Death in the Devil's Acre

2

GRACIE CAME RUSHING INTO the parlor with the early editions of the afternoon newspapers. Her face was suffused with color, her eyes as round as gooseberries. “Oh, ma’am! There’s been an ’orrible murder—most terrible in London’s ’istory o’ crime, it says ’ere. Doin’s as’d make a strong man go white to ’is knees!”

“Indeed?” Charlotte did not stop her sewing. Newspapers always dealt in hyperbole—who stops in a January street to buy a paper that tells of the ordinary?

Gracie was horrified at her indifference. “No, ma’am—I really means it! It was dreadful! ’E was all ’acked to pieces, in a place as wot a lady wouldn’t even know of! Leastways not as she’d put words to and still call ’erself a lady. The papers is right, ma’am. There’s a terrible maniac loose in the Devil’s Acre—and maybe them preachers is right and the Last Days is come, and it’s Satan ’isself!” Gracie’s face went pale as the apparition formed in her mind.

“Nonsense!” Charlotte said sharply. She could see that if she was not careful she would have a case of hysterics on her hands. “Here, give me the papers, and go and get on with the vegetables or we shall have no dinner. If the master comes home out of this weather and there is nothing hot for him, he will be most displeased.”

It was an idle threat. Gracie held Pitt in immense respect; he was the master, after all. And beyond that he was a policeman and therefore represented the Law. And then there were the fascinating and dangerous things he must know! Shocking things! Worse than in the papers! But she was not in the least afraid of him. He was not the sort of person to put a servant out on the street for one neglected meal, and she knew it.

“It’s ’orrible, ma’am,” she repeated, wagging her head to prove she had been right from the beginning. “Do you want as I should use that cabbage tonight, or the turnips?”

“Both,” Charlotte replied absently, already absorbed in the newspapers herself.

Gracie accepted the dismissal and went back to the kitchen, turning the morning’s events over in her mind. It was a source of great satisfaction to her that she worked for a lady—a real lady—not one of your jumped-up social climbers as fancied theirselves better than they was, but one as was born into the Quality, and grew up in a house with real servants, a Staff, a butler as had a pantry of his own, and a separate cook and kitchenmaids and parlormaids and upstairs maids and the like—and footmen! None of Gracie’s sisters or friends had a mistress like that! Gracie enjoyed considerable distinction because of it, and was able to tell other girls what was what and how things should be done proper.

Of course Charlotte had come down in the world a bit since then; a policeman was not a gentleman—everyone knew that. But still there were times when it was very exciting! The tales she could tell—if she chose! But of course such things were far better hinted at than recounted in detail. She had her loyalties.

And, to tell the truth, she did not entirely approve of the way her mistress sometimes got herself involved in police goings-on. More than once she had actually had some face-to-face contact with people as had done murders. Looking for people like that, even if they turned out to be from the Quality, was no thing for a lady to do.

Gracie shook her head and tipped the turnips out into the sink and began to wash and peel them. Unless she was very mistaken in her judgment, her mistress was shaping up nicely to start meddling into something again. She had that restless look about her, fiddling with things and putting them down half done, writing letters to her sister Emily as was now Viscountess Ashworth. Married above herself, that one. Not that she wasn’t very nice, the few times that Gracie had seen her. More often Charlotte went to visit her at her grand house in Paragon Walk. And who could blame her for that?

Gracie drifted into a pleasant dream of what a Viscountess’s house might be like. No doubt she would have beautiful footmen, all tall and handsome, and wearing livery, too! A man did look good in livery, no matter what anyone said!

In the evening when Pitt came home, Charlotte was waiting for him. She had read the newspapers thoroughly because the appalling corpse had been discovered in Pitt’s area; she knew it was quite likely that the call he had received before dawn that morning had to do with the murder.

Of course the case was not one in which she would be able to give any help, unfortunately. She was ready for the challenge, even the danger of another investigation, but the man had been found in a location she knew nothing whatsoever about, except by repute. And Lambert Gardens, where apparently he had lived, was not part of her family’s social circle, so she could offer no assistance there either.

