Death in the Devil's Acre

5

PITT HAD BEEN CALLED for in the pre-dawn darkness by a white-faced sergeant in a hansom cab. The man fumbled with his hat and clung to it with numb fingers as he tried to convey the urgency of his message without articulating the horror he had seen.-

Pitt understood. There had been another murder. Only a very grave discovery would bring the sergeant to his door at such an hour.

“It’s mortal cold outside, sir,” the sergeant offered, intending to be helpful.

“Thank you.” Pitt put on his jacket and then a voluminous coat that made him look as if a stiff wind might fill him out like a sail. He accepted a muffler from the sergeant’s outstretched hand, wound it around his neck, jammed on his hat, squashing his hair over his ears, and opened the front door. It was, as the sergeant had said, mortal cold.

They sat together in the hansom while it jolted over the uneven cobbles toward the Devil’s Acre.

“Well?” Pitt asked.

The sergeant shook his head. “Bad one,” he said sadly. “Sir Bertram Astley. Cut about—but not—well, not actually in pieces, as you might say.”

“Not mutilated like the others?”

“No—rather looked like our maniac was interrupted. Bit o’ late business, maybe.” He shook his head again. “I dunno!”

Pitt was confused. “Bit of late business—what do you mean?”

“Some’d say as that’s the worst part, sir. I dunno ’oo’s goin’ to tell ’is family! ’E was found in the doorway of a brothel—for male persons only.”

“Oh, God!” Pitt suddenly knew why the sergeant felt so awkward, why it was all so difficult to put into words. How do you tell people like the Astleys that the scion of their house has been murdered and indecently wounded in the doorway of a male brothel? Now he understood the reason for the pity in the sergeant’s face, the unnecessary warning that it was cold outside.

But before all that he must see the corpse, and the place where they had found him.

“Sorry, sir.” The sergeant put on his hat and banged it with the flat of his hand.

“Who discovered him, and when?” Pitt asked.

“Constable Dabb, sir. I left ’im there in charge to see that nothin’ was moved. Bright lad. Saw ’im—Sir Bertram, that is—about quarter past four, or a few moments after. ’Eard Big Ben, ’e did. Body was lyin’ in the doorway. So Constable Dabb goes over to look at wot ’e’s doin’ there, like. Then o’ course ’e sees as ’e’s dead. We gets a fair few dead uns in the Acre and all around there, so ’e don’t take all that much notice, not like to send for me, till ’is coat falls open and poor Dabb sees wot’s bin done to ’is—wot’s bin done to ‘im. Then, o’ course, ’e sends for us—’otfoot! And we sends for you.”

“How did you know who he was?” How long could a dead man lie in the Devil’s Acre and not be robbed of everything but his clothes?

The sergeant understood. “No money, o’ course, but still got ’is cards and a few letters and the like. Anyway, don’t know what the doc’ll say yet, but ’e won’t ’ave bin there that long, not more’n an hour. Trade comin’ and goin’ ’d ’ave fallen over ’im otherwise. Course they finish on the early side. Daylight, an’ they all want to be w’ere they ain’t ashamed to be seen. Back at their own tables, most like, to lead family prayers!” The contempt in his voice was as thick and pungent as tar, although Pitt was not sure whether it was for their use of the place itself or for their hypocrisy in hiding it. Another time, perhaps, he would ask.

The hansom jarred to a stop and they both climbed down. They were on the southern edge of the Acre, hard by the river, its damp breath swirling up over the rime of ice hardening on the pavement since the rain had stopped. Above and beyond them in the clogging darkness loomed the Gothic towers of the Houses of Parliament.

A young constable with a lantern was standing guard over a body crumpled in a doorway, all of it but the face covered by a heavy overcoat. Decency had prompted the constable to hide the face with his own cape, and he stood shivering beside it. A strange reverence, Pitt thought, that makes us take off our own clothing and stand chilled to the bone in order to clothe the dead already touched with the final coldness of the grave.

