by Anne Perry
The afternoon editions would probably be worse, when there was more news to relate, more details, more accuracy from which to draw blame.
She clattered around, banging the crockery and leaving the kettle to whistle, because she was furious with the people who blamed Pitt, and frightened in case they made things even harder for him, and frustrated because she did not know what she could do to help. She did not even know whether she should mention it or not.
“Gracie, you’ll break it,” Pitt said gently.
“Sorry, sir.” She dropped the kettle with a crash. “It just makes me so mad, sir. It in’t fair! What’ve they done about it? Nuffink! They wouldn’t know Ow ter begin, they wouldn’t. Stupid little article, ’e is, ’ooever wrote them things. It in’t responsible.” She was using longer words these days. Reading had changed quite a lot of her vocabulary.
Pitt smiled in spite of the way he felt. Gracie’s loyalty was peculiarly warming. He hoped he could live up to the high image she had of him. But the more he thought of it, the more afraid he was that he had made an irreparable mistake with Costigan, that it was something he had overlooked, that he should have seen and understood, which had sent him to an unjust execution.
He ate his breakfast without even being aware of what it was, and rose to leave just as Charlotte and the children came in. Gracie had hidden the newspapers. Even so, Jemima at least was aware that something was wrong. She looked from Charlotte to Pitt, then sat down.
“I don’t want any breakfast,” she said immediately.
Daniel hitched himself onto his chair, reached for the glass of milk provided for him and drank half of it, wiped the white ring off his mouth with his hand, then announced that he did not want any either.
“Yes you do,” Charlotte said quickly.
“There’s a man out in the street,” Jemima said, looking at Pitt. “He knocked on the door and Mama told him to go away. She was very rude. You told me I should never speak to anyone like that. She didn’t say please … or thank you.”
Pitt looked up at Charlotte.
“A man from one of the newspapers.” She forced a smile. “He was impertinent I told him to go away and not to knock on the door again or I’d bring the dog.”
“And she told a fib,” Jemima added. “We haven’t got a dog.”
Daniel looked frightened. “You wouldn’t give him Archie, would you? Or Angus?” he said anxiously.
“No, of course I wouldn’t,” Charlotte assured him. Then, as his face did not clear, she went on. “I wasn’t going to give him a dog, darling, I was going to tell it to bite him!”
Daniel smiled and reached for his milk. “Oh, that’s all right. Archie could scratch him,” he said hopefully.
Charlotte took his glass from him. “Don’t drink all that now or you won’t eat your porridge.”
He forgot about not wanting breakfast, and when Gracie passed him his porridge bowl he was happy enough to take it.
Jemima was more concerned. She sensed the unhappiness in the air. She fiddled with her food, and no one chastised her.
Suddenly there was a ring on the doorbell, and the instant after, a loud knocking. Gracie slammed down the kettle and marched towards the hall.
Charlotte looked at Pitt, ready to go after her.
Pitt rose to his feet. “I’ve got to face them sometime,” he said, wishing he could put it off until he had something to say that would explain it, some answer or reason. There were no excuses.
Charlotte started to speak, then stopped.
“What is it?” Jemima asked, looking at her mother, then at her father. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
Charlotte put her hand on Jemima’s shoulder. “Nothing you need to worry about,” she said quickly. “Finish your breakfast.”
The front door opened and they heard a man’s voice, then Gracie’s answer, high-pitched and furious. A moment later the door banged shut, and then Gracie’s feet marched back down the corridor. For a small creature, she could make a lot of noise when she was angry.
“Cheek of them!” she said, coming into the kitchen, her face white, eyes blazing. “Who do they think they are? Write a few words and think they have all the brains in London! Nothing but a tuppenny upstart.” She turned the tap full on and the jet hit the spoon in the sink and rebounded back, soaking the top half of her dress. She drew in her breath to swear, then remembered Pitt was in the room and choked it back.
Charlotte stifled a laugh that was too close to hysteria.
