Pentecost Alley

by Anne Perry

  So far neither Tellman nor Ewart had discovered anything of relevance.

  He spent the evening, and the later part of the following day and the one after that, walking the prostitutes’ beats around the West End, Windmill Street, the Haymarket, Leicester Square and the streets and alleys close by. He saw thousands of women much like Ada, some gorgeously dressed, parading like peacocks, others less so, some in little more than gaudy rags. Many, even in the gaslight after dark, still looked long past their prime, raddle-cheeked, slack-bodied. Some were country fresh, come to the city to seek their fortune and finding it in the accommodation rooms in hasty fornication with strangers, often their fathers’ or even grandfathers’ ages.

  And there were also children, eight or ten years old, running after men, pulling at their sleeves and whispering dirty words in hope of exciting their interest, or thrusting into their hands lurid, pornographic pictures.

  Side by side with them were the theater crowds, respectable women, even wealthy ladies on their husbands’ arms, arriving at or leaving the performance of some play or concert.

  Pitt tried every contact he had in the rooming houses, the pimps and madams he knew, but no one owned to recognizing his picture of Ada or knowing her name other than from the news that she was dead. Since Finlay FitzJames’s connection had not been mentioned, the newspapers had made little of it. No one knew of the broken fingers and toes except Lennox, Ewart, Cornwallis and himself.

  He was close to defeat when it occurred to him to try away from the West End and into the Hyde Park area. He had one more personal acquaintance to try, a huge, complacent and unctuous figure known as Fat George. He ruled his prostitutes with a rod of iron and the threat of his right-hand man, Wee Georgie, a vicious dwarf with a filthy temper, and quick to use the long, thin-bladed knife he always carried.

  He found Fat George in his own house, an extremely well-appointed, classically proportioned building off Inverness Terrace.

  Fat George did not rise; his enormous body was almost wedged into his chair. It was a warm day and he wore a loose shirt, newly laundered, his greasy gray curls sitting on the collar.

  “Well now, Mr. Pitt,” he said in his whispering, wheezy voice. “What brings you to call on me so urgently? Must be something terrible important to you. Sit down! Sit down! Haven’t seen you since that ugly business in the Park. Long time solving that, you were. Not very clever, Mr. Pitt. Not very efficient.” Fat George shook his head and his curls caught on his collar. “Not what we pay our police force for. You’re supposed to keep us safe, Mr. Pitt. We should sleep easy in our beds, knowin’ as you’re out there protectin’ us.” If there was humor in Fat George’s black eyes, it barely showed.

  “We can only solve crimes after they’ve happened, George, not before,” Pitt replied, accepting a seat. “There are a good many around here you could have prevented. Do you know anything about this woman?” He passed over Agnes’s sketch.

  Fat George took it in his pale-skinned, freckled hand, his fingers swollen so the bones were invisible.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen her,” he said after several seconds. “Smart girl, ambitious. Like to have her meself, but she’s greedy. Wants all her money for ’erself. Dangerous, that, Mr. Pitt. Very dangerous. She the one that got killed up Whitechapel? Should’ve seen that coming. Don’t have far to look, likely.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “Not clever, Mr. Pitt.” George wagged his head, pushing out his lower lip. “Losin’ your touch, are you? Try ’er pimp, fellow called Costigan, so I hear.”

  “Very public-spirited of you, George, and very quick to blame one of your own,” Pitt said dryly.

  “Gives me a bad name,” George wheezed sententiously. “Bit o’ discipline is all very well. Necessary, or you’d be walked all over. Can’t ’ave that. Girls’d be cheatin’ you left and right. But stranglin’ is overdoin’ it. Brings people like you around, an’ that’s all very nasty.” He coughed and his vast chest rumbled with congestion. The room was hot, the high windows all closed, giving it a musty air in spite of its cool colors, gracious lines and at least half a dozen potted palms placed here and there.

  “So why didn’t Costigan discipline her?” Pitt asked, eyebrows raised. “Killing her would seem to defeat his own purpose. Only a fool destroys his own livestock.”

  George made a gesture of distaste. “Oh, very crudely put, Mr. Pitt, very crude indeed.”