Still, perhaps if he was prepared to discuss it with her, she could at least use her wits. She had not been unskilled at divining motives in the past, and the nature of human beings had much in common whatever the circumstances.

She hurried to meet her husband as soon as she heard the front door close, even before Gracie could get there. She took his coat, hung it up to dry, and then turned immediately to kiss him. His face felt cold. She knew he must be tired; it was over twelve hours since he had left, without breakfast. Her senses told her to restrain her curiosity at least until he had finished supper. She led the way into the parlor and talked about nothing of consequence while Pitt thawed out in front of the fire until Gracie served the meal.

By nine o’clock she considered that tact had been paid more than its due. “The constable who came for you this morning,” she began. “Was that because of the corpse in the Devil’s Acre?”

A trace of bleak humor flickered across his face. When Charlotte tried being subtle with him, he usually saw through it, so she had abandoned the effort. Anyhow, she had not had time to prepare and approach the whole subject in a more devious fashion.

“Yes,” he said guardedly. “But Lambert Gardens, which is where he lived, is not your family’s social circle. There is nothing you can do to help.”

She was not tactically inept. “No, of course not,” she said. “But it is impossible not to be interested. The newspapers are full of it this evening.”

He pulled a face.

She changed her line of attack. “Do be careful, Thomas. It sounds as if there is some dreadful madman loose. I mean, it isn’t a sane sort of crime, is it? What do you suppose a man like Dr. Pinchin was doing in the Devil’s Acre anyway? Did he have a practice there? The newspapers said he was a very respectable man.” She was not entirely convinced; she had known plenty of “respectable” people herself. All the adjective really meant was that they were either clever enough or fortunate enough to have maintained an excellent façade. Behind it there might be anything at all.

Pitt smiled, his eyes uncomfortably clear. “Thank you, my dear, but you have no need to be anxious for me. I don’t expect to prowl the Acre alone. I shall be in no danger from madmen.”

She debated whether to be hurt and pretend he had misunderstood her, but decided rapidly that it would not work. “Of course not,” she said. “Perhaps I was being silly. I dare say Dr. Pinchin was not nearly as respectable as the newspapers suggested. After all, they would have to be very careful of what they said, and the poor man is only just dead.” She looked up, wide-eyed and totally candid. “Did he have a family?”

“Charlotte!”

“Yes, Thomas?”

He let out his breath in a sigh. “This is not a case you can involve yourself in. Dr. Pinchin was not the only victim—he was the second that we know of, and whatever is going on, it has its cause in the Devil’s Acre. The other body was found there, too. It is not a domestic crime, Charlotte. It does not involve the sort of motives you are good at.”

She ignored the compliment. “Another one? I didn’t know that! The newspapers didn’t say anything. Are you keeping it secret? Who was it?”

There was a momentary flash of irritation in his face. Charlotte was not sure whether it was directed at her or at circumstances.

Pitt waited several seconds before he answered, and when he did there was resignation in his voice. “Actually, it was someone you have already met.”

Shock tingled through her, not unmixed with a sense of excitement that she was ashamed of the instant after she felt it.

“I’ve met?” she repeated incredulously.

“Do you remember General Balantyne—in Callander Square?”

The excitement turned to horror so intense it almost made her sick. The room swam and she thought she was going to faint. To imagine the general, with his fierce, inarticulate pride, his loneliness, his veneration of duty—how could he have descended to the Devil’s Acre to die not in service or battle but exposed in such a horrible manner.

“Charlotte!”

Surely there must be some way it could be kept quiet? It was the last way on earth such a man deserved to die!

“Charlotte!” Pitt’s voice cut through her thoughts.

She looked up.

“It wasn’t Balantyne!” he said sharply. “It was his old footman, Max—do you remember Max?”

Of course! How could she have been so ridiculous? She took a deep gulp of air. “Max—yes, of course I remember Max. Perfectly odious. He always gave me the feeling that when he looked at me he could see through my clothes.”

