“Come on!” The voice yanked him from his inner misery back to the urgency of the present. “Coldbath Fields fer you; yer can’t sit ’ere all night. Let’s be ’avin’ yer!”
He looked up to see the chill boiled-blue eyes of a constable regarding him with the kind of loathing that police reserve for their own kind who have betrayed everything they have given their lives to preserve.
“On yer feet! Gotter learn ter do as ye’re told, you ’ave!”
9
CHARLOTTE HAD EXPECTED Pitt to be late getting home, so she went to bed a little before eleven, unhappy that things between them were still unresolved. She woke with a start in the morning, aware even before she opened her eyes that something was wrong. There was a coldness, a silence. She sat up. Pitt’s side of the bed was as neat and untouched as it had been when she put the sheets on clean the day before. She scrambled out and reached for her robe without any clear idea of what she was going to do. Perhaps there was a note downstairs. Could he have come in and had to go out again without time to sleep at all? For the moment she dared not think beyond that. She did not even bother with slippers and she winced as her bare feet touched the cold floor in the passageway.
She looked first in the kitchen, but there was nothing; the kettle was where she had left it and the cups were unused. She went to the parlor, but there was nothing there either. She tried to fill her mind with good reasons for Pitt’s absence, so her fears could not intrude: he was on the trail of something, and so close to victory he could not leave it; he had actually made an arrest and was still at the police station; there had been another murder, and he was so busy with it he could not come home, and he had not sent a messenger during the night because he did not want to waken her, and no stranger could get in without his key—but her common sense stopped her there. There was always the letter box; it would have been simple to slip a note in to tell her.
Well, any minute now someone would come, perhaps even Pitt himself. She should get dressed. She was shuddering with the chill and her bare feet were numb. There was no point in standing here. Gracie would be up soon and the children must have breakfast. She turned and went upstairs quickly, into the oddly empty bedroom. She took off her robe and nightgown, still shivering, and put on her camisole, petticoats, stockings, and an old, dark blue dress. Her fingers were clumsy this morning and she could not be bothered to do anything with her hair except wind it in a loose coil and pin it up. She would wash her face in the kitchen downstairs where the water was hot. Surely by then there would be a message.
She had just reached for a rough, dry towel and felt its clean abrasiveness on her skin when the doorbell rang. She dropped the towel onto the bench accidentally dragging it with her elbow and pulling it onto the floor. She ignored it, running along the passage to the front door, which she flung open. A red-faced constable stood on the doorstep, misery so heavy in his features that she was instantly afraid. Her breath stopped.
“Mrs. Pitt?” he asked.
She stared at him speechlessly.
“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” he said wretchedly. “But I ’as ter tell yer that Inspector Pitt ’as bin arrested fer killin’ a woman in Seven Dials. ’E said as ’er neck was already broke when ’e found her—no doubtin’ it was. ’E’d never do such a fing. But fer ve time bein’ ’e’s bin took to the ’Ouse o’ Correction at Coldbath Fields. ’E’s all right, ma’am! There’s no need ter—ter take on!” He stood helpless, unable to offer any comfort. He did not know how much she knew of “the Steel,” but lies were useless: she would find out soon enough. Its nickname was a corruption of Bastille, and with good reason.
Charlotte remained frozen. At first she felt relief: at least he was not dead. That had been the fear she had not dared to name. Then a kind of darkness closed round her as if it were dusk, not dawn. Arrested! In prison? She had heard more than even Pitt knew of the houses of correction like Coldbath Fields. They were the short-term jails where people were taken before trial, or for brief sentences. No one could survive for more than a year in them; they were crowded, brutal and filthy. It had been one of Aunt Vespasia’s passions to get rid of at least the worst of the epidemic jail fever.
But surely Pitt would only be there for a few hours—a day at most—until they realized their mistake.
“Ma’am?” the constable interrupted anxiously, his blue eyes puckered and very earnest. “Mebbe you should sit down, ma’am, take a cup o’ tea.”
Charlotte looked back at him in surprise. She had forgotten he was still there. “No.” Her voice seemed to come from far away. “No, I—I don’t need to sit down. Where did you say he was—did you say Coldbath Fields?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He wanted to say something else but the words eluded him. He was used to horror and misery, but he had never had to tell a colleague’s wife that he was charged with murder—of a prostitute! His face was blurred with pity for her.
“Then I’ll have to take his things.” She was reaching for a solid idea, something practical she could latch on to, something she could do to help him. “Shirts. Clean linen. Will they feed him?”
“Yes, ma’am. But I’m sure a little extra won’t come amiss, if it’s plain like. But ’ave yer got a brother, or someone as could go for yer? It in’t a very nice place fer a lady.”
“No, I haven’t. I’ll go myself. I’ll just make sure the maid is up to care for the children. Thank you, Constable.”
“Yer sure, ma’am? In’t nuffin’ I can do?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Leaving him on the step, she closed the door gently and walked back towards the kitchen on wobbling legs. She bumped into the door lintel on the way in, but her mind was so dazed it was moments before the pain of it registered. In time there would be a purple bruise, but all she could think of now was Pitt, cold, hungry, and at the mercy of the warders of the Steel.
Very carefully she cut the fresh loaf, buttered the slices, and then carved the cold meat that was to have done them all for the next two days. She wrapped the sandwiches and put them in a basket. Next she went upstairs and took out his newly laundered underlinen and a good shirt, then realized that was foolish and chose the oldest ones instead. She was still at the press on the landing when Gracie came down from her attic bedroom and stopped on the last stair.
“You lost summink, ma’am?”
Charlotte closed the cupboard doors and turned round slowly.
“No, thank you, Gracie, I have it. I must go out. I don’t know when I shall be back; it may be late. I took the meat for Mr. Pitt. You’ll have to find something else for us.”
Gracie blinked, hugging her shawl closer round her.
“Ma’am, you look terrible white. ’As summink ’appened?” Her little face was pinched with dismay.
There was no point in lying; Charlotte would have to tell her soon enough.
“Yes. They have arrested Mr. Pitt; they say he killed some woman in Seven Dials. I’m going to take—to take some things for him. I—” Suddenly she was on the edge of tears, she could feel her throat tighten and her voice would not come.
“I always thought some o’ them constables was daft!” Gracie said with profound contempt. “Now they really ’as gorn the ’ole way. “ ’Ooever made that mistake’ll spend the rest of ’is life eatin’ worms! An’ serve ’im right! Are you goin’ ter see the commissioner o’ police, ma’am? They can’t know ’oo they got! Why, there in’t nobody in Lunnon solved more murders than Mr. Pitt. Sometimes I think some o’ them couldn’t detect an ’ole in the ground if’ n they fell in it!”
Charlotte smiled bleakly. She looked into Gracie’s plain, indignant little face, and felt reassured.