Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [148]
“Yes, of course it is. And Nora would take your man, and other people’s?”
“ ’Ere, not reg’lar. Just mine once, only a geezer wot I fancied, nuffink def’nite. Made an ’abit of it, and we’d ’a’ ’ad ’er thrown aht! She weren’t bad, Nora. An’ if I knew ’ow ter ’elp yer get ’oo it was as done ’er, I’d bust meself ter do it. Bloody useless lot y’are too.” She ran her fingers through her black hair. “Geez! Anyway that little sod Costigan sure as ’ell din’t do it. And yer in’t caught the real bastard wot did, even though ’e’s done it twice now. Gonna wait till ’e does it again, are yer? Catch ’im the third time? Or will it be like in ’eighty-eight, and ’e’ll thumb ’is nose at the lot o’ yer.” She stood up, pulling her robe around her. “I dunno nuffink more, an’ I’m goin’ back ter me bed. I dunno wot they pay yer for. If I weren’t no better at me job than you are, I’d starve.”
Pitt roused Pearl and Mabel, and learned nothing else of use. They only repeated what they had already said.
It was lunchtime, and he was hungry. He walked towards the river and the nearest public house, the same one in Swan Street where he and Ewart and Lennox had met two evenings before Costigan’s trial.
Was he wrong about Costigan? Could he possibly have been so eager to believe him guilty he had misinterpreted what he said? He had to think back, but he could not remember the words, only his own certainty that it was an admission.
He went to the bar and asked for a pint of cider and a sandwich with cheese and pickle. He took it to a table and sat down, eating without tasting. The room was noisy, packed with porters, draymen and laborers. The smells of sawdust and ale were everywhere, the sounds of voices and occasional laughter. He had been there several minutes and was more than halfway through when a large man with an open jacket stared at him pointedly.
“Rozzer!” he said slowly. “Yer that rozzer wot ’anged Costigan, ain’t yer?”
Pitt looked up at him.
“I didn’t hang him,” he corrected. “I arrested him. The court tried him, the jury found him guilty, and the judge sentenced him.” He took another mouthful of his sandwich and turned away.
Several people close by stopped talking.
“That’s right!” The man raised his voice. “Stuff yer face. Look the other way from us. Wot der we matter? Jus’ poor folks from Whitechapel. ’Ang some poor bastard an’ go ’ome ter yer bed.” The jeering in his voice grew sharper, uglier. “Sleep easy, do yer, Rozzer? Only Costigan in’t gonna wake up agin, is ’e? ’Cos you ’anged ’im! But it don’t stop some bloody toff comin’ ’ere from up west, usin’ our women and then torturin’ ’em an’ stranglin’ ’em, do it?”
Another man joined in, his face tight with hatred.
“ ’Ow much they pay yer, eh? Judas!”
“Judas!” came the cry from half a dozen other throats. No one was eating anymore. All other conversations stopped.
Someone stood up.
The landlord yelled for order and was told to keep his mouth shut.
They moved closer to Pitt’s table, faces ugly.
“Wot yer come back ’ere fer, eh? ’Opin’ ter be paid agin, are yer?”
“Pay yer every time ’e kills some poor bitch, does ’e?”
“ ’Ow much, eh? ’Ow much is one o’ our women worth to yer, Rozzer?”
Pitt opened his mouth to speak, and someone hit him. It was a glancing blow, but it shocked him and sent him off balance.
There was a cheer, then someone laughed.
Pitt straightened up onto his feet.
He was taller than the man had expected, and bigger. The man stepped back.
Another man squared up beside him, ready to join him. It was becoming extremely unpleasant. Pitt felt a sharp tug of fear and sweat broke out on his body. He would not go down without a fight, but he would have no chance whatever of beating this many men. They would injure him badly, perhaps even kill him.
The man nearest him rocked gently on the balls of his feet, ready to begin, his eyes moving from one side to the other, his face