Death in the Devil's Acre

7

EMILY HAD THOUGHT ABOUT ALL the murders and the many different tragedies that might lie behind them. She was perfectly aware that a great many marriages were made quite as much for practical reasons as for romantic ones, attempts either to improve positions in Society or to maintain ones that were endangered. Sometimes such alliances worked out quite as well as those embarked upon in the heat of infatuation, but where the difference of age or temperament was too great, they became prisonlike.

She also knew the morally numbing effect of boredom. That she did not suffer from it herself was due to her periodic adventures into the stimulating, frightening, and turbulent world of criminal tragedy. But the long, arid intervals of social trivia in the meantime were the more pronounced because of the contrast. It was a world enclosed upon itself, where the most superficial flirtations assumed the proportions of great love, mere insults in etiquette or precedence became wounds, and matters of dress—the cut, the color, the trimming—were noticed and discussed as if they were of immense importance.

As Christina Ross had said, idle men might occupy themselves with all manner of sport, healthy or otherwise, even finding excitement in risking money or broken limbs. Industrious or morally minded men might seek power in Parliament or trade, or might travel abroad upon missions to benighted nations somewhere, or join the army, or follow the White Nile to discover its source in the heart of the Dark Continent!

But a woman had only the outlet of charitable works. Her home was cared for by servants, her children by a nursery maid, a nanny, and then a governess. For those who were neither artistic nor gifted with any particular intelligence, there was little else but to entertain and be entertained. Small wonder that spirited young women, like some of Christina’s set, trapped in marriages without passion, laughter, or even companionship, could be lured away by someone as raw and dangerous as Max Burton.

And of course Emily had never hidden from herself the other side of the argument, the fact that a number of men do not find all their appetites satisfied at home. Many abstained for one reason or another, but of course there were those who did not. One did not discuss “houses of pleasure”—or the “fallen doves” who occupied them. God!—that was a euphemism she hated! And only with the most intimate friends did one speak of the various affairs that were conducted at country houses over long shooting weekends, in croquet games on summer lawns, at great balls in the hunting season, or any other of a dozen times and places. None of which was to excuse it, but to understand it.

Therefore, in considering murder, Emily took into account the names and situations, such as she knew them, of Christina’s social circle and those who might conceivably have been involved with Max. There were about seven or eight she found likely, and another half dozen possible, though she believed they lacked the courage, or the indifference to values of modesty or loyalty, to have taken such a step. But if nothing better presented itself, she would bear in mind to suggest their names to Pitt, so that he might discover where their husbands had been at the relevant times.

And there was always the possibility of an unfortunate recognition to consider—a little betrayal—or blackmail. What of a man who took his pleasures in a whorehouse and found he had bought his own wife! The permutations were legion, all of them painful and desperately foolish.

It could be that one such woman had been used by Max, that one of her customers had been Bertie Astley and, for some reason, a fear or hatred had arisen that resulted in the murder not only of Max but of Astley also. How Hubert Pinchin was involved, however, she did not yet have any suggestion.

The other most obvious possibility was even less pleasant to her: that Beau Astley had read of the startling murders of Max and Dr. Pinchin, and had seized the opportunity to imitate these crimes and get rid of his elder brother. It would not be the first murder to ape another—and so saddle a man guilty of two murders with the blame for one more.

Beau Astley had enough to gain from his brother’s death, that was certain. But how much had he wanted it? Was he in financial straits, or did he manage very well upon whatever resources he had? Was he in love with May Woolmer? In fact, what kind of a person was he in general?

At the breakfast table, Emily sipped her tea. George was not at his best. He was hiding behind the newspaper, not to read it but to avoid having to think of something to say.

“I called upon poor May Woolmer recently,” Emily remarked cheerfully.

“Did you?” George’s voice was absentminded, and Emily realized he had forgotten who May Woolmer was.

“She is still in mourning, of course,” she continued. An outright request for information would be unlikely to produce it. George did not like curiosity—it was vulgar, and likely to offend people. He did not care if people took offense when it was unwarranted, but he disliked the thought of being oafish, or anything that might appear ignorant of courtesy. He knew very well the value of acceptance.

“I beg your pardon?” He had not been paying attention, and now put the paper down reluctantly as he realized that she had no intention of allowing the matter to drop.

“She is still in mourning for Bertie Astley,” Emily repeated.

His face cleared a little. “Oh, yes, she would be. Pity about that. Nice enough fellow.”

“Oh, George!” She contrived to look shocked.

“What?” He clearly failed to understand. It was a harmless remark, and surely Astley had been perfectly amiable.

“George!” She let her voice slide down, and lowered her eyes. “I do know where he was found, you know!”

“What?”

She wished she could blush to order. Some women could, and it was a most useful accomplishment. She avoided looking at him, in case he read curiosity in her eyes instead of modest horror.

