Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [116]
“Reckon as yer’d like ter see Sergeant Wittle?” the constable said matter-of-factly, unaware of Pitt’s thoughts, or even that they had left the immediate subject. “ ’E’s just up them stairs, first door you comes to, sir. Can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” Pitt said. He smiled and left the constable, who picked up the mug of tea again, before it lost the last of its warmth.
Sergeant Wittle was a sad man, with a dark face and remnants of black hair draped thinly across the top of his head.
“Ah,” he sighed when Pitt explained his call. “Ah—well, I don’t think we’ll get much there. ’Appens all the time, poor sods! Can’t tell you ’ow many I’ve seen, over the years. O’ course, most aren’t murdered, leastways not directly—just sort o’ sideways, like, by life. Sit down, Mr. Pitt. Not that it’ll do you any use.”
“It’s not official,” Pitt said hastily, pushing the chair closer to the stove and settling in it. “The case is yours. Just wondered if I could help—off the books?”
“You know suffin’, then?” Wittle’s eyebrows rose. “We know where ’e lived, but that don’t tell us anything at all. Anonymous sort o’ place. Anyone could come or go—part o’ the whole thing! Nobody wants ter be seen. Who would—frequenting a place like that? An’ all the other residents pretty much mind their own business. Anyway, they’re inside plyin’ their own trade, which by its nature ’as ter be private. Like bitin’ the ’and that feeds you, letting anyone know who goes in and out o’ that place.”
“Do you have anything at all?” Pitt asked, trying not to hope.
Wittle sighed again. “Not much. Treating it as murder, o’ course at least for a while. It’ll probably get filed with all the other unsolveds, but we’ll give it a week or two. Seems like ’e was a plucky little bastard—spoke out more’n most. ’E was known. Kept some ’igh-class company, according to some, if they’re tellin’ the truth.”
“Who?” Pitt leaned forward urgently, his throat tight. “Who was this high-class company?”
Wittle smiled sadly. “Nobody as you’d know, Mr. Pitt. I read the newspapers. If it ’ad bin anyone in your case; I’d ’a’ sent and told you—just a matter o’ politeness, like. Not that I can see as it’d do you any good. Already got yer man. Why d’ya still care?” He screwed up his eyes. “Reckon as there’s more?” He shook his head. “Always is, on these things, but you’ll never find it. Very close, the quality, when it comes to ’iding their family problems. Reckon young Waybourne was doin’ a spot o’ slummin’ of ’is own, do you? Well—what does it matter now? Poor little sod’s dead, an’ provin’ there was a few lies told ’ere an’ there won’t ’elp no one now.”
“No,” Pitt said with as much grace as he could muster. “But if you find proof he kept company with anyone in our area that you want to know about, there may be something useful I could tell you that is only suspicion—and not on record.”
Wittle smiled, for the first time showing genuine amusement.
“Ever tried proving a gentleman ’ad even a passin’ acquaintance with somebody like Albie Frobisher, Mr. Pitt?”
There was no need for an answer. They both knew that such a piece of professional crassness would be without point; indeed, the officer who made the charges would probably suffer for his foolishness more than the gentleman he made it against. Although of course there would be embarrassment all around, not least to his superiors in the force for having employed so clumsy a man, an oaf so unaware of what may be said, and what may only be supposed, that he would voice such a thought.
“Even if it’s proof you can’t use,” Pitt said at last, “I’d like to know.”
“Just fer interest, like?” Wittle’s smile widened. “Or do you know suffin’ as I don’t?”
“No.” Pitt shook his head. “No, I know frighteningly little. The more I learn, the less I think I really know. But thank you anyway.”
It took him ten minutes’ walking in the cold before he found another cab; he directed it and climbed in, then realized his mind had translated into words the thought