Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [44]
“If he is guilty,” she said quietly.
“You think he is not?” Vanderley was looking at her narrowly now, unhappiness in his eyes. Perhaps he feared another sordid and drawn-out ordeal for his family.
She had trapped herself; the moment of candor was over.
“Oh—I have no idea!” She opened her eyes wide. “I hope the police do not often make mistakes.”
Dominic had had enough.
“I should think it very unlikely,” he said with some asperity. “Either way, it is a most unpleasant subject, Charlotte. I am sure you will be pleased to hear that Alicia Fitzroy-Hammond married that extraordinary American—what was his name? Virgil Smith! And she is to have a child. She has retired somewhat from public functions already. You do remember them, don’t you?”
Charlotte was delighted. Alicia had had such a miserable time when her first husband died, just before the murders in Resurrection Row.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” she said sincerely. “Do you think she would recall me if I wrote to her?”
Dominic made a face. “I cannot conceive of her forgetting!” he said dryly. “The circumstances were hardly commonplace! One is not littered with corpses every week!”
A woman in hot pink buttonholed Vanderley and led him away. He glanced over his shoulder at them once, reluctantly, but his habitual good manners overcame his desire to avoid the new involvement, and he went gracefully.
“I hope you are satisfied now?” Dominic said waspishly. “Because if you are not, you are going to leave here unhappy. I refuse to stay any longer!”
She thought of arguing, as a matter of principle. But in truth, she was just as pleased to retreat as he was.
“Yes, thank you, Dominic,” she said demurely. “You have been very patient.”
He gave her a suspicious look, but decided not to question what seemed to be a compliment, and to accept his good fortune. They walked out into the autumn evening, each with a considerable sense of relief, for their separate reasons, and took the carriage home again. Charlotte had a profound desire to change out of this extraordinary gown before any necessity arose to explain it to Pitt—a feat that would be virtually impossible!
And Dominic had little wish for such a confrontation either, much as his regard had developed for Pitt—or perhaps because of it. He was beginning to grow suspicious that Pitt had not countenanced a meeting with Vanderley at all!
5
SEVERAL DAYS PASSED in fruitless search for any further evidence. Landladies and landlords were questioned, but there were too many to make anything but a cursory attempt, in the hope that for a little reward someone would come forward. Three did. The first was a brothelkeeper from Whitechapel, rubbing his hands, eyes gleaming in anticipation of a little future leniency from the police in recompense for his assistance. Gillivray’s delight was short-lived when the man proved unable to describe either Jerome or Arthur Waybourne with any accuracy. Pitt had never expected that he would, and was therefore left with a sense of superiority to soothe his irritation.
The second was a nervous little woman who let rooms in Seven Dials. Very respectable, she insisted—only let to gentlemen of the best moral character! She feared her good nature and innocence of the viler aspects of human nature had suffered her to be deceived in a most tragic manner. She moved her muff from one hand to the other, and beseeched Pitt to be assured of her total ignorance of the true purpose for which her house had been used; and was it not simply quite dreadful what the world was coming to these days?
Pitt agreed with her that it was, but probably no worse than always. She roundly disagreed with him on that—it had never been like that in her mother’s day, or that good woman, may her soul rest in peace, would have warned her not to let rooms to strangers.
However, she not only identified Jerome from a photograph shown her, but also three other people who were photographed for the purpose of just such identity quests—all of them policemen. By the time