Death in the Devil's Acre

8

PITT STUMBLED DOWNSTAIRS in the dark and opened the door. Outside on the step, gleaming wet in the lamplight and the rain, a constable stood, water running off his cloak in streams and splashing on the stones. The night was still black, before even the gray smudge of false dawn.

Pitt blinked fuzzily and shuddered with cold as the air hit his body. “For God’s sake come in!” he said irritably. “What is it now?”

The constable stepped inside gingerly, scattering water over the floor, but Pitt was too cold to care. Gracie was not up yet and all the fires were out. “Shut that door behind you, man, and come into the kitchen.” He led the way in enormous strides. The linoleum was like ice under his bare feet. At least the kitchen floor was wooden and kept the warmth of something that had once been alive. And the stove would be alight; it always was. With a little riddling and stoking he might even get the kettle to boil. The idea of a cup of steaming tea was the nearest he could get to decent sense. Going back to bed and the refuge of sleep was obviously impossible.

“Well, what is it?” he demanded again, pushing and pulling at the fire furiously. “And take that thing off”—he gestured at the man’s cloak—“before you drown us all.”

The constable obediently divested himself of the cloak and set it down in the scullery. He was a domestic man, and normally would have known what to do without being told. But the news he had brought had swept away his years of training by mother and wife.

“It’s another one, sir,” he said quietly, coming back into the kitchen and handing Pitt the kettle he was reaching for. “And it’s worse than before.”

Pitt knew why he had come, but it would still be ugly to hear. Before the words were spoken, there was always the hope it might be something else.

The pressure was mounting: Athelstan had called for him again—the newspapers were spreading the panic. And he knew that Charlotte, for all her pretended innocence, was using Emily’s social position to pursue her own suspicions about Max’s women and Bertie Astley’s life. If he accused Charlotte of lying, they would have the sort of argument that would wound them both. Besides, he could not prove he was right; he simply knew her well enough to understand her sense of purpose. And, by God, he was going to get the Devil’s Acre slasher before she did!

He was still standing in the middle of the kitchen floor with the kettle in his hand. “Worse?” he said.

“Yes, sir.” The constable’s voice dropped. “I bin round the Acre ever since I joined the force, but I never seen anythin’ like this before.”

Pitt poured the water into the pot. The steam rose fragrantly into the air. He took half a loaf of bread out of the big wooden bin. Whatever it was that waited for him, however appalling, would be worse on an empty stomach in the icy morning.

“Who is it?”

The constable handed him the bread knife. “A man. Things in his pockets says ’e’s called Ernest Pomeroy. They found ’im on the steps of a charity ’ouse, Sisters o’ Mercy, or something—not Popish—reg’lar church,” he explained hastily. “Woman as found ’im’ll never be the same again. In ’ysterics, she was, poor creature, white as paper and screamin’ somethin’ terrible.” He shook his head in bewilderment and accepted the china mug of tea Pitt handed him. Automatically he put both hands around it and let the heat tingle his numb flesh.

Pitt sliced bread and set it on top of the cooking surface to toast. He reached down two plates, the butter from the cool pantry, and marmalade. He tried to imagine the woman, dedicated to good work, sheltering the homeless and uplifting the fallen. She would be used to death; she could hardly fail to be, in the Devil’s Acre. Indecency would be all around her, but she had probably never seen a naked man in her life—perhaps not even imagined one.

“Was he mutilated?” he asked unnecessarily.

“Yes, sir.” The constable’s face blanched at the memory. “Cut to pieces, ’e was, and sort of—well—like ’e’d bin ripped by some kind o’ animal—with claws.” He took a deep breath, the muscles in his throat tight. “Like someone ’ad tried to pull ’is privates off ’im with their ’ands.”

He was right—it was getting worse. Bertie Astley’s injuries had been slight, almost a gesture. The thought returned to him that Bertie was not a victim of the same killer, but that Beau Astley had seen the chance to step into his brother’s place and lay the blame on a lunatic already beyond the pale of ordinary human decency. It was a thought he tried to reject because he had liked Beau Astley, as one likes from a distance someone one does not know but feels to be pleasant.

The toast was smoking. He turned it over smartly and took a sip of his tea. “Was he stabbed in the back, too?”

“Yes, sir, just about the same place as the others, one side of the backbone, and right about the middle. Must ‘a died quick like, thank God.” He screwed up his face. “Wot kind o’ man does that to another man, Mr. Pitt? It ain’t ’uman!”

“Someone who believes he has been wronged beyond bearing,” Pitt replied before he even thought.

“I reckon as you’re right. An’ you’re burnin’ your toast, sir.”

Pitt flipped the two pieces off and handed one to the constable. He took it with surprise and satisfaction. He had not expected breakfast—even of rather scorched toast, eaten standing up. It was good, the marmalade sharp and sweet.

“Maybe if someone killed my little girl, I’d want to kill ’im bad enough,” he said, with his mouth full. “But I’d never want to—to tear out ’is—beggin’ your pardon, sir—’is privates like that.”

“Might depend on how he killed your girl,” Pitt replied, then scowled and dropped his toast as the full horror of what he had said invaded his imagination. He thought of Charlotte and his daughter, Jemima, asleep upstairs.

The constable stared at him, his light brown eyes round. “I reckon as ’ow you could be right at that, sir,” he said in no more than a whisper.

Upstairs everything was silent. Charlotte had not stirred, and the nursery had only a single light burning.

“You’d better eat your breakfast, sir.” The constable was a practical man. This was going to be no day for an empty stomach. “And put plenty o’ clothes on, if you won’t think me impertinent.”

“No,” Pitt agreed absently. “No.” He picked up the toast and ate it There was no time to shave, but he would finish his tea and take the constable’s advice—lots of clothes.

The corpse was appalling. Pitt could not conceive of the rage that could drive a human being to dismember another in this way.

“All right,” he said, standing up slowly. There was nothing more to be seen. It was like those before, but worse. Ernest Pomeroy had been an ordinary-looking man, perhaps less than average height. His clothes were sober, of good fabric, but far from fashionable. His face was bony and rather plain. It was impossible to tell if life had fired him with any charm or humor, if those unbecoming features had been transformed by an inner light.

“Do we know where he comes from?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant on duty answered quickly. “Got a few letters and the like on ’im. Seabrook Walk. Quite a decent sort o’ place, ’bout a couple o’ miles from ’ere. I got a sister as obliges for a lady up that way. Not a lot o’ money, but very respectable, if you know what I mean.”

