Pol shook her head slowly. ‘The trial’s over, love. For what it was worth.’ Disgust and distrust for the law and all its works harshened the last words.
‘And?’ Kitty asked.
‘Guilty,’ Pol said, and the quiet word hung in the air between them like the hangman’s noose. ‘An’ the appeal turned down.’
‘Oh, no! Oh, God! No!’ Kitty buried her face in her hands, trembling. It was a very long time before, white-faced, she lifted her head. ‘What happened? Tell me. I don’t know what happened.’ She was suddenly and unnaturally calm.
Pol cast her a worried look. ‘Drink yer tea.’ She pushed the steaming cup to Kitty and watched as she made a gallant effort to sip it. Then she took a long breath. ‘There was bad blood – real bad blood – between Moses an’ Matt after you left—’
‘Over the girl? What’s her name? Sally-Anne?’
‘That’s right. Seems Matt was more smitten than any of us realized. ’E wanted the girl out of The ’Ouse. Moses didn’t care much fer that—’
‘But still – Matt surely wouldn’t have killed him?’
‘Someone sure as ’ell did,’ Pol said, sombrely. ‘And Matt it was that they caught not yards from the body with the knife in ’is ’and an’ Moses’ blood all over ’im.’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t know?’
She shook her head tiredly. ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Matt’s story was that ’e’d seen a note from Moses sayin’ that ’e’d be at the Song an’ Supper Rooms that afternoon—’
Kitty frowned. ‘A note? Why would Moses send Matt a note?’
Pol and Barton exchanged a quick glance. ‘The note wasn’t to Matt,’ Pol said. ‘It was to Luke.’
‘Then how did Matt come by it? And why did he go to the Rooms?’
‘The kid that took the note couldn’t find Luke. So ’e asked Matt to deliver it for ’im,’ Pol said. ‘Matt wanted to talk to Moses about the girl. Moses ’ad refused point blank to discuss it – seems that Matt thought this’d be a good opportunity.’
‘So he never gave the note to Luke?’
‘Luke wasn’t around.’
‘So – what happened?’
‘Matt swears ’e don’t know. ’E says someone was waitin’ for ’im at the Rooms, someone with a bloody great truncheon or somethin’. When ’e came to ’e was in the bedroom with Moses’ corpse, smothered in blood and with a knife in ’is ’and. An’ the place crawlin’ with bleedin’ coppers. He tried to get away, but they caught ’im, knife, blood an’ all. ’E didn’t stand a chance. Overwhelming circumstantial evidence, the judge called it.’
‘But – who called the police? What were they doing there?’
‘’Oo knows?’
‘And – why in heaven’s name was he still carrying the knife? Surely – he could have got rid of it – left it?’
There was a short, uncomfortable silence. She looked from one to the other, frowning. ‘Well? What is it?’
‘The knife—’ Pol said.
‘Yes?’
‘It belonged to Luke. Matt recognized it – yer must ’ave seen it yerself. ’E carries it everywhere with ’im.’
‘I’ve seen it.’ Her voice was bleak.
‘Well – seems it occurred to Matt that if the knife was found Luke’d be in trouble – so ’e tried to get it away.’
Very slowly Kitty sat back in her chair. ‘Luke again,’ she said, her voice oddly flat.
Pol said nothing.
‘A note to Luke. Luke’s knife. And my brother is to hang?’ Hard-faced, Kitty shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it.’
‘Kitty—’
‘You say there was bad blood between Matt and Moses?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that, of course, came out at the trial?’
‘They made quite somethin’ of it.’
‘I’ll bet they did,’ Kitty said bitterly. A picture had risen in her mind – a picture of Luke in her dressing room at the Moulin d’Or, Lottie’s small hand possessively on his arm. ‘And Luke and Moses?’ she asked softly, ‘there was no bad blood there?’
The tense silence fairly shrieked an answer.
‘And – was that made much of at the trial as well?’
