Death in the Devil's Acre

4

LADY AUGUSTA BALANTYNE was not looking forward to the morning. She had decided that she could no longer put off visiting her daughter Christina to discuss her behavior in the frankest terms. Christina and Alan Ross would be at the family dinner party this evening, but what Augusta had to say required uninterrupted privacy. As in the past when dealing with Christina’s indiscretions, Augusta intended to keep the entire matter from General Balantyne’s knowledge. He might be an excellent military tactician when he had cannon and horses to dispose, but when the battle concerned emotions and the possibility of scandal, he was a babe in arms.

Over breakfast she maintained a civilized conversation about the usual trivialities. General Balantyne, of course, did not mention the murders in the Devil’s Acre that filled the newspapers, in case he should distress her—not realizing that she had read them for herself. And she was perfectly happy to leave him in his ignorance, if it pleased him.

At ten o’clock Lady Augusta called the carriage and gave the coachman instructions to take her to her daughter’s house. She was received with some surprise.

“Good morning, Mama!”

“Good morning, Christina.” She walked in, for once not bothering to notice if the flowers were fresh or if there were new ornaments—not even if Christina’s gown was the very latest. She had already made her comments on extravagance; from now on it was Alan Ross’s affair. Today something infinitely more serious filled her mind.

Christina still looked surprised. “I have only just finished breakfast. Would you care for a dish of tea, Mama?”

“No, thank you. I do not wish to be interrupted by servants coming and going, or the inconvenience of fiddling about with cups.”

Christina opened her mouth to say something, then decided against it. She sat down on the sofa and picked up a piece of embroidery. “I hope you have not been obliged to cancel this evening’s dinner?”

“I have footmen to send on errands like that,” Augusta said dryly. “I wish to talk to you privately, and the opportunity will not present itself tonight.” She looked at her daughter’s charming profile, her soft chin and wide, tilted eyes. How could anyone have such a passionate will and at the same time so little sense of survival? Augusta had tried all her life to impart to her her own understanding of the possible and the impossible, and she had failed. This was going to be unpleasant, but it was unavoidable.

“Will you please put that down—I wish for your attention! A situation has arisen which means that I can no longer allow you to continue with your present behavior.”

Christina’s blue eyes widened in surprise at the questioning of her conduct. She was a married woman and accountable to her husband, but certainly not to her mother!

“My behavior, Mama?”

“Don’t treat me as if I were foolish, Christina. I am perfectly aware that you have been amusing yourself in some most unsavory places. I can understand boredom—”

“Can you?” Christina said scathingly. “Have you really the faintest idea what it is like to be so bored you feel as if your whole life is sliding away and you might as well be asleep for all you do with it?”

“Of course I have. Do you imagine you are the only woman to find her husband tedious and her usual acquaintances infinitely predictable, till she could recite every word of their conversation before they begin?”

“But, Papa—” A shadow darkened Christina’s face. Was it pain or merely irritation? “At least he must have been exciting when he was young, when he was in the army, fighting?”

“My dear girl, how many times do you think I wish to hear the exact detail of the disposition of the guns at Balaclava—or anywhere else? He considered it disloyal to talk about other officers’ faults or ambitions, and vulgar to discuss their love affairs in front of women. Good God! There were times when he bored me till if I had not been a lady I would have screamed at him and slapped his face out of sheer desire to jolt him out of his damned satisfaction! But it would have served no purpose at all. He would not have understood. He would merely have thought I was having hysterics, and ordered me rest and a soothing tisane. So I learned to adjust my expression to look interested and to occupy my mind with something else. A little self-discipline would improve you a great deal, and would provide a rather better understanding of what is really important to you to keep. Alan spoils you—”

“Spoils me? He provides everything I need and then treats me like a social entity, someone to be polite to!” Christina’s face flushed with temper. “He is so pious he is insufferable! He should have married a nun! Sometimes I wonder if he has any passion in him at all—real passion!”

Augusta felt a stab of pity and dismissed it. This was not the time. “Do not confuse passion with mere excitement,” she said coolly. “Excitement is like playing cards for matchsticks—win, lose, or draw, you have nothing left at the end but a pile of splinters.”

Christina’s face set, her chin hard. “Don’t patronize me! I shall do as I choose.”

Augusta changed her approach. “Do you read the newspapers?”

“What of it? If Alan doesn’t mind, it is none of your concern.”

“Then you cannot be unaware that there have been two particularly unpleasant murders in the Devil’s Acre,” Augusta continued.

The color faded from Christina’s cheeks. Max Burton had been footman in the house before she had married Alan Ross. It hurt Augusta to have to recall anything of that painful affair, but Christina’s present foolishness, and now her stubbornness in denying it, left her no alternative. “One of the victims used to be employed as a servant in our house.”