Pitt knew precisely what he meant. There was a large class of people who would prefer to eat bread and gravy, and sit in a cold house, rather than be seen to lack for the world’s goods, especially for servants. To eat frugally could, by stretching the imagination, be a matter of taste. One might even pretend not to feel the cold, but to be without servants could only mean the depth of poverty. Had Ernest Pomeroy escaped a sad sham of life for a few hectic hours of indulging his starved nature, only to the here in these filthy and equally deceiving streets?

“Yes, I know what you mean,” he replied. “We’ll have to get someone to identify him. Better not the wife—if we can find someone else. Maybe there’s a brother, or—” He looked down at the face again. Ernest Pomeroy was probably nearer fifty than forty. “Or a son.”

“We’ll see to it, sir,” the sergeant said. “Wouldn’t want to do that to any woman, even though as she’d only ’ave to see ’is face. Still—all the same. You goin’ to see the wife, sir?”

“Yes.” It was inevitable. It must be done, and again it must be Pitt. “Yes ... give me that address, will you?” Seabrook Walk looked fiat and gray in the thin light of morning. Somehow the rain did not make it clean, merely wet.

Pitt found the number he was looking for and walked up to the door. As always, there was no point in hesitating; there was nothing that would make it hurt less, and there might be something to learn. Somewhere there must be something that linked these men: a common acquaintance, an appetite, a place or a time, some reason they had been hated so passionately. Whatever the cost, he must find it. Time would not wait for him. The murderer would not wait.

The narrow flower beds were empty now, just dark strips of earth. The grass in the middle had a lifeless, wintry look, and the laurel bushes under the windows seemed sour, holding darkness and stale water. Immaculate lace curtains hung at all the windows, evenly spread. In an hour they would be obscured by the drawn blinds of mourning.

He raised the polished door knocker and let it fall with a jarring sound. It was several moments before a startled betweenmaid opened it a crack, her pasty face peering out. No one called this early.

“Yes, sir?”

“I have come to speak with Mrs. Pomeroy. It is urgent.”

“Oooh, I don’t know as she can see you now.” The tweeny was obviously confused. “She ain’t even”—she swallowed and remembered her loyalties to the house—“even ’ad ’er breakfast yet. Could you come back in an hour or two, sir?”

Pitt was sorry for the girl. She was probably not more than thirteen or fourteen, and this would be her first job. If she lost it through annoying her mistress, she would be in difficult straits. She might even end up wandering the streets, less fortunate than the women with the skill or the personality to end up in a bawdy house with someone like Victoria Dalton.

“I’m from the police.” Pitt took the responsibility from her. “I have bad news for Mrs. Pomeroy, and it would be most cruel to let her hear it by rumor, rather than to tell her discreetly ourselves.”

“Oooh!” The girl swung the door wide and let Pitt step inside. She stared at his dripping clothes; even in the face of crisis, her training was paramount. “’Ere, you’re soakin’ wet! Better take off them things and give ’em to me. I’ll ’ave cook ’ang ’em up in the scullery. You wait in there, an’ I’ll go upstairs an’ tell Mrs. Pomeroy as you’re ’ere, an’ it’s urgent.”

“Thank you.” Pitt took off his coat, hat, and muffler and handed them to her. She scurried out, almost hidden by the bulk of them. He stood obediently until Mrs. Pomeroy should appear.

He looked around the room. It was quite a good size; the furniture was of heavy, dark wood without luster in the thin light. There were embroidered antimacassars on the backs of the chairs, but no extra cushions on the seats. The pictures on the walls were views of Italy painted in hard blues—blue sea, blue sky—with harsh sunlight. He found them ugly and offensive; he had always imagined Italy to be a beautiful place. There was an embroidered religious text over the mantelpiece: “The price of a good woman is above rubies.” He wondered who had selected it.

On the chiffonier at the side there was a vase of artificial silk flowers, delicate things with gay, gossamer petals. It was a surprising touch of beauty in an unimaginative house.

Adela Pomeroy was at least fifteen years younger than her husband. She stood in the doorway in a lavender robe, trimmed with froths of lace at throat and wrists, and stared at Pitt. Her hair tumbled down her back; she had not bothered to dress it. Her face was fine-boned, her neck too slender. For another few years she would be lovely, before nervous tensions ate the lines deeper and marred the roundness of the flesh.

“Birdie said you are from the police.” She came in and closed the door.

“Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy. I am sorry, but I have bad news for you.” He wished she would sit down, but she did not. “A man was found this morning whom we believe to be your husband. He had letters identifying him, but we will have someone make certain, of course.”

She still stood without movement or change of expression. Perhaps it was too soon. Shock was like that.

“I am sorry,” he repeated.

“He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes wandered around the room, looking at familiar things. “He wasn’t ill. Was it an accident?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I am afraid it was murder.” She would have to know; there was no kindness in pretending.

“Oh.” There seemed to be no emotion in her. Slowly she walked over to the sofa and sat down. Automatically she pulled across her knees the silk of the robe, and Pitt thought momentarily how beautiful it was. Pomeroy must have been a wealthy man, and more generous than his face suggested. Perhaps it was not a meanness he had seen, but merely the emptiness of death. Maybe he had loved this woman very much, and saved hard to give her these luxuries—the flowers and the robe, Pitt felt what could be a quite unjust dislike well up inside him that he could see no agony or grief in her.

“How did it happen?” she asked.

“He was attacked in the street,” he replied. “He was stabbed. It was probably over very quickly. I dare say there was only a moment of pain.”

Still there was nothing in her face, then a faint surprise. “In the street? You mean he—he was robbed?”

What had she expected? Robbery was not such an uncommon crime, although it was not usually accompanied by such dreadful violence. Maybe he carried little of value. But then robbers were not to know that, until too late.

“He had no money on him,” he answered her. “But his watch was still in his pocket, and a very good leather case for cards and letters.”

“He never carried much money.” She was still staring ahead of her, as if Pitt were a disembodied voice. “A guinea or two.”

“When did you last see him, Mrs. Pomeroy?” He would have to tell her the rest; where he was found, the mutilation. Better she hear it from him ...

“Yesterday evening.” Her answer cut into his thoughts. “He was going to deliver a book to one of his pupils. He was a teacher. But you probably know that—mathematics.”

“No, I didn’t know. Did he tell you the name of the pupil, and where he lived?”