“Mornin’, sir,” the constable said respectfully. “Mornin’, Mr. Pitt.”

Such is fame.

“Good morning, Constable Dabb,” he said, returning the compliment. It was a mean street, smelling of dirt and refuse. There were other derelicts asleep in the doorways opposite. Glanced at in the gray light, they did not look significantly different from the corpse of Bertram Astley. “How did you know he was dead?” he asked, wondering what had made the constable stop and examine this particular body.

Constable Dabb straightened a little. “West side of the street, sir,” he replied.

“West side?”

“Wind’s from the east, sir. And bin rainin’, too. Nobody, even a drunk, is goin’ to sleep in the wet when there’s shelter twenty feet away on the other side.”

Pitt gave him a smile of appreciation, then picked up the cape and handed it back to him. He bent over the corpse. Bertram Astley had been a handsome man: regular features, good nose, fair hair and side whiskers, and very slightly darker mustache. His eyes were closed, and it was impossible to guess what vitality he might have possessed in life.

Pitt looked down and opened the coat where Constable Dabb’s sense of decency had compelled him to close it over the wound. This one was peremptory, a single slash, not deep. There was not a great deal of blood. He lifted the shoulders enough to see the back. The coat was cut and there was a long, dark stain a little to the left of the spine. This was the death wound, the same as the others. He let the body ease back to its position.

“Have you sent for the surgeon?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” Of course he had; his professional pride would not permit him to forget such a primary task.

Pitt looked around the street. There was nothing else unusual. It was narrow, lined with houses that sagged as timbers rotted and plaster grew mold and bulged, crumbling away. Drains overflowed. Would anyone have noticed a man carrying a corpse, or two people righting? He doubted it. If there had been a witness entering or leaving the brothel, would they ever be found—or speak if they were? Hardly. Homosexuality was a crime carrying a long penalty of imprisonment, and social ruin for life. Of course to practice it discreetly was common enough, but to force people to admit they were aware of it was utterly different.

“See what else you can do here,” he instructed. “Do you have the address of the family?”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant handed it to him on a slip torn from his notebook.

Pitt sighed. “Then I’d better go and tell them before the newspapers have time to print a late extra. No one should learn of this sort of thing from a paper.”

“No, sir. I’m afraid there was reporters ’ere over an hour ago. I don’t know ’ow they ’eard—”

It was not worth discussing. There were eyes and ears everywhere!—people accustomed to death, and keen for a sixpence to let some newshound be the first to run to Fleet Street with material for glaring headlines.

Pitt climbed back into the hansom and gave the driver the address of the Astleys’ London house.

There was faint light in the sky when he stepped out and dismissed the cab. He had no idea how long he would be.

The street was almost deserted. A kitchenmaid carried out rubbish; a bootboy slammed a back door. Only the servants’ quarters were alive. He climbed the steps to the front door and knocked. A footman, looking sur- prised, answered. Pitt did not give him time to make judgments.

“Good morning,” he said firmly. “I am from the police. I am afraid I have very serious news to deliver. Will you please conduct me to a suitable place, and inform the head of the family? And you had better bring brandy, or whatever you consider best for the treatment of shock.”

The footman was stunned. He made no protest as Pitt stepped in past him and closed the door.

“Sir Bertram—” he began.

“Is not at home. I know,” Pitt interrupted quietly. “I am afraid he is dead.”

“Oh.” The footman attempted to collect himself, but the situation was beyond him. “I had—” He swallowed. “I had better fetch Mr. Hodge, the butler—and Mr. Beau, Sir Bertram’s brother.” And before Pitt could speak, the footman flung open the door of the cold morning room where a maid had cleaned the grate but not yet lit the fire. “Sir.” He left Pitt to fend for himself, and disappeared toward the back of the dark hallway, the green baize door, and safety.

Pitt stared around the room. It was full of rich furniture, much of it exotic: lacquered Japanese tables, inlaid ebony, intaglio, French watercolors on the wall. The Astleys lacked neither taste nor money to indulge themselves, and their choice was exceedingly catholic.

