Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [149]
“Go on!” a high voice yelled. “Wot yer waitin’ fer?”
The first man glanced sideways to make certain he would not be starting alone. He saw confirmation in the other’s eyes and stepped forward, fists high, clenched.
Pitt altered his weight, ready for the first blow.
“Stop it!”
Everyone froze. There was command in the voice. It was not a shout, but it carried across the full extent of the room.
Pitt’s breath caught in his throat and almost choked him.
The crowd was elbowed aside and Jago Jones forced his way through. His face was set like iron, his eyes blazing.
“What the devil’s going on here?” he demanded, staring at one man, then another.
“No need for you, Reverend,” one man said sharply. “You go on about ’elpin’ the sick and them as wants yer. We don’t want yer ’ere!”
There was a murmur of agreement. Someone stretched out a hand towards him to push. He ignored it.
“In’t your business ’ere, Reverend,” another man said roughly. “Go on wi’ yer own business an’ aht o’ ours!”
“What are you trying to do?” Jago stared at him without wavering. “Commit another murder and prove we are the ignorant and stupid people the rich would like to believe? Murder a police superintendent who’s only doing his job and they’ll have the army in here before you can turn ’round.”
There was a low grumble of complaint, but one by one they stepped back, or were pulled, leaving Jago facing Pitt.
“Are you finished with your lunch?” Jago asked, but his face made it plain it was an order rather than a question.
Pitt swallowed. There was still a good deal of his sandwich left, and half his cider. He picked up the glass and drained it, then took the sandwich in his hand.
“Yes.”
Jago turned to face the way out. For several seconds no one moved. They stood together, belligerently, daring Jago to brave them.
“Are you going to attack me too?” he said with only the faintest catch in his throat. “Is this your idea of courage and intelligence? This how you want the people up west to think of you … beasts who set upon priests and policemen?”
There was a growl of anger, but several moved back a step.
Jago led the way through the silent crowd. Their eyes were sullen, and many fists were still clenched tight. No one moved any farther to let them pass, and Pitt actually brushed two of them as he went.
Outside the air was colder and smelled of horse manure and drains, but Pitt gulped it as if it had been as sweet as the bright, clean wind off the sea.
“Thank you,” he said shakily. “I … I didn’t realize the feeling was so deep … or so bad.”
“There’s always someone to take advantage of trouble,” Jago replied, striding out along the street back towards St. Mary’s Church. “Political opportunists, or simply people full of hate and failure who need to blame someone for it. You were a natural target. You were a little naive not to have seen it.”
Pitt said nothing. Jago was right.
They walked side by side, rapidly. Pitt had come because he could not rid himself of the painful suspicion that Jago was the link between Finlay FitzJames and Whitechapel, between the past and the present. He was the only person who unarguably knew both Ada and Finlay. He probably knew Nora Gough as well. Pitt hated the thought. He hated even more having to broach the subject to Jago, who had just rescued him, possibly at some risk to himself.
Pitt drew breath and was about to ask when Jago stopped abruptly.
They had gone up Mansell Street and were at the corner of the Whitechapel Road. The traffic was heavy, mostly commercial.
“I’ve got to go and call on a woman whose husband was drowned last week,” Jago said as clearly as he could above the rattle of wheels and clatter of hooves. “I’d be careful around here, Superintendent. Don’t wait in any place too long. If you have to question a crowd, take some constables with you. I presume you are no further …” The rest of what he said was drowned out by a passing dray.
“No,” Pitt replied when it had gone. “Not much.”
Jago gave him a quick, brilliant