“Morrison. I’m afraid I don’t know where—not far away. I think he intended to walk. He would have a note of it in his books. He was very meticulous.” Still there was no emotion in her voice except the faint surprise, as if she could not comprehend that such a violent thing should have happened to so ordinary a man. She stood up and went to the window. She was very slight and fragile, like a bird. Even in this apparent state of numbness she had a grace that was individual, a way of holding her head high. Pitt found it hard to imagine her in the arms of the man whose face he had seen in the Devil’s Acre. But then so often one cannot fathom the loves or hates of other people. Why should this be comprehensible? He knew nothing of either of them.

“Can you think of any reason he should go to the Devil’s Acre, ma’am?” he asked. As usual, it was brutal, but she seemed so emotionless; perhaps this was the best time.

She did not turn, but stayed with her back to him. He was not sure whether it was his imagination that the delicate shoulders stiffened under the lavender silk. “I have no idea.”

“But you did know that he went there, from time to time?” he pressed.

She hesitated for a moment. “No.”

There was no point in arguing with her. It was only an impression. He remained silent; perhaps in her speech she would give something away.

“Is that where he was found?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Was it—the same—the same as the others?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Ah.”

She stood so long he could not tell if she kept her back to him to hide some overwhelming private feelings, if perhaps he should call a maid to help her, to bring her some restorative, or if she preferred the dignity of being left alone. Or was she simply waiting for him to speak again?

“Can I call your maid to bring something, ma’am?” He broke the silence from his own necessity.

“What?”

He repeated the offer.

At last she turned around; her face seemed perfectly composed. “No, thank you. Is there anything else you wish to know from me?”

He was worried for her; this dry, calm shock was dangerous. He must have some responsible servant call her doctor. “Yes, please. I would like the names and addresses of his pupils, and any close acquaintances you believe he may have seen in the last few weeks.”

“His study is on the other side of the hall. Take whatever you want. Now if you will excuse me, I would like to be alone.” Without waiting for his answer, she walked past him with a faint waft of perfume—something sweet and mildly flowery—and went out the door.

He spent the rest of the morning looking through the books and papers in Pomeroy’s study, trying to form some picture of the man’s life, his nature.

Pomeroy emerged as a meticulous, pedestrian man who had taught mathematics ever since he had graduated with academic qualifications. Most of his students seemed to have been aged about twelve or fourteen, and of quite average ability, except an occasional one of real promise. He tutored families privately, both boys and girls together.

It seemed a conscientious and blameless life, without any outward mark of humor. The flamboyant silk flowers in the withdrawing room could never have been his. In fact, the lavender silk gown with its foam of lace seemed far beyond his imagination—or his financial reach.

Pitt was offered luncheon by a cook who burst into tears every time he spoke to her. Then in the afternoon he copied out all the names and addresses of the current pupils, plus a few of those from the recent past, and those of acquaintances and tradesmen. He took his leave without seeing Adela Pomeroy again.

He went home earlier than usual. He was tired and beginning to feel the chill of the day spread through him. He had been woken to the news of another death, had gone to see the corpse lying grotesquely on the steps of a house of charity, then had had to bear the news of it to the widow whose shock he had been helpless to reach. He had spent the long hours of the day intruding into the details of the man’s life, searching it and taking it apart, looking for the flaws that had led him to the Devil’s Acre ... and murder. He had accumulated a multitude of facts, and none of them told him anything that seemed to matter. He felt helpless, hemmed in on every side by grief and trivia.

If Charlotte made one cheerful or inquisitive remark, his temper would explode.

Pitt spent the next four days picking at ragged edges, trying to unravel enough to find one thread sufficiently strong to evoke something better than the random destruction of a madman.

He spoke to Pomeroy’s students, who seemed to think well of their tutor despite the fact that he had spent his entire time instilling into their minds the principles of mathematics. They stood in front of Pitt, each in his own separate, overcrowded parlor. They were sober and scrubbed, and spoke respectfully of their elders, as became well-brought-up children. He thought he even detected beneath the ritual phrases a genuine affection, pleasant memories, perceptions of beauty in mathematical reason.

Occasionally, in spite of himself, ugly thoughts crossed Pitt’s mind of intimacies between man and child, of cases he had known in the past. But he could discover no instance where any child, boy or girl, had been tutored alone.

Ernest Pomeroy emerged as an admirable man, even if there was too little humor or imagination to make him likable. But then it is hard to catch the essence of a man when all you know is his dead face, and the memories of stunned and obedient children who had been grimly forewarned of the consequences of speaking ill of the deceased—and of the general disgrace of having anything to do with the police for any reason. The majesty of the law was better observed from afar. Respectable people did not become involved with the less savory minions who served to enforce its rule.

Pitt also, of course, asked Mrs. Pomeroy if he might look through the dead man’s personal effects to see if there were any letters or records that might suggest enmity, threat, or any motive at all to harm him. She hesitated and stared at him out of eyes that still looked frozen in shock. It was an intrusion, and he felt no surprise that she should resent his request. But it seemed that she realized the necessity and that to refuse would be pointless. And of course if she had any guilt or complicity in the murder, she would have had more than enough time to destroy anything she wished before he had first come with the news.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, if you wish. I do not believe he had much correspondence. I recall very few letters. But if you feel it would be useful you may have them.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” She made him feel peculiarly awkward because her grief was so inaccessible. If she had wept, there was no sign of it in her face; her eyes were smooth, the lids pale and unswollen. And yet she did not move with the stilted, sleepwalking gait of those who are so profoundly shocked that emotion is still petrified inside them—before the shell cracks and the pain bursts free.

Had she loved Pomeroy? More probably it had been one of the many marriages arranged by parents and suitor. Pomeroy was considerably older; he might have been her father’s choice rather than her own.

Yet even in this state of limbo between the news of death and the beginning of acceptance of life as it must become, Pitt could see that she was a woman of grace and delicacy. Her clothes were very feminine, her hair soft. Her bones were just a little too fine to appeal to him. But to many men she must have been beautiful. Surely Pomeroy was not the best she could have done for herself?

Had she loved him or was it perhaps a debt of honor? Did her parents know Pomeroy, and owe him something?

He searched through all of Pomeroy’s rooms and read every letter and receipt. As Adela Pomeroy had said, his affairs were meticulously kept. From the accounts, the age and quality of the furnishings, the number of house servants, and the stock in the kitchen and pantry, it appeared they lived frugally. There was no sign of extravagance—except the vase of colored silk flowers in the withdrawing room and Adela’s gowns.

Had he bought them as gifts for her, an indulgent expression of his love? He could not imagine it of a man with the face he had seen in the Devil’s Acre. But by then he had already been robbed of that quickening that inhabits the flesh, of the capability for passion and pain, moments of tenderness, dreams or illusions.