Pitt’s face dropped in alarm, then changed to a wide-eyed amusement. “How graphic! I had no idea you were so perceptive.”

She felt herself coloring. She had not meant to let him know she understood that look so well, especially in the eyes of a footman. She ought not have!

“Well ...” She attempted an explanation, and gave it up.

He waited, but Charlotte refused to dig herself in any more deeply. “What was Max doing in the Devil’s Acre?” she asked. “I didn’t think people in that sort of area had footmen.”

“They don’t. He was keeping a brothel—in fact, more than one.”

She maintained her composure. Over the years Charlotte had had cause, one way or another, to learn quite a lot about poverty and the prostitution of both adults and children.

“Oh.” She remembered Max’s dark face, with its hooded eyelids and heavy, sensuous mouth. He had always given her an acute consciousness of physical power, of an appetite that was his servant as well as his master. “I should imagine he would do that sort of thing rather well.”

Pitt looked at her with surprise.

“I mean—” she started, then changed her mind. Why should she explain? She may not know as much as he did, but she was not a total innocent! “In that case, he must have had rather a lot of enemies,” she continued reasonably. “If he had several establishments, then he was doing very well—and I imagine in that sort of trade people are not very scrupulous about how they dispose of competition.”

“Not very,” he agreed with an expression that showed such a mixture of feelings she found it quite unreadable.

“Perhaps Dr. Pinchin kept a brothel as well,” she suggested. “Sometimes very respectable people own property in places like that, you know?”

“Yes, I do know,” he said dryly.

She caught his glance. “Of course you know. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing you can do in this case, Charlotte. It isn’t your world.”

“No, of course not,” she said obediently. At this point it would not be to her advantage to pursue the matter, because she could think of no argument to put forward. “I don’t really know anything about the Devil’s Acre.”

Nevertheless, the following morning as soon as Pitt was out of the house, Charlotte began making arrangements to be absent for most of the day. Gracie, who far preferred to look after children than blacken the stove, polish the passage floor, or scrub the doorstep, greeted Charlotte’s instructions with enthusiasm—and a tacit promise of silence. She knew a conspiracy when she met it, even if she did not entirely approve. A lady’s curiosity ought to be restricted to other people’s romances, who was wearing what, and how much it cost—and even then she should always keep her dignity. If a gentleman was murdered, that was one thing—but not a doctor who practiced in the Devil’s Acre and was obviously no better than he should be! Grade had heard about places like that—and people!

Charlotte had said she was going to see her sister Emily, but Gracie had her own ideas of what that was for! She knew perfectly well that Lady Ashworth was not above a good deal of meddling in shocking affairs herself.

“Yes, ma’am.” She bobbed a neat curtsy. “I ’ope as you’ll ’ave a nice day, ma’am. An’ come ’ome safe.”

“Of course I’ll come home safely!” Charlotte switched her skirt past a chair and accepted her coat from Gracie’s outstretched hands. “I’m only going to Paragon Walk.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure.”

Charlotte gave her a sidewise look, but apparently considered she had already said enough about discretion. Anything more might only make Grade’s suspicions worse.

“What shall I say to the master, ma’am?” Gracie asked.

“Nothing. I shall be home long before then. In fact, if Lady Ashworth has an engagement, I may even be home by luncheon.” And with that she swept out the door, down the front step, and went briskly toward the corner where the public omnibus stopped.

Paragon Walk was classically elegant in the winter sun. Charlotte walked smartly along the footpath and up the smooth carriageway to Emily’s front door. The footman opened it before she had reached up for the bellpull. Naturally, in a well-ordered house the pantry would look out onto the drive and guests would be anticipated.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he said courteously.

“Good morning, Albert,” she replied with satisfaction, accepting his tacit invitation and stepping inside. It was a very comfortable feeling to be recognized so easily. It gave her the temporary illusion of belonging to this world again.

