Cardington Crescent (32 page)

“I got Nellie, she’ll do it fer yer,” she said grudgingly. “Wot is it?”

“Confidential,” he answered. “I’ll tell her outside. Then I’ll be back as soon as I can. You may rest assured of that, Mrs. Mapes.”

“Nellie!” she shrieked at the full power of her lungs; the blast of it shivered the china on the dresser.

There was a moment’s silence, then the wail of a wakened baby somewhere upstairs, a clatter of feet, and Nellie appeared at the doorway, hair straggling, apron awry, eyes frightened. “Yes, Mrs. Mapes, ma’am?”

“Go wiv vis gennelman and do ’is errand fer ’im,” Mrs. Mapes ordered. “Then come back ’ere an’ get on wiv yer work. There’s no food in this life fer them as does no work.”

“No, Mrs. Mapes, ma’am.” Nellie bobbed a half curtsy and turned to Pitt. She must have been about fifteen, although she was so thin and underdeveloped it was hard to be sure.

“Thank you, Mrs. Mapes,” Pitt said, hating her as he had hated few people in his life, aware that perhaps it was only a vent for his rage against poverty itself. She was a creature of her time and place. Should he hate her for surviving? Those who died did so only because they had not her strength. And yet he still hated her.

He went past her to the corridor, along its dank, rush-matted thinness past the children still sitting on the stairs, and out of the front room into Tortoise Lane, Nellie a step behind him. He walked till he was round the corner and out of sight of number 3.

“Wot’s yer errand, mister?” Nellie asked when they stopped.

“Do you often run errands for Mrs. Mapes?”

“Yes, mister. Yer can trust me. 1 knows me way round ere.

“Good. Do you take parcels for her?”

“Yes. An’ I ain’t never lost one. Yer can trust me, mister.”

“I do trust you, Nellie,” he said gently, wishing to God he could do something about her and knowing he could not. If he did, it would be misunderstood, and probably frighten and confuse her. “Did you take the big parcel from the kitchen table?”

Her eyes widened. “Mrs. Mapes told me ter, honest!”

“I’m sure she did,” he said quickly. “Did you take several parcels for her about three weeks ago?”

“I ain’t done nuffin wrong mister. I jus’ took ’em where she said!” Now she was beginning to be frightened; his questions made no sense to her.

“I know that, Nellie,” he said quietly. “Where was that? Around here, and in Bloomsbury?”

Her eyes widened. “No, mister. I took ’em to Mr. Wigge—like always.”

He let out his breath slowly. “Then take me to Mr. Wigge, Nellie. Take me there now.”

N
ELLIE LED
P
ITT
through a maze of cramped alleys and steps till they came to a small, squalid yard stacked with old furniture—much of it mildewed and worm-eaten—bits and pieces of old crockery, and scraps of fabric that not even the ragpickers would have bothered with. At the far side, beyond the ill-balanced piles and heaps, was the entrance down to a large cellar.

“This is w’ere I brung ’em,” Nellie said, looking up at Pitt anxiously. “I swear it, mister.”

“Who did you give them to?” he asked, staring round and seeing no one.

“Mr. Wigge.” She pointed to the steps down to the dark, gaping cellar.

“Come and show me,” he requested, “please.”

Reluctantly she picked her way through the rubbish to the edge of the stair, descending slowly. At the bottom she turned and knocked on the wooden door which stood open on rusted hinges. Her hands made hardly any sound.

“Mr. Wigge? Sir?”

A scrawny old man appeared almost immediately, clad in a filthy jacket, pockets torn by the weight of the junk he had piled in them over the years, trousers splashed with all manner of ordure. He wore fingerless mittens on his hands in spite of the warmth of the day, and on his thin, uncut hair was a shiny black stovepipe hat, completely unmarked. It might have left the hatter’s shop an hour since.

His lantern-jawed face split in an anticipatory leer, and he squinted up at Pitt.

“Mr. Wigge?” Pitt inquired.

The old man bowed jerkily; it was an affectation of gentility he liked. “Septimus Wigge at your service, sir. ’Ow may I ’elp yer? I got a lovely brass bedstead. I got a dancin’ lady in real porcelain.”

“I’ll come in and take a look.” Pitt had a premonition of disappointment. If Clarabelle Mapes had simply been selling off household goods, her own or others’, to raise a little money, it was not worth pursuing. And yet the knots had been peculiar, identical to those on that terrible parcel in the churchyard and all the others.

