Death in the Devil's Acre

10

CHARLOTTE DID NOT TELL Pitt that she had been to see General Balantyne again. In fact, she had not specifically told him of any of her visits, although she knew he was aware of them. Since he had been brought back from the hospital, white-faced, his clothes soaked with blood, she had realized he wanted to catch the Devil’s Acre murderer so desperately that he would take clumsy risks. She still went cold at the thought of how nearly the risks had cost him his life. It was something she normally refused to think about—the chance of his being injured, or even killed. To dwell on it was too frightening, and there was nothing she could do to alter it.

She knew he disapproved very strongly of her becoming involved in the case in any way, even so peripherally as visiting the Balantynes. And, to tell the truth, she felt some guilt because she had enjoyed the glamour of wearing Emily’s dresses, of swirling around in great spaces full of lights and music and brilliant colors. It was wonderful to show off—just a little!

She very honestly liked General Balantyne. That was the worst and most thoughtless thing she had done. She had never considered that he might really feel anything deeper for her than a return of her friendship. Naturally, she had wanted him to admire her, to think her beautiful and exciting; she simply had not believed that he would.

But this time she had seen in his face that soft, intensely personal gaze, unwavering and peculiarly naked. She knew it was no longer a social game to be stepped into or out of as the occasion suited.

Of course she could not tell Pitt; it was out of the question. When he came in that night tired and cold, his side so sore he moved stiffly, she brought his supper through to the parlor for him on a tray and waited in silence while he ate.

At last her curiosity and anxiety overcame good sense and, as usual, her tongue won. “Do you know anything yet to connect all the victims?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

He gave her a skeptical look and pushed the tray away. “Thank you, that was very good.”

She waited.

“No!” he said emphatically. “They all had their own business in the Acre, and so far I don’t know anyone who knew them all.”

“All had business?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. He had not told her that before. “Max kept a brothel. But what about the others?”

“Pinchin performed abortions—”

“For Max?” she interrupted eagerly.

“Not so far as I know, but it’s possible.”

“Then maybe some society woman—” She stopped. Apart from the fact that the idea was not a very good one, she had betrayed herself with her interest—and cut off any more information he might have given her. “I’m sorry.”

“Accepted.” His mouth curved in a slow smile. He closed his eyes and slid farther down in his chair.

Charlotte clung to her patience with almost infinite effort. She smoothed her face into a calm expression and counted up to a hundred before she spoke again. “What about Pomeroy? Don’t tell me he was teaching prostitutes how to keep their accounts?”

His smile widened in spite of himself, then suddenly vanished altogether. “No, he was a pederast ... poor rotten inadequate bastard!”

Another hundred seconds went by. “Oh,” she said at last.

“And Bertie Astley owned a whole row of tenement houses, sweatshops, and a gin mill,” he added. “Now you know it all, and there is nothing whatsoever you can do.”

She tried to imagine Pomeroy. What kind of man hungered for the immature bodies of children too young to want anything but safety, approval, and comfort? They would ask nothing of him, and display neither hunger nor criticism. Certainly, God knows, they would never laugh at him if he was clumsy or inadequate.

And what of them, dreading every night when some new man would fondle their bodies and become strangely more and more excited, culminating in a final desperate and violently intimate act they would neither understand nor participate in. She shivered in spite of the fire, hunching up as if she were threatened, feeling sick.

“Leave it,” Pitt said quietly from the chair opposite. His eyes were open now and he was looking at her. “Pomeroy’s dead. And you’ll not stop pederasty—”

“I know.”

“Then leave it.”

But Charlotte could not leave it. As soon as Pitt had gone the following morning, she instructed Gracie for the day, then put on her warmest cloak and walked to the public omnibus stop where she took the next bus going in the direction of Paragon Walk.

“Well?” Emily asked as soon as she arrived. “What have you learned?”

She told Emily about Pitt being stabbed. She had not seen her since it happened.

“That’s terrible! Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry! Is he all right? Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you. Oh—” It was an offer too good to decline. “Yes, if you have a bottle of good port.”

