ter do it. Bloody useless lot y’are too.” She ran her fingers through her black hair. “Geez! Anyway that little sod Costigan sure as ’ell din’t do it. And yer in’t caught the real bastard wot did, even though ’e’s done it twice now. Gonna wait till ’e does it again, are yer? Catch ’im the third time? Or will it be like in ’eighty-eight, and ’e’ll thumb ’is nose at the lot o’ yer.” She stood up, pulling her robe around her. “I dunno nuffink more, an’ I’m goin’ back ter me bed. I dunno wot they pay yer for. If I weren’t no better at me job than you are, I’d starve.”
Pitt roused Pearl and Mabel, and learned nothing else of use. They only repeated what they had already said.
It was lunchtime, and he was hungry. He walked towards the river and the nearest public house, the same one in Swan Street where he and Ewart and Lennox had met two evenings before Costigan’s trial.
Was he wrong about Costigan? Could he possibly have been so eager to believe him guilty he had misinterpreted what he said? He had to think back, but he could not remember the words, only his own certainty that it was an admission.
He went to the bar and asked for a pint of cider and a sandwich with cheese and pickle. He took it to a table and sat down, eating without tasting. The room was noisy, packed with porters, draymen and laborers. The smells of sawdust and ale were everywhere, the sounds of voices and occasional laughter. He had been there several minutes and was more than halfway through when a large man with an open jacket stared at him pointedly.
“Rozzer!” he said slowly. “Yer that rozzer wot ’anged Costigan, ain’t yer?”
Pitt looked up at him.
“I didn’t hang him,” he corrected. “I arrested him. The court tried him, the jury found him guilty, and the judge sentenced him.” He took another mouthful of his sandwich and turned away.
Several people close by stopped talking.
“That’s right!” The man raised his voice. “Stuff yer face. Look the other way from us. Wot der we matter? Jus’ poor folks from Whitechapel. ’Ang some poor bastard an’ go ’ome ter yer bed.” The jeering in his voice grew sharper, uglier. “Sleep easy, do yer, Rozzer? Only Costigan in’t gonna wake up agin, is ’e? ’Cos you ’anged ’im! But it don’t stop some bloody toff comin’ ’ere from up west, usin’ our women and then torturin’ ’em an’ stranglin’ ’em, do it?”
Another man joined in, his face tight with hatred.
“ ’Ow much they pay yer, eh? Judas!”
“Judas!” came the cry from half a dozen other throats. No one was eating anymore. All other conversations stopped.
Someone stood up.
The landlord yelled for order and was told to keep his mouth shut.
They moved closer to Pitt’s table, faces ugly.
“Wot yer come back ’ere fer, eh? ’Opin’ ter be paid agin, are yer?”
“Pay yer every time ’e kills some poor bitch, does ’e?”
“ ’Ow much, eh? ’Ow much is one o’ our women worth to yer, Rozzer?”
Pitt opened his mouth to speak, and someone hit him. It was a glancing blow, but it shocked him and sent him off balance.
There was a cheer, then someone laughed.
Pitt straightened up onto his feet.
He was taller than the man had expected, and bigger. The man stepped back.
Another man squared up beside him, ready to join him. It was becoming extremely unpleasant. Pitt felt a sharp tug of fear and sweat broke out on his body. He would not go down without a fight, but he would have no chance whatever of beating this many men. They would injure him badly, perhaps even kill him.
The man nearest him rocked gently on the balls of his feet, ready to begin, his eyes moving from one side to the other, his face glistening with the sweat of excitement. Pitt could smell it sharp in the air.
“Go on!” a high voice yelled. “Wot yer waitin’ fer?”
The first man glanced sideways to make certain he would not be starting alone. He saw confirmation in the other’s eyes and stepped forward, fists high, clenched.
Pitt altered his weight, ready for the first blow.
“Stop it!”
Everyone froze. There was command in the voice. It was not a shout, but it carried across the full extent of the room.
Pitt’s breath caught in his throat and almost choked him.
The crowd was elbowed aside and Jago Jones forced his way through. His face was set like iron, his eyes blazing.
“What the devil’s going on here?” he demanded, staring at one man, then another.
“No need for you, Reverend,” one man said sharply. “You go on about ’elpin’ the sick and them as wants yer. We don’t want yer ’ere!”
There was a murmur of agreement. Someone stretched out a hand towards him to push. He ignored it.
“In’t your business ’ere, Reverend,” another man said roughly. “Go on wi’ yer own business an’ aht o’ ours!”
“What are you trying to do?” Jago stared at him without wavering. “Commit another murder and prove we are the ignorant and stupid people the rich would like to believe? Murder a police superintendent who’s only doing his job and they’ll have the army in here before you can turn ’round.”
There was a low grumble of complaint, but one by one they stepped back, or were pulled, leaving Jago facing Pitt.
“Are you finished with your lunch?” Jago asked, but his face made it plain it was an order rather than a question.
Pitt swallowed. There was still a good deal of his sandwich left, and half his cider. He picked up the glass and drained it, then took the sandwich in his hand.
“Yes.”
Jago turned to face the way out. For several seconds no one moved. They stood together, belligerently, daring Jago to brave them.
“Are you going to attack me too?” he said with only the faintest catch in his throat. “Is this your idea of courage and intelligence? This how you want the people up west to think of you … beasts who set upon priests and policemen?”
There was a growl of anger, but several moved back a step.
Jago led the way through the silent crowd. Their eyes were sullen, and many fists were still clenched tight. No one moved any farther to let them pass, and Pitt actually brushed two of them as he went.
Outside the air was colder and smelled of horse manure and drains, but Pitt gulped it as if it had been as sweet as the bright, clean wind off the sea.
“Thank you,” he said shakily. “I … I didn’t realize the feeling was so deep … or so bad.”
“There’s always someone to take advantage of trouble,” Jago replied, striding out along the street back towards St. Mary’s Church. “Political opportunists, or simply people full of hate and failure who need to blame someone for it. You were a natural target. You were a little naive not to have seen it.”
Pitt said nothing. Jago was right.
They walked side by side, rapidly. Pitt had come because he could not rid himself of the painful suspicion that Jago was the link between Finlay FitzJames and Whitechapel, between the past and the present. He was the only person who unarguably knew both Ada and Finlay. He probably knew Nora Gough as well. Pitt hated the thought. He hated even more having to broach the subject to Jago, who had just rescued him, possibly at some risk to himself.
Pitt drew breath and was about to ask when Jago stopped abruptly.
They had gone up Mansell Street and were at the corner of the Whitechapel Road. The traffic was heavy, mostly commercial.
“I’ve got to go and call on a woman whose husband was drowned last week,” Jago said as clearly as he could above the rattle of wheels and clatter of hooves. “I’d be careful around here, Superintendent. Don’t wait in any place too long. If you have to question a crowd, take some constables with you. I presume you are no further …” The rest of what he said was drowned out by a passing dray.
