Thomas Pitt Bluegate Fields

plyin' their own trade, which by its nature 'as ter be private. Like bitin' the 'and that feeds you, letting anyone know who goes in and out o' that place.'

'Do you have anything at all?' Pitt asked, trying not to hope. 242

Wittle sighed again. 'Not much. Treating it as murder, o' course at least for a while. It'll probably get filed with all the other unsolveds, but we'll give it a week or two. Seems like 'e was a plucky little bastard-spoke out more'n most. 'E was known. Kept some 'igh-class company, according to some, if they're tellin' the truth.'

'Who?' Pitt leaned forward urgently, his throat tight. 'Who was this high-class company?'

Wittle smiled sadly. 'Nobody as you'd know, Mr. Pitt. I read the newspapers. If it 'ad bin anyone in your case, I'd 'a' sent and told you-just a matter o' politeness, like. Not that I can see as it'd do you any good. Already got yer man. Why d'ya still care?' He screwed up his eyes. 'Reckon as there's more?' He shook his head. 'Always is, on these things, but you'll never find it. Very close, the quality, when it comes to 'iding their family problems. Reckon young Wayboume was doin' a spot o' slummin' of 'is own, do you? Well-what does it matter now? Poor little sod's dead, an' provin' there was a few lies told 'ere an' there won't 'elp no one now.'

'No,' Pitt said with as much grace as he could muster. 'But if you find proof he kept company with anyone in our area that you want to know about, there may be something useful I could tell you that is only suspicion-and not on record.'

Wittle smiled, for the first time showing genuine amusement.

'Ever tried proving a gentleman 'ad even a passin' acquaintance with somebody like Albie Frobisher, Mr. Pitt?'

There was no need for an answer. They both knew that such a piece of professional crassness would be without point; indeed, the officer who made the charges would probably suffer for his foolishness more than the gentleman he made it against. Although of course there would be embarrassment all around, not least to his superiors in the force for having employed so clumsy a man, an oaf so unaware of what may be said, and what may only be supposed, that he would voice such a thought.

'Even if it's proof you can't use,' Pitt said at last, 'I'd like to know.'

'Just fer interest, like?' Wittle's smile widened. 'Or do you know suffin' as I don't?'

'No.' Pitt shook his head. 'No, I know frighteningly little. 243

II'

I'

The more I learn, the less I think I really know. But thank you anyway.'

It took him ten minutes' walking in the cold before he found another cab; he directed it and climbed in, then realized, his mind had translated into words the thought that had barely played itself into his consciousness. He was going back to Abigail Winters's moms to see if any of the girls knew exactly when; she had gone. He was afraid for her, afraid she too was lying dead and bloated in some dark backwater of the river, or perhaps already washed out with the tide into the estuary and the sea.

Three days later, he received word from a police station in a little town in Devon that Abigail Winters had gone there to stay with a cousin, and was alive and in every appearance of health. The one girl at the brothel who could write had told him where she was, but he had not accepted her unsubstantiated word. He had telegraphed six police districts himself, and the second reply gave him the answer he wanted. According to the constable whose careful, unaccustomed wording he read, Abigail had retired to the country for her lungs, which suffered from the London fog. She thought the air in Devon would suit her better, being milder and free from the smoke of industry.

Pitt stared at the paper. It was ridiculous. It came from a small country town; there would be little market there for her trade, and she knew no one but a distant relative-a female at that. Doubtless she would be back in London within a year, as soon as the Way bourne case was forgotten.

Why had she gone? What was she afraid of? That she had lied, and if she stayed in London someone would press her until it was discovered? Pitt felt he knew already; the only thing he did not know was how it had come about. Had someone paid her to lie-or had it been a slow process through questioning by Gillivray? Had she realized-by implication, gesture, guess- what he wanted, and, in trade for some future leniency, given it to him? He was young, keen, more than