Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [50]
“Good morning, sir,” Pitt said as he closed the office door and walked in. This was only the second time he had been back since his battle with Farnsworth. The room was the same in all essentials: the tall windows facing the sun, the large polished oak desk, the armchairs. Yet the stamp of a different personality was on it. The faint odor of Farnsworth’s cigars was gone, and in its place was a smell of leather and beeswax, and something vaguely aromatic. Perhaps it came from the carved cedarwood box on the low table. That was new. The brass telescope on the wall was also new, and the ship’s sextant hung beside it.
Cornwallis was standing as though he had been looking out of the window. He had been expecting Pitt. He was there by appointment.
“Good morning. Sit down.” Cornwallis waved towards the chairs spread out comfortably, facing each other. The sunlight made a bright pool on the red patterned carpet. “I’m afraid this business in Pentecost Alley is turning very ugly. Did he do it? Your opinion …”
“Rose Burke identified him,” Pitt replied. “The evidence is strong.”
Cornwallis grunted and sat down.
Pitt sat also.
“But not conclusive?” Cornwallis asked, searching Pitt’s face. He had caught the hesitation in his voice and was probing it.
Pitt was not sure what he thought. He had been turning it over in his mind since leaving Rose. She had seemed certain beyond doubt at all. She had described him before she had seen him again in Devonshire Street; so had Nan Sullivan. There were the cuff link and the Hellfire Club badge.
“It’s pretty tight,” he answered. “And so far there’s no one else indicated.”
“Then why do you hesitate?” Cornwallis frowned. He did not know Pitt except by reputation. He was seeking to weigh his judgments, understand what held him from a decision. “Never mind the ugliness. If he’s guilty I’ll back you. I don’t care whose son he is.”
Pitt looked at his tense, candid face and knew it was the truth. There was none of Farnsworth’s deviousness in him, none of his evasive self-interest. But it was possible there was also not his diplomatic skill either, or his ability to persuade and cajole those in power. Because Farnsworth was ambitious and capable of lies, he understood others who had the same nature. Cornwallis might be more easily outflanked and misled.
“Thank you,” Pitt said sincerely. “It may come to that, but I’m not sure yet.”
“She identified him,” Cornwallis pointed out, sitting forward in the chair. “What worries you? Do you think the jury will disbelieve her because of what she is?”
“It’s possible,” Pitt conceded thoughtfully. “What worries me more is that she may be overkeen to catch a man because she’s afraid and angry, and she’ll identify anyone, out of her own need. Whitechapel hasn’t forgotten the Ripper. Two years is not long. Memories come back too easily, especially to women of her trade. She may have known Long Liz, or Mary Kelly, or any of his other victims.”
“And the badge you found?” Cornwallis pressed. “She didn’t imagine that.”
“No,” Pitt agreed cautiously. “But it is possible someone else left it there, or he lost it at some other time. I agree, it’s not likely, but that is what he is claiming … that he has not had it in years, or the cuff links either.”
“Do you believe him?” Cornwallis’s eyebrows were high, his eyes wide.
“No. He’s lying. But he’s not as afraid as I would have expected.” Pitt tried to analyze his impressions as he spoke. “There is something I don’t yet know, something important. I want to investigate it a little further before I arrest him.”
Cornwallis sat back. “There’s going to be a great deal of pressure, of course,” he warned. “It’s already started. I’ve had someone from the Home Office calling this morning, half