Free Pentecost Alley by Anne Perry Page B

the genial butler if he could speak to Miss Tallulah FitzJames. He knew it was a time of day when she might quite easily be at home, before dressing for the evening and going out to dine and be entertained.
    She came into the morning room in a swirl of softfabric of so pale a pink it was almost white, a blush pink rose at her waist, long satin ribbons hanging. Had her face been rounder, less full of intelligence and will, the effect would have been cloyingly innocent. As it was, it presented a challenging contrast, and from the way she stopped just inside the door and leaned against the knob, Pitt was quite certain she knew it.
    “Well!” she said in surprise. “You back again? I heard about that poor creature’s death, but you can’t possibly imagine Finlay could have anything to do with it? It’s too preposterous. I mean, why should he? Mama would like to think he never goes near such places, but then one’s parents tend to be rather like the very best carriage horses, don’t they? Work excellently together as long as the harness lasts, look very good in town, are the admiration of one’s friends, and can’t see a thing except what’s directly in front of them! We blinker ours, to keep their attention from straying or have them take fright at things on the footpath.”
    Pitt smiled in spite of himself.
    “Actually it was the address of Mr. Jago Jones I came for.” He saw her body stiffen under its silk and muslin gown and her slim shoulders set rigid. He could imagine her hands clenched at the doorknob behind her. Very slowly she straightened up and came towards him.
    “Why? Do you think Jago did it? You can’t know how ridiculous that is, but I assure you, I’d sooner suspect the Prince of Wales. Come to think of it—much sooner.”
    “You have a very high regard for Mr. Jones?” Pitt said with surprise.
    “Not … especially.” She turned away and the sunlight caught her unusual profile—nose a little too big, mouth wide and full of laughter and emotion, dark eyes bright.
    “He’s … he’s rather proper, actually. Something of a bore.” She still looked studiously out of the window at the sun on the leaves beyond. “But he couldn’t do anything like that,” she went on. “He’s about Finlay’s age, and when Finlay was in his twenties and I was aboutsixteen, Jago was fun. He could tell the best jokes, because he could make his face look like all the different characters, and his voice too.” She shrugged elaborately, as if it could be of no possible interest to her. “But he’s religious now. All good works and saving souls.” She swung around to look at Pitt. “Why does the Church make people such crashing bores?”
    “The Church?” Pitt did not hide his surprise.
    “Didn’t you know? No, I suppose you didn’t. Finlay was stupid, pretending he didn’t know the Hellfire Club anymore. I suppose it might be his idea of protecting them. It must be Norbert Helliwell or Mortimer Thirlstone, if it’s any of them.” She shook her head slightly. “It wouldn’t be Jago, and of course it wasn’t Finlay. Most likely the woman stole it, and then someone else killed her. It seems fairly obvious, doesn’t it?” Her eyes challenged him. “Why would one of the other members have Finlay’s badge, anyway? If they wanted one, they had their own.”
    “Not on purpose,” Pitt explained. “But the engraving on the back is very small and very fine. It would be easy enough to pick up someone else’s in error.”
    “Oh.” She breathed in deeply, the sheer silk draped across her shoulders and bosom rising, the light gleaming in it. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that.”
    “Where would I find Mr. Jones?”
    “Saint Mary’s Church, Whitechapel.”
    Pitt drew in his breath sharply. He knew St. Mary’s. It was a few hundred yards from Pentecost Alley. Old Montague Street ran parallel to the Whitechapel Road before it turned into Mile End.
    “I see. Thank you, Miss