Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [144]
“Not enough,” Pitt confessed, the words dragged out of him. “But then I don’t think I ever do.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll see him tomorrow. After I’ve seen Ewart.” He had not the heart to do it that evening. He knew where Jago would be: handing out soup in Coke Street. He did not want to go and question him while he was doing that. He had never wanted to question a man less, or been less willing to find some other face behind the mask. Tomorrow would be too soon. Tonight was unbearable.
He found Charlotte solicitous but uncommunicative. She had apparently been out all afternoon, and had at last succumbed to taking the children to her mother’s to protect them from the unpleasantness of hearing people’s comments in the streets or the gibes and questions of their schoolfellows.
They did not mention the case. He wanted to forget it for an evening. He had no more thoughts, no more clues to explore, nothing more to wrestle with or try to understand. He was happy to sit quietly, think of something calm and sensible, like the garden, or whether Daniel’s bedroom should be repainted in a more adult fashion now he was growing up. He was no longer really the age for a nursery. And perhaps it was time to give Gracie another raise.
In the morning he went to Whitechapel early and found Ewart still at his desk. He looked tired and unhappy. Pitt did not need to ask if he had discovered anything of value, the denial of it was in every line of his face and body. He had cut himself shaving, and his features looked pinched.
“I haven’t found anything,” he said before Pitt asked. “The evidence means nothing.” He slid back in his chair, his body crumpled, too tired to straighten. He looked strangely beaten, considering it was Pitt who would take the blame. He might be glad now that the case had been removed from his responsibility.
“I know the button and the handkerchief don’t mean anything,” Pitt said, then sat down in the only other available chair. “What else do we have?”
“Nothing.” Ewart spread his hands. “We’ve spoken to all the women again. They say they saw only one man: youngish, with fair, wavy hair. Although they are beginning to be less certain even about that. Some are not sure it was fair. As if that mattered a damn!” His mouth turned down at the corners. “Light plays tricks anyway. We are still looking for him. I’ve got several men on it, but it could be anyone. Could have been some toff from up west, and we’d never find him.”
Pitt stared at him. It was extraordinary to hear a man of Ewart’s rank and experience speaking with such defeat. If that was the man who had tortured and murdered two women, then they must find him, whatever it took. Did Ewart really still fear that it was Finlay FitzJames, with all the ugliness that would mean, the blame, the accusations of dereliction of duty, of bigotry, even of corruption? He could understand his reluctance, even his shrinking from it—but he could not condone it.
He leaned forward with a jerk. “Well, if he is the man who killed Nora Gough, and Ada McKinley, we are bloody well going to find him,” he said more loudly than he had intended. “Someone must have seen him! He came. He went. Have you repeated the descriptions of him from the women in Myrdle Street to the other women in Pentecost Alley?”
“Yes, I have.” Ewart was too miserable to respond with an answering anger. “They just say it sounds like Costigan. Which it does.”
“Well, has Costigan any brothers, cousins, any relatives at all?” Pitt demanded.
Ewart smiled bitterly. “I thought of that. No, he doesn’t. Rose Burke and Nan Sullivan are still convinced Costigan did it.”
“And who do they think killed Nora Gough?” Pitt said sarcastically.
“Don’t know. Some lunatic who copied Costigan.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake.