Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [118]
If Jerome were hanged, whatever Pitt found out about the murder would be academic. And yet there would still be Albie. Whoever had killed him, it was not Jerome; he had been safely entombed in the heart of Newgate when that had happened.
Were the two murders connected? Or was it just gross and irrelevant mischance?
A woman laughed as she passed behind Pitt, so close her skirts brushed the bottom of his trousers. The man beside her, his top hat rakishly sideways on his head, leaned and whispered something. She laughed again, and instinctively Pitt knew what he had said.
He kept his back to them and stared out into the nothingness of the river. He wanted to know who had killed Albie. And he still felt that there were other lies concerning Arthur Waybourne, lies that mattered, although his brain could not tell him how, or what the answer was.
He had been back to Deptford tonight, but hadn’t learned anything that really mattered, just a lot of detail that he might as easily have guessed. Albie had some wealthy customers, men who might go to a considerable length to keep their tastes from becoming known. Had Albie been foolish enough to try enhancing his standard of living by a little selective blackmail, an insurance against the time when he could no longer command a price?
But still, as Wittle had pointed out, far more likely he had had some sort of lovers’ quarrel and been strangled in the heat of jealousy or unsatisfied lust. Or perhaps it was as commonplace as a fight over money. Maybe he had simply been greedy.
Yet Pitt wanted to know; the untidy ends trailed across his mind, irritating his thoughts like a constant nagging pain.
He straightened up and began to walk along the row of lights. He walked faster than the strollers, muffled against the bitter air, carriages beside them to pick them up when they were tired of their diversion. It was not long before he hailed a hansom and made his way home.
The following day at noon, a constable anxiously knocked on Pitt’s door and told him that Mr. Athelstan required him to report upstairs immediately. Pitt went unsuspectingly, his mind currently engaged on a matter of recovering stolen goods. He thought Athelstan would be inquiring into the likelihood of a conviction in the case.
“Pitt!” Athelstan roared as soon as Pitt was inside the door. He was already standing and a cigar lay squashed in the big polished stone ashtray, tobacco bursting out of its sides. “Pitt, by God I’ll break you for this!” His voice rose even higher. “Stand to attention when I talk to you!”
Pitt obediently drew his feet together, startled by Athelstan’s scarlet face and shaking hands. He was obviously on the edge of completely losing control of himself.
“Don’t just stand there!” Athelstan came around the side of the desk to face him. “I won’t have dumb insolence! Think you can get away with anything, don’t you? Just because some jumped-up country squire had the ill-judgment to have your educated with his son, and you think you speak like a gentleman! Well, let the disabuse you, Pitt—you are an inspector of police, and you are subject to the same discipline as any other policeman. I can promote you if I think you are fit, and I can just as easily put you down to sergeant—or to constable, if I see a reason. In fact, I can have you dismissed altogether! I can have you thrown out onto the street! How would you like that, Pitt? No job, no money. How would you keep your lady wife then, with her highborn ideas, eh?”
Pitt almost laughed; this was ridiculous! Athelstan looked as if he might have a fit if he wasn’t careful. But Pitt was also afraid. Athelstan might look ludicrous standing in the middle of the floor with crimson face, bulging eyes, neck like a turkey’s over his strangle-stiff white collar, but he was just close enough to the borders of his control that he might very well dismiss him. Pitt loved his job; untangling the threads of mystery and discovering truth—sometimes an ugly truth—held a