“Port?”

“Yes. It is an excellent restorative, especially in this weather.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer brandy?” Emily was feeling expansive, and she liked Pitt.

“No, thank you. Port will do very well. But you can make it two bottles, if you like.”

“Has he discovered anything? Was it the Devil’s Acre slasher? Did he recognize him?”

“He thinks it was just ordinary thieves. But he does know quite a lot now.” She recounted the reasons Pinchin and Pomeroy had had for being in the Acre.

Emily sat silent for several minutes. “Perhaps that explains why Adela Pomeroy looked for lovers in the fast set,” she said at last. “Poor woman. Although whatever her husband was, it hardly warrants indulging in a creature like Max!”

“Are you quite certain Adela Pomeroy looked for lovers in the fast set?” Charlotte asked, then instantly regretted it. She was afraid of the answer. “And even if she did, it doesn’t mean she had anything to do with Max!”

“No, I know that. But I’ve taken a lot of trouble lately to be sure just who is in that circle.”

“Emily! You haven’t—?”

“No, I haven’t!” Emily said icily. “Which brings me to another subject. Investigating is one thing, Charlotte, but your behavior with General Balantyne has been completely irresponsible. You criticize Christina Ross for flirting, quite rightly, but the only difference between you and her is that you have confined your attentions to one man! And that does not make it better. Indeed, for the damage you may do, it makes it a great deal worse.”

Charlotte felt the heat of shame burn inside her so painfully that she could not look at Emily’s face. She already knew how deeply she was at fault, but to have Emily tell her so made it the sharper. “It was unintentional,” she said defensively.

“Rubbish!” Emily snapped back. “You wanted some adventure, and you took it. You did not foresee the result because you did not bother to look!”

“Well, if you are so excessively clever, why didn’t you tell me?” Charlotte demanded, swallowing on the lump in her throat.

“Because I didn’t see it either,” Emily admitted. “How was I to know you’d behave like a complete fool? You never used to be able to flirt to save yourself!”

“I was not flirting!”

“Yes, you were!” Emily sighed and shut her eyes. “Maybe you are just too stupid to realize your own success, I grant you that. But I’m never going to take you out anywhere again. You’re a disaster.”

“Yes, you will, because you couldn’t bear to be left out of it if there were another society murder and Thomas got the case.”

Emily looked around at her.

“I know I behaved badly,” Charlotte went on. “It doesn’t help to have you tell me. I’d undo it if I could.”

“You can’t! We might as well put it to some use. What else do you know? I’ve been wondering if all the murders were committed by the same person. Or, even worse, if only one of them really mattered.”

“What do you mean—mattered? How can a murder not matter?”

“If only one mattered to the murderer,” Emily said deliberately. “What if Beau Astley wanted to kill his brother for the money? I believe there is quite a lot of it. If he killed Bertie ordinarily, he would be the first suspect himself. But if Bertie were only one of several deaths, all the others having no connection with Beau at all—”

“That’s ghastly!”

“Yes, I know. And I like Beau better each time I see him. But murderers, even lunatics, are not necessarily personally objectionable. And unfortunately plenty of totally worthy and sane people are.”

Charlotte had found this painfully true. “Bertie Astley owned a whole row of houses in the Acre. That’s where the Astley money comes from.”

“Oh.” Emily let out her breath in a sigh. “I suppose I should have thought of that.”

“I don’t see where it helps very much.”

“Who does Thomas think it was?”

“He won’t tell me.”

Emily considered in silence for a while.

“I wonder—” Charlotte began.

“What?”

“I’m not sure.” She was thinking of Christina. If Christina had also been one of Max’s women—young, hungry, dissatisfied because Alan Ross did not give her the fierce, total love she wanted, the essence of him was always just out of reach—had she looked to prove herself with other men, and so been drawn into one affair after another, in an endless pursuit?

And if Ross had found out—And why should he not? It would surely be simple enough, once he suspected.

“Don’t be stupid,” Emily said impatiently. “Of course you’re sure. You may not be right, but you know what you mean!”

