Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [119]
“I’m a policeman, and until I’ve made a few more calls I don’t know for certain what’s happening. I’ve got to discover more about Prudence Wilson. Fanny, did she say where she came from?”
Fanny shook her head. “No.”
“Never mind, I’ll find out.” He went to the door, giving the constable instructions to remain there until he returned or sent relief.
Outside in Tortoise Lane he walked smartly towards Bloomsbury. It was the obvious place to begin. It was a reasonable assumption that Prudence Wilson had walked to the nearest such place as Mrs. Mapes’s, that she lived in at her own employment as housemaid or parlormaid, as the police surgeon had suggested.
Therefore Pitt went to the Bloomsbury Police Station, and by ten past eight he was facing a tired and short-tempered sergeant who had been on his feet all day and was so thirsty for a pint of ale he could taste dust in his mouth.
“Yes, sir?” he said without raising his eyes from the enormous ledger in front of him, where he was writing in a careful copperplate hand the details of a charge of vandalizing a fence, brought against a small boy.
“Inspector Pitt, Metropolitan Police,” Pitt said formally, to give the man time to correct his attitude accordingly.
“Not ’ere, sir. Don’t belong to this station. I’ve ’eard of ’im, does murders an’ the like. Try Bow Street, sir. If they don’t ’ave ’im, they maybe know ’oo ’as.”
Pitt smiled wearily. This pedestrian misunderstanding had a kind of sanity about it that was vaguely comforting. “I am Inspector Pitt, sergeant,” he replied. “And I am here about a murder. I would be obliged for your attention, if you please.”
The sergeant blushed a hot pink and stood up smartly, not even wincing as he banged the toe of his boot against the chair leg, aggravating his corns. He faced Pitt with wide eyes, inarticulate with apology.
“I am looking for record of a Miss Prudence Wilson, probably a maid in domestic service, maybe in this area. I am hoping she has been reported missing, about three or four weeks ago. Does the name sound familiar to you?”
“People don’t usually report ’ousemaids missin’, Mr. Pitt, sir.” The sergeant shook his head. “Terrible suspicious in their thoughts, people is—and usually right, too. Thinks they’s run off wiv some man, an’ like as not they ’ave, an’ ...” He let the sentiment remain unexpressed; it was indiscreet. Personally he wished them luck. His own marriage was a happy one, and he would not willingly have seen anyone bound to a life of service in someone else’s house rather than having their own. “But could ’a bin.” He showed his agreeability by going for the ledger where such things were noted and pulling it out. Dutifully he turned it back four weeks and began to read forward. After six pages he stopped with his finger on an entry. He looked up at Pitt, his eyes surprised and sad.
“Yes, sir, ’ere it is. Young man by the name o’ ’Arry Croft came an’ says as she was ’is betrothed, an she’d gone ter fetch ’er little girl from someone as was keepin ’er, lookin’ after ’er, like, an’ never came back. Terrible upset ’e was, sure as somethin’ ’ad ’appened to ’er, since they was ter be married and she was real ’appy about it. But o’ course we couldn’t do nuffin. Young women don’t ’ave ter be found by a man they ain’t married ter, ain’t daughters of, and ain’t employed by, not as if they don’t want ter. An’ we didn’t know different as she’d gone off on ’er own with the little girl.”
“No,” Pitt agreed. It was fair, and even if they had known, by then it was already too late. “No, of course you couldn’t.”
The sergeant swallowed. “Is she dead, sir?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant did not take his eyes from Pitt’s face. “Was she—was she the body wot was found in—in the parcels, sir?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
The sergeant gulped again. “’Ave you got the man wot done it, Mr. Pitt?”
“It was a woman, and yes, we’ve got her. I’m going to charge her now, and take her in.”
“I’m off duty any minute now, sir—I’d thank yer dearly if I could come along with yer, sir. Please.”
“Certainly.