by Anne Perry
She swung round and glared at him, her black eyes venomous, and knocked aside a serving girl, sending her sprawling onto the floor, covered in the ale she had been carrying. Pitt was forced to hesitate to avoid falling over her, his feet entangled in her thrusting legs. As it was, he tripped over a stool and all but measured his length, catching hold of the doorframe just in time to steady himself. There was a roar of laughter behind him, and another clatter as the sergeant appeared, buttons undone, helmet askew.
Out of the front door past a knot of idlers, Pitt saw her still running swiftly towards a side alley opposite, no more than a slit in the gray walls between houses. She was going deeper into the labyrinth of sweatshops, gin mills, and tenements, and if he did not catch her soon she would find a hundred natural allies and he would be lucky if he returned at all, let alone having captured her.
At the end of the alley was a flight of steps down into a wide, ill-lit room where women sat sewing by oil lamps. Clarabelle had no care whom she spilled onto the floor, whose shirts she tore or sent flying into the dust, and Pitt could not afford to look either. Outraged cries rang in his ears.
At the far side the door caught him in the chest and checked him for a moment, knocking the breath out of his lungs. But he was too hot in pursuit to care about pain; his mind was filled and possessed with the hunger to capture her, to feel her physically under his hand and to force her to walk ahead of him, hands manacled behind her, drenched in the knowledge she was on the last length of the unalterable journey towards the gallows.
In the areaway three old women shared a bottle of gin, and a child played with two stones.
“Help!” Clarabelle Mapes shouted piercingly. “Stop ’im! ’E’s after me!”
But the old women were too rubber-legged and bleary-eyed to respond as she wanted, and Pitt jumped over them without their offering any serious resistance. He was gaining on Clarabelle; another few yards at this pace and he would catch her. His legs were far longer, and he had no skirts to trammel him.
But she was among her own kind now, and she knew the way. The next door was slammed in his face and would not open when he pushed it. He was obliged to hurl his weight against it, bruising his shoulder. It was not till the sergeant caught up with him that they were able to force it together.
The room beyond was dimly lit and packed with humanity of all ages and both sexes; the smell of sweat, stale food, and animal grime caught in his throat.
They ran through, leaping and kicking at sprawled bodies, and out of the far door into a crumbling street so narrow the jettied upper stories almost met. The open drain down the middle was crusted with dry sewage. A score of squat doorways—she might have gone into any one of them. All the doors were closed. There were huddles of people already half asleep or sodden with drink propped up here and there. None of them took the slightest notice of him or the sergeant, except one old man who, watching the situation, yelled encouragement to Pitt, imagining him the fugitive. He threw an empty bottle at the sergeant, which missed him and shattered on the wall behind, sending splinters in an arc ten feet wide.
“Which way did she go?” Pitt shouted furiously. “There’s sixpence for anyone who helps me get her.”
Two or three stirred, but no one spoke.
He was so angry, so scalded with frustration he would have attacked them even in their stupor if he had thought it would achieve anything at all.
Then another, far brighter thought came to him. He had been only a couple of yards behind Clarabelle when she had gone into the large dormitory. Even with the few moments it had taken to break in the door he should have seen the far door swing, and caught a glimpse of her fuchsia skirt in this frowsy street.
He spun round and charged back into the great room, seizing the first person he could reach, hauling him up by the lapels and glaring at him. “Where did she go?” he said gratingly between his teeth. “If she’s still here I’ll charge you all with being accessory to murder, do you hear me?”
“She ain’t ’ere!” the man squeaked. “Let go o’ me, yer bleedin’ pig! She’s gawn, Gawd ’elp ’er! Fooled yer, yer swine!”
Pitt dropped him and stumbled back to the broken door, the sergeant still on his heels. Out in the alley again there was no sign of her, and the possibility that she had escaped brought him out in a sweat of fury and impotence. He could understand how children wept at their own powerlessness.