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh, Charlotte!” Emily’s face softened. “You can’t hide from it—not once you’ve realized. Of course it could be Balantyne.”

“The general!” Charlotte was appalled. “Oh, no! No, it couldn’t!”

“Why not?” Emily said gently. “If Christina is one of Max’s women, he wouldn’t be able to bear the disgrace. He’s used to discipline and sacrifice. Soldiers who disgrace themselves find a gun and take the honorable way out. Somehow it evens the balance for them—they can be looked on with an obscure kind of respect. He would do that for Christina, wouldn’t he?”

“But Christina wasn’t shot! Why would he do that to all those other people? It doesn’t make any sense!” It was a protest in the wind, and she knew it.

“Of course it does.” Emily put out her hand and touched Charlotte. “He fought in Africa, didn’t he? He’s seen all kinds of savage rituals and atrocities. Perhaps it isn’t so terrible to him. Maybe Max came back to her, saw her at some party or out somewhere, and approached her—and she became one of his women. That would be reason to kill Max, and dismember him that way.”

“Why Bertie Astley?” It was a silly question. The answer was obvious—he had been her lover. Emily did not even bother to reply.

“All right—then why Pinchin?” Charlotte went on.

“He might have done an abortion on her, and perhaps she cannot have any children now.”

“And Pomeroy? What about him? He only liked children!”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he knew about it. Maybe he saw something.”

“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe General Balantyne would—that he could!”

“Of course you don’t. You don’t want to. But, my dear, sometimes people one cares for very much can do horrible things. Heaven knows, we even do them ourselves—ugly, stupid, and painful things. Perhaps this just grew from a small mistake till it became ...”

Charlotte took a long, deep breath and shook her head. She could feel the tears aching in her throat.

“I don’t believe it. It could have been Alan Ross. He had more reason, and he would be more likely to find out. Or it could just as easily be any other woman’s husband. We must find out more! When we do, it will prove it wasn’t the general or Alan Ross. Who else is in that fast set?”

“Lots of people. I’ve already told you a dozen or more.”

“Then we must find out who their husbands are, their fathers, brothers, their lovers, and then establish where they were on the nights of any of the murders.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to have Thomas do that?” Emily asked reasonably.

“I can’t tell him we are involved. He’s angry enough already with the little he knows. You don’t have to find out where they were on each of the nights—any one of them will do!”

“Oh, thank you very much! That makes it so much easier—a mere bagatelle! And what are you going to be doing in the meantime?”

“I’m going to see General Balantyne. I’ll prove it wasn’t him. Or Alan Ross.”

“ Charlotte—be careful!”

Charlotte gave her a withering look. “And what do you imagine they are going to do to me? The very worst they are likely to do is lie a little. They can hardly drum me out of society, since I am not in it. You get started on your own investigations. If you are nice to George, you can persuade him to do at least half of it for you. Good day.”

She arrived at the Balantyne house at the appropriate hour for calling, partly for the convenience of being allowed in but mostly because that was when she was most likely to find the general alone. Lady Augusta would be out making her own calls.

The footman opened the door and regarded her with expectation.

“Good afternoon,” she said firmly. For heaven’s sake, she must remember they knew her as Miss Ellison! She had nearly announced herself as Mrs. Pitt. That was a lie that would have to be explained, but it was too painful to contend with now.

“Good afternoon, Miss Ellison,” the footman said civilly. If he noticed her plain clothes or her wet boots, scuffed at the toes, he affected not to. “Her Ladyship is not at home, but the general is in, and Miss Christina.” He held the door wide in mute invitation.

Charlotte accepted with alacrity, hoping he attributed it to the withering wind and the hard-driving snow rather than an unbecoming eagerness to visit.

“Thank you,” she said with what she trusted was a compensating dignity. “I should be grateful to speak with the general, if I may.” She had already thought of her excuse. “It is with regard to the letters from the Peninsular War that he lent me.”

