Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [131]
“Thank you,” Cornwallis accepted, then winced as his mind returned to the problem. “It seems all we can do is present a brave face, make no excuses, no accusations until we have absolute proof; blame no one else; and keep on investigating both FitzJames and the material evidence around Nora Gough’s death, exactly as we would if we had no suspects at all. Pitt, I would prefer it if you handled the FitzJames end of the case. It is extremely sensitive and will no doubt get worse. I would like to think the newspapers would leave us alone, but it would be quite unrealistic to expect it. I am afraid we have enemies, and they will not lose such an opportunity to strike at us. I’m sorry.” He looked distressed. “I wish I were able to offer you more protection….”
Pitt forced himself to smile.
“Thank you, sir, but I am quite aware of the restrictions upon you, or anyone in your position. There is no defense.”
And so it proved. Pitt interviewed everyone he felt might be of the slightest assistance regarding the FitzJames family, and anyone so injured by them, intentionally or not, that they might wish revenge. He enquired both personally and professionally, and learned a great deal about Augustus FitzJames and the nature of his financial empire—and the means whereby he had forged it and now maintained it. It was ruthless. There was no deference paid to loyalties or friendships, but it was never outside the law. He settled his debts to the letter, never above. He seldom lent, but when he did, he expected repayment to the farthing.
He was a cold man, yet apparently not unattractive to women, and had been known to carry on affairs with several acquaintances. But in his circle he was far from the only one, and it had never provoked scandal, and most certainly never a divorce. No one’s reputation had been marred.
As Cornwallis had foreseen, the press became more strident. Costigan was rapidly becoming elevated to the status of a folk hero, a martyr to the inefficiency and corruption of the police, whose creation some were now beginning to say had been a mistake. Pitt’s name was mentioned several times. One agitator even suggested that he was personally responsible for having placed the evidence which incriminated Costigan and for having removed evidence which would have implicated someone else, a man of breeding and money, able to purchase his immunity.
It was slanderous, of course, but the only defense of any value was to prove him wrong. And that Pitt was so far unable to do.
He was sitting in his office in Bow Street late in the afternoon of the third day after Nora Gough’s death when Jack Radley came to see him. He was formally dressed, as if he had just left the House of Commons, and in spite of the smooth, handsome lines of his face, he looked tired and harassed. He closed the door behind him and walked over to one of the chairs.
“It’s not very good, Thomas,” he said thoughtfully. “They raised it in the House this afternoon. A great deal was said.”
“I can imagine.” Pitt pulled a rueful face. “The police have enemies.”
“You have personal enemies too,” Jack replied. “Although they are not all where you might have expected.”
“Inner Circle,” Pitt said unhesitatingly. He had been invited to join the ranks of that secret society, and had declined. Quite apart from the members he had exposed at one time and another, that was a sin for which he would not be forgiven.
“Not necessarily.” Jack’s dark blue eyes widened. His usual carefree, half-amused expression was absent. There were unaccustomed lines of anxiety between his brows and from nose to mouth. He leaned back in his chair, but his attention was still absolute, and there was no ease in his body.
“If it were not so damned serious, it would be quite funny watching them decide which side to be on,” he went on. “Those who are either friends of FitzJames, or afraid of him, find themselves on the same side as you, no matter how much they may dislike