“He was found on the doorstep of a house of pleasure.” She voiced the euphemism as if it came to her tongue with some embarrassment. “Where the ‘occupants’ are men as well!”

“Oh, God! How did you know that?” This time he needed no pretense whatever to show interest. His face was startled, his dark eyes very wide. “Emily?”

For a moment Emily could think of nothing to say. The conversation had taken a turn she should have foreseen, but had not. Should she admit to having read the newspapers? Or should she blame Charlotte? No, that was not a good idea—it might have unfortunate repercussions. George might even take it into his head that she should not associate with Charlotte quite so much, especially during the investigation of scandalous murders like these.

She had a sudden inspiration. “May told me. Goodness knows where she heard it. But you know how these whispers spread. Why? Is it not true, after all?” She met his eyes squarely and with total innocence this time. She had no qualms about deceiving George in trivial matters—it was for his own good. She was never less than honest in things of importance, like loyalty, or money. But sometimes George needed a little managing.

His shoulders eased and he sat back in his chair again, but his expression was still full of confusion. Two things troubled him: the extremely unsavory facts concerning Bertie Astley, and quite how much of them it was proper to tell Emily.

She understood him very well, and rescued the situation before she lost the initiative and was obliged to begin all over again. “Perhaps I should call upon May and reassure her?” she suggested. “If it is only a malicious invention—”

“Oh, no!” He was unhappy, but quite decided. “I am afraid you cannot do that—it is perfectly true.”

Emily looked suitably downcast, as though she had actually entertained a hope that it was not. “George? Was Sir Bertram—I mean, did he have ... a peculiar nature?”

“Good God, no! That is what is so damned odd! I simply don’t understand it.” He pulled a face, in rare outspokenness. “Although I suppose we seldom know people as well as we imagine. Perhaps he was ... and no one knew it.”

Emily put her hand out across the table and clasped his. “Don’t think it, George,” she said gently. “Is it not far more likely that some other suitor of May Woolmer’s was so crazed he simply took the opportunity to rid himself of a rival and slander him horribly at the same time? That way he could be rid of him both literally and in memory. After all, how could May cherish the thought of a man who practiced such indecencies!”

He considered it for a moment, closing his hand over hers. There were times when he was really extremely fond of her. One thing about Emily: even after five years of marriage, she was never a bore.

“I doubt it,” he said at last. “She is a handsome creature, certainly, but I cannot imagine anyone getting so infatuated with her as to do that. She hasn’t the—the fire. And she has very little money, you know.”

“I thought Beau Astley was exceedingly attracted to her,” she suggested.

“Beau?” He looked incredulous.

“Is he not?” Now she was confused also.

“I think he likes her very well, yes, but he has other interests, and he’s hardly the sort to kill his own brother!”

“There is the title, and the money,” she pointed out.

“Do you know Beau Astley?”

“No,” she said hopefully. At last they had come to the point. “What sort of a man is he?”

“Agreeable—rather more than poor Bertie, actually. And generous,” he said with conviction. “I really think I should go and see him.” He let the newspaper slide to the floor and stood up. “I always liked Beau. Poor fellow’s probably feeling terrible. Mourning is such a tedious business—it makes you feel infinitely worse. No matter how grieved you are, you don’t want to sit around in a house full of gaslights and black crepe, with servants speaking in whispers and maids who sniffle every time they see you. I’ll go and offer him a little companionship.”

“What a good idea,” she agreed earnestly. “I am sure he will be very grateful for it. It is most sensitive of you.” How could she persuade him, without arousing suspicion, to question Beau Astley a little? “He may very well be longing to unburden himself to someone, a good friend he can trust,” she said, watching George’s face. “After all, a great many disturbing and unhappy thoughts must have troubled him as to what can possibly have happened. And he cannot be unaware of other people’s speculations. I am sure if I were in his situation I should long for someone to confide in!”

If it occurred to him that she had any ulterior motive, he did not show it in his face. At least, she did not think his flicker of a smile was for that reason... . Was it?

“Indeed,” he answered soberly. “Sometimes it is a great relief to talk—in confidence!”

Was George perhaps more astute than she had supposed? And enamored of the idea of a little detective work of his own? Surely not! Watching his elegant back as he went out the door, she felt a sharp tingle of pleasant surprise.

Three days later, Emily had contrived to take Charlotte with herself and George to a small private ball, where she had ascertained in advance that the Balantynes were to be present, as well as Alan Ross and Christina. What excuse Charlotte offered to Pitt was her own affair.

Emily was not sure quite what knowledge she hoped to acquire, but she was not innocent of the general habits of the gentlemen of Society. She had learned to accept the extraordinary feat of mental and ethical agility that enabled a man to indulge his physical appetites in the expensive brothels near the Haymarket all night, and then to come home and preside over his family at a silent and obedient breakfast table, where his wish was enough to produce a flurry of eagerness and his word held the force of law. She had chosen to live in Society and enjoy its privileges. Therefore, though she did not admire its hypocrisy, she did not rebel against it.