“Certainly, ma’am, if you care to come this way.” He closed the door against the ice-whirling dusk, and led her to the withdrawing room. It was empty, but a fire was burning hard. Presumably the general was in the library, and perhaps Christina was with him. That was a contingency Charlotte had not considered. She would much rather not speak in Christina’s presence. Christina would be far too quick to understand, and she was possessive of her father. She would end the whole visit as quickly as was decent, it would descend to a painful battle of wits. Charlotte would have to try to bore her away with whatever details of soldiering she could bring to mind!

The footman left her. Several minutes later, he returned and conducted her to the library. Thank heaven Christina had already gone, perhaps finding even the thought of Charlotte and her letters too tedious to bother with.

General Balantyne was standing with his back to the fire. He was tense, his eyes on the doorway, waiting for her.

The footman disappeared discreetly, leaving them alone.

“Charlotte—” He was unsure whether to step toward her or not. Suddenly he was awkward, his feelings so close to the surface that they were embarrassing, even frightening.

She had prepared some scrambled comment about the letters. Now they were not necessary; she had no excuse to prevaricate. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight.

“The footman said something about the letters.” He was trying to help her. “Have you discovered something?”

She avoided his eyes and looked at the fire.

Then he realized that she was cold and wet, and that he was taking all the heat. He moved away quickly, his face softening. “Come, warm yourself.”

She smiled. At any other time, such an act would have mattered. All her life she had been accustomed to having a man automatically assume the place nearest the fire.

“Thank you.” She walked over and felt the heat tingle pleasantly on her skin. In a moment it would penetrate through her wet skirt and boots to her numbed feet.

There was no point in putting it off any longer. “I didn’t come about the letters.” She stayed facing the flames, watching them, avoiding his eyes. He was close behind her, and at all costs she did not want to look at him. “I came about the murders in the Devil’s Acre.”

There was a moment’s silence. For an instant her anxiety had made her forget Pitt. Balantyne had assumed, because Emily had introduced her as Miss Ellison, that her marriage had failed—and she had never disillusioned him. Now she thought of it with a flood of shame. She turned.

He was still looking at her, the bright, desperate softness in his face unmistakable and wide open to every wound. And yet not to tell him now would be inexcusable. Every time she came here, she made it worse. There was nothing she could do to soften the injury. Everything—attempts at gentleness, shame, pity—would either humiliate or embarrass him.

She began quickly, before she had time to draw back. “I have no excuse to offer, except that I care very much about finding who killed those men in the Devil’s Acre, and the whole system of prostitution and—”

“So do I!” he said fervently, then realized the agony in her face. “Charlotte? What is it?” He stood still, but she felt as if he had come closer, so intense was his concentration, his awareness of her.

“I have been lying to you.” She used the harshest, most abrasive word. It was cowardly to look away. She also needed to hurt herself. She met his eyes. “Emily introduced me as Miss Ellison because she wished you to think of me as a private person. And I allowed her to, since Max used to work in this house and we thought we might learn something here.” Still she left out their suspicions of Christina.

Slowly the dawn of a new pain came over him, then a scalding embarrassment. He had pushed Pitt, the whole episode of her marriage, out of his mind. He had wished something—or dreamed something? Now it all shattered around him.

“I am still married to Thomas Pitt,” she whispered. “And I am happy.”

His face burned hot. He turned away from her for a moment, wanting to hide.

She had used him. Now she felt a bitter shame, and pain, because she cared for him. It mattered intensely to her what he thought of her. If he despised her for it, she would feel the mark as long as she could imagine.

“I’m very ashamed,” she said quietly. Should she pretend she did not know he loved her? Would that save his pride by allowing him to withdraw it as if it had not existed? Or would it only further insult him by devaluing what was the greatest gift he had to offer?

She tried to read his face, but all she could see was the softness in his eyes, hot confusion, blurred. The light of the lamp on the wall reflected on the bones of his cheek. She wanted to touch him, to put her arms around him—but that was ridiculous! He would be offended, perhaps even repelled. He would not understand that although she loved Pitt, she also felt for him something individual and profound. He might even take it for pity, and that would be the most dreadful of all.