  “It’s a crude trade, George. What makes you think this Costigan even knew Ada was sneaking up west occasionally and then keeping her earnings?”

  Fat George shrugged, and his ripples of fat shook all down his body. “Maybe he followed her? Natural thing to do.”

  “If he was following her,” Pitt reasoned, “he’d have known the first time she left Whitechapel, which was several weeks ago.”

  Fat George rolled his eyes. “How do I know?”

  “Maybe someone told him?” Pitt suggested, watching George’s face.

  There was a very slight flicker, a tightening of the sallow skin, enough for Pitt.

  “You told him, didn’t you, George.” It was not a question but a statement. “She was on your patch, but refusing to pay you either, so rather than let Wee Georgie at her, and risk unpleasantness for yourself, you told her own pimp and let him deal with it. Only he went too far. Not your fault, of course,” he finished scathingly. “When did you tell him?”

  The room was becoming suffocating, like a jungle.

  George raised colorless eyebrows. “The day she were killed, but I’m hardly to blame, Mr. Pitt. Your tone in’t polite. In fact, most unjust. You’re an unjust man, Mr. Pitt, and that isn’t right. Expect the police to be just. If justice itself don’t …”

  Pitt stood up and shot him a look of such contempt Fat George left the rest of his complaint unfinished.

  “Costigan a trouble to you, was he?” Pitt said bitterly. “A threat?”

  “Hardly!” Fat George tried to laugh, broke into a wheeze, and ended coughing again, his massive chest heaving as he fought for breath.

  Pitt had no sympathy for him at all. He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving George purple in the face, gasping for air, and furious.

  Pitt took Constable Binns with him when he went to see Albert Costigan later that afternoon. He knew the area and found him without difficulty in the rooms he rented in Plumbers Row, just the other side of the Whitechapel Road from Pentecost Alley. It was narrow and gray on the outside, like all the other tenements, but inside was well furnished, even comfortable. Costigan liked to do nicely for himself, and his expensive tastes showed in the small extras: engraved glass gas mantels, a new carpet, a very nice oak gate-legged table.

  Costigan himself was of average height, with large, pale blue eyes, good nose and white teeth. His brown hair was brushed back in waves from his brow. At a glance, before one noticed the defensive, aggrieved expression in his face, the aggressive angle of his body, he was not unlike Finlay FitzJames. Had chance given him the same wealth and self-confidence, the education of manner, they could have passed for cousins.

  Pitt had no evidence against Costigan, except Fat George’s words, which were worth nothing as testimony. What was the oath of one pimp against the oath of another? And even a search of Costigan’s rooms would be unlikely to reveal anything of use. It would be natural enough for him to have Ada’s possessions, and very easily explained.

  “Yer still lookin’ fer ’oo killed poor Ada?” Costigan said accusingly. “Yer got nothing, ’ave yer?” His contempt was quite open.

  “Well, I’ve got some ideas,” Pitt answered, sitting down on the largest and most comfortable armchair and leaving Binns standing by the door.

  Costigan remained standing also, looking resentfully down at Pitt. “Oh yeah? What’s that then?”

  “We think it’s something to do with her going up towards Hyde Park,” Pitt replied.

  Costigan stopped fidgeting from one foot to the other and stared at Pitt.

  “ �
��Oo said she went up there? I never did.”

  “Are you going to tell me you didn’t know?” Pitt asked innocently. “Not very efficient of you, Mr. Costigan. One of your girls going up to the expensive end of town, getting custom up there, and you didn’t know about it? Don’t suppose you saw much of the money then?” He smiled. “That would be good for a few laughs around here!”

  “Course I knew!” Costigan said quickly, lifting his chin a little. “Take me for a fool! I’d beat the ’ell out o’ any girl wot cheated me like that! But I wouldn’t kill ’er! That’d be stupid. Can’t sell a girl wot’s dead, now can yer?” His large, bright eyes did not leave Pitt’s. They were aggressive and triumphant, as if he had won some contest between them.

  Pitt glanced around the room and back at Costigan again. It was not difficult to believe he had made a good deal of money out of someone. He could be telling the truth, except for what Fat George had said, and that could be a lie, simply to damage a business rival.