Emily had no liking at all for Christina Ross, but she could very well believe that Christina had sympathy for the few women who dared to break from social confines and play men at their own game, even to the point of risking everything for a wild masquerade at a house such as Max’s in the Devil’s Acre. Emily thought it was excessively foolish! Only a woman with no brains at all would wager so much for such a tawdry return—and she despised such idiocy.

But she was aware that boredom occasionally drove out all intelligence, even the sense of self-preservation. She had seen overwrought women imagine themselves in love and rush headlong, like lemmings, to their own destruction. Usually they were young, a first passion. But perhaps it was only the outside that changed with age: habits learned, a little camouflage for vulnerability. The desperation inside might be the same at any time. So by chance among Christina Ross’s acquaintances tonight might there not be at least one of Max’s women?

She wished Charlotte to come also for her added ability to observe. Charlotte was very naïve on certain points, but on others she was surprisingly acute. Added to which, Christina disliked her, seemed in some way to be almost jealous. And in the heat of strong emotion people were inclined to betray themselves. Charlotte could be extremely handsome when she was enjoying herself, giving someone all her attention—as she did, for some quite unaccountable reason, to General Balantyne. If anything might cause Christina to lose her self-mastery, her judgment, it would be Charlotte flirting with the general—and even perhaps with Alan Ross.

Accordingly, Emily, George, and Charlotte arrived at Lord and Lady Easterby’s ball for their eldest daughter. They were just late enough still to be civil and yet also to cause a pleasing stir of appreciation among the guests already thronging the hall.

Emily was dressed in her favorite delicate water green, which flattered her fair skin; the gentle curls of her hair caught the light like an aureole. She looked like the spirit of an elusive early English summer, when the blossom is still clean and the air dappled with cool and shifting light.

She had taken great care over Charlotte. She had considered deeply what would attract the general most, and would therefore irritate Christina. Thus Charlotte swept into the ballroom in a swirl of vibrant and luminous gentian blue that was delicate on her throat and made her hair gleam with the shadowed luster of old copper. She was like a tropical night when the gold of the sun has gone but the warmth of the earth still lingers. If she had even the faintest idea what Emily’s intentions were, she showed no sign of it whatever. Which was as well, because Emily doubted Charlotte’s conscience would have allowed her to go along with such a plan—however much she liked the idea—had she perceived it. And she was useless at flirting if she tried! But it was a long time since Charlotte had had the chance to dress exquisitely, to be extravagant, to dance all night. She was not even aware of her own hunger for the excitement of it.

They were received with a flutter of attention. George’s title and the fact that Charlotte was a new face, and therefore mysterious, would have been sufficient, whatever their appearance. That the sisters looked ravishing was cause for a deluge of speculation and rumor enough to keep conversations alive for a month.

So much the better; it would add to the heat of the evening—Christina would not take well to being outshone. Emily wondered for a prickling moment if perhaps she had miscalculated and the results would be less informative and more purely unpleasant than she had intended; then she dismissed the idea. It was too late to alter things now anyhow.

She sailed forward with a radiant smile to greet Lady Augusta Balantyne, who was standing stiff and very regal, composing her face into an answering social charm.

“Good evening, Lady Ashworth,” Augusta said coolly. “Lord Ashworth. How pleasant to see you again. Good evening, Miss Ellison.”

Emily was suddenly aware of being ashamed. She looked at Augusta, her shoulders tight, the fine tendons in her neck standing out under her ruby necklace, the weight of stones cold and heavy in their blood color. Was Augusta really so afraid of Charlotte? Was it possible that she loved her husband? That this softness about his mouth as he greeted Charlotte, the slightly straighter shoulders, was deeper than a flirtation with an agreeable woman? Something that touched the emotions that endure, that hurt and disturb, and leave a loneliness behind that is never filled by any other affection—and Augusta knew it?

The ballroom glittered and people laughed around them, but for a moment Emily was unaware of it. Chandeliers full of tinkling facets filled the ceilings; violin strings scraped briefly, then found the full, rich tone; footmen moved with elegance while balancing glasses of champagne and fruit punch.

All she had intended was to scratch the veneer of Christina’s temper, and perhaps to learn in a moment of carelessness a little of what she knew about the society women who might have frequented Max’s brothel. The last thing Emily wanted was to cause a real and permanent injury. Please heaven Charlotte knew what she was doing!

Her thoughts were interrupted by the necessities of polite conversation. She attended with only half her mind, making some silly observations about who might or might not win a horse race in the summer—she was not even sure if it was the Derby or the Oaks. Certainly the Prince of Wales’ name was mentioned.

