wouldn’t think he had to be innocent, and not follow it up, because …” She stopped. He was looking at her with patient disbelief.
“Do you know Finlay FitzJames?” he asked.
“I’ve met him.” She never lied outright. There was all the world of difference between deceit and discretion. “But only twice, and both times by chance. I don’t know him.”
“But there is no doubt in your mind that he is innocent.” He made it a statement, not a question.
“I …” She held a quick debate with herself. Justice and help for Tallulah were extremely important. It was a question of right and wrong. Her honesty with Jack, the trust between them, was also important, more important than she had thought even five minutes ago. “I know his sister,” she added.
“And she has told you something which makes you believe his innocence,” he observed.
She had not expected him to be so perceptive.
“Yes,” she agreed with considerably less confidence.
“What?”
“Pardon?”
“What did she tell you, Emily?”
“Oh! Just that she saw him somewhere else at the time. Thomas knows about it. It isn’t exactly proof.”
“Obviously,” he said with a tight smile. He took a mouthful of egg and bacon.
She relaxed a little and ate some of her own scrambled eggs, and buttered her toast. There was no sound but the faint, crisp sound of the knife.
“Where did she see him?” he asked.
Her heart sank.
“At a party.”
“That’s hardly an explanation. Don’t make me pull teeth, Emily. What sort of a party? A drunken one, I presume, and no one else remembers whether they were there themselves, let alone who else was?”
“Yes.” She kept the answer simple. Everything new she added only got her into further trouble. She was realizing with surprise how much it would hurt if Jack were to lose his trust for her, or his respect. Perhaps she should confess to going to Beaufort Street before he found out?
“Did she tell Thomas this?” he asked.
“She didn’t think anyone would believe her. She’d already lied about being somewhere else.”
“But you believe her?”
“Yes.”
“Would there be any point in asking why?”
“Not really.”
He returned to the bacon and eggs. She was not sure whether he believed her or not.
“Do you know Augustus FitzJames?” she asked hopefully.
He did not look up, but his lips curved in amusement, almost as if he were about to laugh.
“Fishing?” he enquired.
“Yes, fishing,” she admitted. “Do you?”
“Slightly. And no, I don’t know who it is who hates him so passionately he is prepared to sink to this level to revenge himself on him. But I shan’t stop looking, for Thomas’s sake.”
“Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “Is he really so awful?”
“Augustus? Yes, I think so. From everything I can learn, he’s not gratuitously cruel, he simply doesn’t care. He has a great sense of family-of dynasty, if you like. Which is odd for one who comes from such a relatively ordinary background. Perhaps that’s why. Money has bought him all he has, and he thinks it can buy everything. He’s right more often than I would wish.”
“But you are finding out who his greatest enemies are?”
“Of course. Do you think I don’t care about Thomas as much as you do? But there is also a pretty grave job of defense to be made in the House. The attacks are mounting.” His eyes were troubled, dark shadows behind the honesty.
“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” Now she was really afraid, not for Tallulah or Finlay FitzJames, but for Charlotte, perhaps even for Jack too, if he made his connection obvious. She could not ask him how far he was prepared to go. Anyway, looking at his face she knew the answer. There would be no limit. If necessary, Jack would jeopardize his own career, even lose it, before he would deny Pitt.
Before he replied, she smiled at him, radiantly, absolutely, the tears spilling over and running down her cheeks.
He reached across and took her hand, turning it over and kissing the palm very gently.
“I don’t know,” he confessed, then held her fingers very tightly.
Cornwallis looked harassed. He invited Pitt to sit down but was too tense to do so himself. He paced back and forth across the carpet in his office, stopping every now and then, forcing himself to stand still. He did not mention that the campaign to pardon Costigan was gaining momentum, but they both knew it. Nor did he say that several questions had been asked in the House of Commons, and not only was Pitt held to blame for an exceedingly ugly stain on British justice, but he himself was also.
“Have you learned anything?” he asked quietly. There was no anger in his voice, and certainly no accusation. He was a man in whom crisis brought out the strength. His loyalties were plainest when tested to the bitter end.
“Nothing useful,” Pitt said honestly. “I have spoken again to Thirlstone and Helliwell, but no one will admit to any serious quarrel, although a pattern of dislike is becoming plain. They didn’t part friends, but I have no idea yet why. In fact,” he added ruefully, “I’m not honestly sure if it even matters.”
“What about Jones?” Cornwallis asked. “You didn’t mention him.” His face tightened and it obviously pained him to say what he was about to. “I know he is a man of the cloth, and very obviously doing fine work in Whitechapel, but that doesn’t mean he is not capable of personal hatred of a man like FitzJames. You don’t know what old wrongs may be in the past, Pitt.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, pulling them out of shape. “Nor is any man invulnerable to hungers and loneliness that can overwhelm one at times. He has chosen a path of service and self-denial, but he is a young man. It can happen that we ask too much of ourselves and find our weaknesses sharper than we can bear.”
Pitt heard the emotion in his voice, and the urgency. Was he speaking entirely of Jago Jones? He had spent long, lonely years at sea himself, with all the isolation of command. The responsibility for the lives of every man on his ship, with no one else to turn to for six months at a time.
“I know,” Pitt answered quietly. “Please God it is not he, and I believe it isn’t, but I know it is not impossible. I’ll see him. Then I’m going back to the most straightforward way, start again at the beginning with the evidence in the death of Nora Gough. I want to know more about her.”
“Does anything connect the two victims?” Cornwallis asked, starting to pace again, then stopping in a square of sunlight. “Apart from the same occupation and neighborhood?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to see Ewart again. He must have found something by now.”
“He’s a good man,” Cornwallis said seriously. “I’ve been looking into his record. Everyone speaks well of him, not just because of the success he’s had professionally but personally as well. His reputation is excellent. Quiet, conscientious, good family man. Works extremely hard and saves his money.” Cornwallis’s voice lifted with surprise. “He has three sons and a daughter. Daughter married well, to a farmer somewhere in Kent. Doing very well. His oldest son has a place in University, and the other two look set the same way. That’s a remarkable achievement.” He did not add “for an ordinary policeman.” Tact held his tongue, but he meant it. “We couldn’t have a better man with us.”
“Yes,” Pitt agreed. “He’s a good man. You know, he never thought FitzJames was involved with Ada McKinley. He always believed it was someone local. Perhaps he was right. It might have been exactly the domestic tragedy he had said. I should have listened to him more closely, paid more attention to his judgment. He never thought the connection with FitzJames mattered, and perhaps it doesn’t. I’ll see him tomorrow.”
“Then the core to this doesn’t lie with FitzJames at all?” Cornwallis said with a frown, more as if he were testing an idea than voicing a conviction. He was standing over by the telescope and the sextant on the wall, and the sunlight caught his face and gleamed on the polished brass surfaces. “What about this handkerchief? It could be his, but is it? Does it have to be?”