  “Did you send any other girls up there?” Pitt asked, his hope beginning to fade.

  Costigan hesitated, trying to decide whether to lie or not.

  “No … just Ada. She ’ad class, she ’ad.” He looked sorry for himself. He glanced at Binns in the doorway, scribbling down what he said.

  “Class?” Pitt said dubiously.

  “Yeah!” Costigan’s head jutted forward. “Dressed nice. ’Ad ’er ’air nice. Could make men laugh. They like that. Some girls is pretty, but stupid. Ada ’ad brains, an’ a quick tongue.” He squared his shoulders, staring at Pitt, bragging. “An’ like I said, she dressed nice. Good enough fer up west. Not like some o’ them tarts around ’ere wot look like they in’t got no idea wot a lady looks like.”

  At the doorway Binns let out a grunt. Costigan took it for disbelief.

  “She did, an’ all!” he said angrily. “Red an’ black dress, she ’ad, good as any o’ them tarts up the ’Aymarket way, an’ new boots wi’ pearly buttons on ’em. Cost a fortune, boots like that. Tarts around ’ere don’t ’ave nothin’ like them.”

  “Boots?” Pitt said very slowly, a sudden lift of excitement in his chest, at the very same moment as the weight of tragedy struck him.

  “Yeah, boots,” Costigan snapped, quite unaware of what he had said.

  “When did you see them, Mr. Costigan?” Pitt asked, glancing at Binns to make sure he was writing everything down.

  “Wot? I dunno. Why?”

  “Think!” Pitt ordered. “When did you see the boots?”

  “ ’Oo cares? I seen ’em.” Costigan was flushed now, his eyes overbright. His hands were clenched at his sides and there was a thin line of perspiration on his upper lip.

  “I believe you saw them,” Pitt accepted. “I think you went up to the Hyde Park area, perhaps with a view to breaking into trade there, or perhaps you already suspected Ada was doing a little independent work, and you saw Fat George. And Fat George told you that Ada was indeed working up there, and doing quite well. You realized she was cheating you, and you came back here and faced her with it. She told you she didn’t need you and to whistle for your share. You tried hurting her a little bit, only she defied you. You lost your temper and in the quarrel you killed her. Possibly you didn’t intend to when you started, but your vanity was wounded. Maybe she laughed at you. You held her too hard, and before you thought about it, she was dead.”

  Costigan stared at him, too appalled to speak, his face contorted with fear.

  “And when you realized she was dead,” Pitt went on, “you put a garter ’round her arm and buttoned the new boots to each other, to make it look like some customer with a fetish, a taste for sadism or ritual, and you left.”

  Costigan swallowed convulsively. His mouth and lips were dry, his skin ashen.

  “You were seen,” Pitt went on, wanting now to finish it as quickly as possible. “I think if we ask Rose Burke, she’ll identify you. And perhaps Nan Sullivan will remember your coat. She used to be a seamstress and she has a very good eye for a cotton. Albert Costigan, I’m arresting you for the murder of Ada McKinley ….”

  Costigan let out his breath in a gasp of despair and collapsed into the chair, still too horrified to speak.

  7

  “THANK HEAVEN.” Cornwallis leaned back in his seat in the box at the theater and glanced across at Pitt. Charlotte and her mother, Caroline, were sitting on the farther side, both leaning forward over the balcony watching the people coming and going in the stalls below them. The performance was halfway through. Caroline’s new husband, Joshua Fielding, was the star. Pitt had been uncertain how Cornwallis would react to the news that Pitt’s mother-in-law had remarried, and to an actor so much her junior. But if Cornwallis found it extraordinary, he was too courteous to show it.

  It was also impossible to tell what he thought of the play itself, a deeply emotional and rather daring drama which raised several controversial issues. If Pitt had been aware of that in advance, he would not have invited his superior. With Micah Drummond it had been different. He knew him well enough, both his passions and his vulnerabilities, to be quite aware what would offend him and what would not. Cornwallis was still a stranger. They had shared far too little, only this one case, which, as it now turned out, seemed to be very ordinary and to have delivered none of the dangers it had threatened at first. Pitt really need not have been called in. But of course they could not have known that initially.

