Cardington Crescent

by Anne Perry

  “In Tortoise Lane?” Pitt smiled back dourly.

  “I ain’t always bin in Tortoise Lane,” she said, instantly regretting it. She knew she had made a mistake, and it was marked in the sudden slackness in her face, an alteration in the way she sat. “I goes out sometimes!” she said, trying to make good the damage.

  “Not to Cardington Crescent, you don’t.” His confidence was growing, although he still had no idea towards what end. “And you’ve been here for some time.” He looked about him. “Certainly since she wrote to you. As you pointed out, she had this house in her address book.”

  This time she really did pale; the color blanched from her predatory face leaving the rouge standing on her cheeks, the spot on the left cheek an inch higher than the spot on the right. She said nothing.

  Pitt stood up. “I’ll see the rest of the house,” he announced, and went to the door before she could stop him. He opened it and went out into the dogleg of the passage, walking swiftly towards the kitchens, away from the front door. One of the girls he had seen before was on her hands and knees on the floor with a bucket of water and a brush. She moved out of the way for him.

  The kitchen itself was enormous for a house of this size, two rooms knocked into one, either deliberately or by a rotten wall collapsing and being removed. The floor was wooden, scrubbed till the planks were worn uneven, nails in little islands humped above, grit driven into the cracks. Two large stoves were covered with a variety of cauldrons, and one kettle spouted steam, presumably to refresh Mrs. Mapes’s teapot. Beside the stoves were scuttles of coal dust and coke refuse, close enough for the spindly-armed girls to lift them and restoke. By the far wall sank sacks of grain and potatoes and a bundle of grubby cabbages. Opposite was a huge dresser decked with dishes and pans and mugs, drawers ill-fitting, papers poking out. A ball of string, partly unwound, lay on the floor. There was a half wrapped parcel on the kitchen table, and a pair of scissors. Above them, winched to the ceiling, was an airing rail, hung with all manner of ragged clothes and linen collecting the kitchen smells.

  There were three more girls working at various chores; one at the sink peeling potatoes, one stirring a cauldron of gruel on the stove, the third on her hands and knees with a dustpan. None of them could have been more than fourteen—the youngest looked more like ten or eleven. Obviously the establishment was intended to cater to a considerable number of people on a regular basis.

  “How many more are there of you?” he asked before Mrs. Mapes could catch up with him. He could hear her skirt swishing and rattling behind him.

  “I dunno,” a white-faced girl whispered. “There’s all them little ones, the babes. They comes and goes, so I dunno.”

  “Shush!” the oldest warned fiercely, her eyes black with fear.

  Pitt did all he could to keep his expression from betraying him. Now he knew what this place was, but he was helpless to change it. And if he showed his fury, pity, or disgust, he would only make it worse. Nature fueled the need and poverty necessitated the answer.

  “What do yer want in ’ere, Mr. Pitt?” Mrs. Mapes demanded from behind him, her voice shrill. “Ain’t nothin’ ’ere as ’as ter do wiv you!”

  “No, nothing at all,” he agreed grimly, without moving. There was no point at which he could even begin, let alone accomplish anything. He would do more harm by starting, and yet he was loath to leave.

  “’Ow much?” she asked.

  “What?” He had no idea what she was talking about. His eyes roamed over the cauldrons: gruel, easy and cheap for the children, potatoes to fill out a stew with no meat.

  “’Ow much did Mrs. March remember me wiv?” she said impatiently. “You said as she remembered me!”

  He looked at the floor and the large wooden table. They were unusually clean—that at least was something in her favor. “I don’t know. I expect it will be sent to you.” It would depend on what he could persuade out of his superiors. He might even forget it altogether.

  “Ain’t you got it?”

  He did not answer. If he did he would have no excuse to remain, and there was something at the back of his mind that held him here, a sense that there was meaning, if only he could find it.

  What could Sybilla March possibly have wanted with this woman? A child taken for a maidservant in trouble? It seemed the only reasonable thing. Was it worth pursuing, following to Sybilla’s house and seeing if any maid there had been unaccountably absent, perhaps due to a confinement? Did it matter? Life was full of such domestic tragedies, girls who had to earn their livings and could not afford to keep a child born out of wedlock. And servants hardly ever married, precisely for that reason; they lived in their masters’ houses, where there was no room for families.