He must force himself to think more clearly; anger would solve nothing. She had a flourishing business and considerable possessions in Tortoise Lane. What would he seek to do in her place? Attack! Get rid of the only man who knew her crime. Would Clarabelle think that far? Or would escape be all that mattered now? Was panic greater than cunning?
He remembered the brilliant black eyes and thought not. If he looked vulnerable, offered himself as bait, she would come back to finish him; her instinct was all to attack, to kill.
“Wait!” he said curtly to the sergeant.
“But she’s not ’ere!” the sergeant hissed back. “She can’t ’ave got far, sir! I’d ’ate something rotten to lose this one! A right wicked woman.”
“So would I, sergeant, so would I.” Pitt looked up, searching the grimy windows in the flat walls above. It was growing dimmer, closer to true twilight. He had not long. Then he saw it—the pale glimmer of a face behind a window—and then it was gone again.
“Wait here!” he said tersely. “In case I’m wrong.” He turned and went in the nearest door, past the inhabitants, up a rickety stairway and along a dim passage. He heard movement at the end and a rustle of taffeta; a fat body squeezing through a narrow way. He knew it was her as if he could smell her. Only a few yards ahead of him she was waiting. What would she have? She had killed Prudence Wilson with a knife, and carved up her body as if it had been a side of meat.
He moved after her quietly now, walking on the sides of his feet; even so, the boards were rotten and betrayed him. He heard her ahead—or was it her? Was she crouched behind some half concealed door, waiting, all the weight of her thick body balanced to thrust the knife into his flesh, deep, to the heart?
Without realizing it he had stopped. Fear was tingling sharp, his throat tight, tongue dry. He could not stay here. He could hear someone further and further ahead of him, going on upwards.
Unwilling, pulse racing, he crept forward, one hand outstretched to touch the wall and feel its solid surface. He came to another flight of stairs, even narrower than the last, and knew she was close above him. He could feel her presence like a prickle on his skin; he even thought he could hear her breath wheezing somewhere in the gloom.
Then suddenly there was a thud, a cry of anger, and her footsteps at the top of the stepladder above him. He started up and saw for a moment her bulk bent over the square of yellow light at the top, where the attic opened out. She was half in shadow, but he could still see the shining eyes, the curls loose like bedsprings, the sweat gleaming on her skin. He almost had her. He was forewarned, expecting a knife. She moved back, as if she were afraid of him, startled to find him so close.
He could make the last four steps easily, in two strides, and be beside her before she had time to strike. If he moved to one side as soon as he was through that square—
Then with horror paralyzing him quite literally, leaving him frozen on the step, he remembered the secret of these old warrens—and deliberately let go the rail and fell backwards down to the floor, bruising and battering himself, just as the trapdoor came down with its spearsharp embedded blades slicing the air where he had been the instant before, followed by her shrill scream of laughter.
He scrambled to his feet, blood surging through him, pain forgotten, and swarmed up the stairs, striking his hand between the blades and shooting the trap open. He fell up and out of the hole onto the attic floor only a yard away from where she crouched. Before she had time even to register shock he hit her as hard as he could with his clenched fist—and all the stored up anger, the pain and loss of her victi
ms—and she rolled over and lay senseless. He did not give a damn about the difficulty of getting her down, or even whether his superiors would charge him with breaking her jaw. He had Clarabelle Mapes, and he was satisfied.
13
IT WAS LATE the following morning when Pitt returned to Cardington Crescent. The euphoria of capturing Clarabelle Mapes had vanished, and in the dull, warm daylight he remembered that he had gone to Tortoise Lane to find out what Sybilla March had wanted there. And he had learned nothing. No amount of questioning was going to get anything more from Clarabelle, and none of the children had ever seen a lady like Sybilla.
The butler let him in and he asked that Charlotte be sent for. He was permitted to wait in the morning room. It was oppressive, curtains half drawn, pictures draped with black, black crepe fluttering in unlikely places like cobwebs stained with soot.