An elderly butler came in, sober-faced, a silver tray with brandy and French lead-crystal glasses in his hand.

“Is Frederick correct, sir, that Sir Bertram has met with an accident and is dead?”

There was no purpose in lying; the butler would be the one who would have to control the staff and see that during the first days’ distress of the family all the necessary duties of the household were continued. “I am sorry, it was not an accident. Sir Bertram was murdered.”

“Oh dear.” Hodge set the brandy down sharply on the table. “Oh dear.”

He had not managed to think of anything else to say when a few moments later a young man opened the door and stood staring. He was still dressed in night attire and robe. His fair hair was damp from his morning ablutions, but he was not yet shaved. There was a marked resemblance between his features and those of the dead man: the same good nose and broad brow. But this face, even in the tight expectancy of fear, was animated; there were lines of humor about the mouth, and the eyes were wide and blue.

He closed the door. “What is it?”

Pitt realized how fortunate he had been with Mullen and Valeria Pinchin. He thought he had remembered how hard it was, but the impact was there all over again.

“I am sorry, sir,” he replied very quietly. It was easier to say it all at once, more merciful than spinning it out a detail at a time. “I have to tell you that we have just discovered the body of your brother Sir Bertram, in the Devil’s Acre. I am afraid he has been murdered, in a similar manner to Dr. Hubert Pinchin, although he was far less mutilated—” He stopped; there seemed nothing more to say. “I’m sorry, sir,” he repeated.

Beau Astley stood perfectly still for several seconds, then straightened his shoulders and walked over to the table. Hodge offered him the brandy, but he ignored it. “In the Devil’s Acre?”

Was it worse to ask now, in the numbness of shock, or later, when the anesthesia had worn off and the wound was raw and inescapable? Either way, there was only one answer Pitt could act on.

“Do you know what Sir Bertram might have been doing in that area?”

Beau Astley looked up. Then at last he took Hodge’s brandy and drank it in two gulps. He poured himself two more fingers, and drank it also.

“I suppose there is no point in lying, Inspector. Bertie gambled occasionally, not much, and I don’t think he ever lost. In fact, I think he won most of the time. Usually he went to one or the other of the gentlemen’s clubs. But once in a while he liked to go slumming somewhere like Whitechapel, or the Acre. Can’t think why—disgusting places!” He paused, as if the incomprehensibility of it might yet make it untrue.

Pitt was surprised; in his state of shock, Beau Astley was so jarred out of his normal composure that he seemed not even to resent a policeman in his own morning room, asking him personal questions about his family. There was no condescension in his voice.

“And Sir Bertram went gambling yesterday evening?” Pitt pursued.

Beau reached for a chair and Hodge pulled it in position for him immediately. He sat down. Hodge retreated silently and closed the door behind him.

“No.” Beau put his head in his hands and stared at the table. “No, that’s it. He went to call upon May. He was invited there to dinner.”

“May?”

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know. Miss Woolmer, she and Bertie were to be betrothed—at least I think so. Oh, God! I’d better go and tell her. I can’t let her find out from the police, or some idiotic gossip.” He looked up without hope. “I suppose there’s no chance of keeping it out of the newspapers? My father is dead—but Mother lives in Gloucestershire. I’ll have to write ...” His voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry, the newspapers had already been there by the time I was called myself,” Pitt replied. “In an area like that, sixpence is a lot of money.” He thought he did not need to explain further.

“Of course.” Beau was suddenly terribly tired, his face leached of the animation that had been there only minutes before. “Do you mind if I get dressed and go to Miss Woolmer immediately? I don’t want her to hear it from anyone else.”

“No, sir, that would be by far the best thing,” Pitt said. He watched as Beau stood up. He must tell him the rest; it would be common knowledge by late morning. “I—I’m afraid there is one more thing, sir. He was found in a most”—he searched for the right word—“a most unfortunate place.”