It was some thirty minutes or so before the subject exhausted itself, and Alan Ross asked Emily if she would honor him with the next dance. It was an odd exercise, to be so close to a person, sharing a movement, at times touching each other, and yet hardly speaking at all; they came together and swirled apart so briefly that any exchange of meaning was impossible.

She watched his face. He was not as handsome as George, but there was a sensitivity about him that became more and more attractive as she knew him better. The events in Callander Square flashed back into her memory and she wondered how deeply he had been hurt. It had been no secret that he had loved Helena Doran. Was that wound still raw? Was that the pain inside him that honed fine his cheeks and the lines of his mouth?

That could be a very good reason for Christina’s sharpness, for her apparent need to hurt Charlotte. Charlotte would remember about Helena, and was now overstepping the lines of accepted flirtation with the general by making a friend of him. It was understandable, if a little crude, to entertain a relationship simply on the fullness of a bosom or the curve of a hip. But to engage the mind, the compassion, and the imagination was beyond the rules.

What rules did Christina observe? What did she even know?

Emily glanced around the room as she turned in Alan Ross’s arms and, over his shoulder, saw Christina clinging close to a cavalry officer in resplendent uniform. She was laughing up into his eyes and she looked brilliantly alive. The officer was obviously enthralled.

Emily looked back at Alan Ross. He must have seen it; he had faced that way only the moment before, but there was no change in his expression. Either he was so used to it that he had learned to mask his emotions, or else he no longer cared.

The thought after that was obvious, and yet it was so unpleasant that for an instant Emily lost her footing and was clumsy. At another time she would have been mortified, but consumed as she was by the new thought, the triviality of mere physical gaucheness seemed quite banal.

Was Christina herself one of Max’s women? Alan Ross was neither old nor in the slightest way boring. But perhaps his very charm, the unattainability of the inner man, was a far sharper goad to other conquests, no matter how shallow, than any boredom could be?

Suddenly Emily’s animosity toward Christina turned to pity. She still could not like her, but she was forced to care. She was dancing close to Alan Ross; she could feel the cloth of his coat under her glove, and she was moving in perfect time with his body. Although they were barely touching, there was a union. Did he know about Christina, or guess? Was it his outraged vanity, suppressed for so long, that had finally murdered and mutilated Max?

It was ridiculous! Here she was, dressed in pale green silk, dancing to violins under all these lights, in and out of the arms of a man she spoke to as a friend, and her mind was following him down filthy alleys to a confrontation with a footman turned whoremonger, to commit a murder of hatred and obscene revenge for the degradation of his wife.

How could two such disparate worlds exist so closely side-by-side—or even within each other? How far away was the Devil’s Acre—three miles, five miles? How far away was it in thought?

How many of these men here, with their spotless white shirts and precise manners, went on the nights it suited them, to drink and fumble and copulate in the beds of some laughing whore in a house like Max’s?

The dance came to an end. She spoke some formal words to Alan Ross, and wondered if he had had even the faintest idea what she was thinking. Or if his own mind had been as far from her as hers was from this twinkling ballroom.

Lady Augusta was talking to a young man with blond whiskers. Charlotte had been dancing with Brandy Balantyne, but now the general stepped forward and offered her his arm, not to dance but to accompany him away somewhere in the direction of the enormous conservatory. His broad shoulders were very straight, but his head was bent toward her, full of attention, and he was talking. Damn Charlotte! Sometimes she was so intensely stupid Emily could have slapped her! Could she not see the man was falling in love? He was fifty, lonely, intelligent, emotionally inarticulate—and idiotically, desperately vulnerable.

But Emily could hardly stride after Charlotte now and pry her loose and kick some sense into her. And, worst of all, when she realized what she had done she would be filled with pain—because she really had not the faintest idea! She simply liked the man enormously, and was unsophisticated enough to show it in the way that was natural to her—the giving of friendship.

George was at Emily’s side, saying something to her.

“I beg your pardon?” she said absently.

“Balantyne,” he repeated. “Really quite odd, for a man of his breeding.”

Emily might have her own private opinions about Charlotte, and at the moment they were a good deal less than charitable. But she was not about to accept criticism of her from anyone else, even George.

“I cannot imagine what you are talking about,” she said stiffly. “But if you choose to apologize, I shall accept.”

He was nonplussed. “I thought you were interested in social reform?” he said with a little shake of his head. “It was you who brought up the whole subject in the first place—and Charlotte, of course.”

Now she was confused. She stared back at him impatiently; he did not seem to be making any sense.

“What is the matter with you—do you feel faint?” he said at last. Then a flash of suspicion crossed his face. “Emily! What are you doing?”

It was very seldom that George questioned her affairs, but she had always contrived to provide herself with satisfactory answers beforehand. And if they were less than the truth, she was usually positive beyond any doubt that he would never discover it. This was too short notice to invent a successful lie. Evasion was all that was left.

