Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [113]
“What did they see?” Pitt was not disconcerted; no citizen would be about respectable business at that time of night in St. Giles, except perhaps a priest or a midwife, and the first was little wished for, the second little afforded. God knew how many children died at the moment of birth through dirt and ignorance, and their mothers with them.
“A spindly old man with scruffy hair under a shiny stovepipe hat, wheeling a handcart and hurrying,” the constable answered. “The snakesman certainly saw him coming out of the alley where the head was found.”
“Good. Then we’ll go and arrest Septimus Wigge,” Pitt replied decisively.
“But we can’t call them to a court!” the constable protested, running a step or two to keep up with him. “No judge in London will take their word.”
“Won’t need to,” Pitt replied. “I don’t think Wigge killed the woman, he simply disposed of the parcels. If we arrest him and frighten the living daylights out of him, he’ll tell us who did—although I’m pretty sure I know. But I want him to swear it.”
The constable understood little of what Pitt was referring to, but he was satisfied if Pitt was. They strode rapidly along the narrow, refuse-strewn streets past sweatshops, tenements, and huddles of collapsing houses. Beggars stood idle or sat in doorways; children labored in endless dreary jobs, picking rags, running errands, stealing from pockets or barrows; women begged, toiled, and drank.
Pitt made only one wrong turn before finding Septimus Wigge’s cellar again, with its piles of junk and its furnace. He told the constable to wait out of sight while he made sure the old man was in, and that there was no back way out for him to escape, through a warren of passages heaven knew where.
He walked smartly across the yard and down the steps, keeping as quiet as he could. He came upon the old man going through a box of spoons, his head bent to pore over them, a huge smile on his face.
“Glad to find you in, Mr. Wigge,” Pitt said softly, waiting till he was within a yard before he spoke.
Wigge jerked up, startled and amazed until he saw it was a customer. His face ironed out and he smiled with brown, irregular teeth, more missing than present.
“Well, sir, an’ wot can I do for yer this time? I got some luvly siller spoons ’ere.”
“I daresay, but I don’t want them at the moment.” He moved to stand between Wigge and the back of the shop; the constable should be at the top of the steps and would prevent escape that way.
“Wotcher want then? I got all kinds o’ fings.”
“Have you got any brown paper parcels with bits of a woman’s body in them?”
Wigge’s face went slack, bloodless with terror, so the gray dirt stood out on it in smears. He tried to speak and his voice failed. His throat contracted, his larynx bobbed up and down. He gulped, choked, and gulped again. The smell of sweat was strong in the close, hot air.
“That ain’t f-funny!” he said hoarsely, trying desperately to control the panic racing through him. “It ain’t f-funny at all!”
“I know,” Pitt agreed, “I found one of them. The upper half of the torso, to be precise. Soaked with blood. Did you have a mother, Mr. Wigge?”
Wigge wanted to take offense, but the power did not reach his lips.
“Course I did!” he said wretchedly. “No call f-fer ... I ...” He subsided, staring at Pitt in mesmerized horror.
“She had a child,” Pitt answered, gripping his skinny shoulder. “That woman whose body you hacked to pieces and dropped around.”
“I didn’t!” Wigge wriggled under Pitt’s hand and his voice rose so high and shrill it was painful to hear. “Swelpme Gawd I didn’t! You gotta b’lieve me, I didn’t kill ’er!”
“I don’t believe you,” Pitt lied badly. “If you didn’t kill her you wouldn’t have cut her up and distributed her round half of London.”
“I didn’t kill ’er! She were already dead, I swear!” Wigge was so terrified Pitt was afraid he might have a seizure and pass out altogether, even die. He modified