“I assume that was a reporter from the newspaper, Gracie?”
“Yes,” Gracie conceded, dabbing at herself with a tea towel and not making the situation appreciably better. “Worthless little item!”
“You’d better go and put on a dry dress,” Charlotte suggested.
“Don’t matter,” Gracie responded, putting the tea towel down. “It’s warm enough in ’ere. Won’t come to no ’arm.” And she began rummaging furiously in the flour bin and then the dried fruit bin, looking for ingredients for a cake which would not be baked until mid-morning, but the physical activity was a release for the pent-up tension in her. She would probably pound the dough for bread to within an inch of flattening it altogether.
Pitt smiled a trifle weakly, kissed Charlotte good-bye, touched Jemima on the top of the head and Daniel on the shoulder as he passed and went out to begin the day’s investigation.
Jemima turned wide eyes to Charlotte. “What is it, Mama? Who’s Gracie angry with?”
“People who write things in the newspapers when they don’t know the whole story,” Charlotte replied. “People who try to make everyone upset and frightened because it sells more papers, regardless of the fact that it may make a lot of other things worse.”
“What things?”
“What things?” Daniel echoed. “Is Papa frightened and upset? Is he people?”
“No,” Charlotte lied, wondering frantically how to protect them. Which was worse: trying to pretend everything was all right when it obviously was not, and only making them feel more frightened because they were lied to; or telling them something of the truth, so at least it made sense and they were part of the family? They would be worried and frightened, but not by the formless horrors of imagination and the feeling that they were alone and not trusted.
Without having made a conscious decision, she found herself answering.
“There has been another lady died in Whitechapel, just the same as the one a little while ago. It looks as if perhaps the wrong man was punished. People are very upset about it, and sometimes when you are angry or frightened, you want to blame someone. It makes it feel less difficult.”
Jemima was puzzled. “Why does it?”
“I don’t know. But you remember when you walked into the chair and stubbed your toe?”
“Yes. It went all blue and yellow and green.”
“Do you remember how you felt?”
“It hurt.”
“You said it was my fault.” Daniel’s eyes narrowed and he looked at his sister accusingly. “It wasn’t my fault. I never put the chair there! You weren’t looking where you were going.”
“I was!” Jemima said indignantly.
“You see?” Charlotte interrupted. “It’s easier to be angry than to admit you were clumsy.”
Daniel beamed with triumph. For once his mother had actually taken sides and he had won the argument.
Jemima looked cross. A flash of temper lit her eyes and she glared at him.
“The point is,” Charlotte went on, realizing her example had not been a fortunate one, “that when people are upset, they get angry. They are upset now because another lady has died, and they are frightened that they may have punished the wrong man, so they feel guilty as well. They are looking for someone to be angry with, and Papa seems like a very good person, because he was the one who thought the man they punished was the one who did it. Now it looks as if he wasn’t.”
“He made a mistake?” Jemima asked, the furrow dee
p between her fine, soft brows.
“We don’t know yet. It’s too difficult to understand. But it is possible. We all make mistakes sometimes.”
“Papa too?” Jemima asked gravely.
“Of course.”
“Will they get very angry with him?”
She hesitated. Was it better to be forewarned? Would a comforting lie rebound on her later and make the hurt even worse? Or was she adding an unnecessary fear, expecting far too much of them? She wanted above everything to protect them. But what was protection? Was it lies or truth?
“Mama?” There was the beginning of fear in Jemima’s voice. Daniel was watching her carefully.
“They may do,” she said, meeting the solemn eyes. “But they will be wrong, because he has done the best anyone can do. And if there has been a mistake, then it was everybody’s, not just his.”
“Oh,” Jemima replied. “I see.” She turned back to her breakfast and continued eating, very thoughtfully.
Daniel looked at her, then back at Charlotte, took a deep breath, and resumed his meal also.
