Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [125]
“Good afternoon, Mr. FitzJames,” Pitt said quietly. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I am afraid it is necessary I ask you to tell me where you were yesterday afternoon from approximately three o’clock until six.”
“Well, I wasn’t in Myrdle Street!” There was a catch in Finlay’s voice, as if he were undecided whether to be angry, indignant, self-pitying, or to try to play it lightly, as if he were basically unconcerned. Only fear came through.
“Where were you?” Pitt repeated.
“Well, at three o’clock I was still in the Foreign Office,” Finlay answered. “I left at about half past, or a trifle after. I went for a walk in the Park.” His chin came up and he met Pitt’s eyes so directly Pitt was almost sure it was a lie. “I intended to meet someone, on business, but he didn’t turn up. I waited around for a while, then I walked to a restaurant where I had an early supper before going to the theater. I was nowhere near Whitechapel.”
“Can you substantiate any of that, sir?” Pitt asked, almost certain before he spoke that he could not. If he could, Augustus would have said so at the outset, and he would have done so triumphantly. He could have dismissed Pitt, not sought for help. The fear in his voice was his answer.
“No, I don’t think so. The … the matter was a favor for a friend, a rather stupid matter he had got himself into,” Finlay overexplained. “Money, and a woman, all very sordid. I was trying to help him settle the matter once and for all without ruining anyone’s reputation. I didn’t particularly want to be seen by anyone I knew. Didn’t stop and speak to anyone.”
“I see.” All Pitt saw was the futility of it. “Is this your handkerchief, Mr. FitzJames?” He offered him the handkerchief found under Nora Gough’s pillow.
Finlay did not touch it.
“It might be. I have at least half a dozen like that, but so has almost everyone I know.”
“With ‘F.F.J.’ in the corner?”
“No, of … of course not. But … one can …” He swallowed. “One can have any initials sewn into a handkerchief one wishes. It doesn’t mean it was mine. I suppose you found it somewhere near this new corpse? I thought so. I can see it in your face.” His voice was rising. “Well, I didn’t kill her, Superintendent! I’ve never heard of her, and I’ve never been to Myrdle Street! Some … madman … is trying to ruin me, and before you ask, I haven’t the faintest idea who … or why! I …” He did not finish what he had been going to say. “Perhaps you should look at Albert Costigan’s friends? Someone is trying to incriminate both of us, Superintendent. Make us look like murderers, and you as an incompetent … indirecüy a murderer too.” There was challenge in his eyes and a small, bright victory. “I think it is as much in your interest as in mine to find out who it is and bring him to justice. If I could help you, I would, but I have no idea where to begin. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll begin with a reconsideration of anyone who might believe they have cause to dislike you, Mr. FitzJames,” Pitt answered. “And proceed with those in whose professional or personal way you might stand. And perhaps a reexamination of the original members of the Hellfire Club.”
“I can’t do that!” Finlay said intensely, all the momentary elation vanished. “We were good friends. They simply are not that kind of person, not remotely. Friends of one’s youth are … well … it is not one of them, I assure you. I’ll consider all the other possibilities, and then make a list for you.”
“So shall I,” Augustus added. “You will have our fullest cooperation, Superintendent.” The ghost of a smile touched his humorless mouth. “Our interests are common, at least in this instance.”
Pitt could only agree.
“And somewhat urgent,” he added wryly. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Finlay. “Mr. FitzJames, good day.”
9
THE FOLLOWING DAY the outcry in the newspapers was far worse. It was not