Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [122]
“Police ’ang the wrong man! New murder in Whitechapel! Costigan innocent! Read all abaht it! Another ’orrible murder in Whitechapel!”
Charlotte hurried past him, averting her eyes. Not that he would have offered her a newspaper or expected her to buy one. She was walking so rapidly both children had to run to keep up with her, and she raced up the steps and pushed the door open with such force it swung back and banged against the stopper on the floor.
Gracie stood at the kitchen door, a rolling pin in her hand. She was so angry she could hardly speak. Her face filled with relief when she saw Charlotte.
Charlotte burst out laughing, and the instant after it turned to tears. It was several frightening moments for the children before she could control herself and wipe the tears away. She sniffed, and searched for a handkerchief.
“Go and wash your hands ready for tea,” she ordered. “Then you can read a story. I’ll find The Wind in the Willows for you.”
Pitt’s day was far less pleasant. He went first to the Whitechapel police station, to see if any more news had come in, before he went to see Finlay FitzJames. There was nothing. Everyone he saw looked pale-faced and unhappy. They had all been equally sure Costigan was guilty. Few of them actually liked the rope, but they accepted it. It had always been the price of crime. Now they felt a peculiar kind of guilt by association. It was their force which was being blamed, not only in newspapers, but by ordinary people in the street. A constable had been spat on, another shouted at and followed by a crowd of angry youths. Someone had thrown a beer bottle and it had shattered on the wall beyond Constable Binns’s head.
This morning in the sharp, chilly daylight, they were very sober, and very confused.
Ewart came in badly shaven, a cut on his cheek and dark circles under his eyes, the skin paper-thin and looking bruised.
“Anything new?” Pitt asked him.
“No.” Ewart did not even turn his head to meet Pitt’s eyes.
“Any report from Lennox?”
“Not yet. He’s working on it now.”
“What about the other witnesses?”
“Found two of them. Very unhappy.” Ewart smiled bitterly. “Not easy to explain to your wife—or your sister, in Kale’s case—that the police want to talk to you because you might have been witness to a murder in a brothel. Don’t imagine Sydney Allerdyce will have a decent supper on the table for years!” There was no regret in his voice; in fact, there was a kind of satisfaction.
“Did they see anyone?” Pitt pressed the only point which mattered.
Ewart hesitated.
“Who did they see?” Pitt demanded, wondering what Ewart was hiding and fearing he knew. “FitzJames?”
Ewart let his breath out in a sigh. “A young man with thick, fair hair, well dressed, average height,” he replied. He looked quickly at Pitt, trying to read his face. “Doesn’t have to be him,” he added, then a look of anger flickered for a moment, anger with himself for having voiced the thought.
“Well, it wasn’t Albert Costigan,” Pitt said, before anyone else could. “Did they see any other people coming or going?”
. “No. Anyway, not that they could remember. Just the women who live there.”
“What about other nearby residents, people out in the street, coming or going? Any peddlers, other prostitutes? Did anyone see anything?” Pitt pressed.
“Nothing that helps,” Ewart said irritably. “Questioned a drayman who was loading a few yards along most of the time. He only saw people in the street. No one go in or out. Spoke to a couple of prostitutes, Janie Martins and Ella Baker, who were out looking for custom. They saw no one except the men they picked up, and they weren’t close to the house—in fact, Ella’s wasn’t in Myrdle Street at all.”
“Well, someone both came and went! Nora Gough didn’t do that to herself! Go back and try again. I’m going to see the FitzJameses. I imagine they’ll be expecting me.”
Ewart laughed sharply, and there was anger and fear in it. He turned his back, as if conscious of having left his emotions naked, and continued writing the report he had