“I’ll walk to school with you today,” Charlotte said decisively. “It’s a lovely day, and I’d like to.” If there were other newspapermen waiting outside, or remarks of any sort in the street, she would not have Gracie involved in a full-scale battle with Daniel and Jemima in the middle. She would have to keep a very firm bridle on her own temper.
And as it happened the real unpleasantness did not occur until the afternoon editions were out, and then it was extremely ugly. Someone had given the press a very lurid account of Nora Gough’s murder, with a detailed description of the signs and symptoms of asphyxiation by strangling. This time the broken bones, the boots and the water were not omitted. Nothing was spared, and all was naturally likened to the murder of Ada McKinley as well. There were large pictures of Costigan looking frightened and sulky, only now instead of interpreting his scowl as viciousness, they called it terror of the judgment of the law, as used to crush the common man before the wheels of perjured justice. Pitt’s name was sprinkled liberally in every article and he carried the blame for Costigan’s hanging far more prominently than he had ever won the praise for his original arrest.
Charlotte walked out of the front door and along the road bitterly aware of curtains twitching and whispered words behind them. The tea parties she would not be invited to, the people who would not see her in spite of her being directly in front of them, the sudden urgent engagements declared when she approached, did not worry her. All her fury was for Pitt and the children. She would have defended them to the last blow, if only there were someone to strike at!
As it was, she strode along the road with her head high, ignoring anything to the right or left of her, and swung around the corner almost knocking over old Major Kidderman, who was taking his dog for a stroll.
“I’m sorry,” she said hastily. “I beg your pardon.” She was about to continue when he spoke.
“Tribulations of command, my dear,” he said quietly, touching his hat. “Hard, but there we are.” And he smiled at her shyly.
“Thank you, Major. That’s very …” She did not know what she meant … wise … kind. Both sounded wrong. “Thank you,” she said lamely, but she smiled back at him with a sudden and very real warmth.
She collected Daniel and Jemima from the school and made the return journey. A pinch-faced young woman crossed the road away from them, her expression one of acute distaste. A woman with three children hurried past, avoiding Charlotte’s eyes. The little girl, in a frilly dress, stopped to speak to Jemima and was told sharply to come along and not waste time.
On the corner a newsboy was shouting the latest headlines.
“Police ’ang the wrong man! New murder in Whitechapel! Costigan innocent! Read all abaht it! Another ’orrible murder in Whitechapel!”
Charlotte hurried past him, averting her eyes. Not that he would have offered her a newspaper or expected her to buy one. She was walking so rapidly both children had to run to keep up with her, and she raced up the steps and pushed the door open with such force it swung back and banged against the stopper on the floor.
Gracie stood at the kitchen door, a rolling pin in her hand. She was so angry she could hardly speak. Her face filled with relief when she saw Charlotte.
Charlotte burst out laughing, and the instant after it turned to tears. It was several frightening moments for the children before she could control herself and wipe the tears away. She sniffed, and searched for a handkerchief.
“Go and wash your hands ready for tea,” she ordered. “Then you can read a story. I’ll find The Wind in the Willows for you.”
Pitt’s day was far less pleasant. He went first to the Whitechapel police station, to see if any more news had come in, before he went to see Finlay FitzJames. There was nothing. Everyone he saw looked pale-faced and unhappy. They had all been equally sure Costigan was guilty. Few of them actually liked the rope, but they accepted it. It had always been the price of crime. Now they felt a peculiar kind of guilt by association. It was their force which was being blamed, not only in newspapers, but by ordinary people in the street. A constable had been spat on, another shouted at and followed by a crowd of angry youths. Someone had thrown a beer bottle and it had shattered on the wall beyond Constable Binns’s head.
This morning in the sharp, chilly daylight, they were very sober, and very confused.
Ewart came in badly shaven, a cut on his cheek and dark circles under his eyes, the skin paper-thin and looking bruised.
“Anything new?” Pitt asked him.
“No.” Ewart did not even turn his head to meet Pitt’s eyes.
“Any report from Lennox?”