Even in life we mask our vulnerability. What right had Pitt, or anyone else, to know what this man had felt for his wife? What vain or hopeless ideas still haunted him?

Or was her indifference apparent now because there had long ago ceased to be any real emotion between them? Was his death merely the formal ending of a relationship that was merely a facade? They had been married fifteen years; that much she had told him. There were no children. Had there ever been?

Could that even have been the reason she chose this plain, older man—a kindness to a woman whose moral character had been blemished? Or perhaps who already knew she was barren? Had gratitude turned over the years to hatred?

Had she sought love elsewhere? Was that where the silk flowers and the gowns came from? It was an obvious question, and he would be obliged to search.

He asked her if she had ever heard of Bertram Astley, Max Burton, or Dr. Pinchin. The names produced no answering flicker in her face. If she was a liar, she was superb. Neither did he find any mention of the other victims in Pomeroy’s papers.

There was nothing to do but thank Mrs. Pomeroy and leave with a peculiar feeling of unreality, as if all the time she was speaking she had barely been aware of him. He was an usher in the theater, and she was watching the main drama somewhere else, out of his sight.

The next obvious thing was to try the Acre again, and the best source was Squeaker Harris. Pitt found him in his grubby attic, hunched over the table by the window—the cleanest thing in the place—so that the winter light could fall onto his paper. Too many careful, suspicious eyes would examine his work. It must meet the highest standards of perfection or he would not remain in his trade.

He glared at Pitt balefully. “You ain’t got no right bustin’ inter a man’s ’ouse!” he exclaimed as he covered the paper he was working on as inconspicuously as possible. “I could ’ave yer—fer trespassin’. Vat’s agin ve law, Mr. Pitt. An’ wot’s more, it ain’t right.”

“It’s a social call,” Pitt replied, sitting on an upended box and balancing with some difficulty. “I’m not interested in your business skills.”

“Ain’t yer?” Squeaker was not convinced.

“Why don’t you put them away?” Pitt suggested helpfully. “In case dust falls on them. You don’t want anything spoiled.”

Squeaker gave him a squinting glare. Such leniency was confusing. It was very contrary of policemen to be so inconsistent in their behavior. How was anyone to know where he stood? However, he was glad of the chance to put the half-completed forgeries out of sight. He returned and sat down, considerably easier in his mind.

“Well?” he demanded. “Wotcher want ven? Yer ain’t come ’ere fer nuffin’!”

“Of course not,” Pitt said. “What’s the word about these murders now? What are they saying, Squeaker?”

“The Acre slasher? Vere ain’t no word. Nobody knows nuffin’, and nobody ain’t sayin’ nuffin’.”

“Nonsense. You telling me there’ve been four murders and mutilations in the Acre, and nobody’s got any ideas as to who did them, or why? Come on, Squeaker—I wasn’t born yesterday!”

“Neever was I, Mr. Pitt. And I don’t want ter know nuffin’ abaht it. I’m a lot more scared o’ ‘ooever done vose geezers like vat van I ever am o’ you! You crushers is a nuisance, Gawd knows, bad fer ve ’ealf an’ bad fer business, and some of yer is downright nasty at times. But yer ain’t mad—least not ravin’ mad like ve lunatic wot does vis! I can understand a decent murder along wiv ve next man! I ain’t unreasonable. But I don’t ’old wiv vis, an’ I don’t know nobody as does!”

Pitt leaned forward and nearly fell off the box. “Then help me find him, Squeaker! Help me put him away!”

“Yer mean ‘ang ‘im.” Squeaker pulled a face. “I dunno nuffin’, an’ I don’t want ter! It’s no use yer arskin’ me, Mr. Pitt. ’E ain’t one o’ us!”

“Then who are the strangers? Who’s new in the Acre?” Pitt pressed.

Squeaker put on an elaborate air of grievance. “’Ow ve ’ell do I know? ’E’s mad! Mebbe ’e only conies aht at nights. Mebbe ’e ain’t even ’uman. I dunno anyone as knows anyfink abaht it! None o’ ve pimps or blaggers or shofulmen I know ’as got any call ter do vat kind o’ fing! An’ yer know we screevers don’t go in fer nastiness. I’m an artist, I am. Fer me ter get violent wiv me ’ands ’d ruin me touch.” He waved his fingers expressively, like a pianist. “Dips don’t neever,” he added as an afterthought.

Pitt conceded with a smile. Unwillingly he believed Squeaker. Still he gave it a last try. “What about Ambrose Mercutt? Max was taking his trade.”

“So ‘e was,” Squeaker agreed. “Better at it, see? An’ Ambrose is a nasty little bastard w’en ’e’s crossed as many o’ ’is girls’d tell yer. But ’e ain’t mad! If ’n someone’d stuck a shiv inter Max and dropped ’im inter ve water, or even strangled ’is froat, I’d ’ave said Ambrose, quick as look atcher.” His lip curled. “But you lot’d never ’ave fahnd ’im! Just gorn, vat’s all—Max’d just ’ave gorn, and you rozzers’d never ’ave known ve diff’rence. Nobody but a fool or a lunatic draws attention ter ’isself by cuttin’ people abaht an’ leavin’ ’em in gutters fer people ter fall over.” He raised his scruffy eyebrows. “I arks yer, Mr. Pitt—now ’oo’d leave a corpus in front of an ’ouse ’o mercy, wiv all vem ’oly women in it—if n ’e was right in ’is mind, like?”

“Did Ambrose employ children in his brothel, Squeaker?”

Squeaker screwed up his face. “I don’t ’old wiv vat. It ain’t ’ealfy. A proper man wants a proper woman, not some scared little kid.”

“Does he, Squeaker?”

“Gawd! ‘Ow do I know? You fink I got vat kind o’ money?”

“Does he, Squeaker?” Pitt persisted, his voice harder.

“Yes! Yes ‘e does! Greedy little git! Go an’ ’ang ’im, Mr. Pitt, an’ welcome!” He spat on the floor in disgust.

“Thank you. I’m obliged.” Pitt stood up and the box collapsed.

Squeaker looked at the box and his face wrinkled up. “Yer shouldn’t ’ave sat on vat, Mr. Pitt! Yer too ’eavy fer it—now look wot yer done! I oughta charge yer fer breakages, I ought!”

Pitt pulled out a sixpence and gave it to him. “I wouldn’t like to owe you, Squeaker.”

