at men’s faces, only the money. But ’e don’t jog me mem’ry none. I don’t think as I’ve seen ’im. Sure as ’ell’s on fire, I don’t know ’is name, or I’d tell yer.”
“Hell’s on fire.” He repeated the words carefully. “What makes you say that?”
“ ’Cos it’s abaht the one thing as I’m sure of,” she retorted, looking him up and down. “Wot jer spec’ me to say? Sure as ’eaven’s sweet? I wouldn’t know.” She looked away from him at the tawdry, overfamiliar room. “Don’t believe in it. In’t fer me, fer Ada, if it was. Ask the preachers. They’ll soon tell yer, women like me is gonna burn in ’ell fer corruptin’ an’ leadin’ astray the likes o’ gentlemen!” She gave an oath so coarse even Pitt was jolted by hearing it from her still-beautiful mouth.
“Have you ever heard of the Hellfire Club?” he asked.
Amusement flashed across her face. “No, wot’s that? Them as is gonner burn-or them as is gonner stoke? Believe me, that sod’s gonner burn, if I ’ave ter carry the coals meself-gentleman or no.”
“Was he a gentleman?” he asked after a moment’s hesitation.
Her eyes met his squarely. “Looked like it. ’E weren’t ’ard up. An’ as sure as ’ell’s on fire, mister, ’e come just about the time poor Ada were croaked. I were along the Whitechapel Road fer ’alf an hour, an’ I didn’t see no one else go past, till I got another gent meself an’ come in again.”
“You didn’t see the other end,” Pitt pointed out.
“In’t my pitch,” she said reasonably. “Ask Nan about that.”
“You said Ada was greedy,” Pitt prompted. “Did she take from you?”
“I never said she stole.” Rose was annoyed again. Her eyes were sharp and bright. “I said she were greedy. Always wanted more. Always thinkin’ o’ ways to get a bigger cut, not jus’ for ’erself, but for us too. I never knew nobody so angry. Ate ’er up at times.”
“Did she say who with?”
She shrugged and her lip curled.
“Lousy butler wot took ’er character, I s’pose. Then lied abaht it. Dunno what she expected! Bit green, she were.” Her face pinched and the sorrow returned. “Poor little cow.”
There was a bang outside and a clatter of hooves. Someone shouted. There were footsteps in the corridor and a door slammed somewhere upstairs, the vibrations shivering through the room.
“Did she ever mention this butler’s name?” Pitt asked.
Her eyes widened. “You reckon it was ’im as did ’er? Why would ’e? She couldn’t do nuffink to ’im. Safe as Big Ben ’e were. Still is.”
“No, I didn’t think so,” he conceded. “What time did you see this man?”
“Dunno. Ten p’raps.”
“Then what?”
She was uninterested.
“I got another couple o’ jobs, nuffin’ special. ’Alf hour each, mebbe. The next were Skeggs, sorry little bastard that ’e is. Takes ’im an hour to get ’isself goin’. Likes ter look at other people.” Her voice was thick with disgust. “ ’E left me and went snoopin’ on Ada ter see if ’e could catch some other stupid sod wif ’is pants orff makin’ a fool of ’isself, and maybe doin’ it good.” She put her hands on her hips. “ ’Oo knows? Anyway the little swine got more’n ’e bargained for. Saw Ada dead, an’ damn near wet ’isself!”
“Time?”
“I know that ’cos this time I looked. I were ’ungry, and reckoned as I’d done well enough as I could get summink decent ter eat. I were goin’ down ter the pie stand on the corner o’ Chicksand Street, till the rozzer come back and all the row started. ’Ad ter stay ’ome, and I’m fair starvin’ now.”
Pitt said nothing.
She stared at him with sudden anger.
“Think I’m an ’eartless bitch, don’cher?” she demanded, her voice hard, full of resentment. “Well, I felt sick as you at first, but that’s two hours ago, or like, an’ I ain’t eaten proper since yest’day. Death comes often ’ere, not like up west w’ere it’s all soft an’ folk die easy. An’ that doc were real fair. ’E told me as she probably din’t feel much fer long. Made Nan put on a kettle and get us all a cup o’ tea. An’ ’e laced it wif a drop o’ brandy. Never known a bloke be so …” She was lost for a word. She had no term of praise to convey what she meant, the sudden warmth, the feeling that for a moment her emotions and her grief had been truly more important to him than his own. It eased the bitterness out of her face, till Pitt could see the woman she might have been had time and circumstance been different.
Nan Sullivan was at least ten years older than Rose, and long hours and too many bottles of gin had blurred her features and dulled her hair and eyes. But there was still a softness in her, some spark of memory left a gentleness behind it, and when she spoke there was an echo of the west of Ireland in her voice. She sat on her bed, frowsy, tearstained and too tired to care.
“Sure I was at the other end o’ the alley,” she agreed, looking at Pitt without interest. “Took me a while to find anyone. I had to walk along to Brick Lane.” It was obviously a defeat she no longer bothered to hide. “I got back just as Ada come indoors.”
“So you saw the man who went in?” Pitt said eagerly.
“Sure I did. Least I saw the back of his head, and his coat.” She sighed and the ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “Lovely coat it was. Good gabardine. I know good gabardine when I see it. Used to work in a sweatshop. Master o’ that had a coat o’ gabardine. His was brown, as I recall, but it sat on the shoulder the same way. Neat and sharp it was, no rumples, no folds where there shouldn’t be.”
“What color was this one?” He was sitting in the one chair, about a yard away from her. This room opened onto the midden, and he could not hear the sounds of the street.
“This one?” She thought for a moment, her eyes far away. “Blue. Or mebbe black. Wasn’t brown.”
“Anything about the collar?”
“Sat fine. Sort o’ curve you don’t get in a cheap coat.”
“Not fur, or velvet?” he asked. “Or lambskin?”
She shook her head.
“No, just wool. Can’t see the cut with fur.”
“What about his hair?”
“Thick.” Unconsciously she brushed her fingers through her own hair, thinning with time and abuse. “An’ fair,” she added. “Saw the light on it from the candles in Ada’s room. Poor little bitch.” Her voice dropped. “Nobody should have done that to her.”
“Did you like her?” he asked suddenly.
She was surprised. She had to think for a moment. “I s’pose I did. She brought trouble, but she made me laugh. An’ I had to admire her fight.”
Pitt felt a moment’s irrational hope.
“Who did she fight with?”
“She went up west sometimes. Had nerve, I’ll say that for her. Didn’t often sell herself short.”
“So who did she fight with, Nan?”
She gave a sharp, jerky little laugh.
“Oh, Fat George’s girls, up near the Park. That’s their patch. If it had bin a knife in her, I’d ’ave said Wee Georgie’d done it. But he’d never have strangled her, or done it in her own room either. He’d have done it in the street and left her there. Besides, I know Fat George when I see him, and Wee Georgie.”
That was unarguable. Pitt knew them both too. Fat George was a mountain of a man, unmistakable for anyone else, let alone Finlay FitzJames. And Wee Georgie was a dwarf. Added to which, whatever the trespass into their territory, they would have beaten her, or crippled her, or even disfigured her face, but they would not have brought down the police upon themselves by killing her. It would be bad for business.
“You saw this man going into Ada’s room?” Pitt returned to the subject.
“Yes.”
He frowned. “You mean she opened the door for him. She didn’t take him in? She didn’t bring him from the street?”
Her eyes widened. “No! No, she didn’t, come to think on it. He must have come here on his own-sort of reg’lar, or like that.”
“Do you get many regulars?” Then he saw instantly from her face how tactless the question was. Ada might