“Lady Ashworth is writing letters,” he said almost conversationally as he walked ahead of her across the large hall. On its walls were the Ashworth family portraits stretching back to the days of ruffled collars and Elizabethan pantaloons, with gorgeous slashes of color. “But I am sure she will be pleased to see you.”

Charlotte, knowing how Emily disliked letter-writing, was also sure. And she would be even more pleased when she heard Charlotte’s extraordinary piece of news.

The footman opened the morning-room door. “Mrs. Pitt, m’lady,” he said.

Emily stood up, pushing her pen and papers away before Charlotte was even through the door. She was not quite as tall as Charlotte, and had fairer hair that turned to curls with a softness Charlotte had envied all her life. She came forward and hugged Charlotte impulsively, her face alight with pleasure.

“How delightful of you to come! I’m bored to pieces with letters. They are all to George’s cousins, and I can’t bear any of them. Really, you know, the young girls out this Season seem to be even sillier than last year. And heaven knows they were light-witted enough! I refuse to think what next year will be like! How are you?” She stood back and surveyed Charlotte critically. “You look far too healthy to be in the least fashionable. You should appear delicate, like a lily, not some great bursting rose! That is the thing these days. And don’t you know that it is vulgar to look so excited? Whatever has happened? If you don’t tell me, I shall—” A suitable chastisement eluded her; she went over to the comfortable chair in front of the fire and curled up in it.

Charlotte joined her on the sofa opposite, feeling warm, comfortable, and smug. “Do you remember the murders in Callander Square?” she began.

Emily sat up a little straighter, her eyes bright. “Don’t be idiotic! Whoever forgets a murder? Why? Has there been another?”

“Do you remember that dreadful footman, Max?”

“Vaguely. Why? Charlotte, for goodness’ sake stop being so obscure! What on earth are you talking about?”

“Did you read of the murder of Dr. Hubert Pinchin in the newspapers yesterday, or this morning?”

“No, of course not.” Emily was on the edge of her seat now, her back ramrod stiff. “You know George doesn’t give me anything but the society pages. Who is Hubert Pinchin, and what has it to do with that unpleasant footman? Really, you can be extremely irritating!”

Charlotte settled more deeply into the cushions and recounted everything she knew.

Emily clenched her hands, crushing the shell-pink silk of her dress. “Oh dear—how very disgusting! But I never liked that man,” she added frankly. “He left the Balantynes, didn’t he—before the end of that affair, anyway?”

“Yes. It seems he became very successful as a procurer of women.”

Emily winced. “Then perhaps it was rather suitable that he was found in a gutter. And by a prostitute. Do you suppose God has a sense of humor? Or would that be blasphemous?”

“He created man,” Charlotte answered. “He must at the very least have a pronounced sense of the absurd. The newspapers say that Dr. Pinchin was perfectly respectable.”

“Then what was he doing in the Devil’s Acre? Did he take charity cases or something of the sort?”

“I don’t know. I expect Thomas will find out.”

“Well, any man of quality who wanted to pick up a loose woman for the evening would go to a music hall, or the Haymarket. He wouldn’t go to some dangerous slum like the Devil’s Acre.”

Charlotte felt a little crushed. The mystery was fast dissolving in front of her. “Perhaps the women in the Haymarket were too expensive. If Max kept a brothel, there must be customers in the Devil’s Acre! If Dr. Pinchin was one of them—”

“Why kill him?” Emily interrupted with an irritating display of reason. “Nobody but an idiot kills his own customers.”

“Maybe his wife did.”

Emily raised her eyebrows. “In the Devil’s Acre?”

“Not personally, stupid! She may have hired someone. You would have to hate a person very much and in a particular sort of way to do that to him.”

Emily’s face lost its spark of amusement. “Of course you would. But, my dear, all sorts of men use loose women from time to time, and as long as they do it discreetly, a wife with any sense at all does not inquire into it. If a man does not offer explanations of where he has been, for the sake of one’s own happiness it is wiser not to press for them.”