“I know,” Christina said quietly. She took a shaky breath. “It is extremely unpleasant.”

“The police are investigating both crimes.”

“Naturally. Although I cannot see what good it will do. Every so often, people like that are bound to get murdered. I don’t suppose there is the slightest chance they will ever discover who did it, and why hardly matters. I really cannot believe they care—they have to go through the motions because it is expected of them.”

“Doubtless. But that is not the point. It is Inspector Pitt who will try—do you remember Pitt?”

Christina winced.

“There are houses in that quarter,” Augusta continued, “where wealthy women occasionally find themselves some diversion. I dare say it offers them a certain thrill to enter into a world of filth and danger. Perhaps their own looks the sweeter after it?”

Christina’s eyes were hard and angry, her skin tight across the cheekbones. “I have no idea!”

Augusta sighed. “Don’t pretend to be stupid, Christina. And, above all, do not pretend that I am! Alan may prefer to affect ignorance of a great deal that you do—indeed, he appears to be remarkably patient. But he cannot ignore scandal—no one can. The Devil’s Acre will come under very close scrutiny. These crimes have shocked people—and, since Pinchin was relatively respectable, frightened them as well. If you cannot control your taste for slumming, you must do it elsewhere. Although you would be very wise not to do it at all. London is much smaller than you think—you cannot be anonymous for long. Your lady friends will not frequent these gambling houses or music halls, but their husbands might well. What is a dangerous adventure for you is merely a lark for them—”

“Hypocrites!” Christina spat out.

“My dear girl, stop behaving like a child. You are too old for it. Naïveté excusable at twenty is boring at twenty-five, and at thirty it becomes ridiculous. You stand in danger of losing your reputation. Take a great deal of thought as to what that means!”

“On the contrary, I am very popular and considered most entertaining!”

“So are buffoons and whores! Do you wish to be one of them?”

Christina’s face was very white. “I’m sorry you imagine I go to cheap music halls, Mama. I have never entered one in my life, so I cannot say what they offer. But if I wished to gamble, there are plenty of perfectly respectable houses where I could do so. And I do not need to find myself a lover—I have more offers than I can entertain!”

Augusta was unimpressed. She had seen Christina’s wounded dignity before. “Do you indeed? Are you telling me you have not been to the Devil’s Acre?”

“I had no intention of discussing it with you at all!”

The matter was too urgent for Augusta to lose her temper. She did not wish to tell Christina that she had learned through an old servant’s loyalty of her trips to the slums under the shadows of Westminster. It would jeopardize the servant’s post—but, more practical than that, it would remove her own source of information, and with Christina so rash there was only Augusta to protect her.

“No doubt,” she said tartly. “Which is why it is just as well I am aware of it for myself. You were seen. You must stop immediately.”

Christina was frightened now. Augusta had known her too long to be deceived by the arrogant stance, the squared shoulders under the thick satin. Good heavens—she was still so much of a child, as feckless as a summer day. So little thought of consequences. She saw what she wanted and reached for it. Where on earth had she come by such abandon? It was certainly not her father! He had never done anything emotionally prodigal in his life—would to God he had! And Augusta had always had enough strength of will at least to be discreet. She knew the line between pleasure and duty and would walk it with an acrobat’s balance. Why was Christina such a fool?

“Really—you try my patience!” she said furiously. “Sometimes you don’t seem to have retained the wits you were born with!”

“If you’ve never had an affair worth a damn, then I’m sorry for you!” Christina was shouting now, pouring all her frustration, her hunger, and her pride into a burning contempt for what she considered a lesser woman. “I went to the Acre to a house owned by a friend of mine. And yes, I did go there to meet a lover. But you won’t tell Alan that because you want to ruin my marriage even less than I do! Alan Ross was your choice for me—”

“He was the best offer you had, my girl, and you were as happy to take it as I—at the time,” Augusta reminded her. “Who is this lover?”

“At least be glad I am conducting it in a very private room, and not at someone else’s house party, creeping in and out of bedrooms,” Christina snapped. “Who he is is none of your business. But he is a gentleman—if that is your concern.”

“Then your taste is improving!” Augusta said cruelly, and rose to her feet. “But from now on you will restrict it to your own home. Remember, Christina, Society does not forgive women, and it does not forget. A great deal of flirtation may be overlooked—even affairs if they are conducted discreetly enough. But slumming in the Devil’s Acre halls will not. It is a betrayal of one’s own class.” She moved to the door and opened it. There was no servant in the hall. “Be careful, my dear. You cannot afford another mistake.”

“I have not made one!” Christina replied through her teeth. “I thank you for your concern, but it was unnecessary.”

Augusta had chosen to make dinner a very formal affair. The servants were in full livery and all the best crystal was out. There were three Georgian silver candelabra and arrangements of flowers on the table that must have come from a dozen glasshouses. General Balantyne chose not even to imagine what they had cost.