“I’m sorry,” she said demurely. “I was watching Charlotte and General Balantyne. I fear she is not aware of quite what she is doing. I thought you were speaking of that. Now, of course, I realize you were not.”

“I thought that was what you intended,” he said sincerely. “You gave her the dress. You might have foreseen she would look well in it.”

It was too close to the truth for comfort, and Emily felt guilt sweep over her again. She had planned it, even if it had now gone beyond her control.

“I did not intend her to flirt like a fool!” she snapped at him.

“I think she does it rather well.” He sounded surprised himself. He had known Charlotte since the days before she married Pitt. She had been her mother’s despair then, because she simply would not conduct herself with the required charm and the mixture of frankness and deceit, excitement and humor that make for a successful flirtation. But time and confidence had effected a considerable change in her. And she was not flirting in the usual sense; the invitation she extended tacitly to Balantyne was not for a little game of dalliance, but for a very real friendship, where pain and pleasure last, and something of the inner self is given away.

Emily had a sudden feeling that she was going to need George. “What were you saying about social reform?” she inquired.

Maybe he sensed her unhappiness, or possibly he was only exercising good manners. “Brandy Balantyne was talking about social reform,” he answered agreeably. “These disgusting events in the Devil’s Acre seem to have affected him quite surprisingly. I think he really intends to do something about it!”

She spoke spontaneously. “George, what kind of men go to the Devil’s Acre, to houses like Max’s?”

“Really, Emily ... I hardly think ...” To her astonishment, he looked awkward, as though in spite of his more rational self, he still found the subject embarrassing in front of her.

She gave him a wide stare. “Do you go, George?”

“No, I do not!” He was genuinely shocked. “If I were going to do anything of that sort, I should at least go to the Haymarket, or the—Well, I certainly would not go to the Devil’s Acre.”

“And what would you think of me, if I did?” she asked.

“Don’t be absurd.” He did not even consider it seriously.

“There must be women there,” she pointed out, “or there would be no brothels.” She momentarily forgot to use the euphemism for such establishments.

“Of course there are women there, Emily,” he said with exaggerated patience. “But they are of a different sort. They are not—well—they are not women that one would—would do anything but ...”

“Fornicate with,” she finished incisively. Another euphemism was abandoned.

“Quite.” He was a little pink in the face, but she preferred to think it was due to a general discomfort for his own sex at large, rather than any personal guilt. She was perfectly aware that his conduct had not always been exemplary, but she was wise enough not to inquire into it. Such curiosity would bring nothing but unhappiness. To the best of her belief, he had been loyal since their marriage, and that was all she could reasonably ask.

She smiled at him with quite honest warmth. “But Bertram Astley did.”

The shadow returned to his eyes and he looked confused. “Odd,” he muttered. “I don’t think you should inquire into that, Emily. It’s really very sordid. I don’t mind your taking an interest in Charlotte’s investigations when they are moderately respectable—if you absolutely must.” He was aware of the limitations of the authority he could exercise without unpleasantness, and he hated unpleasantness. “But I think you should not seek to know about certain aberrations. It will only distress you.”

Suddenly she was overwhelmingly fond of him. His concern was quite genuine; he knew the world she was beginning to examine, knew the frailties and the twisted hungers. He did not want her to be touched by it, and hurt.

She put her hand on his arm and moved a little closer. She had no intention whatsoever of doing as he suggested. She was far tougher than he supposed, but it was very pleasant indeed that he imagined her so tender, so untouched. It was an idiotic notion, but just for a little while, perhaps till the end of the evening when the laughter and the lights died down, she would pretend to be the innocent creature he thought she was.

Perhaps in the hard light of truth of Astley’s and Max’s deaths, and because of his fears for Alan Ross whom he liked, he, too, needed to pretend for a while.

Alan Ross did not enjoy the ball; the lights and the music gave him no pleasure. All he could see was Christina’s laughing face staring up at one man after another as she danced closely and easily in their arms. He turned and saw Augusta staring in the same direction. She was quite still. Her hand was resting on the balustrade of the staircase, and it was gripping so hard the fingers were crooked and clenched inside her lace gloves.

Ross’s eyes traveled past the bracelets on her wrists, over her white shoulders to her face. He had never realized she was capable of such emotion. He did not understand what it was—desperation, fear, a tenderness that made her angry?

Beyond the dancers in their flower colors was the conservatory door where General Balantyne stood leaning forward a little, his face soft as he spoke to Charlotte Ellison. Ross’s eyes were drawn to her because she was beautiful. She had not the flawless loveliness of the young girls, or the chiseled bones of classic beauty, but a sheer intensity of life. Even across the swirl of the room he could feel her emotions. And next to her, so close that his hand brushed her arm, Balantyne was oblivious of all the world.

Was that what Augusta saw that wounded her and caused the confusion he had seen?

