Pentecost Alley tp-16 Page 4

  “Porridge?”

  “Yes, please.” He sat down on one of the smooth, hard-backed chairs. Jemima carried the milk jug over from the larder, carefully, using both hands. It was blue-and-white-striped, and the word milk was written on it in block letters.

  The door burst open and six-year-old Daniel came in, waving his socks triumphantly.

  “I’ve got them!” He saw Pitt with delight. Too often he was already up and gone before the children came for breakfast. “Papa! What’s happened? Aren’t you going to work today?” He looked at his mother accusingly. “Is it a holiday? You said I have to go to school!”

  “You do,” Pitt said quickly. “I’ve already been to work. I’ve only come back for breakfast because it’s too early to call on the people I have to see. Now put your socks and boots on, and then sit down and let Gracie bring your porridge.”

  Daniel sat on the floor and pulled on his socks, then considered his boots carefully before deciding which one went on which foot. Finally he climbed onto his chair, still regarding his father. “Who are you going to see?”

  Charlotte was looking at him too, waiting.

  “A man called FitzJames,” Pitt answered them both. “He has his breakfast later.”

  “Why?” Daniel said curiously.

  Pitt smiled. Half of Daniel’s conversation consisted of whys.

  “I’ll ask him,” Pitt promised.

  A marmalade-striped kitten came running in from the scullery, then stopped suddenly, its back arched, and took half a dozen steps crabwise, its tail bristling. A coal-black kitten charged in after it and there were squawks and squeals as they tumbled with each other, spitting and scratching harmlessly, to the children’s entertainment. Porridge was ignored, and no one argued.

  Pitt sat back as Jemima disappeared under the table to watch, and Daniel pushed his chair back so he could see too. It was all immensely comfortable, trivial and a different world from Pentecost Alley, and the people who lived and died there.

  2

  It was nearly nine o’clock when Pitt alighted in Devonshire Street and went to the front door of number thirty-eight. The police station at Bow Street had sent him a messenger with FitzJames’s address and a note from Ewart to say that he would inform Pitt of any further evidence, should he discover it. He was about to question Ada McKinley’s pimp and see if he could locate her earlier clients of the evening, but he held little hope.

  Pitt knocked on the door and stepped back. The wind from the east had risen and cleared some of the overcast. It was brighter, and warmer. The morning traffic was no more than the occasional hansom. It was too early for ladies to be making calls, even upon their dressmakers, so there were no private carriages out yet. An errand boy strode past, whistling and tossing a sixpenny piece, reward for his diligence.

  The door opened to reveal a long-nosed butler with a surprisingly agreeable expression.

  “Good morning, sir. May I help you?”

  “Good morning,” Pitt said quickly, taken aback by such pleasantness. He pulled out his card, more elegant than his old ones, stating his name but not his calling. Police were never welcome, no matter how senior. “I am afraid a matter has arisen in which it is necessary I see Mr. Finlay FitzJames most urgently,” he explained.

  “Indeed, sir.” The butler offered his tray. It was small and of most exquisitely simple Georgian silver, and Pitt dropped his card onto it. The butler stepped back to allow Pitt inside into the magnificently paneled hall, which was hung with portraits. Most of them were grim-faced men in the dress of the previous century. There were also one or two scenes of farmland and cows grazing under heavy skies, which Pitt thought, if they were originals, would be extremely valuable.

  “I believe Mr. FitzJames is taking breakfast, sir,” the butler continued. “If you would care to wait in the morning room, it faces the garden and will not be disagreeable. Are you acquainted with Mr. FitzJames, sir?”

  It was a polite way of asking if FitzJames had the slightest idea who Pitt was.

  “No,” Pitt confessed. “Unfortunately the matter is urgent, and unpleasant, or I would not have called without making an appointment. I regret it cannot wait.”

  “Just so, sir. I will inform Mr. FitzJames.” And he left Pitt in the cool blue-and-brown morning room filled with dappled light while he performed his errand.

