“Do you believe him?” Cornwallis’s eyebrows were high, his eyes wide.
“No. He’s lying. But he’s not as afraid as I would have expected.” Pitt tried to analyze his impressions as he spoke. “There is something I don’t yet know, something important. I want to investigate it a little further before I arrest him.”
Cornwallis sat back. “There’s going to be a great deal of pressure, of course,” he warned. “It’s already started. I’ve had someone from the Home Office calling this morning, half an hour ago. Warned me about making mistakes, being new to the position and not understanding things.” His lips tightened and there was anger in his eyes. “I understand a threat when I hear it, and the sound of the establishment closing ranks to protect one of its own.” He pressed his lips together. “What do you know about Finlay FitzJames, Pitt? What sort of a young man is he? I don’t want to press charges, then discover he’s a model of every virtue. Perhaps we need more than the circumstantial evidence of his presence at the scene. Is there any suggestion of a motive, other than the private vice of a weak and violent man?”
“No,” Pitt said quietly. “And if it is FitzJames, I don’t imagine we’ll ever find anything. If he’s ever abused a woman before, or indulged in a touch of sadism, the family will make very sure there is no evidence of it now. Anyone who knew will have been paid off, or otherwise silenced.”
Cornwallis stared across the room at the empty fireplace, his brows drawn down in thought. The August sun was hot in the bright patch between them and a wasp bounced furiously on the windowpane.
“You’re right,” Cornwallis agreed. “Anyone involved, anyone who knew, would be in his own circle, and they wouldn’t betray him to us.” He looked at Pitt suddenly. “What did you think of his father? Does he believe him innocent?”
Pitt paused for a moment, remembering Augustus’s face, his voice, and the speed with which he had taken control of the interview.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think he’s convinced of his innocence. Either that or he has no trust in us at all, and believes we may lie or misinterpret the evidence.”
“That surprises me,” Cornwallis admitted. “He’s a self-made man, but he has great respect for the establishment. He should have. He has a great many friends highly placed in it. I’ve heard it said he expects Finlay to achieve supreme office, even possibly the premiership one day. He’ll want him cleared of even a whisper against his name. It will be the destruction of his dreams if this goes against him. It could be that fear you saw.”
“Or the will to protect him, regardless,” Pitt pointed out. “He may consider the death of one London prostitute no more than a regrettable accident in an otherwise well-planned life. I don’t know. You say he has powerful friends?”
Cornwallis’s expression quickened. “You think he might have powerful enemies as well?”
Pitt sighed. “Finlay? No. I think he’s an arrogant young man who takes his pleasures whenever he wants to,” he answered. “One night, in his hunger to feel powerful, in control of other people, he went a little too far and killed a prostitute. When he saw what he had done he panicked and left her. I think he’s not as frightened as he should be because he imagines his father will somehow get him out of it in order to preserve his own dreams.” His voice hardened. “He doesn’t feel the guilt he should because he barely thinks of Ada McKinley as of the same species as himself. It’s a bit like running over a dog. It’s regrettable. You wouldn’t do it on purpose. But then neither would you allow it to ruin your life.”
Cornwallis sat motionless for several moments, his face filled with thought and a certain sadness.
“You are probably right,” he said at last. “But my God, if we charge him we’d better be sure we can prove it. Is there anything more I should know?”
“No sir, not yet.” Pitt shook his head.
“Where are you going next?”
“Back to Pentecost Alley. If the evidence still stands up, and it’s a slim hope there’s anything new, then I’ll start enquiring into the character and the past of Finlay FitzJames. I don’t want to do it until I have to. He’s bound to learn of it.”
Cornwallis smiled bleakly. “He’s already expecting it, and he’s begun taking appropriate steps.”
Pitt was not surprised, although it was sooner than he had foreseen. Perhaps he should have. He rose to his feet.
“Thank you for warning me, sir. I’ll be careful.”
Cornwallis rose also and held out his hand. It was a spontaneous gesture, and one Pitt found peculiarly attractive. He grasped Cornwallis’s hand hard for a moment, then turned and left with a new warmth inside him.
Ewart was already at the house in Pentecost Alley. In the daylight he looked tired and harassed. His receding hair had gray threads in it and his clothes were crumpled, as though he had had no time or interest to spend on his appearance.
“Anything new?” Pitt asked as he joined the inspector on the steps going up to the door.
“No. Did you expect anything?” Ewart stood back for Pitt to go up first.
“Rose Burke identified FitzJames,” Pitt said as he reached the top. It was hot, the air stale, smelling of old food and used linen.
Ewart climbed up behind him in silence.
“Are you going to arrest him on that?” he said when they were inside the door. His voice was tense, rasping, as though he were out of breath. “You shouldn’t. The jury’s not likely to believe her over a man like FitzJames. We’ll lose.”
Pitt faced him. In the dim light of the passage it was harder to see, but there was no mistaking the urgency in him, almost panic.
“Do you think he’s guilty?” Pitt asked, almost casually.
Ewart stared at him. “That isn’t the point. What I think is irrelevant….”
There was a bang as someone slammed a door at the end of the passage, and behind them in the street a carter was shouting at someone who was blocking his way.
“Not to me …” Pitt said quietly.
“What?” He looked disconcerted.
“It’s not irrelevant to me,” Pitt repeated.
“Oh …” Ewart let out his breath in a rush. “Well, I don’t know. I just go by the facts. So far it looks as if he did, but we don’t have enough yet. I mean … why would he? Far more likely someone she knew personally.” His voice gathered conviction. “You’ve got to consider the life of a woman like that. She could have made all kinds of enemies. They told us she was greedy. She changed her pimp, you know? And one should look more into money, property. Who owns this house, for example?”
What Ewart said was true, but Pitt felt it was irrelevant in this case. Of course prostitutes got killed for a variety of reasons, most of them to do with money, one way or another, but the broken fingers and toes, the water and the boots buttoned together had no part in a crime of greed. Surely Ewart must know that as well?
“Who does?” he asked aloud.
“A woman called Sarah Barrows,” Ewart replied with satisfaction. “And three other houses too, farther west. This is just rented out, but at least two of the others are run as regular brothels. She rents the dresses out as well in them. The women here say they don’t rent their clothes, but that’s beside the point. Ada didn’t have to work only from here. Several of them don’t, you know? They live one place and use shilling-an-hour rooms up the Haymarket and Leicester Square area. She could have skipped from there, with dress, money an’ all.”
“And some man followed her here and strangled her?” Pitt said with disbelief.
“Why not?” Ewart retorted. “Some man followed her from somewhere and strangled her. What is more likely: a pimp she bilked or a gentleman customer like FitzJames, I ask you!”
“Let me put it differently,” Pitt answered, still keeping his voice low. “Which is more likely: that she used other rooms and cheated the owner, who then followed her-and I grant that brothel owners do have people hired to follow girls … although it’s more often a prostitute past her working days than a young, strong man.”
One of the women came out of a door to their left and looked at them curiously for a moment, then walked past and disappeared around the corner at the end of the passage.
“But let us grant that she took a dress,” he continued. “And her earnings, and came back here, and was followed. This man, instead of warning her, taking the money and the dress, perhaps knocking her around a bit to teach her a lesson, he breaks her fingers and toes….” He noticed Ewart wince and saw the distaste in his face, but
