by Anne Perry
When he went back to Myrdle Street tomorrow, he must also question all the women on the floor above to get descriptions of all their clients of the night. He should have done it at the time. That was a bad oversight.
He lay staring up at the darkness. Charlotte was breathing evenly beside him. He listened and there was no variation in the soft sound. She was deeply asleep. Or else lying there also pretending to be and not wanting to disturb him, let him know that she too was sleepless, and worried, and frightened.
Cornwallis would back him, but he might not be able to save his job if Costigan were pardoned, or even if he were not. And perhaps he should not be able to. If Pitt had caused an innocent man to be hanged, perhaps he should lose his job. Maybe he was not man enough to fill Micah Drummond’s position anyway? He was promoted beyond his ability. Farnsworth would have smiled at that. He never thought Pitt was ready for command … not the right background or breeding.
Vespasia would be hurt. She had always had confidence in him. She would be let down. She would never say so, but she would not be able to help feeling it. Most of all, he would have let Charlotte down. She would not say anything either, and in a way that would almost make it worse.
He drifted into uneasy sleep, and woke again with a start.
What if it was Jago Jones, after all, with a fair wig on? He was laughing at Pitt, making the suggestion himself, because he was so sure Pitt could never piece it together, or even if he did, he could not prove it.
It was nearly morning. He was stiff, longing to stretch and turn, even to get up and pace the floor to help him to think. But if he woke Charlotte now she would not get back to sleep again. This would be selfish, unnecessary.
He lay still until six o’clock, and unintentionally went back to sleep.
He woke with a start at half past seven, with Charlotte touching him gently, shaking him a little.
It was half past nine before he was back in Myrdle Street, and highly unwelcome. As usual the women were in bed after a long night, and no one wanted to talk to a policeman and answer questions they had already answered several times. He started on the floor above, disturbing the residents one by one and having to wait while they roused themselves, threw a little water on their faces to startle themselves awake, and then put on a robe or a shawl and stumbled through to the kitchen, where Pitt sat with the kettle on, topping up the teapot regularly and asking endless, patient questions.
“No, I don’t ’ave no customer wif fair, wavy ’air.”
“No, ’e were bald, like a bleedin’ egg.”
“No. Even ’is muvver wouldn’t ’a’ said he were young! Geez, she must ’a’ bin dead since Noah landed ’is ark! ’E’s fifty if ’e’s a day!”
“No, ’e were gray.”
“Could he have looked fair in the gaslight?”
“Mebbe … but not wavy. Straight as stair rods.”
And so it went on. He questioned every woman meticulously, but no one had seen any man who could have answered the description Edie had given of Nora’s last customer.
He went back down again, and found Edie herself, by now almost ready to consider getting up in the normal course of her day. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.
“Describe him again,” he said wearily.
“Look, mister, I din’t even see ’is face, just ’is back as ’e went in!” she said in exasperation. “I din’t take no notice. ’E were jus’ anuvver customer. I din’t know ’e were gonna kill ’er, let alone …” She stopped and shuddered, her fat body tight under her robe.
“I know. Just close your eyes and bring back what you saw, however briefly. Take a moment or two. You saw the man who killed her, Edie.” He spoke gently, trying not to frighten her. He needed her to clear her mind so she could concentrate. “Describe exactly what you saw. You may be the only way we shall catch him.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.
She caught it, in spite of his effort.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know I’m the only one wot saw ’im, ’ceptin’ them wot ’e killed.” She stopped, leaning over the kitchen table, her fat elbows resting on it, pulling her robe tight, her black hair over her shoulders, her eyes closed.
Pitt waited.
“ ’E were quite tall, like,” she said at last. “Not ’eavy-in fact, ’e looked sort o’, well, not thickset. I reckon as I thought ’e were young. Jus’ the way ’e stood.” She opened her eyes and looked at Pitt. “But I could be wrong. Tha’s just wot I felt.”
“Good. Go on,” he encouraged. “Describe his coat, the back of his head, whatever else you saw. Tell me exactly. What was his hair like? How was it cut? Was it long or short? Did he have side-whiskers, did you see?”