“I lied by omission,” she went on, to break the silence. “I said nothing untrue!” It sounded like an attempt at excuse.

“Please don’t explain.” He found words at last, his voice a little husky. He breathed deeply in and out. “I care about the murders also—and the Devil’s Acre. I imagined you had not come about the letters. What did you come for?”

“But I do care about the letters!” Now she was sounding like a child, and the tears were spilling over. She sniffed and reached for her handkerchief. She blew her nose and looked away from him. “There is some very disturbing information. I—I thought you would wish to know immediately.”

“I—?” Already he understood that there was something else that would hurt him, something further. An instinctive sense of it made him move a little away from her, allowing her to sit down without seeming to rebuff him. It was a delicacy of emotion he had not known before. “What have you discovered?” he asked quickly.

“Max was keeping two houses.” She hesitated to use the word “whore.” It was too ugly, too close just now.

He did not seem to grasp the meaning of it. “Indeed?” The confusion showed in his voice. They were being formal, as if the past moment’s intimacy had not happened. It was easier for both of them.

She rushed on before there was time to think of emotions. “One was ordinary, like any in the Devil’s Acre. The other was for very high-class customers.” She smiled bitterly, although her face was toward the fire. “Carriage trade. He even provided women of good birth, very good indeed, on occasion.”

He was silent. She tried to imagine what was in his mind: incredulity, horror—knowledge? Pain.

She breathed out slowly. “Adela Pomeroy was one of them.”

Still he said nothing.

“Pomeroy was a pederast. I expect—” She stopped. She was trying to excuse the woman. Why? To excuse Christina also, for him? He did not deserve patronage. Again, almost overwhelmingly, she wanted to hold him tightly in her arms, to touch softly the unreachable wound—as if anything she could do would ease it! It was idiotic. She would only intrude on his embarrassment and hurt, preposterously overrating the affection he had felt for her, which was perhaps already destroyed by her duplicity—and by this much closer threat.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still facing the fire.

“What about the others?” he asked. She could not read his voice.

“Dr. Pinchin performed abortions on prostitutes, not always successfully. He took his payment in kind. Mrs. Pinchin was very grim and very respectable.”

“And Bertie Astley?” he persisted. He was being very objective, covering his feeling for her ... or Christina, or anyone, by seeking to understand the facts.

“He owned a row of houses in the Acre—tenements, sweatshops, a gin mill. Of course, Beau Astley might have killed him for the money. They bring in a lot.” She looked at him.

“Do you believe that?” He appeared perfectly calm, except that his facial muscles were tight and his left hand was clenched by his side. For an instant, she caught the brightness in his eyes before he looked away.

“No,” she said with an effort.

The door burst open and Christina came in, her face white, her eyes brilliant. She was wearing an outdoor cloak and carried a large, handsome reticule.

“Why, Miss Ellison, how delightful to see you again!” she said a little loudly. “I declare, you are the most studious person I have ever known. You will be able to deliver lectures upon the life of a soldier in the Peninsular War to learned societies. That is what you are discussing again, is it not?”

The prefabricated lie came to Charlotte’s lips instantly. “My knowledge is very slight, Mrs. Ross. But I have a relation who is most interested. I wished to show him the general’s letters, but before doing so, I came to request his permission.”

“How diligent of you to come in person.” Christina moved over to the desk and, her eyes still on Charlotte, opened one of the drawers. “A lesser woman would have resorted to the penny post! Especially on such a dreadful day. The streets are white with snow already, and it is growing heavier by the moment. You will become quite frozen going home!” Her face twisted a little. She took something from the drawer and put it into her reticule, closing the catch with a snap.

The general was too angry at the slight to Charlotte to bother to inquire what she had taken. “I shall send Miss Ellison home in the carriage, naturally,” he snapped. “No doubt you brought your own and will not need one of mine?”

“Of course, Papa! Did you imagine I came in a public omnibus?” She walked to the door and opened it. “Good day, Miss Ellison. I hope your—relation—enjoys the Peninsular War as much as you appear to do.” And she went out, closing the door behind her. A moment later they heard hooves on the pavement outside and the slam of a carriage door.