Squeaker hesitated, the coin halfway to his teeth. The thought of Pitt owing him was extremely attractive, even tempting. But sixpence now was better than a debt Pitt might let slip from his rather erratic mind.

“Vat’s right, Mr. Pitt,” he agreed. “Shouldn’t never owe nobody. Never knows as w’en vey might collect at an inconvenient moment.” He raised candid eyes. “But if n I ’ears ’oo done the poor geezers—fer sure like—I’ll send and tell yer.”

“Oh, yes?” Pitt said skeptically. “You do that, Squeaker.”

Squeaker spat again. “’Ope ter die! Oh, Gawd—I didn’t oughter said vat! Geez! May Gawd strike me if’n I don’t!” he amended—with greater trust in his ability to obtain mercy from the Almighty than from the Acre slasher.

“He can have you after I’ve finished with you.” Pitt looked him up and down. “If He can be bothered with what’s left!”

“Nah, Mr. Pitt, vat ain’t nice. Yer abusin’ me ’orspitality.” Squeaker was aggrieved, but happily so. It was a feeling he enjoyed. “Ve trouble wiv you crushers is yer ain’t got no happreciation.”

Pitt smiled and went out the door. He picked his way down the stairs carefully, avoiding the rotted ones, and went outside into the cold malodorous air of the alley. Tomorrow he would get a picture of Ernest Pomeroy and take it around the brothels in the Acre.

Charlotte was waiting for him when he arrived home. She was beautiful, her face radiant, hair soft and sweet to smell. She clung to him fiercely as if she were bursting with energy.

“Where have you been?” he asked, holding her hard.

“Only to see Emily.” She dismissed it as a trifle, but he knew perfectly well why she had gone.

She gave him a quick kiss and pulled away. “You’re cold. Sit down and warm yourself. Gracie will have dinner in half an hour. Your coat looks very dirty. Where have you been?”

“To the Devil’s Acre,” he said tartly as he eased off his boots and wriggled his toes. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his feet out toward the fire.

Charlotte passed him his slippers. “Did you learn anything?”

“No,” he lied. After all, it was not definable.

Her face fell into lines of commiseration. “Oh. I am sorry.” Then she brightened, as if an idea had just occurred to her. “Perhaps it would be better to approach it from the other point of view.”

In spite of himself, he asked, “What other point of view?” And then was angry with his gullibility.

But she did not hesitate. “The point of view of Max’s women,” she replied instantly. “These murders were committed with a great deal of hatred.”

He smiled sourly. It was a ludicrous understatement, and, sitting here in her own safe home, what on earth could she know about it? He had seen the corpses!

“You should look for someone whose life has been ruined,” she went on. “If Max had seduced some woman, and then her husband had found out, he might well hate enough to kill like that—not only Max but whoever had had anything to do with her disgrace.”

“And how would he find out?” he asked. If she was going to play policeman, let her answer all the difficult, ugly questions that Athelstan would have thrown at him. “There is no connection whatsoever between Max and Hubert Pinchin. We can’t find anyone who knew them both.”

“Maybe Pinchin was the doctor for Max’s establishments,” she suggested.

“Good idea. But he wasn’t. There’s a disbarred old crow who does that—and very lucrative it is, too. He wouldn’t share his practice with anyone.”

“Crow? Is that an underworld term for a doctor?” She did not wait for a reply. “What if the husband came as a customer and found the whore was his own wife? That way he would know who the procurer was as well!” It was an excellently rational solution, and she knew it. She glowed with triumph.

“And what about the woman?” he said scathingly. “He just bundled her up and took her back home again? I’m sure he wanted her—after that!”

“I don’t suppose so for a moment.” She sniffed and looked at him impatiently. “But he couldn’t divorce her, could he?”

“Why not? God knows, he would have cause!”

“Oh, Thomas, don’t be ridiculous! No man is going to admit he found his wife in the Devil’s Acre working as a whore! Even if the police weren’t looking for someone with a motive for murder, it would ruin him forever! If there is anything worse than death for a man, it is to be laughed at and pitied at the same time.”

He could not argue. “No,” he said irritably. “He’ll probably kill her, too, but quietly, when he’s ready.”

Her face paled. “Do you think so?”

“Damn it, Charlotte! How should I know? If he’s capable of cutting up her pimp and her lovers, what would stop him leaving her in some more respectable gutter when he’s ready? So you bear that in mind, and stop meddling in things you don’t understand—where you can only do damage by stirring up a lot of suspicions. Remember—if you’re right, he’s got precious little left to lose!”

“I haven’t been—”

“For heaven’s sake, do you think I’m stupid? I don’t know what you’ve been doing with Emily, but I most assuredly know why!”

She sat perfectly still, color high in her cheeks. “I haven’t been anywhere near the Devil’s Acre, and to the best of my knowledge I haven’t spoken to anyone who has!” she said righteously.

He knew from the brilliance of her eyes that she was speaking the literal truth. Anyway, he did not think she would lie to him, not in so many words.

“Not for want of trying,” he said acidly,

“Well, you don’t appear to have got very far either,” she retorted. “I could give you the names of half a dozen women to try. How about Lavinia Hawkesley? She is married to a boring man at least thirty years older than she is. And Dorothea Blandish and Mrs. Dinford and Lucy Abercorn, and what about the new widow Pomeroy? I hear she is very pretty, and she knows one or two people in the fast set.”

“Adela Pomeroy?” He was momentarily startled out of his anger.

“Yes,” she said with satisfaction, seeing his face. “And there are others. I’ll write them down for you.”

“Write them down, then forget the whole thing. Stay at home! This is murder, Charlotte, very ugly and violent murder. And if you go meddling in it you may very well end up dead in a gutter yourself. Do as you are told!”

She said nothing.

“Do you hear me?” He had not meant to, but he was raising his voice. “If you and Emily go blundering about, God knows what lunatic you’ll disturb—presuming you get anywhere near the truth! Far more likely it’s a business vengeance in the Acre and nothing to do with society at all.”

“What about Bertie Astley?” she demanded.

“What about him? He owned a block of buildings in the Acre, a whole street. That’s where the Astley money comes from, their own private slum.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes! Perhaps he had a brothel as well, and he was removed by a rival.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go back and look again, of course! What else?”

“Thomas, please be careful!” She stopped, unsure what more to say.

He knew the dangers, but the alternatives were worse: another murder; public outrage reaching hysteria; Athelstan, afraid for his position, putting more and more pressure on Pitt to arrest someone, anyone, to satisfy Parliament, the church, the patrons of the Acre and other whorehouses all over London. And then terror, fury, and guilt when there was yet another atrocity.