  Pitt looked around. He had already been aware, even before he had come into the house, that the FitzJames family had a great deal of wealth. Most of it had been acquired through speculation by Augustus FitzJames, using the money his wife had inherited from her godmother. Pitt had picked up this piece of information from Charlotte’s younger sister, Emily, who before her present marriage to Jack Radley had been married to the late Lord Ashworth. She had retained the money he had left her, and his aristocratic associates, and also an inveterate curiosity for details about people, the more intimate the better.

  The FitzJames morning room was extremely comfortable, if a little chilly. It did not have the usual plethora of glass-cased trophies, dried flowers and stitched decorations which many families relegated to a room in which they spent little time. Instead there were two very good bronzes, one of a crouching lion, the other of a stag. Bookcases lined the farthest wall and the shafts of sunlight slanting in between the heavy brocade curtains showed not a speck of dust on the gleaming mahogany surfaces.

  Pitt walked over and glanced at the titles. Probably the books FitzJames read were in the library, but still it would be interesting to note what he wished his guests to believe he read. He saw several histories, all of Europe or the Empire, biographies of politicians, religious discourses of an orthodox nature, and a complete edition of the works of Shakespeare, bound in leather. There were also translations of the works of Cicero and Caesar. There was no poetry, and no novels. Pitt smiled without being aware of it. This was how Augustus FitzJames wished to be perceived … a man of much learning and no levity or imagination.

  It was no more than ten minutes before the butler returned, still smiling.

  “Mr. FitzJames regrets he is extremely busy this morning, sir, but if the matter is as pressing as you say, perhaps you would care to join him in the dining room?”

  It was not at all what Pitt wanted, but he had little alternative. Perhaps when he realized the nature of the enquiry, FitzJames would elect to discuss the matter alone.

  “Thank you,” Pitt accepted reluctantly.

  The dining room was splendid, obviously designed to accommodate at least twenty people with ease. The velvet curtains framed three deep windows, all looking out on to a small, very formal garden. Pitt glimpsed topiary hedges and box trees, and a walkway paved in an exact pattern. The table was laid with silver, porcelain and crisp, white linen. On the sideboard were dishes of kedgeree; another of bacon, sausage and kidney; and a variety of eggs, any one of which would have fed half a dozen people. The aroma of them filled Pitt’s nostrils, but his mind was forced back to Pentecost Alley, and he wondered if Ada McKinley had ever seen as much food as this at one time in her life.

  He must remember FitzJames was not necessarily guilty.

  There were four people at the table, and they commanded his attention. At the head sat a man of perhaps sixty years, narrow-headed with powerful features. It was the face of a self-made man, owing no obligation to the past and possibly little to the future. It was a face of courage and intolerance. He regarded Pitt with challenge for having interrupted the domestic peace of his breakfast.

  At his side was a handsome woman, also of about sixty. Her features were marked by patience and a degree of inner control. She understood myriad rules and was used to obeying them. She might have assumed Pitt was a banker or dealer in some commodity. She inclined her head courteously, but there was no interest whatever in her wide-set eyes.

  Her son resembled her physically. He had the same broad brow, wide mouth and squared jaw. He was about thirty, and already there was the beginning of extra weight about him, a fading of the leanne
ss of youth. This must be Finlay, and his magnificent fair, wavy hair fitted exactly the description both Rose and Nan had given.

  The last member of the party was quite different. The daughter must have inherited her looks from some ancestor further back. She had nothing of her mother in her, and little of her father except a rather long nose, but on her it was slender, giving her face just enough eccentricity to stop it from being ordinarily pretty. She had an air of daring and vitality. She regarded Pitt with acute interest, although that might be simply because he had interrupted the usual monotony of breakfast.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pitt,” the senior FitzJames said coolly, looking at Pitt’s card, which the butler had offered him. “What is it that is so urgent you need to address it at this hour?”

  “It is Mr. Finlay FitzJames I wish to see, sir,” Pitt replied, still standing, since he had not been invited to sit.

  “You may address him through me,” the father replied without reference to Finlay. Possibly he had consulted him before Pitt was admitted.