“It seems she has borrowed something of yours,” Charlotte remarked, more to break the silence than because it mattered at all.

Balantyne went to the desk and opened the drawer she had taken the object from. For a moment his face was puzzled. There were lines of pain in it, a new and delicate vulnerability to his mouth.

Christina had been one of Max’s women. Charlotte knew now that Balantyne either knew it or guessed it. What about Alan Ross?

Balantyne stood perfectly straight, his eyes wide, his skin drained of blood. “She’s taken my gun.”

For an instant Charlotte was paralyzed. Then she leaped to her feet. “We must go after her,” she commanded. “Find a hansom. She has only just left. There will be marks in the snow—we can follow her. Whatever she means to do, we may be in time to stop her—or—or if it is good, then to help her!”

He strode to the door and shouted for the footman. He snatched from the man’s hands Charlotte’s coat, ignoring his own. He grasped her arm and pushed her to the door. The next moment they were outside in the whirling snow, blinded by the dusk and the dim lamps, stung by the slithering snowflakes turning to ice.

Balantyne ran across the road onto the snow-covered grass under the trees. Christina’s carriage was still in sight on the far side of the square, slowing to turn the corner. There was a hansom moving from pool to pool of light along the west side.

“Cabbie!” Balantyne shouted, waving his arms. “Cabbie!”

Charlotte scrambled through shrubs and grass, soaked to her ankles, trying to keep up with him. Her face was wet and numb with cold, and though her gloves were locked in her reticule, her fingers were too frozen even to fish for them. All her efforts were concentrated on keeping up with him.

Sir Robert Carlton was already in the cab.

Balantyne pulled the door open. “Emergency!” he shouted above the wind. “Sorry, Robert! I need this!” And, relying on long friendship and a generous nature, he held out his hand and almost hauled Carlton out, then grabbed Charlotte by the waist and lifted her in. He then ordered the cabbie to follow down the far street where Christina’s carriage had disappeared. He thrust a handful of coins at the startled man, and was almost thrown to the floor as the driver was transformed into a Jehu at the flash of gold.

Charlotte sat herself up in the seat where she had landed and clung to the handhold. There was no time or purpose in trying to rearrange her skirts to any sense of decorum. The cab was hurtling around the corner from the square, and Balantyne had his head out the window, trying to see if Christina was still ahead of them, or if in the maelstrom of the storm they had lost her.

The horses’ hooves were curiously silent on the soft padding of snow. The carriage lurched from side to side as the wheels slid, caught again, and then swerved. At any other time Charlotte would have been terrified, but all she could think of now was Christina somewhere ahead of them, holding the general’s gun. Fear sickened her, excluding all thought of her own safety as her body was flung from side to side while the cab careened through the white wilderness. Was it Alan Ross she was going to kill? Was it he, after all, who had murdered first Max, and then the others—and at last Christina knew it? Was she going to shoot him? Or offer him suicide?

Balantyne brought his head in from the window. His skin was whipped raw from the wind, snow crusted his hair.

“They’re still ahead of us. God knows where she’s going!” His face was so cold that his mouth was stiff and his words blurred.

She was thrown against him as the cab wheeled around another corner. He caught her, held her for a moment, then eased her upright again.

“I don’t know where we are,” he went on. “I can’t see anything but snow and gas lamps now and again. I don’t recognize anything.”

“She’s not going home?” Charlotte asked. Then instantly wished she had not said it.

“No, we seem to have turned toward the river.” Had he also been thinking of Alan Ross?

They were lurching through a muted world with muffled hoofbeats and no hiss of wheels. There sounded only the crack of the whip and the cabbie’s shout. Vision was limited to the whirl of white flakes in the islands of the lamps, followed by raging, freezing darkness again till the next brief moon on its iron stand. They were slowed to a trot now, turning more often. Apparently they had not lost her, because the cabbie never asked for further instructions.