She closed her eyes obediently. “ ’Is coat were sort o’ gray-green. The collar were … were turned up ’igh, over the bottom of ’is ’air, so I reckon ’is ’air must ’a’ bin quite longish. I couldn’t see the ends of it. Could’ve bin cut any’ow. Come ter that, could’ve gorn all down ’is back!” She gave an abrupt, jerking laugh. “An’ I din’t see no side-whiskers. Reckon ’e din’t turn ’is ’ead enough. Beautiful ’air, ’e ’ad, though. Wouldn’t mind ’air like that meself. Makes me think o’ Ella Baker, wot lives up the street. She got gorgeous ’air, just like that.” She opened her eyes and looked at Pitt again. “Mebbe she ’as a bruvver?” she said jokingly. “An’ mebbe ’e’s a lunatic an’ all.”
Pitt stared at her.
“She in’t got a bruvver!” she said in amazement. “Yer can’t think as … I don’ mean …” Then she stopped, her eyes widening with a slow, terrible horror.
“What?” Pitt demanded. “What is it? What do you know, Edie?”
“She an’ Nora did fall out summink awful over Johnny Voss….”
“Why? Who’s Johnny Voss? Is that the man Nora was going to marry?”
“Yeah. On’y ’e were goin’ ter marry Ella first … at least she thought ’e were. Actual-I thought ’e were too. Then Nora come along … an’ ’e fancied ’er instead, an’ she made the most of it. Well, yer would, wouldn’t yer? ’Oo wouldn’t sooner be married ter a decent sort o’ bloke than make yer way like this?” She barely looked around her, but her gestures drew in the whole shabby, shared room, the tenement, its occupants and their lives.
“Yes,” Pitt agreed. There was no need for more words than that. “Thank you, Edie.” He left the kitchen and went back to the room in which Nora had died. It was still as she had left it, bed unmade, sheets rumpled, only the pillows were in the center where he had tossed them after finding the handkerchief.
He stood in the center of the floor for several moments, wondering what he was looking for, where even to begin. The bed. The floor around it.
He bent down and began with the floor, peering for anything at all that would bear out his theory. There would be nothing here to prove it, only small things that might help.
There was nothing.
He stood up and threw the bedcovers aside, running his hands gently, very slowly, over the sheets.
He found it on the top sheet, first one, then another, then several-golden fair hairs, very long, sixteen or eighteen inches, and wavy … hair that would never come from a man’s head, and far too fair for Nora Gough.
Ella Baker, with her hair tucked under her high coat collar, a coat borrowed from a client or a friend, and a pair of men’s trousers, perhaps over her own skirts tucked up, just under the coat’s length. She would let the skirts down as she left, undo her hair, and she would be invisible. It would explain why this had been more of a fight. She was taller and stronger than Nora, much heavier, but still far short of the strength of a man.
But why on earth would she have killed Ada McKinley? And what was her grudge against FitzJames? That could be anything … a slight, an abuse in the past, an injury not necessarily to her but to someone she loved … even a child lost. Perhaps she had been employed by the FitzJames family at some point in the past. That was an aspect he had never
considered. He should have. A servant abused and dismissed would have a bitter grudge. When he heard about the butler who had got Ada pregnant, he should have looked at all the servants the FitzJameses had ever had. Young FitzJames would not be above seducing a handsome parlor maid and then having his father put her out in the street.
It all looked obvious now.
He left the house rapidly and walked down Old Montague Street and along Osborn Street, where he found Binns on his beat, then they went the few hundred yards’ distance to the tenement where he knew Ella Baker lived. He remembered Ewart had questioned her before about the possibility of her having seen the man leave, or of even having seen Finlay FitzJames. Ewart had said she was distressed then, obviously under pressure of extreme emotion. He had supposed it to be the natural terror and pity they all felt, knowing there had been another murder, and the shock and dismay that Costigan should have been hanged for a crime it now looked impossible for him to have committed.
