Free Pentecost Alley by Anne Perry Page A

Horticulture? Poetry? If your taste is not to drinking, gambling, fine horses and willing women, what do you want with a Hellfire Club?”
    The charade had been brief, and it was over.
    “The names of the original members, a summary of their present whereabouts,” Pitt replied, still a trifle mendaciously.
    Thirlstone’s eyes widened in amazement.
    “My dear fellow, whatever for? It disbanded, or should I say dissolved of its own accord, years ago. It can be no possible use to you now.”
    A butterfly drifted past them, fluttering in the sun. Far in the distance a dog barked.
    “A Hellfire Club badge was found under the body of a murdered woman last night,” Pitt replied.
    “Good God! How extraordinary!” Thirlstone’s black eyebrows shot up, wrinkling his brow dramatically. “Why does it concern you? Are you related to her? I’m fearfully sorry.” He extended his hand in a gesture of sympathy.
    “No. No I’m not,” Pitt said with some awkwardness.
    “Then … you’re not police, are you? You don’t look like police. You are!” He seemed almost amused, as if the fact had some esoteric humor of its own. “How unutterably squalid. What in heaven’s name do you want from me? I know nothing about it. Who was she?”
    “Her name was Ada McKinley. She was a prostitute.”
    Thirlstone’s face showed a trace of pity, something lacking in Finlay FitzJames and Helliwell. Then suddenly he was absolutely sober. The slight air of banter vanished completely. Under his superficial manner his concentration was total. His eyes were narrowed, his body motionless, so that suddenly Pitt was aware of the breeze and the slight stirring of the flowers.
    “There were only four of us, Superintendent, and each badge had a name on it.” Thirlstone’s voice was so level it was unnatural. “Are you saying it was my badge you found?”
    “No sir.”
    Thirlstone’s body relaxed and he could not keep a flood of relief from his face.
    “I’m glad. I haven’t seen it for years.” He swallowed. “But one never knows …” He regarded Pitt with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. “Whose was it? I … I cannot believe any of us would be so foolish as to …” He did not complete his sentence, but his meaning hung in the air, unmistakably.
    A young couple walked past a dozen yards away, their footsteps crunching on the gravel.
    “I have already spoken to Mr. FitzJames and Mr. Helliwell,” Pitt said almost casually. “But I have not been able to find Jago Jones.”
    “It would hardly be Jago!” This time there was complete conviction in Thirlstone’s voice.
    “Why not?”
    “My dear fellow, if you knew Jago you wouldn’t need to ask.”
    “I don’t know him. Why not?”
    “Oh …” Thirlstone shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly. “Perhaps I don’t know as much as I imagine. It’s your job to find out, thank God, not mine.”
    “Where would I find Mr. Jones?” Pitt did not expect an answer.
    He did not receive one, only a shrug and a bemused look.
    “No idea, I’m afraid. None whatsoever. In the streets. In the slums. That’s the last thing I remember hearing him say, but I have no notion if he meant it.” Thirlstone lifted his face to the sun again, and Pitt was effectively dismissed.
    He walked back past an army officer on leave, splendidly dressed in red coat and immaculate trousers, buttons gleaming, to the excitement of several young ladies in pastel dresses all muslin and lace, and the envy of a nursemaid in a white starched apron wheeling a perambulator. The noise of a barrel organ drifted from somewhere beyond the trees.
    At four o’clock Pitt had eaten a late luncheon, but he was so tired his eyes felt gritty and his head ached from lack of sleep. He had no real belief that Jago Jones might somehow have dropped Finlay FitzJames’s belongings in Pentecost Alley, but he must prove it, were it only for elimination. It was not impossible.
    He returned to Devonshire Street and asked