“You said. The Devil’s Acre.”

“Yes, sir—but in the doorway of a brothel, for men only.”

Beau’s face tightened in an attempt at a smile. He was past any further shock. “Surely brothels are, Inspector?”

Pitt hated telling him; already he liked the man. “No,” he said very quietly. “In most brothels the staff are female... .” He let it hang.

Beau’s dark blue eyes widened. “That’s ridiculous... . Bertie wasn’t—”

“No,” Pitt said quickly. “He was near—I expect that was merely where his attacker caught up with him. But I had to warn you—the newspapers will possibly mention it.”

Beau ran his hand through the hair that was falling forward over his brow. “Yes, I suppose they will. They can’t leave the Prince of Wales alone, so they certainly won’t have any compunction about Bertie. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get dressed. Hodge will get you a brandy, or something.” He was gone before Pitt could thank him.

Pitt decided to ask for hot tea, and perhaps a slice of toast. The thought was enough to make him even more conscious of the cold void inside him. To look at a corpse was grim, but the dead were beyond feeling. It was telling the living that hurt Pitt, and made him feel guilty and helpless. He was the bringer of pain, the onlooker, shielded from everything but its mirror image.

He would take his tea in the kitchen. There was nothing else he could ask Beau Astley at the moment, but there might be something to be learned in the servants’ quarters, even inadvertently. Then later, when the first news had been broken, he would have to see Miss May Woolmer, who apparently had been the last person they knew of to talk with Bertram Astley before he left for the Devil’s Acre.

During that brief respite in the kitchen’s warmth, nursing a mug of tea, Pitt learned a great deal of detail from Hodge, the footman, the valet, and from several of the maids. Later he had an excellent luncheon with the entire staff, very sober, at their long table. Housemaids were sniffling, footmen silent, cook and kitchenmaid red-nosed.

But none of it, as far as he could judge, amounted to anything other than the outline of an ordinary young man of title, of very much more than adequate means and extremely pleasing looks. His character had not been unusual: a little selfish, as one might expect in an elder son who had known from birth that he had the exclusive right of inheritance. But if he had practiced either malice or outward greed, it appeared his household had been blind to it. His personal habits had been typical: a little high-spirited gambling now and then—but who did not, if he could afford it? Occasionally he drank rather too much, but he was neither quarrelsome nor licentious. None of the maids had complained, and he was not niggardly with the expenses of the house. Altogether he was a fine gentleman.

A little after two o’clock, Pitt was permitted into the Woolmer house, again reluctantly and only in order to keep him from being observed importuning on the doorstep by inquisitive neighbors. No one wished it known that there were police in the house, whatever the reason!

“Miss Woolmer will be unable to see you,” the footman said coolly. “She has received news of a bereavement, and is indisposed.”

“I am aware of the bereavement,” Pitt answered. “Unfortunately, because Sir Bertram apparently dined here yesterday, I am obliged to ask Miss Woolmer what she may know of his frame of mind, any remark he may have made as to his intentions... .”

The man stared at him, abhorring his crassness. “I’m sure if Miss Woolmer knows anything of value to you, she will be happy to inform you when she is recovered,” he said coldly.

All day Pitt had felt nothing but grief; now at last he found release for it in anger. “I am afraid the pursuit of murder cannot wait upon the convenience of Miss Woolmer,” he retorted. “There is an insane creature loose in the Devil’s Acre. Three people have been murdered and mutilated already, and if we do not catch him, there is no reason to doubt there will be a fourth and a fifth. There is no time to wait upon indisposition! Will you please inform Miss Woolmer that I regret the necessity of disturbing her at such a time,” Pitt continued, “but she may be able to give me information that will assist us to arrest whoever killed Sir Bertram.”

The footman’s face was white. “Yes—if it is unavoidable,” he conceded grudgingly. He left Pitt alone and went down the hall searching in his mind for words to relay the order.