Where was she going? To warn Adela Pomeroy? Of what? Had she hired some lunatic to kill her husband?

Answers crowded into Charlotte’s head, and none of them could be right. She put off again and again the one she knew in her heart was the truth. Christina was going back to the Devil’s Acre! To one of the whorehouses ... and murder.

Beside her, Balantyne said nothing. Whatever nightmare was in his mind he struggled with it alone.

One more corner, another snow-blanketed street, a crossroad, and then at last they stopped. The cabbie’s head appeared.

“Your party’s gone in there!” He waved his arm and Balantyne forced open the door and jumped out, leaving Charlotte to fend for herself after him. “Over there.” The cabbie waved again. “Dalton sisters’ whorehouse. Don’t know what she’s doin’, if n yer ask me. If ’er ’us-band’s gorn in there, she’d best pretend she don’t know—not goin’ a-chasing after ’im like a madwoman! ’T’ain’t decent.’T’ain’t sense neither! Still—never could tell most women nothin’ fer their own good! ’Ere! Best leave the lady in the cab! Gawd! Yer can’t take ’er in there, guv!”

But Balantyne was not listening. He strode across the glimmering road and up the steps of the house where Christina’s footsteps still showed in the virgin snow.

“’Ere!” The cabbie tried once more. “Miss!”

But Charlotte was after him, running with her skirts trailing wet and heavy, catching Balantyne on the step. There was no one to bar their entrance. The door was on the latch and they threw it open together.

The scene inside was the same large hall, with its red plush furnishings, gay gaslights, and warm pinks, that Pitt had seen. It was too early in the evening; there were no customers here yet, no lush, soft-eyed maids. Only Victoria Dalton in her brown tea gown and her sister Mary in a dress of blue with a wide lace trim. And in front of them stood Christina with the gun in her hands.

“You’re madwomen!” Christina’s voice choked, her hands shook. But the barrel of the gun still pointed at Victoria’s bosom. “It wasn’t enough to kill Max, you had to mutilate him—then you killed all the others! Why? Why? Why did you kill the others? I never wanted that—I never told you to!”

Victoria’s face was curiously expressionless, ironed out like a child’s. Only her eyes showed emotion, blazing with hate. “If you’d been sold into prostitution when you were nine years old, you wouldn’t need to ask me that! You whore around for fun—you let animals like Max use your body. But if men had relieved themselves in you since you were a child on your mother’s lap—if you’d lain in your bed and heard through the cardboard walls your seven-year-old sister scream when they thrust into her with their great naked, obscene bodies—swollen, panting and sweating, their hands all over you—you’d take joy in stabbing them, too, and tearing off their—”

Christina’s hands tightened and the gun barrel came higher. Charlotte lunged forward, kicking. She was too far away to reach the gun, but she knocked Christina off her feet and the gun fell, unexploded, onto the floor.

There was a scream of rage, and Charlotte felt strong, clawlike hands tearing at her. The floor hit her hard on the thigh, skirts smothered her. She reached for anything to strike or to pull. Her hands found hair, twisted into it, and jerked. There was a scream of pain. Another body landed heavily on top of her, more skirts, boots in her thigh, kicking hard.

There was more shrieking and Christina’s voice swearing. Charlotte was pinned to the ground, half suffocated by mountains of fabric and the weight of bodies. Her hair was undone, streaming down her back, over her face. A hand grasped at it and pulled. Pain ripped through her head. She punched back, her fists closed. Where was the gun!

“Stop it!” Balantyne’s voice thundered above the din. No one took any notice.

Christina, on hands and knees on the floor, was screaming at Victoria Dalton, her face contorted with rage. Mary Dalton swung her hand back and slapped Christina as hard as she could, the ring of it singing in the air. Christina scrambled to her feet and aimed a kick. It caught Mary on the shoulder, and she fell over onto her back, moaning.

Victoria lunged for the gun, but Charlotte threw herself on top of her, jerking her head back hard by the hair. Charlotte’s skirt was torn to the waist, showing her underwear and a long stretch of white thigh. Shouting, though she was unaware of it, she looked frantically for the gun.