Pol shook her head.
‘I thought not.’ Kitty stood up composedly. ‘Would you give an eye to Michael for me? He’s fed and sleeping – he shouldn’t be any trouble. He’s absolutely exhausted.’ She reached for her coat, that Pol had hung behind the kitchen door.
‘Kit – leave it – at least for tonight. Give yourself a chance to rest.’
Kitty paused, the coat slung halfway about her shoulders, looking at Pol levelly. ‘Rest? You think I could rest before I’ve heard the truth? Luke knows. Doesn’t he?’
‘There are rumours—’
‘Are there indeed?’ Kitty set her small fur hat upon her head and deftly slid the long hatpin into place.
‘Where are you going?’ Barton asked, worriedly. Exasperated, Pol cast her eyes to the ceiling.
‘To find Luke Peveral,’ Kitty said, and her voice was grim.
* * *
The cab driver flatly refused to venture into the maze of alleys that led down to the canal and the derelict church. ‘Not likely, love. You want ter get yer throat cut – that’s all right wiv me – but I don’t ’ave ter ’ang about an’ watch, do I? Let alone ’ave mine slit along a yours.’ He eyed her curiously.
She had until that moment all but forgotten her changed appearance. It suddenly seemed a very long time since she had ventured into this dark warren of streets. ‘Oh, very well – here.’ Smouldering anger had brought her this far. She would, she had told herself, see Luke Peveral if Lucifer and all his angels stood in her way. But after she had paid the cabbie, and watched as the lights of the vehicle disappeared into the darkness, she stood alone in the narrow street, collar turned up against the swirling fingers of soot-laden fog, her confidence wavering. The houses leaned above her, menacing. Familiar, awful smells assaulted her nostrils – the foul odours of disease, of poverty, of neglect and of filth. A nearby shadow moved, startling her: a youth’s thin, rat’s face glimmered at her in the fitful light of a street lamp. Across the road she could see a familiar alleyway. It led, she knew, to the lane where stood the derelict church. She had come too far now to give up. Hands in pockets, hunching her shoulders against the cold, she hurried across the street, willing herself not to turn to see if the rat-faced youth were following, her ears strained for an echo of footsteps behind her. It suddenly seemed unbelievable to her that for so long she had walked these streets with no real fear; in those days she had been a part of them, ragged, threadbare, no target for anyone. She cursed herself for her foolishness – a cab, a fur hat and fur-lined collar. The past year had softened and sheltered her, and suddenly she was afraid. Foolhardy to have allowed her ungovernable anger to bring her so far!
And then the vision rose in her mind of Matt, alone in Newgate Gaol, living in the shadow of the most terrible of deaths, and she gritted her teeth and hurried on. There must be something she could do. There must be! And instinct told her that the only place to start was at Luke Peveral’s door.
But he was not there.
At the top of the winding, narrow staircase a lamp burned steadily outside his door, holding out the hope at least of some return, but the door was firmly locked and the room beyond quiet as the grave. Fighting tears of frustration, disappointment and something she did not like to admit might be fear, she crouched, shivering, upon the top step and set herself to wait.
The only thing that kept her there, finally, as the hours passed and dark evening became darker night was the knowledge that as she had waited so the menace of the streets had increased a hundredfold. To venture out alone now would be rash to the point of foolishness – so, stubbornly, she waited, frozen to the marrow and near-distraught with anxiety, knowing that, save for the danger of freezing to death it wa
s now safer to stay than to leave. Sooner or later he must come. She huddled closer to the lamp, leaned her head upon her folded arms and, shivering, uncomfortable, but exhausted, she slept.