  Mrs. Mapes’s voice grated behind him. “Then yer’d best be abaht yer business, an’ leave me ter mine!”

  He turned slowly, looking over the room for a last time. Then he realized what it was that held him: the parcel—the brown paper parcel on the kitchen table, half tied, next to the scissors. He had seen that paper, that curious yellow string before, tied lengthways and widthways twice, knotted at each join and tied with a loop and two raw ends. Suddenly he was ice cold, as if a breath from a charnel house had crawled over his skin. He remembered the blood and the flies, the fat woman with her bustle crooked and her bulging-eyed dog. It was too much to be a coincidence. The paper was common, but the string was unusual, the knots eccentric, characteristic, the combination surely unique. They were at least a mile and a half from Bloomsbury. What of this small parcel wrapped in the off cuts? Where was the first parcel, the larger one? He could see it nowhere in the kitchen.

  “I’m going,” he said aloud, surprised by the sound of his own voice. “Yes, Mrs. Mapes, I’ll bring the money myself, now that I know it’s you.”

  “When?” She smiled again, oblivious of the parcel on the table and its knots. “I wanter make sure as I’m in, like,” she added in explanation, as if it could mask her eagerness.

  “Tomorrow,” he replied. “Sooner, if I get back to my offices in time.” He must get one of these children alone and ask them about the parcels—where they went to, how often, and who carried them. But it must be away from here, where she could not overhear, or the child’s life would be imperiled. “Have you got someone reliable who’ll deliver a message for me, someone you trust yourself?” he asked.

  She weighed the advantages against the disadvantages and decided in his favor.

  “I got Nellie, she’ll do it fer yer,” she said grudgingly. “Wot is it?”

  “Confidential,” he answered. “I’ll tell her outside. Then I’ll be back as soon as I can. You may rest assured of that, Mrs. Mapes.”

  “Nellie!” she shrieked at the full power of her lungs; the blast of it shivered the china on the dresser.

  There was a moment’s silence, then the wail of a wakened baby somewhere upstairs, a clatter of feet, and Nellie appeared at the doorway, hair straggling, apron awry, eyes frightened. “Yes, Mrs. Mapes, ma’am?”

  “Go wiv vis gennelman and do ’is errand fer ’im,” Mrs. Mapes ordered. “Then come back ’ere an’ get on wiv yer work. There’s no food in this life fer them as does no work.”

  “No, Mrs. Mapes, ma’am.” Nellie bobbed a half curtsy and turned to Pitt. She must have been about fifteen, although she was so thin and underdeveloped it was hard to be sure.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mapes,” Pitt said, hating her as he had hated few people in his life, aware that perhaps it was only a vent for his rage against poverty itself. She was a creature of her time and place. Should he hate her for surviving? Those who died did so only because they had not her strength. And yet he still hated her.

  He went past her to the corridor, along its dank, rush-matted thinness past the children still sitting on the stairs, and out of the front room into Tortoise Lane, Nellie a step behind him. He walked till he was round the corner and out of sight of number 3.

  “Wot’s yer errand, mister?” Nellie asked
when they stopped.

  “Do you often run errands for Mrs. Mapes?”

  “Yes, mister. Yer can trust me. 1 knows me way round ere.

  “Good. Do you take parcels for her?”

  “Yes. An’ I ain’t never lost one. Yer can trust me, mister.”

  “I do trust you, Nellie,” he said gently, wishing to God he could do something about her and knowing he could not. If he did, it would be misunderstood, and probably frighten and confuse her. “Did you take the big parcel from the kitchen table?”

  Her eyes widened. “Mrs. Mapes told me ter, honest!”

  “I’m sure she did,” he said quickly. “Did you take several parcels for her about three weeks ago?”

  “I ain’t done nuffin wrong mister. I jus’ took ’em where she said!” Now she was beginning to be frightened; his questions made no sense to her.

  “I know that, Nellie,” he said quietly. “Where was that? Around here, and in Bloomsbury?”

  Her eyes widened. “No, mister. I took ’em to Mr. Wigge—like always.”

