by Anne Perry
Poor Cerise.
Pitt was jerked out of his thoughts by the heavy tramp of feet in the passage beyond Fred’s motionless figure. He heard Rosie’s voice, shrill and indignant, and somewhere a man wailed.
The constable appeared, his blue cape wet with the fine rain and his bull’s-eye lantern at his belt, truncheon ready in his hand.
“Well?” he demanded. “Where’s this ’ere woman you said as was dead, then?”
“ ’Ere,” Fred answered sullenly. He did not like policemen, and it was grudgingly he conceded the necessity now. “And this is the geezer wot killed ’er—Gawd knows why. But I let ’im in ’ere quarter hour ago, ’cause ’e was askin’ for ’er most partic’lar. Then I ’as ter come up ’ere fer suffink else, and she’s as dead as mutton, poor beggar. So I sends Rosie to tell Jacko ter fetch yer. She’ll tell yer the same.”
The constable pushed past Fred and stared into the room, his round face puckering with a mixture of sadness and distaste. He looked at Pitt and sighed.
“Now wot yer go an’ do a fing like that fer? In’t yer wife, or anyfink like vat, is she?”
“No, or course not!” Pitt said angrily. Suddenly all the pretense seemed ludicrous. “I’m a police officer, Inspector Pitt from the Bow Street station, and we’ve been looking for this woman for weeks. I tracked her down here, but I was too late to stop her being murdered. She was an important witness.”
The constable looked up and down at Pitt’s knitted muffler, his old coat, rather shapeless trousers, and worn boots. Disbelief was patent in his face.
“Check with Bow Street!” Pitt snapped. “Superintendent Ballarat!”
“I’ll take yer ter Seven Dials; they can send ter Bow Street,” the constable said stolidly. “Yer make no fuss and yer won’t get ’urt. Get nasty an’ I’ll ’ave ter get rough wiv yer.” He turned to Fred. “ ’Oo else ’as bin up ’ere since you seen ’er”—he gestured to the dead woman on the bed— “alive?”
“Geez! A little skinny geezer wiv Newgate knockers,” he said, putting his fingers up in a spiral to describe the cheek curls, “fer Clarrie. But she came down an’ fetched ’em. An’ a bald-’eaded feller, ’baht fortyish, fer Rosie, an’ I brought ’im up ’ere and saw ’im inter Rosie’s room. But ’e’s a reg’lar.”
“So no one else ’as bin up ’ere but ’im?”
“An’ the girls,” Fred finished. “Ask ’em.”
“Oh, I will, you can be sure o’ vat. An’ yer better all be ’ere when we wants yer, or yer’ll be ’unted down an’ arrested fer ’idin’ hevidence in a murder—an’ end up in Coldbath Fields, or Newgate.” He looked at Pitt. “Nah, you comin’ quiet, or do I ’ave ter be unpleasant wiv yer? Gimme yer ’ands.”
“What?” Pitt was startled.
“Yer ’ands, mister! You take me for a fool? I in’t a walkin’ yer back through the streets in the dark wivout the bracelets on yer.”
Pitt opened his mouth to protest, then realized the point-lessness of it, and thrust out his hands obediently.
Two hours later, sitting in the Seven Dials police station, still manacled, he was beginning to feel panic rising hot inside him. A message had been sent to Bow Street, and a neatly written answer had been returned. Yes, they knew Thomas Pitt, who answered the description precisely, but they could not agree that he had been sent to arrest anyone. They knew of no prostitute in a pink dress, and as far as they were concerned there was nothing of the sort connected with the case upon which Pitt was working. He had been assigned to look more carefully into the robbery at the home of Piers York in Hanover Close some three years ago, and the murder by an intruder of his son, Robert York. As far as Superintendent Ballarat knew, Pitt had failed to discover anything of material interest. The officer in charge of this unfortunate murder must handle it with all the justice and dispatch of which he was capable. Of course, Superintendent Ballarat wished, as a professional courtesy, to be kept informed of events as they should transpire, with the profound hope that Thomas Pitt was not guilty of anything except foolishness, and perhaps the kind of immorality that men fell prey to from time to time. Nevertheless, justice must be done. There could be no exceptions.
