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.
“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