  He let out his breath slowly. “Then take me to Mr. Wigge, Nellie. Take me there now.”

  12

  NELLIE LED PITT through a maze of cramped alleys and steps till they came to a small, squalid yard stacked with old furniture—much of it mildewed and worm-eaten—bits and pieces of old crockery, and scraps of fabric that not even the ragpickers would have bothered with. At the far side, beyond the ill-balanced piles and heaps, was the entrance down to a large cellar.

  “This is w’ere I brung ’em,” Nellie said, looking up at Pitt anxiously. “I swear it, mister.”

  “Who did you give them to?” he asked, staring round and seeing no one.

  “Mr. Wigge.” She pointed to the steps down to the dark, gaping cellar.

  “Come and show me,” he requested, “please.”

  Reluctantly she picked her way through the rubbish to the edge of the stair, descending slowly. At the bottom she turned and knocked on the wooden door which stood open on rusted hinges. Her hands made hardly any sound.

  “Mr. Wigge? Sir?”

  A scrawny old man appeared almost immediately, clad in a filthy jacket, pockets torn by the weight of the junk he had piled in them over the years, trousers splashed with all manner of ordure. He wore fingerless mittens on his hands in spite of the warmth of the day, and on his thin, uncut hair was a shiny black stovepipe hat, completely unmarked. It might have left the hatter’s shop an hour since.

  His lantern-jawed face split in an anticipatory leer, and he squinted up at Pitt.

  “Mr. Wigge?” Pitt inquired.

  The old man bowed jerkily; it was an affectation of gentility he liked. “Septimus Wigge at your service, sir. ’Ow may I ’elp yer? I got a lovely brass bedstead. I got a dancin’ lady in real porcelain.”

  “I’ll come in and take a look.” Pitt had a premonition of disappointment. If Clarabelle Mapes had simply been selling off household goods, her own or others’, to raise a little money, it was not worth pursuing. And yet the knots had been peculiar, identical to those on that terrible parcel in the churchyard and all the others.

  What should he do about Nellie? If he sent her back to Tortoise Lane would she tell Mrs. Mapes what he had asked her, and where she had taken him? He did not hold much hope that she would hold out against Mrs. Mapes’s inquisition if she were suspicious. Nellie lived in a cocoon of hunger and fear.

  And yet if he kept her with him, what could he do with her? Tortoise Lane was her home—probably all she knew. He had already committed her. She knew about the parcels, and if Clarabelle Mapes had tied those bloody and dreadful ones as well as the innocent one, Nellie’s life was imperiled if she returned and told how she had led Pitt to Septimus Wigge. He had to keep her.

  “Nellie, come in with me and help me look.”

  “I daren’t, mister.” She shook her head. “I got chores. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get ’ome in time. Mrs. Mapes’ll be that cross wi’ me.”

  “Not if you go back with the money from Mrs. March,” he argued. “She’s in a hurry for that.”

  Nellie looked doubtful. She was more afraid of the immediate than the problematical; her imagination did not stretch that far.

  Pitt did not have time to argue. She was used to obedience.

  “It’s an order, Nellie,” he said briskly. “You stay with me. Mrs. Mapes will be angry if her money is delayed.” He turned to the waiting man.”Now, Mr. Wigge, I’ll take a look at these brass beds of yours.”

  “Very reasonable, sir, very reasonable.” Wigge turned and led the way inside the cellar. It was larger than Pitt had expected, higher-ceilinged and stretching back into the recesses of the building. Against one wall there was a large furnace with a metal door hanging open sending heat out into the stone spaces, and in spite of the mildness of the day, its warmth was agreeable under the ground level, where there was no sunlight.

  The old man showed him several fine brass bedsteads, a few pieces of quite good china, and several other odds and ends in which Pitt affected to be interested, all the time peering and searching, finding nothing beyond what might or might not be stolen goods. But while haggling with him over a small green glass vase he eventually bought for Charlotte, he did make a very close observation of Mr. Septimus Wigge himself. By the time he left, still followed by Nellie, he could have described Mr. Wigge so closely an artist could have drawn him from the soles of his appalling boots up to the crown of his immaculate hat, and every feature of his smirking face.

