Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [175]
“I believe you, Miss FitzJames. Nor was it Ewart. He was desperate that Finlay should not even be seriously suspected, let alone charged. He may hate your father, he may hate Finlay, but he has everything to lose—his livelihood, his family, even his freedom—if Finlay is proved guilty. And I have a feeling that if that were to happen, your father, far from protecting him, would be the first to destroy him for having failed.”
Tallulah said nothing. She could not deny it, but it was too painful to agree. It was one step beyond what she could endure.
Jago’s arm tightened around her.
“There is something fundamental that you don’t know,” Jago said, almost as much to himself as to Pitt. “Something upon which this all turns.”
“What is it?” Pitt and Tallulah spoke at once.
“I don’t know,” Jago confessed. “I just know it exists, it matters terribly.”
But as he spoke, Pitt realized the thing that had been unresolved at the back of his own mind.
“Mary Smith,” he said aloud. “Such an ordinary name. Too ordinary. Who was she? Who was she really?”
Jago closed his eyes again. “I don’t know. She was young. She was very pretty, and very unhappy. God forgive us….”
“But it still doesn’t make any sense!” Tallulah protested, turning to Pitt. “You found Finlay’s things in the women’s rooms! Who could have put them there except whoever killed them? Had Mary Smith something to do with both Costigan and Ella Baker?” Her face wrinkled up with confusion. “But they wouldn’t kill two women just to blame Finlay! That’s insane.”
As he stood in the deepening chill, the mist now a halo of light around the gas lamp, another answer came to Pitt’s mind, absurdly simple, and tragic. If it was the truth, it would explain everything.
“I must go back to the police station,” he said. His voice sounded exactly as it had done moments before, yet he felt utterly different. It was an answer he did not want, and yet it intruded more and more fiercely into his mind, even the few seconds he stood there.
“I will take Tallulah … Miss FitzJames … back with me to Saint Mary’s,” Jago said, his face composed, his shoulders straight.
Pitt smiled, very slightly. It was a warm gesture, but a glimmer where he would have wished a beacon.
“That’s a good idea, Reverend. It may be the very best place for her. May I suggest you keep her there, if decency permits?”
“But …” Jago started.
“I know where to find you if I should need you,” Pitt cut him short. “But I don’t think I shall. I know you won’t testify against Finlay, and there is no one to testify against you. Keep on with your work here. It does much good. Good night.” And he swiveled around and walked away towards the corner. He turned once and looked back. He saw two figures under the lamp, but so closely entwined they could have been one, a man and a woman locked in an embrace for which each had imagined and dreamed and waited, until the reality was sweet beyond hope.
Ewart was startled to see Pitt. He looked up from his desk, his face calm, no suspicion in it, no dread of what was to come.
“Is Dr. Lennox in?” Pitt asked. “If not, please send for him.”
“Are you ill?” Even as he asked it, the light died out of Ewart’s face. He could see Pitt was not ill, only hurt and darkened in spirit.
“Get me Dr. Lennox,” Pitt repeated. “How well do you know him?”
“Er … moderately.” Ewart’s face was pale, the blood slipping out of his cheeks. “Why?”
“What did his father do?”
“What?”
“What did his father do for a living?” Pitt said again.
“I … I don’t think … I’ve no idea! Why?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Has he done something he shouldn’t? What’s the matter, Pitt? You look dreadful. Sit down, man. I’ll get you a glass of brandy. Dr. Lennox!”
“I don’t want brandy.” Pitt hated this.