no call fer that.”
“Well, go an’ get the rozzers, yer fat bitch!” Fred said angrily. “Don’t just stand there! There’s bin murder!”
“Don’t you go callin’ me names, Fred Bunn!” she said tartly. “An’ I in’t going’ lookin’ fer no rozzers. I’ll send Jacko downstairs.” And wrapping her sheet round her in a more dignified manner she turned her back and went towards the stairs.
Pitt sat down on the edge of the bed. There was no point in arguing with Fred, who was set in his belief. When the police came it would all be sorted out.
Fred leaned against the doorpost. “Wot yer want ter go and do that fer?” he said sadly. “Yer didn’t ’ave to kill ‘er.”
“I didn’t,” Pitt repeated. “I wanted her alive! I needed to ask her some very important questions.”
“Oh, yeah. Treason!” Fred snorted. “Well, ye’re original, I’ll say that for yer. Poor little cow!”
“How long has she been here?” Pitt asked. He might as well make use of the time.
“I dunno. Couple o’ days.”
“Only a couple of days?” Pitt was surprised. “Where was she before that?”
“ ’Ow the ’ell do I know? She paid ’er rent, that’s all I care about.”
Pitt felt inexpressibly weary. It was all so pathetic. Cerise, whatever her name really was, had had a childhood somewhere, then a brief career as a courtesan, glittering by night, perhaps dangerous even then; hidden by day. Then fortune had changed, her looks had faded and she had fallen out of fashion, reduced to the status of an ordinary prostitute. Finally she had had her neck broken in some senseless quarrel in this shabby rented room.
He turned back to look at her. This was the woman who had held such power, briefly, over Robert York and either Julian Danver or Garrard, such power that she had entered their houses, flouting every convention, running desperate risks. What if Veronica had seen her, or Loretta, or even Piers York? Loretta would not have turned the other way as Adeline had; she was of far more ruthless mettle. She would have tackled Robert and told him precisely where he should conduct his amours.
He looked down at the thin form on the bed. Her skin was dark, almost olive, and smooth as an old sepia print over her shoulders. But above the brilliant magenta ribbon round her neck it was already coarse-textured, and there were fine lines in her face, purplish shadows under her eyes. The bones were delicate, the mouth full-lipped, but it was hard to tell now if she had once been beautiful. But life could have wrought magic. She might have had wit, that rare smile that lights a face, the gift for listening with the kind of attention that makes the speaker feel for a moment that he is the center of all laughter and wisdom. Pretty faces were a shilling a dozen, charm was something else altogether.
Poor Cerise.
Pitt was jerked out of his thoughts by the heavy tramp of feet in the passage beyond Fred’s motionless figure. He heard Rosie’s voice, shrill and indignant, and somewhere a man wailed.
The constable appeared, his blue cape wet with the fine rain and his bull’s-eye lantern at his belt, truncheon ready in his hand.
“Well?” he demanded. “Where’s this ’ere woman you said as was dead, then?”
“ ’Ere,” Fred answered sullenly. He did not like policemen, and it was grudgingly he conceded the necessity now. “And this is the geezer wot killed ’er—Gawd knows why. But I let ’im in ’ere quarter hour ago, ’cause ’e was askin’ for ’er most partic’lar. Then I ’as ter come up ’ere fer suffink else, and she’s as dead as mutton, poor beggar. So I sends Rosie to tell Jacko ter fetch yer. She’ll tell yer the same.”
The constable pushed past Fred and stared into the room, his round face puckering with a mixture of sadness and distaste. He looked at Pitt and sighed.
“Now wot yer go an’ do a fing like that fer? In’t yer wife, or anyfink like vat, is she?”
“No, or course not!” Pitt said angrily. Suddenly all the pretense seemed ludicrous. “I’m a police officer, Inspector Pitt from the Bow Street station, and we’ve been looking for this woman for weeks. I tracked her down here, but I was too late to stop her being murdered. She was an important witness.”
The constable looked up and down at Pitt’s knitted muffler, his old coat, rather shapeless trousers, and worn boots. Disbelief was patent in his face.
“Check with Bow Street!” Pitt snapped. “Superintendent Ballarat!”
“I’ll take yer ter Seven Dials; they can send ter Bow Street,” the constable said stolidly. “Yer make no fuss and yer won’t get ’urt. Get nasty an’ I’ll ’ave ter get rough wiv yer.” He turned to Fred. “ ’Oo else ’as bin up ’ere since you seen ’er”—he gestured to the dead woman on the bed— “alive?”
“Geez! A little skinny geezer wiv Newgate knockers,” he said, putting his fingers up in a spiral to describe the cheek curls, “fer Clarrie. But she came down an’ fetched ’em. An’ a bald-’eaded feller, ’baht fortyish, fer Rosie, an’ I brought ’im up ’ere and saw ’im inter Rosie’s room. But ’e’s a reg’lar.”
“So no one else ’as bin up ’ere but ’im?”
“An’ the girls,” Fred finished. “Ask ’em.”
“Oh, I will, you can be sure o’ vat. An’ yer better all be ’ere when we wants yer, or yer’ll be ’unted down an’ arrested fer ’idin’ hevidence in a murder—an’ end up in Coldbath Fields, or Newgate.” He looked at Pitt. “Nah, you comin’ quiet, or do I ’ave ter be unpleasant wiv yer? Gimme yer ’ands.”