Charlotte could think of no reply that was not either painful or naive. People must deal with their own truths as they were able.

Emily’s mind was on a different train. “Fancy that dreadful footman turning up again. He always made me uncomfortable. I wonder who provided the money for him to set up a brothel? I mean who owned the property and paid for an establishment? Perhaps it was Dr. Pinchin.”

But a far uglier thought forced itself into Charlotte’s mind, linked with memories of the Balantyne house, murder and fear in the past, and Max’s sudden, silent departure.

“Yes,” she agreed abruptly. “Yes, that may very well be so. I dare say Thomas will discover that.”

Emily gave her a narrow look, a flicker of suspicion, but she did not pursue it. “Will you stay for luncheon?”

As Charlotte was preparing for her visit with Emily, Pitt alighted from his cab and walked up to the front door of number 23 Lambert Gardens. It was a high house with a handsome frontage, though today, of course, the curtains were drawn and there was black crepe on the windows and a wreath on the door. The whole effect was one of a curious blindness.

There was no point in putting it off; he lifted his hand and knocked on the door. It was several minutes before an unhappy-looking footman opened it. Death in the house made him awkward; he had no idea how much grief he was expected to show, especially in these grotesque circumstances. Maybe he ought to pretend to ignore it. After all, what could he possibly say? The kitchenmaid had already given notice, and he was considering doing the same.

He did not recognize Pitt. “Mrs. Pinchin is not receiving callers,” he said hastily. “But if you care to leave your card, I am sure she will accept your condolences.”

“I am Thomas Pitt, from the police,” Pitt explained. “I do convey my sympathy to Mrs. Pinchin, of course, but I am afraid it is necessary that I also speak with her.”

The footman was painfully undecided about which of his duties was paramount: on the one hand, preserving the sanctity of mourning from such a crass invasion by a person of this sort, or, on the other hand, his undoubted allegiance to the majesty of the Law.

“Perhaps if you call the butler?” Pitt suggested tactfully. “And permit me not to wait upon the step while you do so. We do not wish to attract the attention and the gossip of the neighbors’ maids and bootboys.”

The footman’s face was almost comical with relief. It was the perfect solution. Gossip would be inevitable, but he had no intention of being blamed for adding to it.

“Oh—yes, sir—yes—I’ll do that. If you come this way, sir.” He led Pitt across the hall, which was filled with a faint odor as if none of the doors had been opened for days. The mirrors were black-draped like the windows. There was an arrangement of lilies in a pedestal vase; they looked artificial, though they were in fact real, and undoubtedly extremely expensive at this time of year.

The footman left Pitt in a room with a black-leaded grate and no fire. It was dark behind the drawn blinds, and it seemed as if the whole household were determined that even if the corpse of the master could not lie in his own home, they would order their domestic arrangements to imitate the chill of the grave.

It was only a few moments before Mr. Mullen, the butler, arrived, his thinning, sandy hair brushed neatly back and his face determined. “I am sorry, Mr. Pitt.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid it will be another half hour before Mrs. Pinchin is able to receive you. Perhaps you would like a dish of tea while you wait? It is a very inclement day.”

Pitt felt warmer already. He had respect for this man; he knew his job and seemed to perform it with more than ordinary skill.

“I would indeed, Mr. Mullen, thank you. And if your duties permit, perhaps a little of your time?”

“Certainly, sir.” Mullen pulled the bell rope and, when the footman answered, requested that a pot of tea be brought, with two cups. He would not have presumed to take refreshment with a gentleman caller, and a tradesman would have been sent through the green baize door to the kitchen. But he considered Pitt to be roughly his social equal, which Pitt realized was something of a compliment. A butler was in many senses the real master of a household, and might rule a staff of a dozen or more lesser servants. He might also have greater intelligence than the owner, and certainly inspire more awe from his fellows.

“Have you been with Dr. Pinchin long, Mr. Mullen?” Pitt began conversationally.

“Eleven years, Mr. Pitt,” Mullen replied. “Before that I was with Lord and Lady Fullerton, in Tavistock Square.”