“He looked again. No—her head was turned the other way now, and she could not possibly see the general. She was still looking at Christina, at the foot of the curved stairway leading to the gallery, her mulberry-colored taffeta skirt billowing, gleaming where the light caught it, her cheeks flushed. The man beside her put his arm around her waist and whispered something so close to her ear she must have felt his breath on her skin.

Alan Ross decided that moment that the next evening Christina went out alone in the carriage, whomever she was going to visit, he would follow her and know for himself the truth. However painful, the truth must be better than the hideous thoughts that were crowding his imagination now.

His opportunity came almost before he was ready for it. It was the following day, shortly after dinner. Christina excused herself, saying she had developed a headache and would take a short drive to get a breath of fresh air. She had been in the house all day and felt the atmosphere too close. She might call upon Lavinia Hawkesley, who had been indisposed lately, and Ross was not to wait up for her.

He opened his mouth to protest; then, with cold fear inside him, he realized she had offered the perfect opportunity. “Very well, if you think she is well enough to receive,” he agreed, with only the smallest shake in his voice.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she said cheerfully. “She is probably bored stiff, poor soul, if she has been alone all day and confined to the house. I expect she will be delighted with an hour or two’s company. Do not wait up for me.

“No,” he said, turning away from her. “No. Good night, Christina.”

“Good night.” She picked up the ruched skirt of her dinner dress and swept out. How different she was from the girl he had thought her! They were strangers, without humor and without trust.

Five minutes later, when he heard the front door close, he stood up and went to the cloakroom where his heavy coat was hanging and put it on. He added a muffler and a hat, then went out into the icy street after her. It was not difficult to follow the carriage; it could not go quickly on the rime-encrusted cobbles, and at a brisk walk he kept within twenty feet of it. No one paid him the least attention.

He had gone over a mile when he saw the carriage draw to a halt outside a large house. Christina got out of the carriage and went into the house. From the opposite pavement he could not distinguish the number, but he knew Lavinia Hawkesley lived in this area.

So Christina had come, precisely as she had said, for a simple call upon a woman friend. He was standing here shaking with cold for no reason at all. It was stupid—and pathetic! The carriage was moving away. It was turning and coming back, not round to the mews. Christina must have dismissed it. Was she proposing to remain here all night? Or simply to use the Hawkesley coach to come home?

Alan Ross was left to wait like a loiterer on the corner and decide whether to go home himself, soak the chill out of his bones in hot water, and go to bed, or to remain here until Christina came out and to follow her again. But that would be ridiculous; the whole idea had been futile, an aberration of his normal sanity. Christina was frequently selfish, but she was innocent of anything worse than indiscretion—a spoiled and pretty woman’s exercise of power, the hunger to be the center of attention, always lavishly admired.

The door of the house opened, a stream of light fell on the path, and Christina and Lavinia Hawkesley came out. The door closed behind them and they set off down the street on foot.

Where in heaven’s name were they going? Ross went after them. When they came to the main road and stopped a hansom cab, he hailed one as soon after as he was able, and ordered the cabbie to follow them.

The journey was farther than he expected. Again and again they turned corners until he lost sense of direction, except that he thought they were coming closer to the river and the heart of the city. The way was narrower, the lights farther between. A dim halo of mist reflected the glow and the damp air smelled stale. High above loomed a great shadow against the sky. His throat tightened and suddenly he found it hard to breathe.

The Acre—the Devil’s Acre! Why in God’s name was Christina coming here? His mind was whirling, thoughts like a dark snowstorm battering him and melting into each other. There was no bearable answer.

The cab ahead stopped and one of the women alighted. She was small, slight, head high and feet quick on the stones. Christina.

Ross opened his cab door, thrust a coin into the driver’s hands, and stumbled out onto the dim pavement, trying to discern the outline of the house Christina had by now entered. It was high, standing straight, windows glimmering in the faint gaslight—a merchant’s house?

The other cab with Lavinia Hawkesley in it had disappeared. Wherever she was going, it was still farther into the labyrinth of the Acre.

For the first time, he looked around at the rest of the street. He had been so absorbed in watching the women he had not thought of anything else, but now he saw a group of four or five men about thirty yards to the left, and on the far side another three lounging in an alley entrance. He turned. There were more to the right, watching him.

He could not stay here; he was dressed conspicuously, and his coat alone would be worth attacking for. He might fight off one man, even armed, but not half a dozen.

He started to walk toward the door through which Christina had disappeared. After all, his purpose in following her had been to learn where she was going, and why. The door was closed; if he gained entrance and faced Christina, what could he say? Did he even want her to know he had committed this foolish act of following her here? What could he do about it anyway? Confine her to the house? Withdraw all marital affection from her? Or put her away as a—a what? What was it that she was doing here?

The wild flights of imagining were worse than knowing; he understood himself well enough not to think he could dismiss it and ever again have an unclouded moment. And perhaps he was unjust to her? Perhaps she was innocent of the things now in his mind.