Augusta herself wore black and white, favorites of hers, complementing her dark hair with its streaks of silver and her still perfect white shoulders. General Balantyne was obliged to acknowledge with a little jolt of surprise that she looked magnificent. He could still see in her the beauty and dignity that had delighted him as a young man. Of course it had been a very suitable marriage. He was of excellent family, with a long and spotless reputation. But all its titles were military ones, and there was not a great deal of money. Augusta’s father, however, had been an earl; her title was her own for life, regardless of whom she married—unless, of course, she gained a better one! And there was not a little wealth in her dowry, and, later, in her inheritance.

All the same, her person and her qualities had enabled him to ask for her hand with considerable enthusiasm, and she had seemed happy to accept. The surprise was that her father had also been agreeable.

That brought the general’s mind to his own daughter Christina, and to her marriage to Alan Ross. Of course that had been different. Christina was nothing like her mother, though as far as he could judge, she was even less like him. She had not Augusta’s regal beauty, but she was dazzlingly pretty. And she had always had charm, allied with a considerable wit—a wit too often exercised at the expense of someone else, for his pleasure. But that was what made Society laugh. A harmless wit was for them a contradiction in terms.

He was not sure whether she had ever really loved Alan Ross or, indeed, if she was ready yet to love anyone. But she had certainly been determined to marry him, and that was something Augusta had refused to discuss. It all belonged to the shock and the weeks of fear and distress during the murders here in Callander Square three years ago.

The suspicion still filled him with unhappiness. He liked Alan Ross; he was an unusually quiet man. One moment the fine aquiline nose made him look strong, even arrogant. Then that peculiarly vulnerable mouth shattered the impression, leaving one with a sense only of the passions that might lie unreachable beneath. Balantyne had never quite known what Ross felt about Christina.

On the other hand, he had come to know his son a great deal better. Brandy had Augusta’s dark good looks, but he was gentler. He had a well of laughter within him—one might even go so far as to say an appreciation of the absurd—and Balantyne envied it. There was random joy in such a quality he would dearly have loved to possess.

And Brandy had certainly shown a courage no one had expected when he had insisted on marrying Reggie Southeron’s governess, Jemima! She was a charming girl, well mannered, and apparently more than adequately educated, though she was barely more than a superior servant till the marriage.

But they were obviously happy, and they had named their daughter after Balantyne’s mother—a gesture he found remarkably pleasing. Yes, Brandy had made a good choice.

The dinner was served in seven courses, and naturally took a great deal of time. Augusta presided at the far end of the table, although Balantyne himself was nominally at the head. On the side nearest the windows, with their moss-green velvet curtains drawn to exclude the night and its driving sleet, Alan Ross sat with the candlelight gleaming on his fair hair. As usual, he spoke little. Jemima sat next to him. She was wearing pale green and white, the design of the fabric suggesting it would be like flowers to touch. She reminded Balantyne far more of spring or the gentle days of early summer than this icy January. Jemima always did; she made him think of daisies, and saplings bending in the wind. She was talking to Augusta, and on the far side Brandy was watching her, smiling.

Beside him Christina sat, immaculately dressed in a deep shade of gold, her dark hair gleaming. Balantyne could see why men found her beautiful, although her nose was a little small, her eyebrows winged instead of arched, and her lips too rounded for classical taste. But there was something individual about her, an impression of daring. She had a touch of Brandy’s humor, but without his tolerance or his sense of the absurd.

The course was cleared away and the next one served.

“Do you remember that fellow Pitt?” Brandy asked, looking up from his plate. They were eating a whitefish curled and baked, covered with sauce and flaked almonds. Balantyne did not like it.

“No,” Augusta said coldly. “The only Pitt I know of was the First Minister of England who introduced income tax during the Napoleonic Wars.”

Alan Ross hid a smile and Jemima bent her head. But the arch of her neck suggested to Balantyne that she was smiling also.

“The policeman who always looked as if he’d just come in out of a gale,” Brandy went on, oblivious of the chill. “Three years ago.” Even he avoided mentioning the events of death so close to them then.

“Why on earth should I remember such a person?” Augusta inquired critically.

Brandy seemed impervious to the ice in her voice—or to the warning. “He was rather memorable—”

“For goodness’ sake!” Christina interrupted. “He was a policeman! That is like saying one ought to remember other people’s servants!”

Brandy ignored her also. “He’s in charge of this maniac case in the Devil’s Acre,” he continued. “Did you know that?”

Augusta’s face froze, but before she could speak Christina turned on her brother, her voice unusually brittle. “I think it is most coarse of you to bring up such a subject at table, Brandy. Indeed I cannot see the need to discuss it anywhere at all! And I would be obliged if while we are eating you could talk of something pleasant. For instance, did you know that Lady Summerville’s eldest daughter is betrothed to Sir Frederick Byers?”

