“Yes I will,” she said more firmly. “I’ll take these things to Mr. Pitt first, then I’ll go and see Mr. Ballarat at Bow Street.”
“You do that, ma’am,” Gracie agreed. “An’ I’ll take care o’ everythin’ ’ere.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Gracie,” and she turned away quickly and hurried downstairs before emotion could overtake her again. Best not to talk. Action was easier and infinitely more useful.
But when she reached the massive gray tower and gates of Her Majesty’s House of Correction and asked to go in, they would not allow her to see Pitt. A red-nosed jailer with a perpetual cold took her basket with the food and the linen, promising lugubriously to see that they reached the prisoner. But she could not come in, it was not visiting hours, and no, he could not make an exception, he would not take a note for her. He was sorry but rules was rules.
There was no argument against such bleak refusal, and when she saw the unreachable uninterest in his watery eyes she turned and left, walking back along the wet footpath, the wind in her face, trying to think of what she would say to Ballarat. Temper passed quickly, fury at the stupidity and the injustice, and she began to think how to be practical. What would be the best way to make Ballarat act immediately? Surely a reasoned and calm explanation of the facts. He could not know what had happened or he would have done something already. He would have contacted the police station which had made such a blunder, and Pitt’s release would have been assured as soon as the appropriate message was received.
She took the next public omnibus, which was crowded with women and children. She paid her fare to the “cad,” as conductors were known, and squeezed in between a fat woman in black bombazine with a bosom like a bolster and a small boy in a sailor suit. She tried to occupy her mind by staring round her at the other passengers—the old lady with the withered face and out-of-date lace cap, the girl in the striped skirt who kept smiling at the youth with the side whiskers—but sooner or later every thought came back to Pitt and her terrible sense of being shut off from him, the threatening wave of panic at her helplessness.
By the time she got off in the Strand and walked up Bow Street to the Police station Charlotte’s heart was knocking in her chest and her legs felt shaky and uncertain. She breathed in and out deeply, but that did not steady her. She went up the steps, tripping on the top one because her feet no longer seemed coordinated. She pushed the door open and went in, suddenly realizing she had never been here before. Pitt came here every day and spoke about it so often she had assumed it would look familiar, but it was much darker and colder than she had expected. She had not imagined the smell of linoleum and polish, the worn brass of the door handles, the shiny patches on the bench where countless people had rubbed against it, waiting.
The duty constable looked up from the ledger where he was writing in studious copperplate. “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for yer?” He sized up her respectability instantly. “Lorst summat, ’ave yer?”
“No.” She swallowed hard. “Thank you. I am Inspector Pitt’s wife. I should like to see Mr. Ballarat, if you please. It is most urgent.”
The man’s face colored and he avoided her eyes. “Er— yes, ma’am. If—if yer’ll wait a few moments I’ll go an’ see.” He closed the ledger, put it away under the shelf, and disappeared out of the glass-paned door into the passageway. She could hear his muffled voice speaking hurriedly to someone beyond.
She stood on the worn linoleum floor and waited. No one came back, and she knew they were too embarrassed to face her, not knowing what to say. It frightened her. She had expected anger, defensiveness, repeated assurances that it must be a mistake and would be put right immediately. This evasion must mean either that they doubted Pitt themselves or that they dared not express their feelings. Was there no loyalty among them at all, no trust, even after all the years they had known him?
Panic rose inside her, making her sick. Without realizing it she stepped forward, desperate to make a noise, to shout till someone came, even to scream.
The door swung open suddenly and she jumped. The same constable looked at her, this time meeting her eyes.
“If yer’d like ter come this way, ma’am.” Still he did not use her name, as if he were ashamed somehow and wanted to pretend she was someone else.
She stared at him coldly. “Mrs. Pitt,” she told him.
“Mrs. Pitt, ma’am,” he repeated obediently, even the tops of his ears turning pink.
She followed him along the passage, up the stairs, and across into Ballarat’s large, warm office. A fire was burning on the grate and Ballarat himself was standing in front of the hearth, feet slightly apart, boots shining.
“Come in, Mrs. Pitt,” he said expansively. “Come in and take a seat.” He waved his arm at the leather easy chair, but he did not move to allow her the fire.
She sat on the edge, upright. The constable closed the door and fled.
“I’m deeply sorry that I had to send such a message,” Ballarat began before she could speak. “It must have been a dreadful shock for you.”
“Of course it was,” she agreed. “But that is hardly important. What is happening to Thomas? Don’t they realize who he is? Have you been to Coldbath Fields and told them? Perhaps they don’t believe a letter.”
“Certainly they know who he is, Mrs. Pitt.” He nodded several times. “Naturally, I made certain of it immediately. But I’m afraid the evidence is quite unarguable. I don’t want to distress you by recounting it. I do think, my dear lady, it would be better if you were to go home, perhaps to your own family, and—”
“I have no intention of doing anything so perfectly useless as going home to my family!” She tried to swallow back her fury but her voice was shaking. “And I’m perfectly capable of hearing the supposed evidence, whatever it is!”
He looked uncomfortable, his rather florid face becoming even more mottled. “Ah.” He cleared his throat to give himself time to order his thoughts. “If you will allow me to know better, that is because you do not understand what it is. I assure you, it would be far better if you were to leave your interests in my care, and go home—”
“What are you doing to show his innocence?” she interrupted fiercely. “You know he didn’t do it! You must find the evidence.”
“My dear lady”—he held up his hands, plump and well manicured, the firelight catching a gold signet ring—“I must abide by the law, just like everyone else. Of course,” he said carefully and with a patience so obvious she could taste it in the air, “of course I wish to believe the best of him.” He nodded again. “Pitt has been a good police officer for years. He has served the community in many ways.”
She opened her mouth to retaliate against such condescension, but he was not to be interrupted.
“But I cannot override the law! If we are to uphold justice, we must abide by due process, like everyone else.” He was well launched now. “We cannot set ourselves above it.” He opened his eyes very wide. “Naturally, I do not for a moment believe Pitt would do such a thing. But with all the best will in the world, I cannot and must not say that I know!” He smiled very slightly, showing the superiority of male reason over emotionalism. “We are not infallible, and my judgment of a man is not enough to clear him before the law—nor should it be.”
She stood up, facing him with tight, cold rage.
“No one is asking you to be judge, Mr. Ballarat.” She glared at him. “What I had expected, before I met you, was that you were loyal enough to fight to defend one of your own men, whom you know perfectly well would not have committed such a crime. Even if you did not know him, I would have assumed you would suppose him innocent and do everything to check the evidence over and over again to find the flaws.”
“Really, my dear,” he said soothingly, taking a step forward and then meeting her eyes and stopping. “Really, my dear lady, you must accept that you do not understand! This is police business, and we are experts—”