More than half an hour passed before Pitt was shown into the withdrawing room, a place crowded with pictures, ornaments, lace, crochetwork, and embroidery. A brilliant fire burned and all the lamps were lit. Of course the curtains were lowered, as suited a house suffering a violent bereavement.

May Woolmer was a remarkably handsome girl with a fine figure, now draped in elegant grief on a chaise longue. She was dressed in dove gray—neither too colorful for such a delicate moment nor yet an ostentatious display of her feelings. Her hair was thick and shining like honey, and her features were regular. She stared at Pitt with her large, wide-spaced eyes, and held a handkerchief in one white hand.

Mrs. Woolmer stood behind her like a sentry, her large bosom encased in beaded purple, suitable for half mourning, very appropriate in such awkward circumstances. Her hair was as fair as her daughter’s, but faded in patches, and her face was heavier, her chin too soft, her throat thick. Without question, she was grossly offended, and Pitt was the obvious target for her wrath. He was here, and she assumed he was without defense. She glared at him.

“I cannot imagine why you feel it necessary to intrude upon our distress,” she said icily. “I trust you have sufficient good taste to be brief.”

Pitt wanted to be equally rude in return, to tell her what be believed good taste really was: a matter of self-mastery, of consideration so that you did not avoidably discomfort others, least of all those unable to retaliate. “I shall try to, ma’am,” he said simply. “Mr. Beau Astley tells me that Sir Bertram expected to dine here yesterday evening. Did he in fact do so?”

They did not invite him to sit down, and Mrs. Woolmer still remained standing, on guard. “Yes he did,” she answered bluntly.

“What time did he leave?”

“A little after eleven. I cannot tell you precisely.”

“Was he in good health, and good spirits?” It was almost a meaningless question. If they had had a furious quarrel, neither of these women would be in the least likely to tell him.

“Excellent.” Mrs. Woolmer lifted her chin. “Sir Bertram was always most happy here. He was devoted to my daughter. In fact, he had approached me with a view to asking for her hand.” She took a breath, and a shadow of indecision flickered across her face.

Was that a lie that no one could now disprove? No—Beau Astley had said much the same. Then why the doubt? Had there been some ill-feeling last night, a change of mind?

“I am most distressed for you, ma’am,” he said automatically. “Did Sir Bertram say anything about where he intended to go after he left here?”

Her eyebrows went up. “Why—home, I assume!”

“I can’t understand it.” May spoke for the first time. She had a pleasant voice, a little soft, but agreeably low. “I simply cannot understand it at all.”

“Of course you can’t!” Mrs. Woolmer said irritably. “It is incomprehensible to any person of decency. One may only assume he was kidnapped. That is the course you should follow, Mr.—” She disregarded his name, hunching one shoulder to indicate its unimportance. “Poor Sir Bertram must have been abducted. Then when the perpetrators of this crime became aware of whom they had taken, they were afraid—”

“Perhaps Bertie fought them?” May suggested. Tears came to her eyes. “How brave of him! He would!”

Mrs. Woolmer liked that explanation. “It is perfectly dastardly! That is what must have occurred, I am sure of it. I don’t know why we pay the police, when they allow such things to happen!”

Pitt had already questioned the Astley coachman over luncheon. “Sir Bertram did not leave in his own carriage?” he said aloud.

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Woolmer had expected an apology or an attempt at defense, not this extraordinary question.

“No,” May answered for her. “He dismissed his own brougham, and then had Willis call him a hansom. We offered to have our carriage take him, but he would not hear of it. He was most considerate.” She dabbed at her cheek with her handkerchief. “Most.”

“If only we had been more persuasive, he might not have been abducted!” Mrs. Woolmer still directed the accusation at Pitt; it was the police who were at fault. People of quality should not have to protect themselves from blackguards in the streets.

It was possible that Astley had been abducted, but extremely unlikely. Still, if the Woolmers did not know of his habit of occasionally slumming in the Devil’s Acre, there was no point in telling them now. They would probably not believe him anyway. And perhaps this anger was their way of encountering grief; it was not uncommon. In illness it was the doctor who could not save who received the blame; in crime it was the police.