Pitt was curious about why he had left an apparently superior employment, but was unsure how to ask him without giving offense. Such a question, as well as being against his regard for the man, would be professionally foolish at this point.

Mullen supplied the answer of his own accord. Perhaps he wished to clear himself from suspicion of incompetence. “They took the habit of going to Devon every winter.” A shadow of distaste crossed his face. “I did not care for the travel, and I have no wish to remain idle in an empty town house with a caretaking staff for several months of each year.”

“Indeed,” Pitt agreed with some sympathy. An estate in the home counties would be an entirely different thing, with hunt balls, shooting parties, and guests for Christmas, no doubt. But a retreat to the silence of Devon would be a form of exile. “And I should imagine Dr. Pinchin was not an uninteresting employer?” he said, trying to probe a little deeper.

Mullen smiled politely. He was far too honorable to repeat the vast and intimate knowledge he had acquired of the Pinchin household. Butlers who betrayed that trust were, in his opinion, contemptible and a disgrace to their entire profession.

He misunderstood deliberately, and both of them knew it. “Yes, sir, although not a great deal of his practice was conducted from this house. He has offices in Highgate. But we have had some distinguished gentlemen here to dine, from time to time.”

“Oh?”

Mullen repeated the names of several surgeons and physicians of eminence. Pitt made a mental note of their names, to call upon later for whatever they might add to his picture of Hubert Pinchin, although he knew from past experience that all professionals seem to defend their colleagues, even to the point of ridiculousness. However, there was always the hope of stumbling upon some personal or professional jealousy that might loosen a tongue.

He learned from Mullen a little more about Pinchin’s habits, particularly that he quite frequently returned home very late in the evening. It was not unknown that he should be out all night. No explanation was offered other than the discreet supposition that illness does not confine itself to convenient hours.

A few moments later, the lady’s maid knocked on the door. Her mistress was ready to speak to Mr. Pitt, if he would care to come to the breakfast room.

Valeria Pinchin was a woman of Wagnerian stature, broad-bosomed, blue-eyed, with a sweep of fading hair above her wide forehead. She was dressed in unrelieved black, as became a new widow in the deepest mourning, not only for the untimely death of her husband but the appalling notoriety of its nature. Her face was pale, and set in grim and defensive determination. She looked at Pitt warily.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he began with suitable reverence for the occasion and some genuine pity. “May I offer my sympathy in your bereavement?”

“Thank you,” she replied, with a very slight sniff and a lift of her powerful chin. “You may sit down, Mr.—er, Pitt.”

He took the chair opposite her across the table. She sipped at tea without offering him any. After all, he was an extremely distasteful necessity, part of the trappings of the sordid disaster that had overtaken her—like the ratcatcher, or the drainman. There was no need to treat him as a social equal.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he began again, “but I am obliged to ask you a number of questions.”

“I can be of no help to you whatsoever.” She stared at him, bridling at even the suggestion. “You cannot imagine I know anything of such an unspeakable—” She stopped, unable to find a word extreme enough.

“Of course not.” She was not a woman Pitt found it easy to like. He had to force to his mind some of the other shocked people he had spoken with, their various ways of protecting their wounds.

Mrs. Pinchin was slightly mollified, but still her eyes glittered at him and her black-beaded bosom rose and fell with indignation.

“You can help me to learn a great deal more about your husband,” he said, trying again. “And therefore whoever might have believed him an enemy.” He wanted to be as courteous as possible, but ultimately the facts must be pursued to their logical end. Hubert Pinchin had been murdered. Someone had believed he had reason; a simple robber does not emasculate his victims.

She started to say something, then changed her mind and took another sip of tea.

Pitt waited.

“My husband was ...” She was obviously finding it difficult to express her thoughts without betraying a part of her life that was far too private—and too painful—to be acknowledged, let alone paraded before this—policeman! “He was an eccentric man, Mr. Pitt,” she said. “He chose to practice medicine among some very peculiar people. I hesitate to say ‘unworthy.’” She sniffed. “I do not wish to be hard upon the unfortunate, but he could have had an outstanding career, you know. My father”—her chin jutted forward—“Dr. Albert Walker-Smith. No doubt you have heard of him?”