  Pitt controlled an impulse to anger. He could not yet afford to offend the man. This was just conceivably some form of error, although he doubted it. And if it should prove as he feared, and Finlay was guilty, it must be handled so that there would be not the slightest ground for complaint. He had no illusion that FitzJames would not fight to the bitter end to protect his only son, and his family name, and therein also himself.

  Pitt began very carefully. He understood only too well why Ewart clung to the hope that some other evidence would be turned up to indicate any other answer.

  “Are you acquainted with a group calling themselves the Hellfire Club?” he asked politely.

  “Why do you wish to know, Mr. Pitt?” FitzJames’s eyebrows rose. “I think you had better explain yourself. Why should we give you any information about our business? This … card … offers your name and no more. Yet you say your business is urgent and unpleasant. Who are you?”

  “Has there been an accident?” Mrs. FitzJames asked with concern. “Someone we know?”

  FitzJames silenced her with a glare and she looked away, as though to tell Pitt she did not expect to be answered.

  “I am a superintendent in the Metropolitan Police Force,” Pitt replied. “Presently in charge of the Bow Street Station.”

  “Oh my goodness!” Mrs. FitzJames was startled and uncertain what she should say. She had obviously never been faced with such a situation before. She wanted to speak, and was afraid to. She looked at Pitt without seeming to see him.

  Finlay was also quite openly amazed.

  “I used to be a member of a club which used that name,” he said slowly, his brow furrowed. “But that was years ago. There were only four of us, and we disbanded about, oh, ’eighty-four, somewhere about then.”

  “I see.” Pitt kept his voice level. “Will you give me the names of these other members please, sir?”

  “Have they done something awful?” Miss FitzJames asked, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Why do you want to know, Mr.-Pitt, is it? It must be very terrible to have sent the head of a police station. I think I’ve only ever seen constables before.”

  “Be quiet, Tallulah,” FitzJames said grimly. “Or you will excuse yourself and leave the room.”

  She drew breath to plead, then saw his expression and changed her mind, her mouth pulled tight, her eyes down.

  FitzJames dabbed his lips and laid down his napkin. “I don’t know why on earth you should concern me with such a matter at home, Mr. Pitt, and at this hour of the morning. A letter would have sufficed.” He made as if to stand from the table.

  Pitt said with equal sharpness, “The matter is a great deal more severe than you think. I thought it would be more discreet here. But I can deal with it at Bow Street if you prefer. It may possibly be explained without that necessity, although if that is what you wish, of course I shall oblige you.”

  The blood darkened FitzJames’s narrow cheeks, and he rose to his feet, as if he could no longer tolerate Pitt’s standing where he was obliged to look up at him. He was a tall man, and now they were almost eye to eye.

  “Are you arresting me, sir?” he said through a tight jaw.

  “It was not my intention, Mr. FitzJames,” Pitt replied. He would not be intimidated by the man. Once such a pattern was set it would be impossible to break. He was in charge of Bow Street and he owed this man nothing but courtesy and the truth. “But if that is the way you care to view it, then you may take it so.”

  FitzJames drew in his breath sharply, was about to retaliate, then realized the matter must be far more serious than he had originally supposed or Pitt could not have had the audacity to speak so.

  “I think you had better explain yourself.” He turned to his son. “Finlay! We shall retire to my study. We do not need to trouble your mother and sister with this.”

  Mrs. FitzJames shot a pleading look at him, but she had been dismissed, and she knew better than to argue. Tallulah bit her lip in frustration, but she also kept her peace.

  Finlay excused himself, then rose and followed his father and Pitt from the dining room, across the picture-hung hall and into a large book-lined study. There oxblood-red leather chairs surrounded a fireplace with a club fender in brass, leather bound also. It was a comfortable place for four or five people to sit, facing each other, and read or talk. There was a silver tantalus on a side table, and half a dozen books out of the glass-fronted cases.

  “Well?” FitzJames said as soon as the door was closed. “Why are you here, Mr. Pitt? I assume there has been an offense or a complaint. My son was not involved in it, but if he knows anything that may be of assistance to you, then naturally he will inform you of such details as you require.”