Augusta relaxed, the tension in her shoulders easing under the stretched silk of her gown. But she did not yet resume eating, as if she might be required at any moment to rescue the situation.

“I know Freddie Byers doesn’t know it!” Brandy replied dryly. “At least he didn’t on Tuesday.”

Christina laughed, but without the usual full-throated delight.

“Oh, how marvelous! I wonder if we are to have a scandal? I can’t bear Rose Summerville anyway. Did I tell you that story of when she was presented to the Princess of Wales, and what happened to her feathers?”

Balantyne could not think what on earth she meant. “Feathers?” he repeated with disbelief.

“Oh, Papa!” Christina waved her small hand, delicate, ringed with two beautiful diamonds. “When one is presented at Court, one has to wear the Prince of Wales’ feathers as a headdress. It is really dreadfully difficult to keep them standing up, especially if you have wispy hair like Rose.” She proceeded to tell the disaster so trenchantly that even though Balantyne found the whole social presentation of débutantes farcical, and more than a little cruel, he was obliged to smile.

He looked once at Jemima, who of course had never been anywhere near the Court. But her eyes were bright with laughter, even if her mouth showed some indecision on just how much pity she felt for the hapless girls herded like competing livestock one after another, dressed in hundreds of guineas’ worth of gowns for their entrance into “Society.” Honor demanded they find a suitable husband before the Season’s end.

The dishes were cleared away and the next course served: chicken in aspic. The color and texture of it reminded Balantyne of dead skin, and in a flash of memory the present footman’s face was replaced by Max’s as he bent forward to offer the silver dishes.

Suddenly he did not wish to eat. There was no more food on the table than usual, but it seemed too much. He thought of the cold body on the mortuary slab. That was meat, too: gray-white flesh, like fowl, all the red blood settled to the back and buttocks. And yet even robbed, emasculated, Max had not seemed anonymous in death, as most men he had seen. That heavy face was too similar to his memory of the man in life.

Augusta was staring at him. He could not possibly explain to her what was in his mind. Better force himself to eat, even if it stuck in his throat. He would be able to wash it down with the Chablis, and the physical discomfort was easier than the continuing constrictions of trying to explain.

“I rather liked Miss Ellison, too,” Brandy said, out of nowhere. “She was one of the most individual women I have ever met.”

“Miss Ellison?” Augusta looked nonplussed. “I don’t think I know any Ellisons. When was she presented?”

“Never, I should think.” Brandy smiled broadly. “She was the young woman who helped Papa put his papers in order when he began writing his military history of the family.”

“For goodness’ sake, why ever should we talk about her!” Christina shot him a contemptuous glance. “She was the most ordinary creature. The only possible thing remarkable about her was a good head of hair. And even parlormaids can have good hair!”

“My dear girl, parlormaids have to have good hair,” Brandy answered scornfully. “And all the other physical attributes as well. Any house with pretensions to quality chooses its parlormaids for their looks. But you know that as well as I do.”

“Are we really to be reduced to discussing the appearance of parlormaids?” Augusta’s nostrils flared as if at some faintly unpleasant odor.

Balantyne was compelled to defend Charlotte—or was it his memory of her? A thing that mattered to him needed safeguarding. “Miss Ellison was hardly a parlormaid,” he said quickly. “In fact, she was not a servant at all—”

“She certainly was not a lady!” Christina snapped back a shade too rapidly. “I can tell the difference, even if Brandy cannot! Really, sometimes I think anything the least bit handsome in a skirt, and some men lose whatever judgment they once had!”

“Christina!” Augusta’s voice was like ice cracking and her face was whiter than Balantyne could remember ever having seen it before. Was she so angry for him because his daughter had insulted him at his own table? Or was it for Jemima, who had once been so little more than a servant? Oddly, he would rather believe it was for Jemima.

He turned to stare at his daughter. “One of the qualities of a lady, Christina,” he said quietly, “is that she has good manners and does not, even accidentally, cause offense to others by her clumsiness.”

Christina sat perfectly still, her eyes glittering, her cheeks bloodless, fist clenched over her napkin.

“On the contrary, Papa, it is servants—and social climbers—who do not give offense, because they know they cannot afford to.”

There was a ruffle of embarrassment round the table. It was Alan Ross who spoke, laying his fork down beside his plate. He had good hands—strong, without excess of flesh.

“Servants do not give offense because they dare not, my dear,” he said quietly to his wife. “A lady would not wish to. That is the difference. It is people who are obliged to no one, but have not the mastery of themselves, nor sufficient sensitivity to understand the feelings of others, who offend.”