She woke from nightmares to find him standing above her, his face deep-cast in shadow as he looked down at her. How long he had stood so, watching her, she did not know: long enough, certainly, for her to have lost any advantage of surprise. She it was who jumped, and gasped, and scrambled to her feet, heart pounding with a nerve-wracking combination of fright, relief and anger. He stepped past her with no word and unlocked the door. She followed him in silence, eyes still blurred with sleep. The room was freezing, the unlit fire laid ready for a match. With the graceful economy of movement that was so much a part of his attraction he turned up the lamps, lit the fire, splashed brandy into two glasses and – still in silence – handed one to her as she stood, stone cold and shivering in the middle of the familiar room.
She shook her head.
‘Drink it.’ They were the first words he had spoken.
She brought the glass to her lips with trembling fingers. Her lips were almost too cold to feel the strong liquid as it trickled onto her tongue. The fire of it burned her throat and spread in her stomach. Her muscles were stiff and aching. He shifted a deep armchair closer to the fire. ‘Here. Sit down.’ The words were brusque.
She perched on the edge of the chair, holding hands pinched and translucent with cold to the pale, blossoming flames that as yet held little warmth. In silence still Luke tossed back his brandy in one movement, poured himself another large measure, then came to sit in the armchair opposite hers by the fire. As he passed, a faint, pungent perfume drifted to her nostrils – a perfume she had smelled before. Lottie, she remembered detachedly, had been wearing it in Paris. A sudden sense of weariness overcame her. What in God’s name was she doing here – tired, worried, sick with anger? Of all the men to face at such a disadvantage, this must be the worst—
He eyed her coolly. ‘And where, for Christ’s sake, have you been?’
The chill hostility of the words, oddly, far from intimidating her served to bring her to herself where a softer approach might not have done. She stiffened. ‘I’ve been unwell.’
He waited for long enough for the silence to be insultingly disbelieving. ‘I see. May an old friend ask – where you’ve spent all this time being – unwell?’
She kept her voice even. ‘A friend took me to the country.’
‘A friend.’
‘A mutual friend.’ She watched his face. ‘Jem O’Connell.’
That shook him, and she was savagely pleased to have caught him off balance. ‘Jem?’
‘Jem.’ She let the single word hang between them, made no attempt to explain or qualify. Let him think what he would.
He rolled his glass between his long fingers. ‘What was the matter with you?’
She made a small, impatient sound. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake – does that matter now? I’d been overworking. I had a – nervous collapse. Jem knew a place where I could rest. That’s all. It isn’t what I came to talk about.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t for a moment suppose that it was.’
She lifted her head. ‘I want to know what happened,’ she said quietly. ‘And I want the truth.’
He looked into the crackling fire.
‘Luke?’
His face was in shadow and she could discern no expression. ‘How much do you know?’
‘I know,’ she said, very softly, ‘that Moses Smith was murdered with your knife. I know that someone trapped Matt into taking the blame. I know that you’ – she paused, chose the word very deliberately – ‘reek – of Lottie Smith’s perfume.’
There was a long, long silence. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t kill Moses.’
‘Neither did Matt.’
‘No.’
‘Then – who?’
He took a long breath and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m not sure you’ll believe me if I tell you.’
‘You do know, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then in God’s name why is my brother lying in the condemned cell at Newgate!’ For the first time the violence of her emotion showed in her voice, raw and passionate.
‘Because the trap was laid too well! Because what we know and what we can prove are two different things! Because we live on the wrong side of the law, and the creatures of the law are not interested in justice for the likes of us!’ His tone matched and surpassed hers in violence. ‘If there had been anything I could do to save Matt – do you think I would have left it undone?’
She lifted her head, looked at him with a cool, level gaze. ‘If in doing it you might have incriminated yourself? Yes, I do.’
He took a sharp, angry breath. She sensed his battle for self-control.
‘You spoke of a trap,’ she said. ‘What trap? Who would wish to trap Matt?’
He drained his glass, held it before him, watching the flames through the distorting glass. ‘The trap was not laid for Matt,’ he said at last. ‘It was laid for me.’
‘By whom?’
He leaned back in his chair. For the first time, she saw the tiredness in him. ‘By Oliver Fogg,’ he said.
