“Yes.”
The constable concentrated hard. “But this woman in pink was an ’ore, Mr. Pitt. Why should anyone care that much about ’er? Gentlemen ’as their pleasures, we all knows that. If ’e were careless, it’s a domestic matter, in’t it?”
“She wasn’t just a whore,” Pitt had said gravely, keeping his temper because he had to. What could he do to persuade this round-faced constable that there was conspiracy and treason in this ordinary, rather sordid tragedy?
“No, sir?” the constable inquired, his eyes narrowing a little.
“There are secret papers missing from the Foreign Office, from the department where Robert York worked before he was murdered.”
The constable blinked. “You sayin’ as ’e took ’em, Mr. Pitt?”
“I don’t know. Felix Asherson and Garrard Danver also work there, and of course many others. I do know the silver vase and the first-edition book that were reported stolen the night he was killed never turned up at any fence’s or pawnshop in London, and no regular villain anywhere in the city knows anything about them, or about the murder.”
“Are you sure o’ that, sir?” The constable looked dubious.
“Yes I am! What the hell do you think I’ve been doing these past weeks?”
“I see.” The constable licked his pencil but could think of nothing to write.
“No, you don’t see!” Pitt said angrily. “Neither do I. Except Robert York was murdered, Dulcie fell out of a window, and the woman in cerise, who was seen in Hanover Close, had her neck broken in a bawdy house in Seven Dials—just before I got to her.”
“An’ yer still say it weren’t you as done it?” There was no skepticism in his face now; rather he seemed to be looking for confirmation.
“Yes.”
The constable had not pressed the matter any further and had taken his leave with a look of deep concentration on his blunt face.
The days blurred into a long, dark procession. It never seemed light in the Steel. Even the exercise yard was narrow and walled so steeply the frail winter daylight was lost in it, and bent over the back-breaking shot, or huddled with other miserable, sour-smelling prisoners, Pitt felt the darkness creep into his mind like mold. The outside world became remote, a story in a children’s book.
Then gradually, in spite of himself, he was drawn into noticing his fellows: Iremonger, who was middle-aged and pasty-faced, accused of practicing abortion. He proclaimed his innocence with stoic resignation, not expecting to be believed. He obviously knew some medicine and exercised a certain compassion. He knew how to treat the small wounds gained at the crank, the worst punishment of all, where a man turned a spindle connected to a drum full of sand; the weight of the spoon-shaped cups lifting against the dead inertia tore the muscles even more than the shot. Iremonger also doled out advice and peculiarly intimate sympathy for those who suffered from the treadmill harness.
There was Haskins, the bully who had fought with Pitt, a sad, shallow man who had won the few victories in his life through violence; he was respected to his face but mocked behind his back. There was Ross, a handsome, genial man who lived off the earnings of prostitutes and was in for some stupid theft. Ross saw nothing wrong in either occupation: one fulfilled a need, the other was merely making the best of an opportunity. When he was released he would do precisely the same again. The concept of right and wrong in anything except personal loyalties was unknown to him. In spite of himself, Pitt could not dislike him.
Pitt also noticed Goodman, who was small, overwhelmingly greedy, but an excellent raconteur, even if it was probably all lies. He was in for embezzlement from his father-in-law, and like most of the others, proclaimed his innocence, if not of the fact then of any moral fault in the matter. His weasellike face was full of indignation. On the other hand, his fertile imagination, and some education, made his company, on the few occasions they were permitted to speak, a relief from the corroding boredom.
And there was Wilson, a man so savage in his rage he lashed out at everyone; Wood, ignorant and angry with a world which had no use and no place for him; fat Molloy, who had spent most of his life in prison and feared the outside world in spite of his repeated longing for it; and poor little Raeburn with drooping eyes and mouth, who stole simply because he was hungry and incapable of earning his way.
At first Pitt hated them all because they were part of the Steel, and everything that trapped and held him, all the ugliness and the perpetuity of the place.
Then through small acts, glimpses of pain, he was reached. At first these incidents seemed trivial; a brushing of the surface of his mind, more an irritation because he had no emotion to spare than any real empathy.
Then a stupid and pointless tragedy involving Raeburn jerked Pitt violently out of his self-pity. Raeburn was a purposeless, simpleminded little man who seemed inadequate to face the world. He had only one thing of which he was proud: though he was promiscuous and he stole, he did not tell lies, not even to escape punishment. Now and again he boasted of it and no one minded; it was boring and they took for granted that he was harmless, and he challenged no one’s territory. There was a tacit understanding that one did not victimize Raeburn. He filled the role of a house pet.
On this occasion, when Pitt was sunk deep in his own misery, the permanent cold, the hunger, and the emotional loneliness and fears he was being forced with every succeeding day to face more openly, a jailer’s watch was mislaid, and by some mischance Raeburn was accused of having taken it. He swore he had not, but the jailer, who did not know him, did not accept the denial. Raeburn was removed to solitary confinement. He was terrified of being alone, he had no thoughts to fill the silence and it threatened to obliterate him. When they came for him he lashed out, and for that he was undeniably guilty. They dismissed the charge of thieving as no longer important; now he had assaulted a warden. He was put in a cell in isolation, uncomprehending, still swearing he had not taken the watch.
At night in his bunk, shivering in the dark, Pitt could hear Raeburn crying out, sometimes loudly, “I didn’t do it! Tell ’em I didn’t do it!” Other times it was only a confused babbling that sank away into silence.
He was a weak little man, and the one thing he valued had been removed. His only worth was that everyone knew he did not tell lies, but now someone had not believed him. His solitude was vast, like annihilation itself, and
