be for him, and he would be required to go somewhere out into the sharp night. He fumbled for his socks and found only one.
Charlotte sat up and felt around for a match to light the gas.
'Don't,' he said softly. 'It's around here somewhere.'
She did not ask who it was at the door; she knew from experience it could only be a constable with some urgent news. She did not like it, but she accepted the fact that it was a part of his life. What she dreaded was the knock that might come when he was not here, and that the news would be that which she could not bear.
Pitt found his other sock, put it on, and stood up. He leaned over and kissed her, then tiptoed to the bedroom door and downstairs to find his boots and answer the summons.
He unlocked the front door and swung it open. There was a constable on the step, the streetlamp beyond lighting one side of his face.
'There's been another one!' His words came out in a rush, relief that Pitt was there easing his lonely horror. 'Mr. Drummond says as you're to come right away. I got a cab, sir, if you're ready.'
Pitt noticed the hansom standing a few doors along, horse restless, cabby sitting on his box with the reins in his hands,
70
a blanket round his knees. The horse's breath formed a thin cloud of vapor in the air.
'Another what?' Pitt was confused for a moment.
'Another Member of Parliament, sir, with 'is throat cut an' tied up to the lamppost on Westminster Bridge-just like the last one.'
For a moment Pitt was stunned. He had not expected it; he had been convinced by Deacon that it was a personal crime, motivated by fear or greed or some long-sought revenge. Now it seemed the only answer was the worst of all: a random lunatic was at work.
'Who is it?' he said aloud.
'Vyvyan Etheridge. Never 'eard of 'im meself,' the constable answered anxiously. 'But then, I don't know much abaht politicians, 'cept them as everyone knows.'
'We'd better go.' Pitt reached for his coat, gloves still in his pockets, and then closed the door and followed the constable along the damp pavement, the dew condensing on the walls, which gleamed in the gaslight. They climbed into the cab, and immediately it set off back towards the bridge.
Pitt wriggled round tucking in his shirttails under his coat. He should have put more clothes on; he was going to be cold.
'What else do you know?' he asked in the rattling darkness, bumping against the sides of the cab as they swung sharply round a corner. 'What time is it?'
' 'It must be about quarter to midnight, sir,'' the constable replied, hitching himself back into his seat more comfortably, only to be thrown out of it again as they swung the other way. 'Poor soul was found just after eleven o'clock. 'Ouse sat late again. 'E was prob'ly killed on the way 'ome, like the other one. 'E lives off the Lambeth Palace Road, south side o' the river again.'
'Anything else?'
'Not as I knows, sir.'
Pitt did not ask who had found the body; he preferred to make his own judgment when he got there. They careered
71
through the spring night in silence, bumping against each other as the cab jolted and jarred round corners, righted itself again, and charged on.
They drew up at the far end of Westminster Bridge and Pitt scrambled out into the glare of the lamplight. A group of people stood frightened, at once fascinated and repelled. None of them was permitted to go, neither did anyone want to. Some horror kept them close to each other, as though they were unwilling to leave those who had shared the knowledge here in the pool of light, islanded amidst the shadows.
