Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [8]
She was too composed to offer any remark before she was asked. She stood in the middle of the room ignoring Lennox and looking at Pitt, waiting, arms folded, only a slightly rapid rise and fall of her chest betraying that she was under any stress at all. Pitt did not know if it was indifference to Ada’s fate or courage. He thought perhaps at least some of the latter.
“Rose Burke?”
“Yeah?” Her chin lifted.
“Tell me about your evening from eight o’clock onwards,” Pitt commanded, then as her face lit with a contemptuous smile, “I’m not interested in doing you for prostitution. I’m after who killed Ada. He’s been here once. If we don’t get him, he could come again. You might be next.”
“Jeez.” She sucked in her breath, respect and loathing bright in her eyes.
“Do you want me to tell you it never happens?” he asked more gently. “It’s not true. He broke her fingers and toes, then he strangled her with her own stocking, like a hangman’s noose.” He did not mention the garter or the boots. Better to leave something unspecified. “You think he’ll do it just the once?”
Lennox winced and seemed about to say something, then changed his mind and silently went out, pushing the door closed behind him.
Rose breathed the Lord’s name in what might even have been a prayer, because almost as if she did not register what she was doing, she crossed herself. Now the blood was gone from her face, leaving the rouge garish, though it was skillfully applied.
Pitt waited.
She began slowly. “I ’ad someone at ten. D’jer ’ave ter ’ave ’is name? S’bad fer business.”
“Yes.”
She hesitated only a moment. “Chas Newton. ’E were ’ere till near eleven.”
“Generous, aren’t you?” Pitt said dubiously. “A whole hour? Is business slow lately?”
“ ’E paid double!” she snapped, her pride stung.
He could believe it. She was a handsome woman and there was an air of knowingness about her, as if little in the way of tastes or skills would be outside her capacity.
“And when he’d gone?” he prompted.
“I dressed an’ went out, o’ course,” she said tartly. “Wot jer think I was gonna do? Go ter sleep? I went down ter the alley an’ was turnin’ ter go between the ’ouses ter Whitechapel Road, an’ I saw this geezer comin’ in on the other side—”
“The other end?” Pitt interrupted. “You mean Old Montague Street?”
“No, I mean the other side o’ Ol’ Montague Street,” she said impatiently. “Could ’a’ bin Springheel Jack or Farver Christmas from all I saw, if it’d bin the end o’ the alley, w’ere I were. There i’nt no lamp there. Don’t yer notice nuffink?”
“You saw him pass under the lamp?” Pitt’s voice quickened in spite of himself.
“Yeah.” She was still standing in the middle of the room with arms folded.
“Describe him,” Pitt directed.
“Taller ’n me. Less ’n you. Bit more ’n usual, mebbe. Well built. Kind o’ young.”
“Twenty? Thirty?” Pitt said quickly.
“Not that young! Thirty. In’t easy ter tell wi’ a toff. Life in’t so ’ard fer them. Live soft, live longer.”
“How was he dressed?” He must not put words into her mind.
She considered for a moment.
“Decent coat. Must ’a’ cost a quid or two. No ’at, though, ’cos I saw the light in ’is ’air. Fair, it looked, an’ thick. Wavy. Wish my ’air waved like that.” She shrugged. “Wouldn’t want ’is face, though. Sort o’ mean. Summink abaht ’is mouf. Good enough nose. Like a good nose on a man.” She looked at Pitt speculatively, then changed her mind. Physical relationships were a matter of business for her. There was no pleasure in them.
“Ever seen him before?” he asked, ignoring the glance.
“Can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cos I dunno, o’ course!” she snapped, her face pinched, fear and sorrow struggling with each other. “If I knew ’oo’d ’a’ killed Ada, I’d tell yer. Be there ter watch yer string the bastard up. ’Elp yer, fer that. Poor little