And yet she had allowed him to be hanged. That was a double guilt that must have torn at her.
He banged on the door until the pimp who also lived on the premises came and opened it. He was unshaved and smelled of stale beer.
“What yer want?” he said abruptly, looking at Pitt and not seeing Binns behind him. “Yer too early. Geez, can’t yer wait till evenin’, yer bastard?”
Binns moved forward.
“Police,” Pitt said curtly. “I wish to talk to Ella Baker now!”
The man looked at Pitt’s face and Binns’s bulky form, and decided against arguing. He allowed them in, sullenly, and led them to Ella’s door. He knocked on it and shouted her name.
After a moment or two she came. She was a handsome woman, in a big, clean-cut way. Her features were strong, a trifle coarse. Her glory was her hair, thick, waving, the color of ripe wheat, dark, dull gold. It hung around her shoulders and down her back.
“Thank you,” Pitt dismissed the pimp, who went off sullenly, grumbling to himself. Pitt went inside the room and closed the door, leaving Binns standing outside it. The windows were small and two stories up.
“What you want this time?” Ella asked, staring at him, her brow furrowed.
“I can understand your killing Nora,” he said levelly. “She took Johnny Voss from you, and your one chance of marrying and getting out of here. But why Ada McKinley? What did she do to you?”
All the blood drained from her face. She swayed, and for several moments he thought she was going to faint. But he did not move to help her. He had been caught that way before, and had someone turn in an instant to a clawing, scratching fury. He remained where he was, his back to the door.
“I …” She gasped, choking on the sudden dryness of her own throat. “I … I never touched Ada, swear ter Gawd!”
“But you killed Nora….”
She said nothing.
“If I were to pull away that high neck of your dress, I’d see where she scratched you, trying to fight you off, fighting for her life….”
“No I never!” she denied, glaring at him. “You can’t prove I did!”
“Yes I can, Ella,” he said calmly. “You were seen.”
“ ’Oo seen me?” she demanded. “They’re a liar!”
“You stole a man’s coat, a good one, well-cut, and hitched your dress up so your skirts wouldn’t be seen. You had your hair under the coat. You looked like a man, but your hair was recognized. Not many people have hair like yours, Ella, beautiful, long, gold hair.” He watched her white face. “I found strands of it in Nora’s bed, where you struggled and she pulled some of it out, fighting for her life….”
“Stop it!” she shouted. “Yeah, I killed the greedy little cow! She took my man. Did it deliberate. She knew ’ow I felt abaht ’im, an’ she still did it. Proud of ’erself she were. Gloated. Tol’ me as she would move up ter Mile End an’ ’ave a nice ’ouse, all to ’erself, an’ ’ave kids an’ never ’ave ter be touched by another drunken layabaht or sleazy sod cheatin’ on ’is wife again.”
“So you tied her up, broke her fingers and toes, and then strangled her,” Pitt said with loathing.
Her face was pasty white, but her eyes blazed.
“No I bleedin’ didn’t! I ’ad a row wif ’er an’ I ’it ’er. We fought an’ I ’eld ’er by the throat. Yeah, I strangled ’er, but I never touched ’er fingers an’ toes. I dunno ’oo did that, an’ I dunno why!”
Pitt did not believe her, he could not. Yet his instincts were hard and bright that she was not lying.
“Why did you kill Ada?” he repeated.
“I din’t!” she shouted back at him. “I din’t kill Ada! I never even know’d ’er! I thought it were Bert Costigan, jus’ like you did. If it weren’t ’im, I dunno ’oo it were!”
He remembered with a sickening jolt Costigan’s denials that he had broken Ada’s fingers and toes, his indignation and confusion that he should even be accused. His eyes looked just like hers, frightened, indignant, utterly bewildered.
“But you killed Nora!” he repeated. He meant to sound certain of it. It was not a question, it was a charge.
“Yeah … I s’pose there in’t no use denyin’ it now. But I never broke ’er fingers, an’ I never touched Ada! I never even bin there!”