Suddenly it went off with a deafening roar. They all froze, as if each one of them had been hit.

“Stop it!” Balantyne commanded furiously. “Stand up! I’ll shoot the first one to disobey me!”

Very slowly they climbed to their feet—scratched, clothes ripped, hair wild. Charlotte tried to tie her skirt together to hide the expanse of her thigh.

“Oh, my God!” Balantyne was holding the gun, his face so pale the bones of his cheeks looked sharp, his jaw white.

Christina took a step forward. “Stand still!” His voice was like a knife cut.

Charlotte felt the tears well behind her eyes. She guessed the answers now, and there was nothing she could do: nothing for Balantyne, nothing for Victoria or Mary—nothing for Alan Ross.

“These women killed Max Burton?” He was talking to Christina as if the others were not there.

“Yes! They’re insane! They—” She stopped, gulping, horrified at his face.

He turned to Victoria Dalton. “Why now? Why did you wait so long?”

Victoria’s face was hard, glittering. “She paid me to,” she said levelly, crucifyingly honest. “First she fornicated with Max herself, and then she whored with other men for him... . Then, when he started to get greedy and blackmail her, she got frightened. She needed to be rid of him.” Her face twisted with pity—pity for Ross—and contempt for Christina. “She was afraid her husband would find out, poor sod! She only kept one lover: Beau Astley.”

Charlotte stared at Balantyne. His face was white with pain. But there was no struggle in him, no attempt to reject the truth. “And why Dr. Pinchin?” he asked, still holding the gun up.

“He deserved to die,” Victoria replied coldly. “He was a butcher!”

“And what did Bertie Astley do that you executed him?”

Victoria’s lip curled in scorn. “He owned all that street. He let it out a room at a time for rich men and their whores that wanted privacy. He was collecting rent. His family kept up their fine drawing rooms and their safe white ladies on the profits of our filth!”

“And his brother should have been grateful! He should have paid us—” Mary began, but Victoria swung around and slapped her hard across the face, leaving a red welt.

In that instant, Charlotte moved forward, reaching for the gun; her hands clasped over Balantyne’s and swung it around to aim at Victoria.

Victoria swept her arm over a side table. There was a brief gleam of light on blades, and scissors came down in Christina’s chest, blood billowing out. The gun fired into the ceiling.

Balantyne caught his daughter as she slowly sank to her knees and crumpled down into a little huddle. He held her in his arms.

Charlotte picked up a footstool and hit Victoria with it as hard as she could, knocking her over and leaving her stunned and motionless on the red carpet. Then she stood in the middle of the room, the stool still in her hands. Mary, seized with fear now that she was alone, turned and bent over Victoria, crying like a lost child.

Where was Pitt? It was all too much; the pain was too persistent and too hard. She was exhausted of anger, of anything but pity, and her body ached with bruises. Tears were running down her face, but she was too empty to sob.

Balantyne let Christina go gently onto the floor. Her eyes were closed; the lace front of her gown was scarlet with blood.

Charlotte reached out and touched her hand to Balantyne’s head, feeling the texture of his hair under her fingers. She stroked it for a moment, once, then again more softly. She turned away and saw a police constable standing in the doorway, and behind him the familiar, beautiful scarecrow figure of Pitt. Of course—the shots! Pitt must have left policemen outside; he had worked it out without her—this had been unnecessary.

He came in slowly, pushing past the constable who was fishing in his pockets for handcuffs for Mary and Victoria. He did not speak to Balantyne. There was nothing to say that would mean anything to his horror or his grief now—and Christina was beyond them all.

Gently he put his arms around Charlotte and held her. He touched her hands, her arms, pushed back her hair.

“You look ridiculous!” he said in sudden fury when he knew she was not injured, when he felt her bones were whole, her body strong. “Good God—you look terrible! Go home! And don’t you ever dare do this again! Not ever! You damn well do as you’re told! Do you hear me?”

She nodded, too overwhelmed with horror and pity, and a sense of her own safety in his love, to look for any words.