“You have everything worked out so neatly, don’t you, Alan!” She said it as though it were a challenge, even an insult, implying he had curtailed thought with some preconceived answer.

Balantyne felt a cold wave of unhappiness, and pushed his plate away from him. Alan Ross was dignified; he had a sense of decency. He did not deserve this ill-behavior from his wife. Mere beauty was not nearly enough. One hungered for gentleness in a woman, no matter how splendid her wit or her face, or even her body. Christina had better learn that before it was too late and she forfeited Alan’s affection beyond retrieval. He must have Augusta speak to her about it. Someone should warn her—

Brandy jarred him back to an even uglier subject. “It was Max Burton, who used to be our footman, who was killed in the Devil’s Acre, wasn’t it?” He looked at them in turn.

His remark had the presumably desired effect of stopping the previous conversation utterly. Augusta’s hands hung paralyzed over her plate. Christina dropped her knife. Alan Ross sat motionless.

A petal fell from one of the flowers onto the tablecloth, whiter, purer than the starched linen.

Christina swallowed. “Really, Brandy, how on earth would we know? And, for that matter, why should we care? Max left here years ago, and it’s all completely disgusting!”

“The Devil’s Acre and its occupants are not of the least concern to us,” Augusta agreed huskily. “And I refuse to have them or their obscenities discussed at my table.”

“I disagree, Mama.” Brandy was not impressed. “As long as everybody refuses to talk about them—”

“I imagine half the city is talking of little else,” Augusta cut him off. “There are plenty of people whose nature wallows in such things. I do not intend to be among them—and neither will you while you are in my house, Brandon!”

“I’m not thinking of the details.” Brandy leaned forward, his face earnest. “I’m talking about the general social conditions in our slums. Apparently, Max was a pimp. He procured women for prostitution—”

“Brandon!”

He ignored the interruption. “Do you know how many prostitutes there are in London, Mama?”

Balantyne looked across at Augusta’s face and thought he would not forget her expression as long as he lived.

Her eyebrows rose and her eyes widened. “Am I to assume, Brandon, that you do?” she inquired in a voice that could have chipped stone.

The color came up Brandy’s cheeks slightly, but his face set in the same defiance that echoed as far back as nursery days over such trivialities as rice pudding and talcing naps. He swallowed. “Eighty-five thousand.” To have added “approximately” would have diminished the impact. “And some of them are no more than ten or eleven years old!”

“Nonsense!” she snapped.

For the first time, Alan Ross joined in. “I am sorry, Mama-in-law, but that is true. Several people of some reputation and quality have been espousing the cause of these people lately, and there has been much investigation.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Christina laughed, but it was a high sound, without happiness. “Mama is perfectly correct. How could a person of any quality whatsoever take up such a cause? That’s preposterous. It really is not worth discussing. We are descending to absurdity, and it is most unpleasant.”

Balantyne wondered at Christina’s agreeing so readily with her mother; it was not like her. He was surprised to hear his own voice. “Eighty-five thousand unfortunates in London!” He had unconsciously used the current euphemism for prostitution. It made the whole dark, amorphous misery seem less terrible; it allowed one to think that people were moved by compassion.

“Unfortunates!” Brandy’s eyes were narrow with scorn. He ripped Balantyne’s thought apart exactly as if he had read it from his mind. “Don’t make it sound as if we had some kind of pity for them, Papa. We don’t even want to know about them! We’ve just said they are not suitable conversation for our table. We prefer to pretend they don’t exist, or that they are all doing it quite happily and sinfully, because they want to—”

“Don’t talk rubbish, Brandy!” Christina snapped. “You know nothing about it. And Mama is perfectly correct. It is most disagreeable, and I think you are ill-mannered to force it upon us. We have already made it as plain as we can that we don’t care to learn of such coarse subjects! Jemima.” She stared across the table. “I’m sure you don’t wish to hear about prostitutes over your dinner, do you?”

Balantyne leaned forward, wanting to defend Jemima. She was peculiarly vulnerable. She was in love with Brandy—and she had married wildly above herself.

But Jemima smiled back at Christina, her gray eyes clear and level. “I should find it extremely uncomfortable at any time,” she answered. “But then, when I can regard other women’s distress, either physical or moral, without feeling uncomfortable about it, then I am in need of a very sharp reminder of my responsibilities as a human being.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Brandy’s face broke into a dazzling smile and his hand moved for a moment as if he would reach across the table and touch her.

“How very pious,” Christina said with delicate contempt. “You sound as if you were still in the schoolroom. You really must learn not to be so unimaginative, my dear. It’s such a bore! And, above everything else in the world, Society hates a bore!”

The color drained out of Brandy’s face. “But it usually forgives a hypocrite, darling.” He turned on his sister. “So you will remain a success, as long as you are careful not to become too obvious—which you are doing at the moment. A clumsy hypocrite is worse than a bore—it is insulting!”