What should he do about Nellie? If he sent her back to Tortoise Lane would she tell Mrs. Mapes what he had asked her, and where she had taken him? He did not hold much hope that she would hold out against Mrs. Mapes’s inquisition if she were suspicious. Nellie lived in a cocoon of hunger and fear.

And yet if he kept her with him, what could he do with her? Tortoise Lane was her home—probably all she knew. He had already committed her. She knew about the parcels, and if Clarabelle Mapes had tied those bloody and dreadful ones as well as the innocent one, Nellie’s life was imperiled if she returned and told how she had led Pitt to Septimus Wigge. He had to keep her.

“Nellie, come in with me and help me look.”

“I daren’t, mister.” She shook her head. “I got chores. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get ’ome in time. Mrs. Mapes’ll be that cross wi’ me.”

“Not if you go back with the money from Mrs. March,” he argued. “She’s in a hurry for that.”

Nellie looked doubtful. She was more afraid of the immediate than the problematical; her imagination did not stretch that far.

Pitt did not have time to argue. She was used to obedience.

“It’s an order, Nellie,” he said briskly. “You stay with me. Mrs. Mapes will be angry if her money is delayed.” He turned to the waiting man.”Now, Mr. Wigge, I’ll take a look at these brass beds of yours.”

“Very reasonable, sir, very reasonable.” Wigge turned and led the way inside the cellar. It was larger than Pitt had expected, higher-ceilinged and stretching back into the recesses of the building. Against one wall there was a large furnace with a metal door hanging open sending heat out into the stone spaces, and in spite of the mildness of the day, its warmth was agreeable under the ground level, where there was no sunlight.

The old man showed him several fine brass bedsteads, a few pieces of quite good china, and several other odds and ends in which Pitt affected to be interested, all the time peering and searching, finding nothing beyond what might or might not be stolen goods. But while haggling with him over a small green glass vase he eventually bought for Charlotte, he did make a very close observation of Mr. Septimus Wigge himself. By the time he left, still followed by Nellie, he could have described Mr. Wigge so closely an artist could have drawn him from the soles of his appalling boots up to the crown of his immaculate hat, and every feature of his smirking face.

He took his leave, holding the vase, taking Nellie with him. He had no choice. He must forget about Sybilla, whose connection with Clarabelle Mapes he could not understand and very probably was coincidental and had nothing to do with her murder. He must go back to the Bloomsbury churchyard, now that he knew who he was looking for, and try all the residents and habitues to see if even one of them could place Septimus Wigge there three weeks ago. It could be a long task.

First he must find a safe place to leave Nellie, where Mrs. Mapes would not discover her. It was after two, and they had not eaten.

“Are you hungry, Nellie?” He asked only out of politeness; from the child’s hollow eyes and the sunken, slack quality of her flesh he knew she was always hungry.

“Yes, mister.” She did not sound surprised that he should ask; she obviously believed him sufficiently eccentric to do anything.

“So am I. Let’s have luncheon.”

“I ain’t got nuffin.” This time she looked at him anxiously.

“You’ve been a great help to me, Nellie, I think you’ve earned luncheon.” She was fifteen, quite old enough to understand patronage, and she did not deserve it. She had little enough dignity and he was determined not to seduce that from her. Nor would he question her yet about the house in Tortoise Lane. He knew what it was; he did not need to lead her into betraying it. “I know a very good public house where they’ll give us fresh bread and cold meat and pickle and pudding.”

She did not yet believe it. “Thank you, mister,” she said, her expression unchanged.

The pub he had in mind was only half a mile away, and they walked to it in silence, quite companionable for his part. As soon as he went in, the landlord recognized him. He was a moderately law-abiding citizen, most of the time, and that area of his business which was questionable Pitt left alone. It was to do with game bought from poachers, the occasional avoidance of excise taxes on tobacco and similar goods, and a great deal of judicious blindness. Pitt was concerned with murder.

“Afternoon, Mr. Tibbs,” he said cheerfully.

“Afternoon, Mr. Pitt, sir.” Tibbs came hurrying towards him, wiping his hands on the sides of his trousers, eager to keep on the right side of the law. “Luncheon for yer, Mr. Pitt, sir? Got a luvly piece o’ mutton—or a good Cheshire, or a Double Gloucester? An’ me best pickle, Mrs. Tibbs’s own, put it up last summer an’ it’s proper tasty. What’ll it be?”