There was a noise behind him in the street. A violent shiver of fear ran through him like a drench of cold water. Had the victims of the Devil’s Acre murderer been strangers like himself—men unwanted here, and hacked to pieces for their intrusion? His hand lifted the knocker and crashed it down violently.

Seconds dragged by. There was the sound of shuffling feet in the street, and the trickle of water. Ross slammed the knocker again and again, then twisted his head to look behind him. Two of the men were closer and still moving toward him. He had nothing to fight them with but his hands; he had not even brought a stick.

Sweat broke out on his body. It crossed his mind to go out toward them, to start the fight himself so at least it would be quick. He would not think of the mutilation afterward.

Suddenly the door opened; he lost his balance and stumbled in.

“Yes, sir?”

Ross collected his wits and peered at the man holding a candle in the dark hallway. He was shabby; his belly protruded over his trousers, his slippers were loose-soled and fraying. He was a big man, and he stood between Ross and the stairs that led upward.

“Yes, sir?” he said again quietly.

Ross said the first thing that came into his head. “I want to rent a room.”

The man looked him up and down with narrow eyes. “All by yerself, are yer?”

“None of your business.” Ross gulped. “Do you have rooms? I saw a young woman come in a few minutes ago, and she most assuredly does not live here!”

“None o’ your business.” The man mimicked his tone with perfect contempt. “People rahnd ’ere keeps their noses in their own muck’eaps and don’t go lookin’ trough nobody else’s, mister. That way vey don’t get nuffin cut orf, like! Nasty fings can ’appen to vem as can’t keep veir eyes and veir marvs to veirselves.”

Ross felt the cold run through him. For a moment, half his brain had forgotten murder. He tried to sound calm, sure of himself. His throat was dry, his voice higher than usual.

“I don’t care in the slightest what she came for,” he said, trying to put a sneer in his voice. “Whom she meets is of no possible interest to me. I merely wish to come to a similar arrangement myself.”

“Well, vat’ll be kind o’ difficult, mister, seein’ as she comes ter see the gent wot owns ’ole row o’ ahses!” He gave a harsh laugh and spat on the floor. “Nah as ’is bruvver’s bin snuffed, like! Reckon as ve Acre’s slasher done ’im a good turn!”

Ross froze.

“Wot’s ve matter wiv yer? Scared? ’Fraid ve slasher’s after you too, eh? Mebbe ’e is an’ all!” He sniggered. “Mebbe yer’d better scarper w’ile yer still got all yer parts—yer dirty little git!” His voice was filled with disgust, and Ross felt his face sting as the hot blood burned up inside him. This creature thought he had come sneaking here to satisfy some appetite that—

Ross straightened up, muscles tight, chin high. Then he remembered the men outside in the street. He crumpled again. He could not afford pride, and he most certainly dare not appear inquisitive.

“Have you rooms or have you not?” he asked quietly.

“’Ave you money?” The man held out a dirty finger and thumb and rubbed them together.

“Of course I have! How much?”

“’Ow long?”

“All night, of course! Do you think I want to be shuffled in and out with someone waiting on my heels and looking at his watch?”

“All by yerself?” The man’s eyebrows rose. “W’y don’tcher lock yer door an’ do it at ’ome? Wotever it is as takes yer fancy—”

Ross dearly wanted to hit him. He resisted the temptation for a moment; then anger, fear, and the scalding wound of Christina’s betrayal exploded inside him. He struck the man hard with a closed fist, sending him hurtling back, head cracking against the wall. He slithered down into a heap on the floor and lay still.

Ross turned and pulled the door open and stepped out into the street. Whoever was there, he had to face them. He had made it impossible to stay here. This time he did not hesitate. His heart was racing, his fists already clenched ready to strike anyone who had the recklessness to molest him. He walked quickly, bumping into a beggar on the corner and knocking him sidewise. The man swore and Ross passed on oblivious. He knew the direction of Westminster, and he was making for well-lit streets and safety.

Footsteps echoed behind him and he increased his pace. It must be only a few hundred yards now. There were people huddled in doorways, both men and women. Someone giggled in the dark. There was a slap of flesh. A pile of refuse fell over with a scatter of rats. He ran.

It was late in the afternoon two days later when the maid came into his study and told Ross that a Mr. Pitt was here and would like to speak with him.

Pitt? He knew no one called Pitt. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.” The maid looked doubtful. “He is a very odd person, sir. Beggin’ your pardon, but he was most insistent. Wouldn’t give no reason, sir, but says as you know ’im.”

“He must be mistaken.”

“’E won’t go away, sir. Shall I get Donald to put ’im out, sir? I daresn’t tell ’im meself. ’E’s sort o’—well, ’is clothes is all any’ow, like they wasn’t properly ’is to begin with, if you know what I mean. But ’e speaks like a gentleman, real proper—”

Suddenly, Ross remembered. “Oh, God! Yes, send him in. I do know him.”