“You know nothing about Society.” Christina’s voice was brittle, her face hot. “I was trying to be helpful. After all, Jemima is my sister-in-law. No one wishes to sound like a governess, even if one thinks like one! Good heavens, Brandy—we have all had more than enough of the schoolroom!”

“Of course we have.” Augusta came to life again at last. “No one wishes to be instructed about social ills, Brandy. Take a seat in Parliament if you are interested in such things. Christina is right. But it is not poor Jemima who is a bore—she is merely being loyal to you, as a wife should be. It is you who are being extremely tedious. Now please either entertain us with something pleasant or else hold your tongue and allow someone else to do so.”

She turned to Alan Ross, ignoring Balantyne at the end of the table. He was still unhappy, and sought the words to convey his sense that the subject could not so easily be dismissed. Its comfort or discomfort was irrelevant; it was its truth that mattered.

“Alan,” Augusta said with a slight smile. “Christina tells me you have been to see the exhibition at the Royal Academy? Do tell us what was interesting? Did Sir John Millais show a picture this season?”

There was no alternative but to answer. Ross gave in gracefully, offering her a light and delicately humorous description of the paintings at the Academy.

Balantyne thought again how much he liked the man.

After the dessert had been cleared away, Augusta rose and the ladies excused themselves to the withdrawing room, leaving the gentlemen free to smoke, if they chose, and to drink the port that the footman Stride brought in in a Waterford crystal decanter, with a silver neck and an exquisite fluted stopper. He left it on the table and retired discreetly.

Without knowing why he said it—the subject had been a ghost on the edge of his mind for days—Balantyne returned to Max and the Devil’s Acre. “It was our old footman who was murdered.” He filled his glass and picked it up, turning it, looking at the light on the ruby-reflecting facets. “Pitt came here. He asked me to go and identify the body.”

Ross’s face was blank. He was a very private man; it was not often easy to know what he thought or felt. Balantyne remembered Helena Doran, whom Ross had loved before Christina, and the painful idea occurred to him that possibly he had never entirely stopped loving her. It hurt him for both of them—for Ross himself and for Christina. Perhaps that was why she was so—so fragile at times, and so unkind. Jemima’s happiness must be like caustic in the wound.

And yet the happiness of how many marriages is based on anything else than a certain sharing of time, of experience that welds a couple together simply because it is something held in common? The fortunate marriages mellow into a kind of friendship. Had Christina even tried to win Alan Ross’s love? She had all the wit and beauty it could have needed; the gentleness, the generosity of spirit were her duty to acquire, and then to show him. Again the thought intruded that he must have Augusta speak to her.

Brandy was staring at him. “Pitt came here? Didn’t they know who he was?”

Balantyne brought his mind back to Max. “Apparently not. He was using several names, but Pitt recognized his face, or thought he did.”

They sat in silence. Perhaps in some obscure way they had half imagined it was not really the same man. Now it was different. It was undeniably a person they had known, had lived with and seen every day, even if as a servant he was merely a part of the household appurtenances, not an individual like themselves.

“Poor devil,” Brandy said at last.

“Do you think they’ll ever find who did it?” Ross asked, turning to look at Balantyne. His expression was very intense. “If he was trading in women, one has a certain understanding for whoever killed him. It has to be as low as a man can sink, this side of insanity.”

“The trade in children is the lowest,” Brandy said quietly. “Especially in boys.”

Ross winced. “Oh, God!” he breathed out. “I hadn’t even thought of that. How criminally ignorant we are! I cannot imagine what brings a human being to do such things. And yet there must be thousands who do, here in my own city. And I may pass them in the street every day of my life.”

“In boys,” Balantyne repeated, not entirely as a question. After thirty years in the army, he could not help being aware of the appetites and aberrations of men far from home, under pressure of war. Presumably such hungers were latent before loneliness and the absence of women brought them to the point of physical indulgence. But he had not thought of anyone earning a living by selling the bodies of children for such acts. It was beyond his capacity to comprehend the mind of such a person.

“Did Max deal in boys?” he asked.

“Women, I think,” Brandy replied. “At least that’s what the newspapers said. But perhaps they would have avoided mentioning it if he had used boys. People don’t want to know about the trade in children. Adult women we can blame, say they are immoral, and anything that happens to them is beyond society’s responsibility. Prostitution is as old as mankind, and will probably last as long. We can wink at that—even well-bred women affect not to know. That way they are not required to react. Ignorance is a most effective shield.”

Balantyne suddenly thought how little he really knew Brandy. There was anger in him, and bitterness he had never recognized before. Years had slipped by, and because Balantyne himself felt that he had barely changed, he assumed that Brandy had not changed either. The difference between forty-five and fifty was nothing; the difference from twenty-three to twenty-eight could be all the world.

