could, Augustus would have said so at the outset, and he would have done so triumphantly. He could have dismissed Pitt, not sought for help. The fear in his voice was his answer.
“No, I don’t think so. The … the matter was a favor for a friend, a rather stupid matter he had got himself into,” Finlay overexplained. “Money, and a woman, all very sordid. I was trying to help him settle the matter once and for all without ruining anyone’s reputation. I didn’t particularly want to be seen by anyone I knew. Didn’t stop and speak to anyone.”
“I see.” All Pitt saw was the futility of it. “Is this your handkerchief, Mr. FitzJames?” He offered him the handkerchief found under Nora Gough’s pillow.
Finlay did not touch it.
“It might be. I have at least half a dozen like that, but so has almost everyone I know.”
“With ‘F.F.J.’ in the corner?”
“No, of … of course not. But … one can …” He swallowed. “One can have any initials sewn into a handkerchief one wishes. It doesn’t mean it was mine. I suppose you found it somewhere near this new corpse? I thought so. I can see it in your face.” His voice was rising. “Well, I didn’t kill her, Superintendent! I’ve never heard of her, and I’ve never been to Myrdle Street! Some … madman … is trying to ruin me, and before you ask, I haven’t the faintest idea who … or why! I …” He did not finish what he had been going to say. “Perhaps you should look at Albert Costigan’s friends? Someone is trying to incriminate both of us, Superintendent. Make us look like murderers, and you as an incompetent … indirecuy a murderer too.” There was challenge in his eyes and a small, bright victory. “I think it is as much in your interest as in mine to find out who it is and bring him to justice. If I could help you, I would, but I have no idea where to begin. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll begin with a reconsideration of anyone who might believe they have cause to dislike you, Mr. FitzJames,” Pitt answered. “And proceed with those in whose professional or personal way you might stand. And perhaps a reexamination of the original members of the Hellfire Club.”
“I can’t do that!” Finlay said intensely, all the momentary elation vanished. “We were good friends. They simply are not that kind of person, not remotely. Friends of one’s youth are … well … it is not one of them, I assure you. I’ll consider all the other possibilities, and then make a list for you.”
“So shall I,” Augustus added. “You will have our fullest cooperation, Superintendent.” The ghost of a smile touched his humorless mouth. “Our interests are common, at least in this instance.”
Pitt could only agree.
“And somewhat urgent,” he added wryly. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Finlay. “Mr. FitzJames, good day.”
9
T
Farther into the paper there was another article reexamining the evidence put forward. It suggested very plainly that some of it was morally suspect and had been a matter of desire rather than fact. The whole case might have been conducted with more intention of finding a culprit quickly, and without embarrassment to the Force for its ineptitude, including those who had rested their political reputations in backing it, than a genuine concern for justice. Costigan had been the victim of these two less than admirable forces.
Several less reputable newspapers actually suggested that the officers in charge had been either threatened or bribed in order to close the case quickly. Pitt was likened to the unfortunate Inspector Abilene who had been unable to solve the previous outbreak of murders in Whitechapel, and Commissioner Warren, whose retirement the failure had forced upon him.
Several letters were printed raising a plea that Costigan should be pardoned posthumously, and his family, if they could be found, paid a handsome reparation for his wrongful death.
Pitt folded them up after reading them. Gracie snatched them from him and would have put them on the fire, except that she knew that so much paper ash would block it from drawing air, and she would only have to clean the whole thing out and relight it.
Charlotte said nothing. She knew Pitt already understood everything there was to say about it, which was little enough. She knew he had acted honestly. To say so now would only suggest that there could be a question about it. Her greatest concern was to protect Daniel and Jemima. There was nothing she could do to save Pitt any of the hurt ahead except share it with him, and at the same time try not to show it too much.
She debated whether to allow the children to go to school, or if perhaps it would be better to keep them at home, at least for today. Then they would not overhear the remarks or have to endure the torments and the questions of other children or of people in the street. She could not be there all day to argue back or to explain to them what people meant, why they were angry, and why they were wrong.
She could even take them to her mother’s house for a while. They would be safe there, anonymous. A week or two away from school would not do any harm. They could catch up when this horrible business was over, and the truth was known.
But what if it was never known? What if it was like the Ripper all over again, and never solved? It could happen. Pitt was clever. He never gave up. But he did not solve all his cases. He had never failed with a murder yet, but there had been robberies, frauds, arson, where nothing was recovered and no one caught.
If she took them to Caroline’s, she would have taught them that when things are unpleasant, and when you are afraid, then run away and hide. It may disappear, and you won’t have to face it.
But if you do have to, it is twice as hard. You have not only told other people you are a coward, you have believed it yourself.
“It’s time for school.” She heard her own voice saying it before she knew she had made up her mind. She looked across and saw Pitt’s eyes on her. She could not read his face. She did not know whether he approved her decision or not. “I’ll walk with you again. Come on.”
Pitt spent the day in Whitechapel, and it was one of the worst days of his life. He questioned all the women in the tenement in Myrdle Street again, trying to learn anything further about Nora Gough. Could she possibly have known Ada? Had she quarreled with anyone? Had she known Costigan? Had she lent or borrowed money? Was there anything at all which could provide a motive for her death?
Her pimp was a huge, avuncular man with curly black hair and a filthy temper. But he could also account for his whereabouts all the relevant day, with unimpeachable witnesses. And he seemed genuinely distressed by Nora’s death. She was his best girl, earned him the most money and gave him no trouble.
In the early afternoon as Pitt was walking along Commercial Road East there was an ugly gathering of men and women outside one of the larger public houses. Someone started to shout. “Let’s ’ear it for Bert Costigan! Three cheers for Costigan!”
“’Ooray for Costigan!” another yelled, and the chorus was taken up all around.
“ ’E were a martyr ter the rich wot comes dahn ’ere ter use our women!” a thin man said loudly.
“An’ murder ’em!” someone else added to a loud cheering.
“ ’E were innocent!” a woman with pale hair chimed in. “They ’anged ’im fer nuffin’!”
“They ’anged ’im fer bein’ poor!” a fat man said furiously, his face twisted with rage. “It’s them as oughta be ’anged!”
“Nah then! Nah then!” The landlord came to the door, a cloth in his hand, his apron askew. “Don’ want no trouble ’ere. Go orff ’ome with yer! Don’ talk daft.”
A young woman with a missing front tooth pushed her way forward aggressively. “’Oo a’ you callin’ daft, eh? Bert Costigan were ’anged fer summink ’e din’t do! That’s nuffink wif you, is it? Pay yer money an’ drink up, an’ never mind if yer gets ’anged fer some rich bastard ’oo comes dahn ’ere from ’is fancy ’ouse up west, an’ murders our women! Tha’s all right, is it?”
“I din’t say that!” the landlord protested. But by now there was more shouting and pushing and a youth was knocked over. Instantly a scuffle began, and within moments half a dozen men were throwing punches.