Pitt had not, but he lied. “A very famous man, ma’am,” he agreed.

Her face softened a little and Pitt feared for a moment that he would be called on to make some relevant comment. He had not the faintest idea who Albert Walker-Smith had been, except that obviously he was the man Mrs. Pinchin wished her husband could have lived up to.

“You said Dr. Pinchin was eccentric, ma’am,” Pitt said. “Was that true in any way other than not pursuing his career to its best advantage?”

She crumpled a napkin in her large hands. “I am not sure what you mean, Mr. Pitt. He had no unfortunate habits—if that is what you imply!” All the half-guessed-at aberrations of masculinity, practices her woman’s ignorance conjured from the darkness of imagination, hovered behind her words.

Pitt looked at her hopelessly. She was so armored in dignity and so conscious of the formalities of grief that he knew he would accomplish nothing with these predictable questions. Her mind was running in channels as entrenched as those of an old river falling to a long-predestined sea.

“Did he like Stilton cheese?” he asked instead.

Her thin eyebrows rose and her voice was hard. “I beg your pardon?”

He repeated the question.

“Yes, he did, but I find that offensively trivial, Mr. Pitt. Some insane creature has attacked and murdered my husband in the most”—tears filled her eyes and she swallowed—“the most unspeakable manner, and you sit here in his house and ask if he cared for cheese!”

“It is not irrelevant, ma’am,” Pitt replied with an effort at patience. She could not help herself: Social values and dignity were her only defense against such enormous fears. “There were crumbs of Stilton cheese on his clothes.”

“Oh.” She apologized stiffly. “I beg your pardon. I suppose you know your trade. Yes, my husband was very fond of the table. He always ate well.”

“Did I understand you earlier to say that he did a certain amount of charity work?”

“He did a great deal of unprofitable work!” she replied with a sudden welling-up of resentment. “He wasted most of his time on people who were—yes—unworthy of him. If you are looking for rivals in his profession, Mr. Pitt, you are wasting your time. My husband had great abilities, but he did not ever realize them as he should have.” Her voice held years of disappointment, of opportunities glimpsed and lost.

“Nevertheless he was well respected, I believe.” Pitt was torn between his instinctive dislike of her and a sense of pity for her frustration. She had been tied to a man who had failed her and there had been no escape for her. Her dreams had been within his reach, and he had refused to pluck them.

She sighed. “Oh, yes, in a certain fashion. He was very entertaining, you know. People liked him.” Her voice lifted a trifle in surprise; it was a fact that she did not understand, and perhaps did not consciously share. Her own disappointment was too deep to find his peccadilloes amusing. “And occasionally he would make a brilliant diagnosis. That was his specialty, you know—diagnosis.”

Pitt reverted to the obvious. “Can you think of anything at all, ma’am, that might help us—anyone who might have borne a grudge? An old patient, perhaps—someone who could not accept the death of a relative and blamed the doctor? Was there anything unusual in Dr. Pinchin’s behavior lately, or any new acquaintance who was out of the ordinary?”

“My husband did not bring his less reputable friends to this house, Mr. Pitt.” Her mouth tightened. “There were certain persons he entertained elsewhere, as I am sure you will understand. And I noticed nothing odd in his behavior—it was just as usual.” A look of unhappiness crossed her face, a mixture of disapproval of the dead man’s habits and a sudden loneliness that he was gone. With all his failings and irritating ways, she had still grown used to him; he had been there for thirty years of her life. Now there was nothing,

For a moment Pitt felt unclouded pity for her, but he knew the gulf between them was too wide to bridge. His understanding would not ease her pain at all; on the contrary, to her it would be presumptuous.

He stood up. “Thank you, ma’am, for your help. I hope I shall not have to disturb you again. I am sure Mr. Mullen can see to everything else I need to know.”