But, perhaps foremost in his own mind, he felt the need to solve this case himself, to solve it before Charlotte, unwinding some thread from Emily’s society connections, started to follow it from the other end and ran into something she could not handle. He had forbidden her to meddle not only because her life could be in great danger, but also because he must demonstrate that he did not need her help.

“Of course I shall be careful,” he said stiffly. “I’m not a fool!”

She gave him a sidelong look and held her tongue.

“And you stay at home and keep out of it!” he added. “You’ve plenty to attend to here without interfering where you can only get into trouble.”

Nevertheless, when he went into the Acre the next day, he took even more care than usual to dress inconspicuously, and to walk with that mixture of sureness of where he was going and the furtive, beaten air of someone whose journey is futile and who knows it.

The day was cold, with gloomy skies and a hard wind blowing up from the river. There was every excuse to pull his hat down and wind his muffler over the bare skin of his face. The sparse gaslights of the Acre glimmered in the murky morning air like lost moons in a sunken, crooked world.

Pitt had a good likeness of Pomeroy, and he intended to find out everything he could about the brothels that catered to customers who liked children. Somewhere in this cesspit he expected to find Pomeroy’s reason for being here, and he believed it had to do with a need the man could not or dared not satisfy in Seabrook Walk. Nothing else would have brought such a prim, almost obsessively meticulous creature into this world.

He had begun the day in Parkins’ office, gathering all the information the local police could give him about brothels that were known to employ children. He was even offered the names of snouts, and small personal secrets that might allow him to exert a little pressure to assure the truth.

But no one was prepared to say that he knew Pomeroy, or had ever catered to him.

By ten that night Pitt was cold, bone-aching tired; he intended to try one more house before going home. There was no point in lying about who he was this time; Ambrose Mercutt’s doorman knew him. It was his job to remember faces.

“Wotcher want?” he demanded angrily. “Yer can’t come ’ere nah, it’s business hours!”

“I’m on business!” Pitt snapped. “And I’m perfectly happy to come and go quietly, and not disturb your customers, if you’ll treat me civilly and answer a few questions.”

The man considered for a moment. He was long and lean and he had half an ear missing. He was dressed in a modishly cut jacket, with a silk kerchief tied around his throat. “Wot’s it worth to yer?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Pitt said immediately. “But I’ll tell you what it’s worth to you: continued employment and a nice pretty neck—no ugly rope burns! Can ruin a man’s future, a hemp collar.”

The man snorted. “I ain’t murdered no one. Duffed up a few wot didn’t know w’en they’d ’ad their money’s worth.” He tittered, showing his long teeth. “But they ain’t makin’ no complaints. Gentlemen as comes to these parts never do! And there ain’t nothin’ you can do, rozzer, as’ll make ’em. Rather the than lay a complaint against a pimp, they would!” He struck a pose and his voice rose to a falsetto. “Please Yer Honor, Mr. Beak, there’s this whore I used, an’ I want to complain as she didn’t give me value fer me money! I wants as yer should make ’er be more obligin’, me lud!” He switched position and put his other hand on his hip, looking down his nose. “Why, certainly, Lord Mud-in-Yer-Eye. You just tell me ’ow much yer paid this ’ere whore, and w’ere I can find ’er, and I’ll see as she gives yer satisfaction!”

“Ever thought of going on the halls?” Pitt asked cheerfully. “You’d have them in the aisles with that.”

The man hesitated; all sorts of glittering possibilities appeared in his mind. He was flattered in spite of himself. He had expected abuse, not appreciation, let alone such a golden idea.

Pitt pulled out the picture of Pomeroy.

“What’s that?” the man asked.

“Know him?” Pitt passed it over. There had been no picture of him in the newspapers.

“What of it? What d’you care?”

“That’s none of your business. Just believe me, I do care—so much so that I shall go on looking until I find someone who catered for his particular tastes. And if I keep on coming round here, that won’t be good for business, now, will it?”

“All right, yer sod! So we know ’im. Wot then?”

“What did he come here for?”

The man looked incredulous. “Wot did you say? You ’alf-witted or somethin’? Wot the ’ell d’yer think ’e come fer? ’E was bloody bent, the dirty little sod. ’E liked ’em real young—seven or eight, mebbe. But yer’ll never prove it, an’ I ain’t said nothin’. Nah git aht of ’ere afore I spoil your nice pretty neck with a red ring round it—right from one ear to the other!”

Pitt believed him, and he did not need proof. He had always known there would be none. “Thank you.” He gave the man a curt nod. “I don’t think I shall need to trouble you again.”

“Yer better not!” the man called after him. “Yer ain’t liked around ’ere! Best fer yer ’ealth ter try somewhere else!”

Pitt had every intention of leaving as rapidly as possible. He started to walk briskly, hands in his pockets against the cold, scarf pulled up around his ears. So Pomeroy was a pederast. That was no surprise; it was what he had expected. All he had been looking for was confirmation. Bertie Astley had owned a row of houses here in the Acre—sweatshops, tenements, a gin mill. Max’s occupation had never been a secret. All that remained was to establish Pinchin’s reason for being here. And then, of course, to find the common link, the place or the person that bound them together—the motive.

It was desperately cold. The wind with its acrid sewer smell made his eyes water. He lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and strode out more rapidly.

Perhaps that was why he did not hear them come up behind him in the shadowy light. He had solved the mystery of Pomeroy in his mind; he had completed his business and had forgotten he was still well inside the Acre. Walking like a happy man, a man with purpose, he was as conspicuous as a white rabbit on a new-turned field.

The first one struck him from behind. There was a stinging blow in the small of his back; his feet were suddenly entangled and the pavement hit him in the face. He rolled over, knees hunched, then straightened with all his strength. His feet met flesh that gave under his weight, falling away with a grunt. But there was another at his head. He lashed out with his fists and tried to regain his balance. A blow landed on his shoulder, bruising but harmless. He threw his weight behind his answering punch and was exhilarated to hear the crack of bone. Then there was a numbing punch in his side. It would have been his back had he not turned and kicked as hard as he could at precisely the moment he was struck.

There was nothing he could do now but run for it. A hundred yards, or two at the most, and he would be on the edge of the Acre and within hailing distance of a hansom, and safety. His side hurt; he must have a terrible bruise there, but a hot bath and a little embrocation would cure that. His feet were flying over the cobbles. He was not in the least ashamed to run; only a fool stayed against impossible odds.