He looked at his son, at the line of his brow and nose, utterly different from Alan Ross: very dark, smooth straight lines, and that stubborn, emotional mouth. One imagines vaguely that one’s son will be like oneself. But had Brandy ever been much like him? Thinking about it now—perhaps not?

“Are we as shallow as that?” he said aloud.

“Defensive,” Brandy answered. “Self-preserving.”

Alan Ross ran his hand over his hair. “Most of us avoid looking at the unbearable,” he said so quietly they could only just hear him. “Especially when there is nothing we can do about it. You can’t blame a woman who doesn’t choose to know that her husband uses a prostitute—particularly if that prostitute is a child. To accept that the child is also a boy would force her to leave him. We all know that divorce ruins a woman. Even to quite moderate society she ceases to exist. She would be an object of intolerable pity, not to mention the obscene imaginations and suggestions of the less charitable. No.” He shook his head in a fierce little gesture. “Her only option is to connive at his secrecy, and never in any circumstances allow herself to kill the last precious doubt. There is nothing else she can afford to do.”

For once, Brandy was silenced.

Balantyne stared at the flames of a candelabra. He tried to imagine what it might be like, trapped in such a relationship, suspecting and yet knowing you dare not acknowledge such a truth. In fact, for your own survival, and perhaps the survival of your children, you must be the most ardent accomplice in hiding it. It had never occurred to him that Augusta was anything but a virtuous and satisfied wife. Was that insufferably complacent of him—blindly, stupidly insensitive? Or was it simply a measure of his trust in her, even perhaps a kind of happiness? He had never used a prostitute in his life, even in his early army days. There had been the occasional lapse, of course, before he was married—but for mutual pleasure, never for money. But after that he had not ever questioned his moral duty to abstinence when either he or Augusta were away from home or indisposed. Augusta was not a passionate woman; perhaps decency precluded it? And he had long ago disciplined himself to master his own body and its demands upon him; such control was part of the mind of a soldier. Exhaustion, pain, and loneliness must be governed.

Alan Ross sat back. “I’m sorry,” he said, running his hand over his hair again. “It was not a suitable subject to discuss. I have spoiled your dinner.”

“No.” Balantyne swallowed and dragged his thoughts back. “What you said is true,” he corrected quickly. “The situation is hideous. But you cannot blame people for not acknowledging what can only destroy them. God knows—a man who procures prostitutes is barely fit to live. But murder cannot be the answer. And this mutilation is barbaric.”

“Have you ever been to the Devil’s Acre, Papa?” Brandy spoke without fire now, his face somber. “Or any of our other slums?”

Balantyne knew what he was thinking. In the fight for survival in grinding, hopeless poverty, what else could people be but barbaric? Memories of army camps came back to him, of the Crimea, of Scutari, of sudden and violent death—of what men do in towns during the weeks and the nights waiting for battle. Any day their bodies could be mangled, faceless under the sun of Africa or frozen in the Himalayan snows. If he did not really know Brandy, neither did Brandy know him.

“I’ve been thirty years in the army, Brandy,” he replied. “I know what can happen to people. Is that an answer?”

“No.” Brandy drank the last of his port. “Only I don’t find it acceptable to avoid the question anymore.”

Balantyne stood up. “We had better rejoin the ladies in the withdrawing room before they realize we have been discussing this subject again.”

Alan Ross rose also. “I know a member of Parliament I’d like to see. Do you wish to come, Brandy? We might be of assistance to him. I hear he has some sort of bill to put before the House.”

“What about?” Brandy followed them.

“Child prostitution, of course,” Ross replied, opening the door. “But don’t mention it in front of Christina, if you don’t mind. I think the subject is one that distresses her.”

Balantyne was pleased. He had thought from her remarks that she merely considered the matter in ill taste rather than painful. This was entirely different. He was ashamed for having misjudged her. But there was nothing he could say; to apologize would only betray the thought.

Just before midnight, when the others had gone, Balantyne followed Augusta slowly up the stairs. “You know, I like Alan Ross better each time I see him. Christina is very fortunate,” he remarked.

She turned and looked at him coldly. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Precisely what I said—that with the best intention, one may still find that a person is not what one had hoped. Alan Ross is even more than we might have presumed on our early acquaintance.”

“Not on mine,” she answered firmly. “Do you imagine I would have permitted my daughter to marry a man of whose worth I was not sure?”

He was surprisingly stung, and spoke the truth without thinking. “It is difficult to know how much choice we had in the matter with Christina.”

Augusta’s eyes were as unfamiliar as those of some stranger he had accidentally jostled in the street. The sense of comfort he had felt at the dinner table among the wineglasses vanished like an illusion.

“I have every choice,” she said cuttingly. “I see to it that I do. Do you imagine that I am incompetent?”