“Mutton, Mr. Tibbs,” Pitt replied. “For me and the lady. And a jar of ale each. And then pudding. And Tibbs, there are some very unpleasant people who might come looking for the lady, to do her harm. I’d like you to keep her safe for a while. She’s a good little worker, when she’s fed. Find her a place out of sight in your kitchens. She can sleep by the stove. It won’t be for long, unless you decide to keep her. She’ll earn her way.

Tibbs looked doubtfully at Nellie’s skinny little body and pinched face. “Wot’s she done?” he asked, giving Pitt a narrow look.

“Seen something she shouldn’t,” Pitt replied immediately.

“All right,” Tibbs said reluctantly. “But you’ll answer fer anythin’ she takes, Mr. Pitt.”

“You feed her properly and don’t beat her,” Pitt agreed, “and I’ll answer for her honesty. And if I don’t find her here when I come back for her, you’ll answer with a lot more than money. Are we understood?”

“It’s a favor I’m doin’ yer, Mr. Pitt.” Tibbs wanted to make sure he was laying up future repayment.

“It is,” Pitt conceded. “I don’t forget much, Mr. Tibbs—good or bad.”

“I’ll get yer mutton.” Tibbs disappeared, satisfied.

Pitt and Nellie sat down at one of the small tables, he with relief, she gingerly, still confused.

“Why yer talkin’ abaht me wiv ’im fer?” she asked, screwing up her face and staring at him, a trace of fear in her eyes.

“Because I’m going to leave you here to work in his kitchen,” he answered. “You’re not safe in Tortoise Lane till I’ve finished learning what I have to.”

“Mrs. Mapes’ll turn me aht!” She was really frightened now. “I’ll ’ave nowhere ter go!”

“You can stay here.” He leaned forward. “Nellie, you’ve learned something you shouldn’t. I’m a policeman, a rozzer. Do you know what happens to people who know secrets they shouldn’t?”

She nodded silently. She knew. They vanished. She had lived fifteen years in St. Giles; she understood the laws of survival very well.

“You a rozzer, honest? You ain’t got no cape ner ’elmet, ner one o’ them little lights.”

“I used to have. Now I only deal with big, important crimes, and I have some of the rozzers with helmets to work for me.”

Tibbs brought their food himself: crusty bread, thick slices of cold saddle of mutton and rich, dark pickle, two mugs of ale, and two portions of spotted Dick—steamed pudding thick with currants. Nellie was speechless when a full half of it was placed in front of her. Pitt only hoped she would not be sick with the unaccustomed wealth of it. He might have been wiser to give her shrunken stomach a little at first, but there was no time, and he was hungry himself.

“Eat as much as you want,” he said graciously. “But don’t feel you have to finish it. There’ll be more tonight, and tomorrow.”

Nellie simply stared at him.

He collected a constable from the local beat and co-opted him into going from one door to another yet again. All afternoon they worked the areas within five hundred yards of where the hideous parcels had been found—first in the approaches to the Bloomsbury churchyard, then closer to the outskirts of St. Giles, where the later discoveries were made. He had given the constable a precise description of Septimus Wigge, both his person and the clothes he had seen him wearing in his cellar storehouse.

By six o’clock in the evening they met again at the churchyard gate.

“Well?” Pitt asked, although the answer mattered little; he already had what he needed. He had been too impatient, too angry, to be subtle. But in spite of his unusual clumsiness he had found a footman who had been up early returning from an assignation and had seen a scraggy, lantern-jawed old man in a stovepipe hat a hundred yards from the church, hurrying along, pushing a small handcart with one fairly large parcel in it. He had not mentioned it at the time of the torso’s discovery because he did not wish to admit being out; it would almost certainly mean his dismissal from his position, and he had thought the old man merely a peddlar, probably with something stolen, to be about at such an hour. It was too early even for costers in from the outlying districts with vegetables, or up from the docks or the river with winkles, eels, or other such delicacies.

But Pitt had bullied him into believing that to hide such knowledge now would make him accomplice to the murder, and that was infinitely worse than losing a position over a bit of flirtation with a housemaid a mile away.

And he had also chanced on a prostitute further toward St. Giles, where one of the gruesome parcels, a leg, had been found. Now that he could describe Septimus Wigge so precisely he knew what to ask, and, after several girls, he came upon one who had seen him with his handcart. She remembered the fine stovepipe hat, its sheen gleaming in the moonlight as he turned the corner. She had noticed it then but not considered the three paper-and-string-wrapped parcels in his cart.