He was short of breath. The pain in his side was sharper. It seemed a mile to the lighted street and traffic. The ghostly rings of the gas lamps were always ahead. They never drew level.

“Now then! Were you goin’ in such an almighty ’urry then?” An arm came out and caught hold of him.

In a moment of panic, he tried to raise his hand and strike the man, but the arm was leaden. “What?”

It was a constable—a constable on the beat.

“Oh, thank God!” he exclaimed. The man’s face grew enormous and vacant, shining in the mist like the gas lamps.

“’Ere, guv, you look rough, wot’s the matter wiv yer? Eh? ’Ere! You got blood all over yer side! I think as I’d better get yer to an ’orspital right quick! Don’t want yer passin’ out on me. ’Ere! ’Old up a bit longer. Cabbie! Cabbie!”

Through a haze of swinging lights and numbing cold Pitt felt himself bundled into a hansom and jolted through the streets, then helped gingerly down and through a labyrinth of bright rooms. He was stripped of his clothes, examined, swabbed with something that stung abominably, stitched through flesh that was mercifully still anesthetized by the original blow, bandaged and dressed, then given a fiery drink that scorched his throat and made his head muzzy. At last he was courteously accompanied home. It was midnight.

The following morning, he woke up so sore he could barely move, and it was a moment before he could remember why. Charlotte was standing over him, her hair pulled back untidily, her face pale.

“Thomas?” she said anxiously.

He groaned.

“You were stabbed,” she said. “They told me it isn’t very deep, but you’ve lost quite a lot of blood. Your jacket and shirt are ruined!”

He smiled in spite of himself. She was very pale indeed. “That’s terrible. Are you sure they’re completely ruined?”

She sniffed furiously, but the tears ran down her face and she put her hands up to cover them. “I will not cry! It’s your own stupid fault. You’re a perfect idiot! You sit there as pompous as a churchwarden and tell me what I must and must not do, and then you go into the Acre all by yourself asking dangerous questions and get stabbed.” She took one of his big handkerchiefs from the dresser and blew her nose hard. “I don’t suppose for a moment you even saw the slasher after all that—did you!”

He hitched himself up a little, wincing at the pain in his side. Actually, he was not at all sure it was the Acre slasher who had attacked him. It could have been any group of cutpurses prepared for a fight.

“And I expect you’re hungry,” she said, stuffing the handkerchief into her apron pocket. “Well, the doctor said a day in bed and you’ll be a lot better.”

“I’ll get up—”

“You’ll do as you’re told!” she shouted. “You’ll not get out of that bed till I tell you you may! And don’t you argue with me! Just don’t you dare!”

It was three days before he was strong enough to return to the police station, tightly bandaged and fortified with a flask of rather expensive port wine. The wound was healing, and although it was still painful, he was able to move about. Meanwhile the threads of the Devil’s Acre murders had drawn closer in his mind, and he felt compelled to return to the case.

“I’ve put other men on it,” Athelstan assured him, with a worried gesture. “All I can spare.”

“And what have they come up with?” Pitt asked, for once permitted—even pleaded with—to sit in the big padded chair instead of standing. He enjoyed the sensation and leaned back, spreading his legs. It might never happen again.

“Nothing much,” Athelstan admitted. “Still don’t know what tied those four men together. Don’t know why Pinchin went to the Acre, for that matter. Are you sure it’s not a lunatic, Pitt?”

“No, I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. A doctor could find a dozen occupations in the Acre if he wasn’t particularly scrupulous.”

Athelstan winced with distaste. “I presume so. But which of them did Pinchin practice, and for whom? Do you think he procured these well-bred women for Max that you insist he had?”

“Possibly. Although there weren’t many society women among his patients.”

“‘Well-bred’ is relative, Pitt. Almost anything would appear to be a lady in the Acre.”

Pitt stood up reluctantly. “Then I’d better go and ask a few more questions—”

“You’re not going by yourself!” Athelstan said in alarm. “I can’t afford another murder in the Acre!”

Pitt stared at him. “Thank you,” he said dryly. “I shouldn’t like to embarrass you.”

“Damn it—”

“I’ll take a constable with me—two, if you like?”

Athelstan pulled himself to attention. “It’s an order, Pitt—an order, you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll go now ... with two constables.”

Ambrose Mercutt was incensed with a mixture of outrage and very real fear that he would be blamed for Pitt’s injury, which was now common talk in the Acre.

“It’s your own fault!” Mercutt said peevishly. “Go wandering around places you’re not wanted, poking your nose into other people’s private business—of course you get stabbed. Lucky you weren’t garroted! Downright stupid. If you pushed everyone around the way you did my people, I’m only surprised you weren’t killed.”

Pitt did not argue. He knew his own mistake; it was not in having come into the Acre, but in having forgotten to keep up the appearance, to walk like a man who belonged here. He had allowed himself to become conspicuous. It was careless and, as Ambrose said, stupid.

“And sorry, too, no doubt,” Pitt said. “Who looks after your women when they get sick?”

“What?”

Pitt repeated the question, but Ambrose was quick to understand. “Not Pinchin, if that’s what you think.”

“Maybe. But we’ll speak to all your women, just in case. They may remember something you don’t.”

Mercutt’s face was white. “All right! He may have looked after one or two of them from time to time. What of it? He was very useful. Some of the stupid bitches get with child sometimes. He took care of it, and took his pay in kind. So I’d be the last person to kill him, wouldn’t I?”

“Not if he was blackmailing you.”

“Blackmailing me?” His voice rose to a screech at the idiocy of the idea. “Whatever for? Everyone knows what business I’m in. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. I could have blackmailed him—I could have ruined his nice respectable practice at Highgate—if I’d wanted to. But the arrangement suited me well enough. When he was killed, I had to find someone else.”

Pitt could not move him from that, no matter what other questions or pressures he put forth. Finally he and the constables left and went to another bawdy house, and another, and another.

It was five o’clock when Pitt, tired and sore, came with the two constables to the house of the Dalton sisters. He had kept them until last on purpose; he was looking forward to the warmth, the agreeable atmosphere, and perhaps a cup of hot tea.

Both Mary and Victoria were present this time; he was received with the same domestic calm as before and invited to the sitting room. He accepted the offer of refreshment with rather more speed than grace.

Mary looked at him suspiciously, but Victoria was as civil as before. “Ernest Pomeroy did not come here,” she said candidly, pouring the tea and passing it to him. The constables were in the main entrance room, embarrassed and thoroughly enjoying themselves.

“No,” Pitt said, accepting the cup. “I already know where he went. I was thinking of Dr. Pinchin.”