“Not yet. He’s working on it now.”
“What about the other witnesses?”
“Found two of them. Very unhappy.” Ewart smiled bitterly. “Not easy to explain to your wife—or your sister, in Kale’s case—that the police want to talk to you because you might have been witness to a murder in a brothel. Don’t imagine Sydney Allerdyce will have a decent supper on the table for years!” There was no regret in his voice; in fact, there was a kind of satisfaction.
“Did they see anyone?” Pitt pressed the only point which mattered.
Ewart hesitated.
“Who did they see?” Pitt demanded, wondering what Ewart was hiding and fearing he knew. “FitzJames?”
Ewart let his breath out in a sigh. “A young man with thick, fair hair, well dressed, average height,” he replied. He looked quickly at Pitt, trying to read his face. “Doesn’t have to be him,” he added, then a look of anger flickered for a moment, anger with himself for having voiced the thought.
“Well, it wasn’t Albert Costigan,” Pitt said, before anyone else could. “Did they see any other people coming or going?”
. “No. Anyway, not that they could remember. Just the women who live there.”
“What about other nearby residents, people out in the street, coming or going? Any peddlers, other prostitutes? Did anyone see anything?” Pitt pressed.
“Nothing that helps,” Ewart said irritably. “Questioned a drayman who was loading a few yards along most of the time. He only saw people in the street. No one go in or out. Spoke to a couple of prostitutes, Janie Martins and Ella Baker, who were out looking for custom. They saw no one except the men they picked up, and they weren’t close to the house—in fact, Ella’s wasn’t in Myrdle Street at all.”
“Well, someone both came and went! Nora Gough didn’t do that to herself! Go back and try again. I’m going to see the FitzJameses. I imagine they’ll be expecting me.”
Ewart laughed sharply, and there was anger and fear in it. He turned his back, as if conscious of having left his emotions naked, and continued writing the report he had been working on when Pitt came in.
The door in Devonshire Street was opened by the same highly agreeable butler as before, but this time he looked very grave, although it did not mar the pleasantness of hi
s features.
“Good morning, Mr. Pitt, sir,” he said, opening the door wide to allow Pitt in. “The weather is delightful, is it not? I think October is my favorite month. I imagine it is Mr. FitzJames you wish to see? He is in the library, sir, if you will come this way?” And without waiting for a reply he led the way across the parquet floor and past a magnificent painting of a Dutch harbor scene of the city of Delft, and then into a smaller hallway off which was the library. He knocked at the door and entered immediately.
“Mr. Pitt, sir,” he announced, then stood aside for Pitt to enter.
Augustus was standing in front of the fireplace, although there was no fire lit. Pitt had never seen him on his feet before. He had always conducted their conversations without rising. He looked round-shouldered and was beginning to run a little to paunch. His suit was extremely well cut, his collar high and stiff, and his long face with its dominant nose wore a belligerent expression.
“Come in,” he ordered. “I assumed you’d be ’round here, so I waited for you. Now you are going to tell me you hanged the wrong man. Or are you going to protest that last night’s crime was committed by someone else, a second lunatic in our midst?”
“I am not going to claim anything, Mr. FitzJames.” Pitt held his temper with great difficulty. Seldom had he wanted to lash back at anyone so much. It was only the absolute knowledge that it would rebound on him which held him from it.
“I’m surprised you gave so much to the newspapers,” Augustus said tartly, his eyes wide, a curious mocking in them. “I would have thought that for your own protection you would have told them as little as possible. You’re more of a fool than I took you for.”
Pitt heard the fear threaded through his voice. It was the first time it had been audible, and he wondered if Augustus knew it himself. Perhaps that was why he was so angry.
“I have not spoken to the press at all,” Pitt replied. “I don’t know who has, and if it was one of the women who live in the house in Myrdle Street, there is nothing anyone can do about it. We would be better employed in discovering the truth, and proving it, than in regretting the public knowledge of this second crime and its likeness to the first.”