Pitt looked at them; May still adhered to the rules for a young lady’s behavior. None of the awkwardness of real grief showed yet. Her feet were tucked carefully on the chaise longue, her skirt draped in the most modestly becoming folds. Her hands were twisted a little in her lap, but they were still beautiful; the lines were composed, serene. She could have sat just so for a neoclassical painter, had they removed three-quarters of the decoration from the tables and the pianoforte behind her.

Mrs. Woolmer was bracing herself like Britannia to repel the foe. They were both gathering their thoughts out of the confusion, and would betray nothing yet. There was no point in pressing them. They had not really understood. In time, it would come—perhaps a memory of some word or gesture that mattered.

“He left in a hansom about eleven,” he repeated. “And, as far as you know, he was in good health and spirits, and intended returning directly home.”

“Precisely,” Mrs. Woolmer agreed. “I do not know what else you imagined we could tell you.”

“Only the time, ma’am, and the means of transport. And that as far as you know, he had no intention of calling upon anyone else.”

She blew down her nose with a little snort, reminding him of a dray horse. “Then if that is all, perhaps you would be kind enough to take your leave, and permit us to be alone.”

He went outside, past the footman and down the step into the street. He started to walk east again, facing into the wind. He wondered what May Woolmer was like when her mother was not present. Had Bertram Astley loved her? She was undoubtedly handsome, and well mannered enough to make any gentleman a wife acceptable to Society. Did she also have wit and courage, the honesty to laugh at herself and to praise others without grudge? Was she gentle? Or had Bertie Astley even considered such things? Perhaps beauty and a temperate disposition were enough. They were for most men.

And what was it he had seen in Beau Astley’s face at the instant thought of May, even in the moment of his own bereavement? Had that been love also?

He would have to remember next time he saw him that he was now Sir Beau! And presumably a considerably wealthier man. After the appropriate interval, would he step into his brother’s shoes and marry May Woolmer as well? It was not unlikely that Mrs. Woolmer would do her best to see that he did. There were not so many eligible young men around with titles and money, and it was late in the year—the next Season was almost on them.

Pitt pulled his coat collar up; the east wind had a breath of sleet in it. He hated the thought of examining the private failures and weaknesses of the Astleys’ lives.

In the morning he was sent for by his superior.

Dudley Athelstan was standing in his office. His suit fit him as immaculately as the tailor’s art could contrive, but his tie was askew and his collar seemed too tight for him. The morning’s newspapers lay spread over his great desk.

“Pitt! Pitt, come in. We’ve got to do something about this—it’s appalling! Commissioner’s been to see me about it, came here himself. Next thing I’ll be getting letters from the Prime Minister!”

“Over three murders in a slum?” Pitt looked at the chaos on the desk and at Athelstan’s flushed face. “There’ll be a new society scandal for them to talk about in a day or two, and they’ll forget it.”

“You swear that?” Athelstan’s eyes bulged and he threw his hands up. “You’ll arrange one, will you? Great heaven, man, have you got any idea what this latest murder has done? Decent men are terrified to—” He stopped abruptly.

“To go into the Devil’s Acre?” Pitt finished for him, smiling.

Athelstan grunted. “It’s all very well for you to be pious, Pitt. You don’t have to explain yourself to these people—thank God!—or we’d have the whole police force thrown out on its ear! Some very influential men find the odd entertainment in establishments like Max Burton’s. They accept the risk of being overcharged, even robbed outright in the street, or the occasional roughing up. But being murdered and emasculated! God—it doesn’t bear thinking of! And the scandal, the shame!”

“Perhaps it’s an ardent reformer trying to put the whorehouses out of business,” Pitt said, his tongue in his cheek.