Her eyebrows rose and her gray eyes were like smooth winter seas. “I don’t see all our customers, but I don’t recall him. He was certainly not murdered here—or anywhere near here.”

“Did you know him? Professionally, perhaps?”

The ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “His profession or mine, Mr. Pitt?”

He smiled back. “His, Miss Dalton.”

“No. I have good health, and when I do not, I know well enough what to do for myself.”

“How about your women—your girls?”

“No,” Mary said immediately. “If anyone is sick, we look after them.”

Pitt turned to look at her. She was younger than Victoria. Her face lacked the power of will, the resolution in the eyes, but it had the same smooth, country look, the short nose and soft freckles. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. The meaning was obvious to Pitt; she did not want to admit to abortion.

“Of course we have doctors sometimes.” Victoria took charge again. “But we have not used Pinchin. He has never had anything to do with this establishment.”

Pitt actually believed her, but he wanted to stay in the warmth a little longer, and he had not finished his tea. “Can you give me any reason I should believe that?” he asked. “The man was murdered. You would not wish to admit acquaintance with him.”

Victoria glanced at her sister, then at Pitt’s cup. She reached for the pot and filled it without asking him. “None at all,” she said with an expression Pitt could not fathom. “Except that he was a butcher, and I don’t want my girls cut about so they either bleed to death or are too mutilated ever to work again. Believe that!”

Pitt found himself apologizing. It was ridiculous. He was taking tea with a brothel-keeper and telling her he was sorry because some doctor had aborted whores so clumsily that they never recovered—and they were not even her whores! ... Or was she a brilliant liar?

“I’ll ask them myself.” He drank the rest of his tea and stood up. “Especially those who’ve come to you most recently.”

Mary stood up too, hands clenched in her skirt. “You can’t!”

“Don’t be silly,” Victoria said briskly. “Of course he can, if he wants to. We’ve never had Pinchin in this house, unless he’s come as a customer. I’d be obliged to you, Mr. Pitt, if you’d not be abusive to our girls. I won’t permit it.” She fixed him with a firm eye, and Pitt was reminded of governesses he had met in great houses. She did not wait for his answer, but led him into the upper part of the house and began knocking on one door after another.

Pitt went through the routine of asking questions and showing Pinchin’s picture to plump and giggling prostitutes. The rooms were warm and smelled of cheap perfume and body odors, but the colors were gay and the rooms cleaner than he had expected.

After the fourth one, Victoria was called away to attend to some domestic crisis, and he was left with Mary. He was speaking to the last girl, skinny, not more than fifteen or sixteen years old, and plainly frightened. She looked at Pinchin’s face on the paper, and instantly Pitt knew she was lying when she said she had never seen him.

“Think hard,” Pitt warned. “Be very careful. You can be put in prison for lying to the police.”

The girl went pasty white.

“That’s enough!” Mary said sharply. “She’s only a housemaid—what would she want with the likes of him? Leave her alone. She just dusts and sweeps. She has nothing to do with that side of things.”

The girl started to move away. Pitt caught hold of her arm, not roughly, but hard enough to prevent her going. She began to cry, great shuddering sobs as if she were overtaken with some desperate, animal grief.

Instantly, in the bottom of his stomach, Pitt knew she must be one of Pinchin’s “butcheries,” one who had lived, but so damaged she would never be a normal woman. At her age, she should have been laughing, dreaming of romance, looking forward to marriage. He wanted to comfort her, and there was nothing he could say or do, nothing anyone could.

“Elsie!” It was Mary’s voice, loud and frightened. “Elsie!” The little maid was still weeping, clinging now to Mary’s arm.

From the end of the passage came the sound of a low singing snarl. Pitt swung around. There, under the gas lamp, stood a squat, white, rat-faced bullterrier, with teeth bared and bow legs quivering. Behind him was the most enormous woman he had ever seen, her bare arms hanging loosely, her flat face like a suet pudding, with eyes shrouded in creases of fat.

“Never you mind, Miss Mary,” the woman said, in a soft, high voice like that of a little girl. “I won’t let ’im ’urt yer. Yer just leavin’, ain’t yer, mister?” She took a step forward, and the dog, bristling, lurched a step forward with her.

Pitt felt horror flood through him. Was he looking at the Devil’s Acre slasher? Was it this woman mountain and her dog? His throat was dry; he swallowed on nothing.

“Throw him out, Elsie!” Mary shrieked. “Throw him out! Throw him hard, go on! Put him in the gutter! Set Dutch on him!”

The great woman took another step forward. Her face was expressionless. She could have had her sleeves rolled up to do laundry or knead bread. Beside her, Dutch’s snarl grew higher.

“Stop it!” Victoria’s voice shouted from the head of the stairs where she had disappeared a short time before. “That’s not necessary, Elsie. Mr. Pitt is not a customer—and he won’t hurt anyone.” Her tone became sharper. “Really, Mary, sometimes you are stupid!” She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and handed it to the maid. “Now pull yourself together, Millie, and get on with your work! Stop sniffling—there’s nothing to cry about. Go on!” She watched as the girl ran away and the enormous woman and the dog turned and trundled obediently after her.

Mary looked sullen, but kept her peace.

“I’m sorry,” Victoria said to Pitt. “We found Millie in a bad way. I didn’t know who was responsible, but perhaps it was Pinchin. Poor little creature nearly bled to death. She got with child and her father threw her out. She worked herself into one of the houses, where someone aborted her. Then, when they threw her out because she was useless to them, we picked her up.”

There was nothing Pitt could say, the situation was beyond trite sympathy.

Victoria led the way back toward the front rooms. “Mary shouldn’t have called Elsie. She’s only for customers who get difficult.” Her face was bleak. “I hope you were not frightened, Mr. Pitt.”

Pitt had been terrified; the sweat was still standing out on his body. “Not at all,” he lied, glad she could not see his face. “Thank you for your frankness, Miss Dalton. Now I know what Pinchin was doing in the Acre, and where his additional income came from—at least to furnish his cellar. You don’t happen to know whom he practiced for, do you?”

“Millie was with Ambrose Mercutt, if that’s what you want to know,” she said calmly. “I cannot tell you anything more than that.”

“I don’t think I need anything more.” Pitt came out into the main room, and both constables, scarlet-faced, sprang to their feet, tipping two laughing girls off their laps. Pitt turned to Victoria affecting not to notice. “Thank you, Miss Dalton. Good night.”

Victoria was equally imperturbable. “Good night, Mr. Pitt.”