The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [128]
Pitt reached the cobbler’s shop and left a message that he required to speak to Narraway immediately. He was told to return in thirty minutes.
When he did, Narraway was waiting for him. He was not sitting in his usual position, but standing in the tiny room as if he had expected Pitt to the minute and was too restless to make even the smallest concession to the idea that things were as usual.
“Well?” he demanded as soon as the door was closed.
Now that it was the moment, suddenly Pitt was undecided. His hands were clammy, his heart knocking in his chest. Narraway’s eyes seemed to be boring into his mind, and he still had no idea whether to trust him or not.
“You wanted something, Pitt! What is it?” Narraway’s voice was hard-edged. Was he afraid too? He must have heard of Sissons’s murder, and he would understand all its implications. Even if he were Inner Circle, riot was not what he wanted. But there was nowhere else to turn. A phrase came into Pitt’s mind: if you would sup with the devil, you must have a long spoon. He thought of the five women in Whitechapel, and the coach that had gone around at night, looking for them to butcher. Was it really better than riot, even revolution?
“For God’s sake, man!” Narraway exploded, his eyes dark and brilliant, his face bleached of color with exhaustion. “If you’ve got something to say, say it! Don’t waste my time!”
This time there was no mistaking his fear. It was under the surface, but Pitt could feel it like electricity crawling over the skin.
“Sissons wasn’t murdered the way the police suppose,” he said, committing himself. There was no going back now. “I was the one who found him, and when I did it looked like suicide. The gun was there in his right hand, along with a letter saying that he had killed himself because he was ruined over a loan he had made and which was now denied.”
“I see. And what has happened to this note?” Narraway’s voice was soft now, almost expressionless.
Pitt felt his stomach lurch.
“I destroyed it.” He swallowed. “I also got rid of the gun.” He was not going to mention Adinett’s letter or the note of debt.
“Why?” Narraway said softly.
“Because the loan was to the Prince of Wales,” Pitt replied.
“Yes … I do see.” Narraway rubbed his hands over his brow, pushing his hair back into spikes. In that single gesture was a weariness and a depth of understanding that dispelled the outer shell of Pitt’s fear. It was peculiarly naked, as if at last it had exposed something of the real man.
Narraway sat down and gestured to the other chair. “So what is this about a Jew being seen leaving the factory?”
Pitt smiled wryly. “Inspector Harper’s attempt to find an acceptable scapegoat—not as good as the Prince of Wales.”
Narraway looked up sharply. “As good?”
There was no going back, no safety left. “For his purposes,” Pitt replied. “Harper is Inner Circle. He was expecting Sissons’s death. He was dressed and waiting to be called. He tried to say it was suicide and blame me for stealing the gun. He might have succeeded if Wally Edwards hadn’t stood up to him—and Constable Jenkins as well. It was Wally who said Sissons couldn’t have shot himself because of an old injury; he didn’t have the use of his right fingers.”
“I see.” Narraway’s voice was bitter. “And do I assume from this that you now trust me? Or are you sufficiently desperate that you have no choice?”
Pitt would not add to his lies. And perhaps Narraway deserved better, either way. “I don’t think you want the East End in flames any more than I do. And yes, I am desperate.”
A black humor showed briefly in Narraway’s eyes. “Should I thank you for at least that much?”
Pitt would have liked to tell him about the Whitechapel murders and what Remus knew, but that was taking trust too far, and once said it could not be taken back. He shrugged very slightly and made no reply.
“Can you see the police don’t blame some innocent person?” he said instead.
Narraway gave a short bark of laughter, bitter and derisive.
“No … I can’t! I can’t stop