Charlotte came in, dressed in exquisitely fashionable lavender; it flickered through his mind that it was a gown of Aunt Vespasia’s altered a little at the bosom to fit Charlotte. Vespasia never wore black, even for death.
Charlotte was pale; there were smudges of tiredness under her eyes. But her face lit up with pleasure as she saw him, and he found it extraordinarily good. In a sense deeper than walls or possessions, wherever she was, he would be at home.
“Oh, Thomas, I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said immediately. “Everything is getting worse. We are looking at each other with terrible thoughts in our eyes and strings of words we want to mean, and can’t.” She turned and closed the door behind her and stood leaning against it, staring at him, biting her lips, her hands clenched tightly. “It isn’t Tassie. I’ve discovered what she does at night, where she goes and gets splashed with blood.”
A monstrous anger welled up inside him, sharp as a dagger, because it was principally fear, not only for her but for himself, fear of losing all that was most precious to him, all the deep, warm safety that supported every other courage and dream he held.
“You what?” he shouted involuntarily.
She closed her eyes, her face tight. “Don’t shout, Thomas.”
He strode forward and took her by the arm, pulling her away from the door and around to face him in the center of the room. He was hurting her and he knew it.
“You what?” he repeated fiercely. The very fact that she had remained by the door instead of coming to him and kissing him, that she had not replied with any righteous anger of her own, meant that she was conscious of her guilt. “You followed her!” he accused with certainty.
Her eyes opened wide and there was no apology in them.
“I had to find out where she went,” she explained. “And it was perfectly all right—she goes to help deliver babies! A lot of poor women, or unmarried women—girls—can’t afford a midwife. That’s why so many die. Thomas, it’s a wonderful thing she’s doing, and the people love her.”
He was too angry at the idiotic risk she had taken to be relieved that Tassie’s conduct was so innocent, where he had feared such horror. Without realizing it he was shaking Charlotte.
“You followed her to some woman’s home, alone, at night?” He was still shouting. “You ... you fool! You imbecile! She could have taken you anywhere! What if she had been responsible for the woman whose body was found in bloody pieces in Bloomsbury? You might have been the next one!” He was so furious he could have slapped her, as one does a beloved child who has just escaped falling under the carriage wheels. In the rush of relief one dares to imagine all the possible dangers so narrowly missed. Memory of Clarabelle Mapes and the appalling labyrinth he had so lately left were stronger in him than this comfortable, civilized house. “You stupid, irresponsible woman! Do I have to lock you up before I can leave the house safely and be sure you’ll behave yourself like an adult?”
What had begun as guilt in her was now overridden by a sense of injury. He was being unjust and she was correspondingly angry in her own right. “You are hurting me,” she said coldly.
“You deserve to be thrashed!” he retaliated without altering his grip in the slightest.
She answered by kicking him sharply in the shins with the toe of her boot. He was so surprised he let go of her with a gasp and she stepped back smartly.
“Don’t you dare treat me like a child, Thomas Pitt!” she said furiously. “I am not one of your dainty ladies who do nothing all day and can be ordered to their rooms whenever you don’t like what they say. Emily is my sister, and she’s not going to be hanged for killing George if there is anything at all that I can do to help it. Tassie is in love with Mungo Hare, Beamish’s curate—he helps her with the deliveries—and she is going to marry him.”
He clung to the only other example of male reason and dominion he could think of.
“Her father won’t let her. He’ll never allow it.”
“Oh, yes, he will!” she retorted. “I’ve promised him you won’t tell anyone about his affair with Sybilla if he agrees, and if he doesn’t I shall make thoroughly sure all Society knows of it in detail. He’ll give Tassie his blessing, I assure you.”
“Do you?” He was incensed. “You take a great deal for granted! And what if I don’t choose to honor this promise you gave so freely on my behalf?”