  He took his leave, holding the vase, taking Nellie with him. He had no choice. He must forget about Sybilla, whose connection with Clarabelle Mapes he could not understand and very probably was coincidental and had nothing to do with her murder. He must go back to the Bloomsbury churchyard, now that he knew who he was looking for, and try all the residents and habitues to see if even one of them could place Septimus Wigge there three weeks ago. It could be a long task.

  First he must find a safe place to leave Nellie, where Mrs. Mapes would not discover her. It was after two, and they had not eaten.

  “Are you hungry, Nellie?” He asked only out of politeness; from the child’s hollow eyes and the sunken, slack quality of her flesh he knew she was always hungry.

  “Yes, mister.” She did not sound surprised that he should ask; she obviously believed him sufficiently eccentric to do anything.

  “So am I. Let’s have luncheon.”

  “I ain’t got nuffin.” This time she looked at him anxiously.

  “You’ve been a great help to me, Nellie, I think you’ve earned luncheon.” She was fifteen, quite old enough to understand patronage, and she did not deserve it. She had little enough dignity and he was determined not to seduce that from her. Nor would he question her yet about the house in Tortoise Lane. He knew what it was; he did not need to lead her into betraying it. “I know a very good public house where they’ll give us fresh bread and cold meat and pickle and pudding.”

  She did not yet believe it. “Thank you, mister,” she said, her expression unchanged.

  The pub he had in mind was only half a mile away, and they walked to it in silence, quite companionable for his part. As soon as he went in, the landlord recognized him. He was a moderately law-abiding citizen, most of the time, and that area of his business which was questionable Pitt left alone. It was to do with game bought from poachers, the occasional avoidance of excise taxes on tobacco and similar goods, and a great deal of judicious blindness. Pitt was concerned with murder.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Tibbs,” he said cheerfully.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Pitt, sir.” Tibbs came hurrying towards him, wiping his hands on the sides of his trousers, eager to keep on the right side of the law. “Luncheon for yer, Mr. Pitt, sir? Got a luvly piece o’ mutton—or a good Cheshire, or a Double Gloucester? An’ me best pickle, Mrs. Tibbs’s own, put it up last summer an’ it’s proper tasty. What’ll it be?”

  “Mutton, Mr. Tibbs,” Pitt replied. “For me an
d the lady. And a jar of ale each. And then pudding. And Tibbs, there are some very unpleasant people who might come looking for the lady, to do her harm. I’d like you to keep her safe for a while. She’s a good little worker, when she’s fed. Find her a place out of sight in your kitchens. She can sleep by the stove. It won’t be for long, unless you decide to keep her. She’ll earn her way.

  Tibbs looked doubtfully at Nellie’s skinny little body and pinched face. “Wot’s she done?” he asked, giving Pitt a narrow look.

  “Seen something she shouldn’t,” Pitt replied immediately.

  “All right,” Tibbs said reluctantly. “But you’ll answer fer anythin’ she takes, Mr. Pitt.”

  “You feed her properly and don’t beat her,” Pitt agreed, “and I’ll answer for her honesty. And if I don’t find her here when I come back for her, you’ll answer with a lot more than money. Are we understood?”

  “It’s a favor I’m doin’ yer, Mr. Pitt.” Tibbs wanted to make sure he was laying up future repayment.

  “It is,” Pitt conceded. “I don’t forget much, Mr. Tibbs—good or bad.”

  “I’ll get yer mutton.” Tibbs disappeared, satisfied.

  Pitt and Nellie sat down at one of the small tables, he with relief, she gingerly, still confused.

  “Why yer talkin’ abaht me wiv ’im fer?” she asked, screwing up her face and staring at him, a trace of fear in her eyes.

  “Because I’m going to leave you here to work in his kitchen,” he answered. “You’re not safe in Tortoise Lane till I’ve finished learning what I have to.”

  “Mrs. Mapes’ll turn me aht!” She was really frightened now. “I’ll ’ave nowhere ter go!”

  “You can stay here.” He leaned forward. “Nellie, you’ve learned something you shouldn’t. I’m a policeman, a rozzer. Do you know what happens to people who know secrets they shouldn’t?”

  She nodded silently. She knew. They vanished. She had lived fifteen years in St. Giles; she understood the laws of survival very well.