  Pitt looked at Finlay and could not tell whether he resented his father’s assumption of control or was grateful for it. His bland, handsome face revealed no deep emotion at all. Certainly he did not seem afraid.

  There was no purpose in prevarication any longer. FitzJames had robbed him of any subtlety of approach and the surprise it might have given him. He decided to attack instead.

  “There has been a murder-the East End,” he replied calmly, looking at Finlay. “A Hellfire Club badge was found on the site.”

  He had expected fear, the flicker of the eyes when the blow falls, however expected, the sudden involuntary pallor of the skin. He saw none of it. Finlay was emotionally unmoved.

  “Could have dropped at any time,” FitzJames said, dismissing the news of murder. He indicated a chair for Pitt to sit in, then himself sat directly opposite. Finlay took a third chair, between them, to Pitt’s left. “I assume you consider it necessary to speak to all those who are, or have been, members,” FitzJames continued coldly. “I dispute the necessity. Do you imagine one of them may have witnessed it?” His flat eyebrows rose slightly. “Surely if that were so they would already have reported the matter to some police station or other?”

  “People do not always report what they see, Mr. FitzJames,” Pitt replied. “For various reasons. Sometimes they do not realize that it is important, other times they are reluctant to admit they were present, either because the place itself embarrasses them or else the company with whom they were there-or simply that they had said they were elsewhere.”

  “Of course.” FitzJames relaxed a trifle in his chair, but he still sat forward in it, his elbows on either arm, his fingers over the ends. It was a position of command and control, reminiscent of the great statues of the Pharaoh Ramses, drawings and photographs of which were printed in the newspapers. “With what hours are we concerned?”

  “Yesterday evening from nine until midnight, or a little later,” Pitt replied.

  FitzJames’s face was under tight control, deliberately expressionless. He turned to his son. “We can end this matter very quickly. Where were you yesterday evening, Finlay?”

  Finlay looked embarrassed, but resentful rather than afraid, as if he had been caught in an indiscretion, but no more. It
was the first thread-thin whisper of doubt in Pitt’s mind as to his involvement.

  “Out. I … I went out with Courtney Spender. Went to a couple of clubs, gambled a bit, not much. Thought of going to a music hall, and changed our minds.” He looked at Pitt ruefully. “Didn’t see any crimes, Inspector. And to be frank, haven’t had anything to do with the other club members in years. I’m sorry to be of no use to you.”

  Pitt did not bother to correct him as to his rank. He was almost certain Finlay was lying, not only because of the badge but because he so perfectly answered the description of the man Rose and Nan had both seen. There was a faint flush in his cheeks, and his eyes met Pitt’s, steady and overbright.

  FitzJames moved restively, but did not interrupt, and Finlay did not look at him.

  “Would you be good enough to give me Mr. Spender’s address, sir?” Pitt asked politely. “Or better still, if he has a telephone, we can clear up the matter instantly.”

  Finlay’s mouth fell slack. “I … I … can give you his address. No idea if he has a … if he has a telephone.”

  “I daresay your butler would know,” Pitt said quickly. He turned to FitzJames. “May I ask him?”

  FitzJames’s face froze.

  “Are you saying that my son is telling you less than the truth, Mr. Pitt?”

  “I had not thought so,” Pitt said, sitting in a mirror position in his own chair, hands on the arms. Finlay sat upright, on the edge of his seat.

  FitzJames drew in his breath sharply, then changed his mind. He reached for the bell.

  “I … I think that may have been the day before. Is it yesterday evening we are enquiring about?” Finlay looked confused. His cheeks were red and he clenched his hands, fidgeting and moving uncomfortably.

  “Where were you last night, sir?” Pitt could not afford to relent.

  “Ah … well … to tell you the truth, Inspector …” He looked away, then back at Pitt again. “I … I drank rather too much, and I can’t remember precisely. Around the West End. I know that. Weren’t anywhere near the East End. No reason. Not my sort of place, you know?”