Pitt moved in, trying to force them apart and see that no injury was done, especially to some of the women who were now screaming. He took it to be fear, only to discover-too late, when he was in the thick of it-that it was rage and encouragement.
Someone was yelling Costigan’s name like a sort of war chant.
Pitt was being battered from all sides. The landlord was in the middle of it somewhere.
A police whistle shrilled and someone screamed.
The fight grew worse. Pitt was knocked off his feet and would have fallen over except that the landlord cannoned into him from the left, and both of them landed on top of a sprawling youth with red hair and a bloody nose.
More police arrived, and the melee was broken up. Three men and two women were arrested. Eight people were hurt more or less seriously. One had a broken collarbone. Two had to be sent to the surgeon for stitching.
Pitt left feeling severely bruised-and with his collar torn, one elbow ripped out of his jacket, and thoroughly covered in dirt and several bloodstains.
Naturally it all made the evening newspapers, along with much comment and criticism, and renewed calls for a pardon for Costigan and questions about the whole structure and justification of the police force in general, and Pitt in particular.
Comparisons were drawn between this case and the previous Whitechapel murders two years ago, flattering to no one.
More riots and the breakdown of public order were predicted.
Pitt returned home at about seven o’clock, worn out, bruised in mind and in body, uncertain even which way to turn next. He had no idea who had murdered either of the women, or where Costigan or Finlay FitzJames fitted in, or if they did at all.
He recognized Vespasia’s carriage outside in the street and was not sure whether he was pleased or sorry. He did not want her to see him at his worst. He was ragged, dirty and exhausted. Her good opinion of him mattered very much. He would far rather she thought of him as able to rise above such crisis and failure as this. On the other hand, it would be good to hear her advice-in fact, just to see her and know her strength and resolve. Courage was just as contagious as despair, perhaps more so.
What took him by surprise when he went into the parlor was to find Cornwallis there as well, looking grim and extremely shaken.
Charlotte stood up immediately, even before Pitt had time to greet anyone.
“You must be tired and hungry,” she said, going directly to him. “There’s fresh hot water upstairs, and dinner will be ready in half an hour. Aunt Vespasia and Mr. Cornwallis are staying. There will be time to talk to them.” It was almost a dismissal, but he was glad enough to accept it. He knew his clothes carried the stench of the middens, the spilled beer, the dust of the street where he had fought, and the stale sweat of frightened, jostling people. Even the fear and the anger seemed to cling to him.
He came down again thirty minutes later, still exhausted and stiffening, bruises darkening on his face, but he was clean and ready to face the inevitable discussion.
It began as soon as the first course was served. None of them wished to pretend.
“There are two ways we must approach this,” Cornwallis said earnestly, leaning a little forward. “We must do all we can to discover, and prove, who killed this second woman. And we must show that the arrest of Costigan was based on solid evidence, fairly obtained, and his trial was conducted honorably.” His lips tightened. “I don’t know how we can prove that we did not conceal evidence that would implicate anyone else.” His voice dropped and his eyes fixed on the flowers in the blue bowl in the center of the table. “I fear perhaps we did-”
“I have no love for Augustus FitzJames,” Vespasia interrupted firmly, looking at Pitt, then at Cornwallis. “But making public the evidence against his son is likely to provoke a hysterical reaction which will not only be unjust, but will almost certainly make it a great deal harder to discover the truth. And whatever my personal feelings towards him, and indeed whatever his own morality, I do not wish to see him punished for something he did not do. Even if no one will punish him for what he did,” she added ruefully.
Cornwallis regarded her gravely, weighing what she had said, then he turned to Pitt. “Just how much is Finlay FitzJames implicated in this second crime? First tell me what you know, then give me your opinion.” He began to eat his small portion of fish slowly. From his expression of intense concentration on Pitt, it was impossible to tell if he was even aware of what was on his plate.
Pitt told him exactly what he had found in Nora Gough’s room and what Finlay had said about his whereabouts.
The dishes were removed and steak-and-kidney pie and vegetables served. Gracie came and went in efficient silence, but she knew who Cornwallis was, and she watched him with the utmost suspicion, as if she feared that at any moment he might pose some threat to her beloved family.
Cornwallis seemed unaware of her keen little face so often turned towards him. His attention never left Pitt.
“And your opinion?” Cornwallis prompted the moment Pitt concluded.
Pitt thought hard. He was acutely aware that Cornwallis would value what he said, possibly base his actions and his own judgments upon it.
“I really believed Costigan was guilty,” he answered after a moment. “It wasn’t proved beyond any doubt whatever, but he admitted it. I never did understand why he was so brutal with her. He denied that to the end.” He remembered Costigan’s face with a sick churning in his stomach. “He was a nasty little man, pathetic and vicious, but I didn’t sense in him the streak of sadism which would have driven him to break or dislocate her fingers and toes.”
“She cheated him out of part of her earnings,” Cornwallis said dubiously. “He considered she belonged to him, so it was a kind of betrayal. Weak men can be very cruel.” His face tightened. “I’ve seen it in the navy. Give the wrong man a little power and he’ll abuse those below him.”
“Oh, Costigan was abusive, all right,” Pitt agreed. “But the garter, the boots! It all seems more than just ordinarily vicious. It doesn’t seem like hot temper … more like …”
“Something calculated,” Charlotte supplied for him.
“Yes.”
“Then you had doubts that Costigan was guilty?” Cornwallis said with anxiety pinching his face but no sense of accusation. He had spent his life in naval command, and he gave without question the same loyalty to his crew that he expected from them in return. On such trust he had faced, and would face again, whatever the forces of nature and the guns of battle could offer.
“No.” Pitt met his eyes candidly. “No, I didn’t then. I just thought I hadn’t read him very well.” He tried desperately to clear his mind and remember exactly what he had felt as he had talked to Costigan, seen his face, felt his terror and self-pity. How honest had he been? How much was he influenced by relief and an inner determination to prove the case so they could all escape the shadow of having to pursue Augustus FitzJames’s son?
“He never denied killing her,” he went on, staring across the dining room table at Cornwallis. The food was almost ignored. Gracie was standing by the kitchen door, a clean cloth in her hand for holding hot dishes, but she was listening as intently as any of them.
“But he always denied torturing her,” Pitt continued painfully. “And no matter how hard I pressed, he always denied knowing anything about FitzJames, or the badge, or the cuff link.”
“Did you believe him?” Vespasia asked quietly.
Pitt thought for a long time before replying. There was silence in the room. No one moved.
“I suppose I did,” Pitt said at last. “As it wouldn’t have gone on worrying me. At least … I didn’t believe he could have done it alone, or that he had any reason to.”
“Then we’re back to where we started,” Cornwallis said, looking from one to the other of them. “It doesn’t make sense. If it was not Costigan, and there can be no doubt it is not him this time, then who can it be? Is it someone we have not thought of? Or can it be what I think we are all dreading, and FitzJames is guilty of both crimes?”
“No, he isn’t guilty,” Charlotte said, looking at the table in front of her.
“Why not?” Vespasia asked curiously, setting down her fork on her plate. “What do you know, Charlotte,