  Cornwallis ran his hand over his head and smiled ruefully. “I confess, I thought this case was going to be most unpleasant,” he said with a sigh of relief. “We were extremely fortunate it turned out to be the poor woman’s own pimp—in a sense, almost a domestic matter.” There was a very fine wrinkle across his brow. He did not look as at ease as his words suggested. He was immaculately dressed in evening suit and snow-white shirt, but through his elegant clothes there was a tension visible in his body, as though he were not entirely comfortable.

  Charlotte and Caroline were still peering over the balcony rail, shoulder to shoulder, staring down.

  “Was it just mischance that we were led to suspect FitzJames?” Cornwallis asked quietly, so his words would not be overheard. It was as if he did not want to discuss the subject but felt compelled to.

  “I’m not sure I believe in mischance of that sort,” Pitt replied thoughtfully. He too was relieved it had in the end so easily proved to be Costigan, but there were facets of the case which were troubling, too many questions Costigan’s arrest and charge did not answer.

  “Which was the real badge?” Cornwallis asked, as if reading his thoughts. “The first or the second? Or were they both, in the sense that FitzJames had them both made?”

  There was laughter from the next box, and an exclamation of surprise. From everywhere came the buzz of conversation.

  “I don’t know,” Pitt replied. “Helliwell had the first badges made, and he says he has forgotten who the jeweler was and cannot find his own.”

  “And the other two members?” Cornwallis pressed.

  “They also claim never to have known the name of the original jeweler and to have lost their own badges.” Pitt shrugged. “I rather suspect FitzJames had the second one made to try to prove his innocence, or at least to throw question on his guilt.”

  “Then the badge you found in Pentecost Alley was his?” Cornwallis said quickly, swiveling around to face Pitt, all attempt at casualness abandoned. “What has that to do with Costigan? I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” Pitt admitted. He was about to continue, when there was a knock on the door of the box and a moment later Micah Drummond came in. He greeted Charlotte and Caroline, then as soon as formalities were over, turned to Pitt and Cornwallis. He was a tall, lean man with a gentle, aquiline face. Grace of manner and long habit of command masked a natural shyness.

  “Congratulations,” he said warmly to both men. “A potentially very unpleasant case handled smoothly. And you managed to keep most of it out of the papers, which
was just as well. I’ve heard murmurs that FitzJames is very pleased.” He laughed abruptly. “I suppose ‘grateful’ would be too strong a word for such a man, but he’ll remember it. He may prove an ally in the future.”

  “Only if our enemies happen also to be his,” Cornwallis said dryly. “He’s a man to remember an offense and forget a service. Not that our conduct of the case was in any sense intended to be a service to him!” he added quickly. “If Pitt had proved his son guilty, I’d have had him arrested as soon as Costigan, or anyone else.”

  Micah Drummond smiled.

  “I’m sure you would. I’m still delighted it didn’t prove necessary.” He glanced at Pitt, and then back again at Cornwallis. “There is nothing we can do if tragedy strikes one of the prominent families, but it’s a most wretched thing to have to deal with.”

  Pitt’s mind flew back to the tragedy which had affected Eleanor Byam, who was now Drummond’s second wife. The tension and the pain of that experience, the ultimate terrible outcome, and Pitt’s understanding of Drummond’s own emotions, had forged a bond between them which was still absent from his respect for Cornwallis.

  Drummond swung around to exchange a few words with Charlotte and compliment Caroline on Joshua’s performance, then he excused himself and left.

  Pitt turned to Cornwallis and was about to resume their conversation when there was another brief tap on the door and Vespasia sailed in with her head high. She looked marvelous. She had chosen to make a great occasion of the event, and was dressed in lavender and steel-gray silk. On anyone else it might have been cold, but with her silver hair and the diamonds at her ears and throat, it was magnificent.

  Pitt and Cornwallis automatically rose to their feet.

  “Quite fascinating, my dear,” Vespasia said to Caroline. “What an entrancing man. Such a presence.”

  Caroline blushed, realized she was doing it, and blushed the more.

  “Thank you,” she said almost hesitantly. “I think he is doing it rather well.”