“Damn your impertinence,” Athelstan replied without heat. “This is no time for levity, Pitt.” He ran his fingers inside his collar to ease it. “I’ve got to get this solved and the maniac responsible in Bedlam, where he belongs. And I don’t care if he’s a demented clergyman trying to clear up hell single-handed, or a greedy pimp who thinks he can carve himself an empire. What have you got so far?”

“Very little, sir—”

“Don’t make excuses, damn it! Facts, witnesses—what do we know?”

Pitt repeated the few medical facts.

“That’s not much use!” Athelstan said desperately.

“No witnesses,” Pitt added.

“None at all?”

Pitt shrugged with a faint smile. “Did you expect any? Do any of your outraged correspondents say they were there?”

Athelstan gave him a filthy look. “What about other pimps—whores, vagrants—anyone?”

“No.”

Athelstan shut his eyes. “Damn! Damn! Damn! We’ve got to get this tidied up, Pitt.” He put his hands to his face. “Can you imagine what they’ll do to us if the next victim is one of the nobility, or a member of Parliament? They’ll crucify us!”

“What do they expect us to do? Patrol the streets of the Acre where the whorehouses are?”

“Don’t be idiotic! They want us to get rid of this lunatic and get things back to normal.” He stared at Pitt, his eyes pleading. “And we’ve got to do it! Find your snouts, your informers—use money if necessary. Not much, mind! Don’t lose your head! Someone’ll talk, someone knows. Look for motives, rivalries, jealousy. See who was losing money. My advice is find who killed the pimp Max, and the rest will follow. What is the connection between Max and this Dr. Pinchin?”

“We haven’t found one yet.” Pitt, aware of his failure, felt his face tighten.

“Well, get out there and look for it!” Athelstan clenched his fists. “And for God’s sake find it, Pitt! Lock someone up. We’ve got to stop this—this—” His hand knocked the nearest newspaper onto the floor, exposing a pile of letters on embossed notepaper. “They’re panicking! Important people are very upset!”

Pitt shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yes—I’m sure they are.”

“Well, get on with it!” Athelstan shouted in exasperation. “Get out there and do something!”

“Yes, sir.”

Accordingly, Pitt went back to the Devil’s Acre to question Ambrose Mercutt more precisely over his rivalry with Max. He found him dressed in a scarlet robe with velvet collar and cuffs, and in a remarkably ill humor.

“I don’t know what on earth you expect of me!” he said exasperatedly. “I’ve no idea who killed the wretched man! I’ve already told you everything I can think of. Good heavens, he had enough enemies!”

“You seem to be the most obvious among them, Mr. Mercutt.” Pitt was armed with the additional research of two more constables, and was in no frame of mind to be patronized by an effete pimp dressed in a red robe at ten o’clock in the morning. “Max Burton had taken a considerable amount of your custom, and at least four of your best whores. He was a very great threat to your livelihood.”

“Nonsense!” With a wave of his long fingers, Ambrose dismissed the idea as ludicrous. “I told you before, women come and go. And in time they’d have left Burton and gone to someone else anyway. It was nothing out of the ordinary. If you were remotely competent at your job, Inspector, you would start looking at some of those married women he used! Try Louisa Crabbe! I’ll wager you haven’t even thought of that, have you?” His eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction as he saw Pitt’s surprise. “No—I thought not! I wonder what Albert Crabbe thought of Max? I’ll wager he’d have been delighted to cut him to pieces in the most disgustingly intimate way!” He screwed up his face. Such vulgarity was offensive. He made a more than comfortable living out of the physical appetites of others, but he found such things distasteful himself. He sat down and crossed his legs.

The thought flickered through Pitt’s mind that Louisa Crabbe was an invention, but Ambrose’s face was too secure, too satisfied.

“Indeed,” Pitt said with as little expression as he could. “And where do I find this Albert Crabbe?”

Ambrose smiled. “My dear Inspector, are you completely incapable? How in God’s name do I know? Look through Max’s books—there’s bound to be some record of how he contacted her. He suited the women to the client, you know. This is not a merely haphazard business. One has to have a certain flair! We at this end of the market are not common, take-your-chance whorehouses!”