For a moment her mind was blank. ‘Fogg?’ The name was only faintly familiar. Then from some hidden recess of her memory rose a face – a cadaver’s face, sharp-boned and ugly. ‘But, I don’t understand – what has Fogg to do with all this? You said that he was a policeman. That he was after you—’
‘And so he was. What none of us knew was that he was after Moses too. He wanted me behind bars.’ He turned his dark head and stared into the fire. ‘He wanted Moses dead.’
‘But, in heaven’s name, why?’
He sat for a moment in silence, then spoke quietly. ‘A couple of years ago – just before you and Matt came – a young girl that Moses had working in The House killed herself.’ He held his empty glass before him, watching the distorted flames through it. ‘She was Oliver Fogg’s daughter. His only child.’
‘What!’
‘Sally-Anne knew her. Knew who she was. Knew the story all along. It just never occurred to her to tell anyone.’
‘But what was a respectable girl doing in The House?’
He smiled, bitterly. ‘A respectable young man got her into trouble, and her respectable father threw her out. How else? Don’t tell me you’ve not heard the story before.’
‘Then it was Fogg’s own fault that she was there?’
‘Of course. But he didn’t see it that way. After she died, eaten up with guilt, he vowed revenge. He tried first to stay on the right side of the law – watching Moses, trying to gather some kind of evidence that would put him behind bars or, preferably, hang him. You remember what happened – Moses, thinking he was protecting me, applied the screws and Fogg was warned off. That was when he decided to take the law into his own hands. He planned and he waited. He wanted Moses dead, and he had a score to settle with me. When rumours reached his ears that Moses and I weren’t exactly on the best of terms he knew his time had come. He stole my knife and killed Moses with it, then sent me a note, ostensibly from Moses, to get me to the Song and Supper Rooms.’
‘But it was Matt who saw the note, and Matt who went—’
‘Exactly. So Fogg took second best. He needed a murderer, and one that the law would be only too pleased to take. Since I had not obliged, he substituted Matt.’
‘And Matt made things worse for himself by taking the knife because he recognized it as yours—’
There was the smallest of silences. ‘Yes.’
She looked at him, a small puzzled frown on her face. ‘How do you know all this?’
The silence this time was much, much longer.
‘Luke?’
He rolled the empty glass between long fingers. ‘Fogg told me,’ he said, ‘just before he died.’
He might have struck her. She gasped, staring, speechless. He did not look at her. Sh
e swallowed noisily. ‘What have you done?’ she whispered at last.
‘What had to be done.’
‘What had to be done? What had to be done?’ She was trembling with rage and grief. ‘You killed Fogg? The man who might have been able to clear Matt’s name? You killed him? And now there’s no hope—’
‘There was never any hope.’ His voice cut across hers like a pistol shot. ‘From the moment Matt was taken, yards from the body, covered in blood, the murder weapon in his hand, there was never any hope. Matt himself knew it. The trial was a travesty. No one ever intended it to be anything else. A criminal murdered by a criminal. Two birds with one stone. He never stood a chance.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing! You want justice? You have it – the only justice you’ll get. Fogg’s dead.’
‘I don’t want anyone dead! I want Matt out of there – alive—!’
He said nothing. She sustained his dark, direct gaze for a moment, then with a sudden movement buried her face in her hands. ‘I don’t believe this. I don’t believe any of it.’
He neither spoke nor moved to comfort her. She was trembling again, violently. She felt him remove the empty glass from her nerveless fingers, heard his movements as he refilled it. When he returned she lifted her head, took the glass and swallowed a mouthful of the fiery liquid. The cold knot of nausea in her stomach resisted it. ‘What made you suspect Fogg?’ she asked, dully. ‘How did you know it was him?’
‘He was in charge of the policemen who captured Matt. Sally recognized his name at the trial, and told me about the girl. It had already struck me as being fishy – his being so conveniently on hand. I decided that perhaps we should have a little talk.’
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