sound than the incessant dripping, broken by the squeak of rats, and then nothing again.
He walked a dozen more yards, and then shouted again. “Tosher” was the general cant term for the men who made their living scavenging the sewers. He was close to a great sluice that must have spilled water over a drop of a dozen feet onto a lower level. He moved on, and called a third time.
“Yen?”
The voice was so close and so harsh it startled him and he stopped and nearly fell into the channel. Almost at his elbow a man in thigh-high rubber boots came out of a side tunnel, his face grimy, his hair smeared across his forehead.
“Is this your stretch?” Pitt jerked his arm backwards towards the way he had come.
“‘Course it is. What d’yer think I’m doin’ ’ere, lookin’ for the source o’ the Nile?” the man said with contempt. “If yer lookin’ fer a stretch o’ yer own, this ain’t it. It’s not fer sale.”
“Police,” Pitt said succinctly. “Bow Street.”
“Well, yer off yer beat,” the man said dryly. “Watcher want ’ere?”
“A woman’s blue cloak, maybe put down a manhole almost a week ago.”
In the dim light the man’s face had a guarded look, devoid of surprise. Pitt knew he had found it, and felt a sudden breathlessness as the reality of his belief swept over him.
“Maybe,” the man said cautiously. “Why? What’s it werf?”
“Accessory after the fact of murder, if you lie about it,” Pitt replied. “Where is it?”
The man drew in his breath, whistling a little between his teeth, looked at Pitt’s face for several seconds, then changed his mind about prevaricating.
“There weren’t nothing wrong with it at all, not even wet,” he said with regret. “I gave it to me woman.”
“Take it to Bow Street. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get it back after the trial. The most important thing is your evidence. Where did you find it, and when?”
“Tuesd’y. Early mornin’. It were ‘ung up on the stairs up inter Berkeley Square. Someone must a’ dropped it in and not even waited to see if it fell all the way down. Though why the devil anyone’d want ter do that I dunno.”
“Bow Street,” Pitt repeated, and turned to find his way back. A rat scuttered past him and plopped into the channel. “Don’t forget,” he added. “Accessory to murder will get you a long stretch in the Coldbath. Helpfulness will get you an equally long stretch of undisturbed prosperity.”
The man sighed and spat, muttering something under his breath.
Pitt retraced his steps back to the ladder and daylight. The cabby was waiting for him with burning curiosity in his eyes.
“Well?” he demanded.
Pitt replaced the light in its bracket.
“Wait for me outside number fourteen,” he replied, breathing in deeply and looking for his handkerchief to blow his nose. He set out at a brisk walk across the square to Chancellor’s house, mounted the steps and knocked at the door. The lamplighter was busy at the far side and a carriage swept past, harness jingling.
The footman let him in with a look of surprise and distaste, not only at his appearance but also at the distinctive and highly unpleasant odor surrounding him.
“Good evening, Superintendent.” He opened the door wide and Pitt stepped inside. “Mr. Chancellor has just returned from the Colonial Office. I shall tell him you are here. May I say, sir, that I hope you have some good news?” It seemed he had not read the shadows in Pitt’s face.
“I have much further information,” Pitt replied. “It is necessary that I speak with Mr. Chancellor. But perhaps before you bother him, I might have another word with the maid-Lily, I think her name is-who saw Mrs. Chancellor leave.”
“Yes sir, of course.” He hesitated. “Superintendent, should I know … er … should I have Mr. Richards present this time?” Perhaps after all he had seen something of the emotions Pitt felt with such intensity, the sadness, the knowledge that he was in the presence of overwhelming passions of violence and tragedy.
“I think not,” Pitt replied. “But thank you for the thought.” The man had served Chancellor for fifteen years. He would be confused, torn with horror and conflicting loyalties. There was no need to subject him to what was bound to ensue. He would be little likely to be of any use.
“Right sir. I’ll get Lily for you. Would you like to see her in the housekeeper’s sitting room?”
“No thank you, the hall would be better.”
The footman turned to leave, hesitated for a moment, perhaps wondering if he should offer Pitt some opportunity to wash, or even clean clothes. Then he must have considered the situation too grave for such small amenities.
“Oh-” Pitt said hastily.
“Yes sir?”
“Can you tell me what happened to Bragg’s arm?”
“Our coachman, sir?”
“Yes.”
“He scalded it, sir. Accident, of course.”
“How did it happen, exactly? Were you there?”
“No sir, but I got there just after. In fact we were all there then, trying to clean up, and to help him. It was a pretty right mess.”
“A mess? Did he drop something hot?”
“Not exactly. It was Mr. Chancellor himself who dropped it. It just sort of slipped out of his hands, so Cook said.”
“What did?”
“A mug o’ hot cocoa. Boiling milk is awful hot, makes a terrible scald, it does. Poor George was in a right state.”
“Where did it happen?”
“Withdrawing room. Mr. Chancellor had sent for George to harness up the brougham and come and tell him when it was done. He wanted to know something about one o’ the horses, so he wanted George hisself, like, not just the message. He was having a mug o’ cocoa-”
“Warm weather for cocoa, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. I would sooner have had a lemonade, myself,” the footman agreed. His face was puzzled, but he still obediently answered every question.
“Is Mr. Chancellor fond of cocoa?”
“Never ’eard that he was. But he certainly had cocoa that evening. I’d swear to that. I’ve seen poor George. Anyway, seems Mr. Chancellor’s foot slipped, or summink, and George moved rather sudden like, and got himself scalded. Mr. Chancellor rang the bell immediately, and Mr. Richards came and saw what had happened. Then before you know what’s what, we’re all in the kitchen trying to help poor George, getting his coat off, ripping his shirtsleeves, putting this and that on his arm, Cook and the housekeeper arguing fit to bust whether butter’s best, or flour, maids shrieking and Mr. Richards saying as we should get a doctor. Housemaids is upstairs in bed, in the attic, so they didn’t know a thing, and nobody even thought of them to clean up. And with Mr. Chancellor needing to go out”
“So he drove himself?”
“That’s right.”
“What time did he get home?”
“Don’t know, sir. Late, because we went to bed just before midnight, poor George being in state, and the mistress not home yet….” His face fell as he remembered all that he had learned since the panic of that night.
“Where was Lily during this upheaval?”
“In the kitchen with the rest of us, till Mr. Chancellor sent her to the landing to tear up the old sheets to make bandages for George.”
“I see. Thank you.”
“Shall I get Lily, sir?”
“Yes please.”