“Good day, Mr. Pitt.” She regarded him bleakly until he had reached the door. She then lifted the pot and poured herself another cup of tea, dabbing her napkin first to her mouth, then up to catch the tears running down her cheeks.

Pitt went out and closed the door with a faint click.

Mullen was waiting for him in the hallway. “Is there anything else, sir?”

Pitt sighed. “Yes, please. I would like you to show me the household accounts, and your cellar. I presume you have approved all the staff before they were hired, and checked their references?”

Mullen stiffened and his expression became chilly. “Most certainly I have. May I ask what you expect to find, Mr. Pitt? They are entirely in order, I assure you. And the staff are all above question in honesty and morals or they would not remain here! And as for any one of them being out at night, that is impossible.”

Pitt was sorry to have offended him. Actually, he had no suspicions of any of the servants. What he was looking for was evidence of Pinchin’s standard of living, to judge his expenditures. Normally a man of his class would not go to the Acre, even for cheap entertainment. Was he a good deal less well-off than he appeared, or more well-off than his medical practice would account for? Was he spending money in brothels or gambling houses? Or was he earning it? He would not be the first outwardly respectable man to have a source of income in slum property.

“It is merely routine, Mr. Mullen,” he said with a smile. “Just as you check references, even though you believe them.”

Mullen relaxed a little. He respected professional thoroughness. “Quite so, Mr. Pitt. I am familiar with police procedure. If you will come this way ...”

After his visit to the Pinchin household, Pitt spent the afternoon checking the Highgate medical practice and talking with shocked and extremely reticent colleagues. By the time he got home, at five past seven, he was tired, cold, and only a little wiser. If Pinchin owned property in the Devil’s Acre, he had hidden all record of it—or any other business transactions outside those of his Highgate practice. His standard of living, however, did suggest he was enjoying an income rather larger than his medical abilities would account for. Inherited money? Savings? Gifts? Even a little juggling of the books? Or perhaps blackmail of patients with indiscretions that required medical help: social diseases, an unwanted child—the possibilities were legion.

Gracie met Pitt at the door and took his coat through to the scullery to dry out. “’Orrible wet night, sir,” she said, shaking the big coat like a blanket and nearly overbalancing with it. She scurried ahead of him, muttering to herself about the hours he was obliged to keep in all weathers. Not once did she meet his eyes. She was sorry for him, for some reason, and her rigid little back was full of disapproval.

It did not take him long to put two and two together when Charlotte was also sweetly attentive, and full of conversation. “Have you been out?” he asked Charlotte.

“Only for a short while,” she said quite casually. “I was home before it began to rain. It was really not unpleasant.”

“And no doubt you came back in the carriage,” he added.

She looked up quickly, a faint color in her cheeks. “Carriage?”

“Didn’t you go to see Emily?”

There was reluctant admiration in her face. “How did you know?”

“Grade’s back.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Grade’s back. It is rigid with disapproval. Since I have only just come home, it cannot be anything I have done. It must be you. I imagine it was a visit to Emily to recount to her everything you know about the murders in the Devil’s Acre—especially since one of them concerns the footman of a previous acquaintance. Now tell me, am I mistaken?”

“I—”

He waited.

“Of course we discussed it!” Her eyes were bright, the blood warm in her cheeks. “But that is all—I swear! Anyway, what more could we do? We can hardly go to such a place. But we did wonder what on earth Dr. Pinchin was doing there. There are much better places for picking up loose women, if that is what he wanted, you know?”

“Yes, I do know, thank you.”

Her eyes met his in a flash, then slid away into a professed candor again. “Have you thought that perhaps he put up the money for Max, Thomas? You know, some unlikely-seeming people go into partnership with—”

“Yes, thank you,” he replied with a smile bubbling up inside him. “I thought of that, too.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed.

He took her hand and pulled her toward him. “Charlotte,” he said gently.

“What?”

“Mind your own business!”