“Yes, sir.” She forgot her curtsy and scurried out, overwhelmed with relief.

A moment later, Pitt came in, smiling casually as if he had been invited. “Good morning, Mr. Ross. Nasty weather.”

“Horrible,” Ross agreed. “What can I do for you, Mr. Pitt?”

Pitt sat down as if the offer had been one of natural hospitality. He pulled himself a little closer to the fire. He must already have given the maid whatever outer clothing he had, because he now wore only dark trousers, a clean but rather voluminous shirt, and a jacket whose pockets appeared to be stuffed with objects of awkward sizes. The whole thing hung crooked and looked to be fastened on uneven buttons.

“Thank you.” He rubbed his hands and held them out to the flames. “A lot of police work is very tedious.”

“I’m sure it must be.” Ross was really not interested. He was unable to be sorry for the man.

“Endless questioning of not very pleasant people,” Pitt went on. “And of course we have certain acquaintances who keep us informed if anything unusual happens.”

“Quite. But I’m afraid I am not one of them. I know nothing that could be of use to you. I’m sorry.”

Pitt turned to look up at him. He had remarkable eyes; the light shone through them like a shaft of sun through seawater.

“I was referring to quite a different sort of person, Mr. Ross. Like the old fellow that told me today of a gentleman looking for rooms in Drake Street, in the Devil’s Acre, a couple of nights ago. Lot of gentlemen do, for reasons of their own. However this particular one, well dressed, well spoken, just like most, got very upset when his reasons were commented on. And that’s most unusual. Most gentlemen using such places are only too glad to be as discreet as possible.”

He appeared to be waiting for an answer. Ross felt suddenly stiff, as if he had walked miles and slept ill. “I suppose they are,” he said awkwardly. His memory flashed back to the dim hallway, the smell of dirt, the man’s enraging, filthy leer. His throat tightened.

“Completely lost his temper,” Pitt went on with a lift of surprise in his voice. “Hit him!”

Ross swallowed. “Was he hurt?”

Pitt smiled, pulling the corners of his mouth down in a tiny grimace. “Pretty good crack on his skull, broken collarbone. He’s certainly very angry about it. Put the word about that if the fellow comes back to the Acre he’s to be taught a lesson in a way he won’t forget! That’s how I heard about it—the word around.” Suddenly he looked directly at Ross and his eyes were full of brilliance. “But you didn’t kill him, if that’s what you are afraid of.”

“Thank God—I—I—” He stopped, but it was too late. “I didn’t go there for—” He could not bear anyone, even this policeman, to think he had intended to hire some whore and take her there.

Pitt’s face was quite smooth, even friendly. “No, Mr. Ross, I didn’t think for a moment that you did,” he said. “What did you go there for?”

Oh, God! This was even worse. He could not possibly tell him about Christina. His heart pounded at the memory and the room seemed red-edged, whirling far away.

“I cannot say—it is a private matter.” Pitt would have to think whatever he wished. The truth was worse than any imagining.

“Very dangerous, sir.” Pitt’s voice was getting gentler and gentler, as if he were speaking to someone in great trouble. “Three men have been murdered in the Devil’s Acre. But I’m sure you knew that.”

“Of course I knew that!” Ross shouted.

Pitt took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Not a place to go sightseeing, Mr. Ross. It’s ugly and it’s dangerous, and people have paid very highly for then-pleasures there lately. What particular curiosity was it that took you to that house?”

Ross hesitated. The man was like a ferret, tracking him in all the tunnels of his misery to corner him into some damning truth. Better give him one and send him away with it. That would at least guard the others, the ones he could not bear to tell.

“I had an idea whom it belonged to,” he lied, looking Pitt squarely in his bright eyes. “I wanted to know if it was true. I hated to think any acquaintance of mine should make his living on the ownership of such places.”

“And was it true?” Pitt inquired.

Ross swallowed. “Yes, I’m afraid it was.”

“Who would that be, Mr. Ross?”

“Bertram Astley.”

“Indeed.” Pitt’s face relaxed. “Was it indeed? So that is where the Astley money comes from. And now of course Sir Beau has it.”

“Yes.” Ross let his breath go. He felt better. Pitt would never know about Christina, that she had gone there to meet Beau Astley in that filthy place. His wife—lying there in—He forced it from his mind, drove it out. Any other pain was better than this. “Yes, it was,” he repeated. “Perhaps that will help you in your investigations. I’m sorry, perhaps I should have told you before.”

Pitt stood up. “Yes, sir, I think perhaps you should. But now that I do know”—his face split in a sudden charming smile—“I’m damned if I can see where it gets me!”

Ross said nothing. There was no emotion left inside him to draw on; he simply watched Pitt walk to the door and out into the hallway to take his coat from the maid.