Pitt had no idea whether he believed her or not. Looking at her, hearing her voice, he felt sure she spoke the truth; but his brain said it was ridiculous. She was admitting killing Nora. Why deny killing Ada? The punishment would be no worse, and no one would believe her anyway.
“I never killed Ada!” she said loudly. “I never did them things to Nora neither!”
“Why did you try to implicate Finlay FitzJames?” he asked.
She looked nonplussed. “ ’Oo?”
“Finlay FitzJames,” he repeated. “Why did you put his handkerchief and button in Nora’s room?”
“I dunno wotjer talkin’ abaht!” She looked totally bewildered. “I never ’eard of ’im. ’Oo is ’e?”
“Didn’t you once work in the FitzJames house?”
“I never worked in any ’ouse. I were never a bleedin’ ’ousemaid ter nobody!”
He still did not know whether to believe her or not.
“Perhaps. But it doesn’t make a lot of difference now. Come on. I’m arresting you for the killing of Nora. Don’t make it more unpleasant for yourself than it has to be. Let the other women see you leave with some dignity.”
She jerked her head up and ran her hands through her glorious hair, staring at him defiantly. Then the spirit went out of her, and she drooped again, and allowed him to lead her out.
“Well, thank God for that,” Ewart said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair in the Whitechapel police station. “I admit I didn’t think we’d do it.” He looked up at Pitt with a smile. All the tension seemed to drain out of him, as if an intolerable burden had been lifted and suddenly he could breathe without restriction, free from inner pain. Even the fear which had haunted him from the beginning was gone. He did not grudge Pitt the respect due him. “I should say you did it,” he corrected. “I didn’t do much, as it turned out.” He folded his hands over his stomach. “So it was Ella Baker all along. I never thought of a woman. Never crossed my mind. Should have.”
“She swears she didn’t kill Ada,” Pitt said, sitting down opposite him. “Or break Nora’s fingers and toes.”
Ewart was unperturbed. “Well, she would, but that doesn’t mean anything. Don’t know why she bothers. Won’t make any difference now.”
“And she swears she didn’t implicate Finlay FitzJames,” Pitt added. “She says she’s never heard of him, and never been in domestic service.”
Ewart shrugged. “I suppose she’s lying, although I’ve no idea why she should bother. Anyway, it hardly matters.” He smiled. “The case is solved. And without any really unpleasant effects. That’s a damned sight more than I dared hope for. I always thought FitzJames was innocent,” he added quickly, for a moment uncomfortable again. “I just … thou
ght it would be very difficult to prove it.”
Pitt stood up.
“Are you going to tell FitzJames?” Ewart asked. “Put the family’s mind at rest.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Good.” He smiled, a curious, half-bitter expression. “I’m very pleased. You deserve that.”
“Good,” Augustus FitzJames said tersely when Pitt informed him that Ella Baker had been arrested and charged with the murder of Nora Gough. “I assume you will charge her with the death of the other woman as well?”
“No. There’s no evidence of that, and she doesn’t admit to it,” Pitt replied. Once again they were in the library, and this time the fire was lit, casting a warmth in the chilly evening.
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Augustus was not particularly interested. “She’ll hang for the second one. Everyone will know she committed the first as well, since they were apparently identical. Thank you for coming to inform me, Superintendent. You have done an excellent job … this time. Pity about the man … er … Costigan. But there’s nothing to be done about it.” His tone was dismissive. He rocked very gently back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Sort of man we’re all better without anyway. Filthy trade, living on the immoral earnings of women. Belonged in jail, if not on the end of a rope. Might have finished up there sooner or later anyway.”
If Pitt had not been responsible for Costigan’s death, he would have retaliated with his opinion of such thoughts, the deep horror they inspired in him, but his own part was too profound.
“Did Ella Baker ever work for you, Mr. FitzJames?” he asked, tangled threads, questions unanswered still tugging at the back of his mind.
“Don’t think so.” Augustus frowned. “In fact, I’m sure she didn’t. Why?”
“I wondered how she obtained your son’s belongings in order to leave them at the scene of her crimes, and above all, why she should want to.”