had looked so different no one had recognized him as the same man or else, simpler still, he had not left!
Was the fair wavy hair a wig? Had he actually left with a different coat on, and different hair? Then what had happened to the coat? Did he carry it? And the wig? His own hair could be any color or texture at all.
Pitt needed to go back and question all the people again, to see if they remembered anyone at all leaving who could have been disguised with a wig.
How could they know that? You can carry a wig in a pocket. Then they would have to have a pocket. A trouser pocket would be too small, it would make a bulge. Perhaps they might remember the coat. Not many people in Myrdle Street had full-length overcoats, let alone well-cut ones.
What about the other possibility, that he had not left at all but had gone to another floor in the same building? He had not thought of looking upwards, to the women on the floor above. They may have continued doing business with whoever was already in the building. The police presence on the floor below would deter new custom, but those already there might well fill in their time pleasantly. They could not leave until the police had gone, from the very natural desire not to be identified. That would need no further explanation.
When he went back to Myrdle Street tomorrow, he must also question all the women on the floor above to get descriptions of all their clients of the night. He should have done it at the time. That was a bad oversight.
He lay staring up at the darkness. Charlotte was breathing evenly beside him. He listened and there was no variation in the soft sound. She was deeply asleep. Or else lying there also pretending to be and not wanting to disturb him, let him know that she too was sleepless, and worried, and frightened.
Cornwallis would back him, but he might not be able to save his job if Costigan were pardoned, or even if he were not. And perhaps he should not be able to. If Pitt had caused an innocent man to be hanged, perhaps he should lose his job. Maybe he was not man enough to fill Micah Drummond’s position anyway? He was promoted beyond his ability. Farnsworth would have smiled at that. He never thought Pitt was ready for command … not the right background or breeding.
Vespasia would be hurt. She had always had confidence in him. She would be let down. She would never say so, but she would not be able to help feeling it. Most of all, he would have let Charlotte down. She would not say anything either, and in a way that would almost make it worse.
He drifted into uneasy sleep, and woke again with a start.
What if it was Jago Jones, after all, with a fair wig on? He was laughing at Pitt, making the suggestion himself, because he was so sure Pitt could never piece it together, or even if he did, he could not prove it.
It was nearly morning. He was stiff, longing to stretch and turn, even to get up and pace the floor to help him to think. But if he woke Charlotte now she would not get back to sleep again. This would be selfish, unnecessary.
He lay still until six o’clock, and unintentionally went back to sleep.
He woke with a start at half past seven, with Charlotte touching him gently, shaking him a little.
It was half past nine before he was back in Myrdle Street, and highly unwelcome. As usual the women were in bed after a long night, and no one wanted to talk to a policeman and answer questions they had already answered several times. He started on the floor above, disturbing the residents one by one and having to wait while they roused themselves, threw a little water on their faces to startle themselves awake, and then put on a robe or a shawl and stumbled through to the kitchen, where Pitt sat with the kettle on, topping up the teapot regularly and asking endless, patient questions.
“No, I don’t ’ave no customer wif fair, wavy ’air.”
“No, ’e were bald, like a bleedin’ egg.”
“No. Even ’is muvver wouldn’t ’a’ said he were young! Geez, she must ’a’ bin dead since Noah landed ’is ark! ’E’s fifty if ’e’s a day!”
“No, ’e were gray.”
“Could he have looked fair in the gaslight?”
“Mebbe … but not wavy. Straight as stair rods.”
And so it went on. He questioned every woman meticulously, but no one had seen any man who could have answered the description Edie had given of Nora’s last customer.
He went back down again, and found Edie herself, by now almost ready to consider getting up in the normal course of her day. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.
“Describe him again,” he said wearily.
“Look, mister, I din’t even see ’is face, just ’is back as ’e went in!” she said in exasperation. “I din’t take no notice. ’E were jus’ anuvver customer. I din’t know ’e were gonna kill ’er, let alone …” She stopped and shuddered, her fat body tight under her robe.
“I know. Just close your eyes and bring back what you saw, however briefly. Take a moment or two. You saw the man who killed her, Edie.” He spoke gently, trying not to frighten her. He needed her to clear her mind so she could concentrate. “Describe exactly what you saw. You may be the only way we shall catch him.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.
She caught it, in spite of his effort.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know I’m the only one wot saw ’im, ’ceptin’ them wot ’e killed.” She stopped, leaning over the kitchen table, her fat elbows resting on it, pulling her robe tight, her black hair over her shoulders, her eyes closed.
Pitt waited.
“ ’E were quite tall, like,” she said at last. “Not ’eavy-in fact, ’e looked sort o’, well, not thickset. I reckon as I thought ’e were young. Jus’ the way ’e stood.” She opened her eyes and looked at Pitt. “But I could be wrong. Tha’s just wot I felt.”
“Good. Go on,” he encouraged. “Describe his coat, the back of his head, whatever else you saw. Tell me exactly. What was his hair like? How was it cut? Was it long or short? Did he have side-whiskers, did you see?”
She closed her eyes obediently. “ ’Is coat were sort o’ gray-green. The collar were … were turned up ’igh, over the bottom of ’is ’air, so I reckon ’is ’air must ’a’ bin quite longish. I couldn’t see the ends of it. Could’ve bin cut any’ow. Come ter that, could’ve gorn all down ’is back!” She gave an abrupt, jerking laugh. “An’ I din’t see no side-whiskers. Reckon ’e din’t turn ’is ’ead enough. Beautiful ’air, ’e ’ad, though. Wouldn’t mind ’air like that meself. Makes me think o’ Ella Baker, wot lives up the street. She got gorgeous ’air, just like that.” She opened her eyes and looked at Pitt again. “Mebbe she ’as a bruvver?” she said jokingly. “An’ mebbe ’e’s a lunatic an’ all.”
Pitt stared at her.
“She in’t got a bruvver!” she said in amazement. “Yer can’t think as … I don’ mean …” Then she stopped, her eyes widening with a slow, terrible horror.
“What?” Pitt demanded. “What is it? What do you know, Edie?”
“She an’ Nora did fall out summink awful over Johnny Voss….”
“Why? Who’s Johnny Voss? Is that the man Nora was going to marry?”
“Yeah. On’y ’e were goin’ ter marry Ella first … at least she thought ’e were. Actual-I thought ’e were too. Then Nora come along … an’ ’e fancied ’er instead, an’ she made the most of it. Well, yer would, wouldn’t yer? ’Oo wouldn’t sooner be married ter a decent sort o’ bloke than make yer way like this?” She barely looked around her, but her gestures drew in the whole shabby, shared room, the tenement, its occupants and their lives.
“Yes,” Pitt agreed. There was no need for more words than that. “Thank you, Edie.” He left the kitchen and went back to the room in which Nora had died. It was still as she had left it, bed unmade, sheets rumpled, only the pillows were in the center where he had tossed them after finding the handkerchief.
He stood in the center of the floor for several moments, wondering what he was looking for, where even to begin. The bed. The floor around it.
He bent down and began with the floor, peering for anything at all that would bear out his theory. There would be nothing here to prove it, only small things that might help.
There was nothing.
He stood up and threw the bedcovers aside, running his hands gently, very slowly, over the sheets.
He found it on the top sheet, first one, then another, then several-golden fair hairs, very long, sixteen or eighteen inches, and wavy … hair that would never come from a man’s head, and far too fair for Nora Gough.
Ella Baker, with her hair tucked under her high coat collar, a coat borrowed from a client or a friend, and a pair of men’s trousers, perhaps over her own skirts tucked up, just under the coat’s length. She would let the skirts