She hesitated, swallowing hard, then met his eyes. “Then Tassie will not be able to marry the man she loves, because he is not socially suitable and has no money,” she said bluntly. “She’ll remain single and live here in bondage to that selfish old woman, keeping her company till she dies, and then doing the same for her father. Either that or she’ll have to marry someone she doesn’t love.”
She did not need to add that that was what might well have happened to her, had her father not been of a more amenable disposition than Eustace, and had her mother not pleaded her cause with force. Pitt was aware of it, and the knowledge robbed him of the justification he wanted. She had done exactly what he would have wished; it was the fact that he had been preempted that enraged him, not the act. But to say so aloud would be ridiculous—in fact, the complaint was ridiculous.
He chose to change the subject entirely, and play his best card. “I have solved the murder of the corpse in the Bloomsbury churchyard,” he said instead. “And captured the murderess, after a chase, with enough evidence to hang her.”
Charlotte was impressed, and she let her amazement and admiration show in her face. “I didn’t think that would be possible,” she said honestly. “How did you do it?”
He sat down sideways on the arm of one of the hide chairs. He was stiff after the bruising he had taken chasing Clarabelle Mapes, and he was surprisingly sore.
“It was a woman who kept a baby farm.”
She frowned. “A what?”
“A baby farm.” He hated having to tell her of such things, but she had chosen to know. “A woman takes out discreet advertisements saying that she loves children and will be happy to care for any infant whose mother, due to circumstances of ill health or other commitment, is unable to care for it herself. Often they add that sickly children are particularly welcomed and will be nursed as if their own. A small financial provision is required, of course, for necessities.”
Charlotte was puzzled. “There must be many women only too glad to avail themselves of such a service. It sounds like a charitable thing to do. Why do you say it with such disgust? Too many women have to work and can’t care for their children, especially if they are in domestic service, and the child is illegitimate—” She stopped. “Why?”
“Because most of them, like Clarabelle Mapes, take the fee from their mothers and then let the sickly ones starve—or actually murder them—rather than spend money on caring for them. The strong or pretty ones they sell.” He saw her face. “I’m sorry. You did ask.”
“Why the Bloomsbury murder?” she asked after a moment’s silence. “Was she the mother of one of the children who was murdered, and discovered the truth?”
“One who was sold.”
“Oh.” She sat down without moving
for several minutes, and he did not touch her. Then at last he put out one hand gently. “Why did you go there?” she asked at last.
“The address was in Sybilla’s book.”
She was startled. “The baby farm? But that’s ridiculous. Why?”
“I don’t know. I never found out. I presume Sybilla found it for a servant, one of her own maids or a friend’s. I can’t imagine any of her own circle wanting such a service. Even if they had an illegitimate child, they would find some other provision; a relative in the country, a family retainer in retirement with a daughter.”
“I suppose it was a maid,” Charlotte agreed. “Or else she knew the woman for some other reason. Poor Sybilla.”
“It doesn’t help me any further towards finding out who killed her, or why.”
“You asked the woman, of course?”
He gave a sharp, guttural little laugh. “You didn’t see Clarabelle Mapes, or you wouldn’t ask.”
“Have you no idea who killed George?” She faced him, eyes dark with anxiety, fear heavy at the back of them. He realized again how tired she was, how very troubled.
He touched her cheek gently, slowly. “No, my love, not much. There are only William, Eustace, Jack Radley, and Emily left; unless it was the old woman, which I would dearly like to think, but I know of no reason she would. I can’t even imagine one—and believe me, I’ve tried.”
“You include Emily!”
He closed his eyes, opening them slowly, unhappily. “I have to.”
There was no point in arguing; she knew it to be true. A knock on the door saved her from the necessity of replying.
“Come in,” Pitt said reluctantly.
It was Stripe, looking apologetic and holding a note in his hand.
“Sorry, Mr. Pitt, sir. The police surgeon sent this for you. It don’t make no sense.”