Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [63]
Pitt searched his face, trying to read in it the emotions behind his words, and saw too many conflicting currents, but through them all a certainty of gentleness, and even in his eyes a restraint from judgment.
He rose to his feet.
“Thank you, Reverend. I can’t say that you have helped me greatly, but then I shouldn’t have expected it.” He bade him good-bye and walked out into the hot street with its noise and traffic, its horses and scurrying people on foot, the clatter of hooves, voices and film of dirt. He felt an even deeper liking for Jago Jones than before, and a conviction that in some fundamental way, he was lying.
“Well, have you learned anything else about FitzJames?” Cornwallis said in exasperation. It was the end of the day, and the sun had already set in an orange ball behind the wreath of chimney smoke that lay over the rooftops. The heat still burned up from the pavements and the smell of horse droppings was pungent where crossing sweepers had shoveled it to one side but no carts had been by to pick it up.
Carriages still bowled along the streets as the lamps came on, electric now along the Thames Embankment. People were beginning to think of the theater and the opera, restaurant dinners and evening parties. The lights of pleasure boats were visible on the river, and the sound of music drifted up.
“No,” Pitt answered wearily, standing beside Cornwallis at the window. “Jago Jones won’t say more than that they were all wild half a dozen years ago and that he hasn’t kept more than casual touch since then. And that’s easy to believe, since he’s now a priest in Whitechapel….” He smiled for an instant. “Not exactly FitzJames’s territory. The Foreign Office says he’s able, diligent, behaves as well as most young men and better than some. And as soon as he marries suitably, he is likely to get a very good embassy post. He certainly has talent in that direction, and a good deal of charm.”
“But you have Rose Burke’s identification of him!” Cornwallis insisted, turning away from the window to stare at Pitt. “And the badge, and the cuff link. Have you had that identified as his?”
“Yes.”
Cornwallis’s face was grave.
“Then, what’s troubling you, Pitt? Have you some evidence you haven’t told me of? Or are you worried about political pressure?” He shook his head slightly. “FitzJames’s friends are increasing their pressure, but it will never stop me from backing you totally—if you are sure he’s guilty and you can prove it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Pitt meant it profoundly. It was a gift beyond price to have a superior whose nerve held under fire, even when his own position might be threatened. He was less certain of his judgment. Did he really have an understanding of how powerful Augustus FitzJames’s friends might be and how little innocence or guilt might matter to them, so long as there was every chance it would never be exposed? And had he also considered that FitzJames might also have enemies who were equally powerful? Jago Jones’s words rang in his mind and he could not ignore them.
“You haven’t answered me.” Cornwallis broke the train of his thoughts.
“I wish I had someone else who had seen Finlay in Whitechapel … anyone else at all,” Pitt replied. “I can’t find any evidence of his having been there, that night or at any other time. I’ll put Tellman on it tomorrow, as discreetly as possible.”
“Doesn’t prove anything,” Cornwallis continued. “He may usually do his whoring in the Haymarket, doesn’t mean to say he didn’t go to Whitechapel this time. Have you tried cabbies? Other street women? Local constables on the beat?”
“Ewart has. No one has seen him. But they know him farther west.”
“Damn,” Cornwallis swore under his breath. “When were the cuff link and the badge last seen by his valet, or anyone whose evidence is reasonably unprejudiced?”
“Valet’s been with him for years and has never seen either,” Pitt replied.
Cornwallis digested this in silence.
The carriage lamps moved slowly along the street towards them and the sound of wheels and hooves came up through the still