new ball put there by the man on his other side. This senseless passing round and round of shot could be kept up for seventy-five minutes, till shoulders stabbed with pain, and muscles were torn and backs too sore to straighten.
Pitt’s offense had been a stupid quarrel picked by another prisoner, who felt compelled to swagger in front of his companions. Had Pitt been paying more attention to his surroundings he would have noticed the man’s brittle temper, the slight bounce to his walk, his curled fingers. Pitt would have understood the glitter as the man’s eyes moved from side to side to see who was watching him, and whether admiration was there, the peculiar mixture of fear and respect that the weak have for violence. He would have recognized the man’s sharp grin as that of the bully on parade.
But his mind was on the brothel and Cerise’s dead body thrown carelessly on the gaudy bed, as he tried to recall the few moments when he had seen her face. Had she really once been so beautiful, or possessed of such charm and wit, that Robert York had been bewitched by her into betraying his country? He would have been risking not merely the love of his wife, which he might or might not value, but his position in the Foreign Office and in Society, the things which governed the whole style of his life. If he had been caught, the best he could have hoped for would have been a cover-up, for his family’s sake, and to prevent a scandal, which the government would not want; at worst he would have been brought here, where Pitt was, Coldbath Fields, or somewhere like it, to await trial, and very probably the hangman’s noose.
That reminder was enough to overwhelm him with such anger and fear Pitt was careless of the immediate danger. He did not see the momentary swagger, the quick glitter in the man’s eyes, nor recognize the challenge. The man was marking his territory. When the man spoke, Pitt replied tartly with the first answer that came to his tongue, and before he realized it he had placed the bully in a position of having to defend himself to keep from losing face. It was stupid, an idiotic scuffle that ended with both of them on shot drill and Pitt bending, straightening, carrying the shot, replacing it, walking back, until he thought his back was broken and the sweat drenched his clothes. When it finally stopped, they stuck to him in clammy cold and the ache of tortured muscles was so sharp that for four days he could not move even in his sleep without pain.
Days went by, and Pitt became accustomed to the routine, the wretched food, always being cold except when labor made him sweat and then the worse chill afterwards. He hated always being dirty, he loathed the lack of any privacy even for essential functions. He was lonelier than he had ever been in his life; and yet never alone. Actual physical solitude would have been a blessing, a chance to relax the tension, the awareness of enmity, and to explore the thoughts crowding inside himself without prying, cruel eyes watching, probing for weakness, prurient to invade.
The first time Charlotte came was the worst experience of all. To see her, talk and yet always be overheard, without being able to touch her, to have to struggle to put into words communication that was too intimate, too formless for such a quantifiable and public medium. His own thoughts were chaotic. What could he possibly say to her? That he was innocent, of anything except perhaps gullibility somewhere, but he was not even sure where? Perhaps it was only stupidity. He still had no idea who was the spy, or who had killed Robert York. Certainly he was guilty of failure! He had failed both Charlotte and the children. What would happen to them? What was happening now? She must be suffering all the fear, the shame of being thought a murderer’s wife. And in time the poverty would come as well, unless her family helped. But the misery and the humiliation of lifelong dependency was hardly an answer.
How could he even say he loved her in such circumstances, with a dispirited and contemptuous jailer listening? And he wanted to, to put away forever the brief anger he had allowed to mar the last few days before he’d been taken away.
She had looked pale. She had tried hard, but she could not keep the shock from her face. He could not remember afterwards what they had said—something and nothing, just noises. The silence between the words had been more important, and the shining tenderness in her eyes.
The second time had been better. At least she seemed unaware of the reality of the prison, and she was confident Ballarat was doing everything to get him released—more confident than Pitt was. Ballarat had not come anywhere near Coldbath Fields, nor had he sent anyone, except a constable, who was embarrassed and had asked only the most obvious and meaningless questions.
“What was yer doin’ in Seven Dials, Mr. Pitt?” The “Mr.” was so habitual he could not drop it, even here. He fiddled with his pencil and avoided Pitt’s eyes.
“I went there with a running patterer because he told me the woman I wanted to question was there,” Pitt had replied irritably. “I already told them that!”
“So you went lookin’ for ’er?”
“I told them that, too!”
“What for, Mr. Pitt?”
“Because she was a witness in the murder of Robert York.”
“Would that be Mr. York of ’anover Close, as was killed by a burglar three years ago?”
“Yes, of course it would!”
“An’ ’ow do yer know that, Mr. Pitt?”
“She was seen in the house.”
“Oh yes? ’Oo saw ’er?”
“Dulcie Mabbutt, the lady’s maid.”
“ ’Ow do yer spell that, sir?”
“Don’t bother; she’s dead. She fell out of a window.”
The constable’s eyes had opened wider and for the first time he looked directly at Pitt. “ ’Ow did that ’appen, sir?”
Was it worth telling him? What if he were the only one who ever came, just as a formality, so all the right papers could be filled in? Now might be the only chance. He must try.
“I think someone overheard her tell me about the woman in cerise.” He watched the constable’s face. “The library door was open.”
“You mean she were pushed?” the constable said carefully.