When Fred had first found him Pitt had only been able to think of Cerise, the futility of finding her when it was too late, the shabby reality of death. That they had mistaken him for the murderer had seemed farcical at the time. But now it was becoming appallingly clear that they did not believe him, and all his protestations, instead of making the truth obvious, were falling uselessly on their ears, like the excuses of any other criminal caught red-handed. And Ballarat had no intention of risking Society’s indignation and his superiors’ displeasure by stepping forward to defend Pitt or his actions. He did not want there to have been treason, he did not want to have to investigate the Yorks or the Danvers, or Felix Asherson, and he was only too happy to be rid of the one man who was pressing him to do it. If Pitt were convicted of murder he would be even more effectively silenced than if he were dead.
The sweat broke out on Pitt’s skin, then chilled instantly, leaving him shivering and a little sick. What would happen to Charlotte? Emily would see to her financially, thank God! But what about the disgrace, the public shame? Policemen had few friends; a policeman hanged for murdering a prostitute had none at all. Charlotte would find every hand turned against her: neighbors and erstwhile friends would abhor her; the underworld that normally had some care for its own, who might have given something to an ordinary hanged man’s widow, would have no pity for a policeman’s family. And Daniel and Jemima would grow up with the shadow of the gibbet across their hearts, always hiding who they were, trying to defend him, never really knowing—Pitt stopped; these thoughts were unbearable.
“Come on!” The voice yanked him from his inner misery back to the urgency of the present. “Coldbath Fields fer you; yer can’t sit ’ere all night. Let’s be ’avin’ yer!”
He looked up to see the chill boiled-blue eyes of a constable regarding him with the kind of loathing that police reserve for their own kind who have betrayed everything they have given their lives to preserve.
“On yer feet! Gotter learn ter do as ye’re told, you ’ave!”
9
CHARLOTTE HAD EXPECTED Pitt to be late getting home, so she went to bed a little before eleven, unhappy that things between them were still unresolved. She woke with a start in the morning, aware even before she opened her eyes that something was wrong. There was a coldness, a silence. She sat up. Pitt’s side of the bed was as neat and untouched as it had been when she put the sheets on clean the day before. She scrambled out and reached for her robe without any clear idea of what she was going to do. Perhaps there was a note downstairs. Could he have come in and had to go out again without time to sleep at all? For the moment she dared not think beyond that. She did not even bother with slippers and she winced as her bare feet touched the cold floor in the passageway.
She looked first in the kitchen, but there was nothing; the kettle was where she had left it and the cups were unused. She went to the parlor, but there was nothing there either. She tried to fill her mind with good reasons for Pitt’s absence, so her fears could not intrude: he was on the trail of something, and so close to victory he could not leave it; he had actually made an arrest and was still at the police station; there had been another murder, and he was so busy with it he could not come home, and he had not sent a messenger during the night because he did not want to waken her, and no stranger could get in without his key—but her common sense stopped her there. There was always the letter box; it would have been simple to slip a note in to tell her.
Well, any minute now someone would come, perhaps even Pitt himself. She should get dressed. She was shuddering with the chill and her bare feet were numb. There was no point in standing here. Gracie would be up soon and the children must have breakfast. She turned and went upstairs quickly, into the oddly empty bedroom. She took off her robe and nightgown, still shivering, and put on her
camisole, petticoats, stockings, and an old, dark blue dress. Her fingers were clumsy this morning and she could not be bothered to do anything with her hair except wind it in a loose coil and pin it up. She would wash her face in the kitchen downstairs where the water was hot. Surely by then there would be a message.
She had just reached for a rough, dry towel and felt its clean abrasiveness on her skin when the doorbell rang. She dropped the towel onto the bench accidentally dragging it with her elbow and pulling it onto the floor. She ignored it, running along the passage to the front door, which she flung open. A red-faced constable stood on the doorstep, misery so heavy in his features that she was instantly afraid. Her breath stopped.
“Mrs. Pitt?” he asked.
She stared at him speechlessly.