That was one thought that had never crossed his mind since the day he had first met her, at her coming-out ball. She had been formidably composed even then. Her lack of nervousness, the fact that she neither flirted nor giggled, was among the things that had attracted him. The memory was of too long ago. He tried to recapture the feeling he had had then—the excitement, the sense of anticipation—and it eluded him. Vaguely it hurt. The qualities that had delighted him then were now frightening, like a closed door.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” He was wounded into a defense of himself, affecting the arrogance that had once sat on him so easily. “I am as well acquainted with Christina as you are.” A lie of majestic proportions. “She is excessively strong-willed. And even you, my dear Augusta, are capable of the occasional error.”

She was tired; her face hardened, finally shutting him out. She turned and continued her way up the stairs. Her back was straight, but she climbed with an effort.

“Naturally,” she said. “And so are you, Brandon. I wish you would refrain from discussing at the table such disagreeable subjects as slums and their various unfortunates—especially when we have guests. It is ill-mannered and can only lead to embarrassment. I would have expected you to see that for yourself! A social conscience is a worthy thing, but there are appropriate times and places for exercising it. In view of the fact that that wretched footman once served in this house, I would be obliged if you would refrain from mentioning him again. I do not wish the entire staff sent into hysterics, or the next thing we know, half of them will be giving notice—and it is hard enough to keep good servants these days as it is!” She reached the landing and turned for her bedroom. “Good night, Brandon.”

There was nothing else for him to do but reply, and to go on along to his own room. He closed the door and stood still. The room felt unfamiliar, though every furnishing, every book and memento had been his for years.

Balantyne was met the following morning in the hall by Stride, his face white, hands knotted in front of him instead of by his sides as usual. There were no members of the female staff to be seen. For an instant, it flashed across Balantyne’s mind that Augusta was right. All the maids had given notice and fled in the night, afraid that they were employed under the same roof as some creature like Max, and that they might be spirited off to a life of whoredom at any moment.

Stride was waiting, his eyes bleak.

“What is it?” Balantyne demanded. “What has happened?”

“The newspapers, sir—”

Was that all! Balantyne was furious with relief. “God damn it, man, so they’re late! If they haven’t come in an hour, send someone out for them!” He turned to brush past him and go in to breakfast.

Stride stood firm. “No, sir. I fear I have not made myself clear. The newspapers are here—it is what they contain, sir. There has been another murder in the Devil’s Acre, sir, this one far worse.”

Balantyne could not conceive of anything worse than the mutilation of Hubert Pinchin. His mind fumbled in horror, and failed.

“He was not so badly—” Stride hesitated and swallowed. “So injured, sir.”

Balantyne was confused, and relieved. “Not so badly? I thought you said worse?”

Stride’s voice dropped. “It was Sir Bertram Astley, sir. He was found outside a house of pleasure, for male persons only.”

“For male—? Good God! You mean a homosexual brothel?”

Stride winced; he was not accustomed to such vulgar frankness. “Yes, sir.”

“Bertie Astley ...” Balantyne felt a little sick. Suddenly the smell of kedgeree drifting from the silver serving dish on the breakfast-room sideboard was nauseating.

“Would you like brandy in the library, sir?” Stride offered.

“Yes, please.” Bless the man. Balantyne had never appreciated him fully before. “Yes, I would.” He started gratefully toward the library.

“What would you like me to tell Her Ladyship, sir?”

Balantyne stopped. He would like to have protected her from knowing at all. It was ugly; she should not have to learn about such things.

“Tell her there has been another murder.” Reality would be forced upon her anyway; he could not shield her from that. But better she become acquainted with it by the decent words of someone like Stride, rather than the anonymous sensationalism of the newspaper or someone’s unthinking tattle. “You had better tell her it was Sir Bertram Astley, but do not say where he was found.”

“Quite so, sir. Unfortunately, Sir Bertram’s death will become common knowledge quite soon,” Stride said.

“Yes.” Balantyne could think of nothing more to say. “Yes. Thank you, Stride.” He went into the library and found the brandy already there, on a salver beside the newspaper. He poured himself a stiff tot and then sat down to read.

The corpse of Sir Bertram Astley had been found on the doorstep of a house of dubious repute in the Devil’s Acre. How idiotically they phrased it! The cause of death was a deep stab wound in the back, but he had also been slashed across the groin and the pit of the stomach. They did not mention the more private organs, but the implication was obvious, inexplicably the more grotesque for its omission. Apparently the murderer had intended to mutilate him as he had the previous victims, but had been frightened away before he could do more than vent his insane hatred in a single violent sweep of the knife. Inspector Thomas Pitt was in charge of this case, as he was of the two others.

Balantyne put down the paper and finished the brandy in a single, burning gulp.