“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” he said wretchedly. “But I ’as ter tell yer that Inspector Pitt ’as bin arrested fer killin’ a woman in Seven Dials. ’E said as ’er neck was already broke when ’e found her—no doubtin’ it was. ’E’d never do such a fing. But fer ve time bein’ ’e’s bin took to the ’Ouse o’ Correction at Coldbath Fields. ’E’s all right, ma’am! There’s no need ter—ter take on!” He stood helpless, unable to offer any comfort. He did not know how much she knew of “the Steel,” but lies were useless: she would find out soon enough. Its nickname was a corruption of Bastille, and with good reason.
Charlotte remained frozen. At first she felt relief: at least he was not dead. That had been the fear she had not dared to name. Then a kind of darkness closed round her as if it were dusk, not dawn. Arrested! In prison? She had heard more than even Pitt knew of the houses of correction like Coldbath Fields. They were the short-term jails where people were taken before trial, or for brief sentences. No one could survive for more than a year in them; they were crowded, brutal and filthy. It had been one of Aunt Vespasia’s passions to get rid of at least the worst of the epidemic jail fever.
But surely Pitt would only be there for a few hours—a day at most—until they realized their mistake.
“Ma’am?” the constable interrupted anxiously, his blue eyes puckered and very earnest. “Mebbe you should sit down, ma’am, take a cup o’ tea.”
Charlotte looked back at him in surprise. She had forgotten he was still there. “No.” Her voice seemed to come from far away. “No, I—I don’t need to sit down. Where did you say he was—did you say Coldbath Fields?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He wanted to say something else but the words eluded him. He was used to horror and misery, but he had never had to tell a colleague’s wife that he was charged with murder—of a prostitute! His face was blurred with pity for her.
“Then I’ll have to take his things.” She was reaching for a solid idea, something practical she could latch on to, something she could do to help him. “Shirts. Clean linen. Will they feed him?”
“Yes, ma’am. But I’m sure a little extra won’t come amiss, if it’s plain like. But ’ave yer got a brother, or someone as could go for yer? It in’t a very nice place fer a lady.”
“No, I haven’t. I’ll go myself. I’ll just make sure the maid is up to care for the children. Thank you, Constable.”
“Yer sure, ma’am? In’t nuffin’ I can do?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Leaving him on the step, she closed the door gently and walked back towards the kitchen on wobbling legs. She bumped into the door lintel on the way in, but her mind was so dazed it was moments before the pain of it registered. In time there would be a purple bruise, but all she could think of now was Pitt, cold, hungry, and at the mercy of the warders of the Steel.
Very carefully she cut the fresh loaf, buttered the slices, and then carved the cold meat that was to have done them all for the next two days. She wrapped the sandwiches and put them in a basket. Next she went upstairs and took out his newly laundered underlinen and a good shirt, then realized that was foolish and chose the oldest ones instead. She was still at the press on the landing when Gracie came down from her attic bedroom and stopped on the last stair.
“You lost summink, ma’am?”
Charlotte closed the cupboard doors and turned round slowly.
“No, thank you, Gracie, I have it. I must go out. I don’t know when I shall be back; it may be late. I took the meat for Mr. Pitt. You’ll have to find something else for us.”
Gracie blinked, hugging her shawl closer round her.
“Ma’am, you look terrible white. ’As summink ’appened?” Her little face was pinched with dismay.
There was no point in lying; Charlotte would have to tell her soon enough.
“Yes. They have arrested Mr. Pitt; they say he killed some woman in Seven Dials. I’m going to take—to take some things for him. I—” Suddenly she was on the edge of tears, she could feel her throat tighten and her voice would not come.
“I always thought some o’ them constables was daft!” Gracie said with profound contempt. “Now they really ’as gorn the ’ole way. “ ’Ooever made that mistake’ll spend the rest of ’is life eatin’ worms! An’ serve ’im right! Are you goin’ ter see the commissioner o’ police, ma’am? They can’t know ’oo they got! Why, there in’t nobody in Lunnon solved more murders than Mr. Pitt. Sometimes I think some o’ them couldn’t detect an ’ole in the ground if’ n they fell in it!”
Charlotte smiled bleakly. She looked into Gracie’s plain, indignant little face, and felt reassured.
“Yes I will,” she said more firmly. “I’ll take these things to Mr. Pitt first, then I’ll go and see Mr. Ballarat at Bow Street.”
“You do that, ma’am,” Gracie agreed. “An’ I’ll take care o’ everythin’ ’ere.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Gracie,” and she turned away quickly and hurried downstairs before emotion could overtake her again. Best not to talk. Action was easier and infinitely more useful.
But when she reached the massive gray tower and gates of Her Majesty’s House of Correction and asked to go in, they would not allow her to see Pitt. A red-nosed jailer with a perpetual cold took her basket with the food and the linen, promising lugubriously to see that they reached the prisoner. But she could not come in, it was not visiting hours, and no, he could not make an exception, he would not take a note for her. He was sorry but rules was rules.
There was no argument against such bleak refusal, and when she saw the unreachable uninterest in his watery eyes she turned and left, walking back along the wet footpath, the wind in her face, trying to think of what she would say to Ballarat. Temper passed quickly, fury at the stupidity and the injustice, and she began to think how to be practical. What would be the best way to make Ballarat act immediately? Surely a reasoned and calm explanation of the facts. He could not know what had happened or he would have done something already. He would have contacted the police station which had made such a blunder, and Pitt’s release would have been assured as soon as the appropriate message was received.
She took the next public omnibus, which was crowded with women and children. She paid her fare to the “cad,” as conductors were known, and squeezed in between a fat woman in black bombazine with a bosom like a bolster and a small boy in a sailor suit. She tried to occupy her mind by staring round her at the other passengers—the old lady with the withered face and out-of-date lace cap, the girl in the striped skirt who kept smiling at the youth with the side whiskers—but sooner or later every thought came back to Pitt and her terrible sense of being shut off from him, the threatening wave of panic at her helplessness.
By the time she got off in the Strand and walked up Bow Street to the Police station Charlotte’s heart was knocking in her chest and her legs felt shaky and uncertain. She breathed in and out deeply, but that did not steady her. She went up the steps, tripping on the top one because her feet no longer seemed coordinated. She pushed the door open and went in, suddenly realizing she had never been here before. Pitt came here every day and spoke about it so often she had assumed it would look familiar, but it was much darker and colder than she
had expected. She had not imagined the smell of linoleum and polish, the worn brass of the door handles, the shiny patches on the bench where countless people had rubbed against it, waiting.
The duty constable looked up from the ledger where he was writing in studious copperplate. “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for yer?” He sized up her respectability instantly. “Lorst summat, ’ave yer?”
“No.” She swallowed hard. “Thank you. I am Inspector Pitt’s wife. I should like to see Mr. Ballarat, if you please. It is most urgent.”
The man’s face colored and he avoided her eyes. “Er— yes, ma’am. If—if yer’ll wait a few moments I’ll go an’ see.” He closed the ledger, put it away under the shelf, and disappeared out of the glass-paned door into the passageway. She could hear his muffled voice speaking hurriedly to someone beyond.
She stood on the worn linoleum floor and waited. No one came back, and she knew they were too embarrassed to face her, not knowing what to say. It frightened her. She had expected anger, defensiveness, repeated assurances that it must be a mistake and would be put right immediately. This evasion must mean either that they doubted Pitt themselves or that they dared not express their feelings. Was there no loyalty among them at all, no trust, even after all the years they had known him?
Panic rose inside her, making her sick. Without realizing it she stepped forward, desperate to make a noise, to shout till someone came, even to scream.
The door swung open suddenly and she jumped. The same constable looked at her, this time meeting her eyes.
“If yer’d like ter come this way, ma’am.” Still he did not use her name, as if he were ashamed somehow and wanted to pretend she was someone else.
She stared at him coldly. “Mrs. Pitt,” she told him.
“Mrs. Pitt, ma’am,” he repeated obediently, even the tops of his ears turning pink.
She followed him along the passage, up the stairs, and across into Ballarat’s large, warm office. A fire was burning on the grate and Ballarat himself was standing in front of the hearth, feet slightly apart, boots shining.