“Thank you,” Pitt said sarcastically. “I confess I had not fully appreciated your entrepreneurial art.”

“What?”

Pitt did not bother to explain. He felt a flicker of satisfaction, but it was a poor victory, and he knew it. The aftertaste was thin.

“I imagine Louisa Crabbe was not the only one—simply the only one whose name you care to give me,” Pitt said.

“I told you, Inspector, Max Burton was of no importance to me.” Ambrose’s face was smooth again, unconcerned. “I didn’t bother to keep up with his comings and goings. Why should I? I have a steady clientele and I do very nicely. Naturally there were those he hurt in the way of taking their business. If I were you, I’d ask the Daltons. They’re in the cheap end of the trade. I dare say they had cause to be upset with Max.”

Pitt could go back to the police station and find out about the Daltons, but he could not be bothered to pretend. His pride was not worth it. “Where are they?” he asked.

A smile of superiority touched Ambrose’s mouth. “Crossgate Street. Really, Inspector, what would you do without me?”

“Ask someone else,” Pitt replied. “Don’t tempt me to think. If the Devil’s Acre were not such a cesspit, I’d be inclined to work for one whorehouse the fewer.” He glanced round the pale room. “But what difference would it make? Have you ever read of the labors of Hercules?”

Ambrose knew he was being insulted both directly and obscurely. He resented the one he did not understand the more.

“No, perhaps not,” Pitt answered his own question. “Look up the Augean Stables sometime. We might consider diverting the Thames!”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about!” Ambrose snapped. “Hadn’t you better get on with your job? It doesn’t strike me you’ve made so much progress that you can afford to stand around here wasting your time—and mine!”

It was hurtfully true. And with Hubert Pinchin and Bertie Astley also dead, the motive for the murder of Max was becoming less and less important anyway.

“Was Sir Bertram Astley ever a customer of yours?” Pitt asked as a parting shot from the doorway.

Ambrose raised his thready eyebrows. “Really, Inspector, do you imagine I ask gentlemen for their names? Don’t be naive!”

“No, I didn’t imagine you asked them, Ambrose,” Pitt replied levelly. “But I most certainly imagined you knew!”

Ambrose smiled. In an obscure way it was an admission of his competence, of his professional skill. Indecision wavered for a moment in his face, then disappeared. “No,” he said at last. “Not Bertram Astley—nor Dr. Pinchin either.” His smile widened. “Sorry.”

Pitt believed him. The indecision he judged not to be whether to admit to it but whether to brag a little and pad out the importance of his clientele—and by implication the fact that he had nothing to fear from Max.

“No.” Pitt glanced around the room again and allowed a faint curl to his lip. “No—I imagine not.” He closed the door on Ambrose’s hot eyes and the flare of sudden anger on his face.

Crossgate Street was dirty and cold, but Pitt had no difficulty locating the Daltons’ establishment. It was large and seemed to be cheerful, full of gaudy red and pink furnishings, and there was a fire in the main receiving room, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. Apparently the Daltons catered to clients around the clock. The place did not have the stale, acrid smell of a public house in off-business hours; it seemed they kept maids, like any domestic establishment.

He was met by a plump round-faced girl, ordinary enough, with a country-fresh complexion. Pitt felt a twinge of pity that she should be engaged in such an occupation. Still, she was far better off in a bawdy house such as this, with a roof over her head and regular meals, than many another woman who walked the streets looking for any man who would buy her body for the price of a day’s food for her child, or a piece of clothing for its back.

He saved her the indignity of importuning him. “I’m here from the police,” he said immediately. “I want to speak to Mr. Dalton. He may be able to help me with some information.”

“Mr.—oh!” Comprehension and amusement flooded her face. “You mean Miss Dalton. Would that be Miss Mary or Miss Victoria, sir? Although I’m not rightly sure as they’ll want to be seein’ the police!”

“Miss—” It had not occurred to him that the Daltons would be women, although there was no reason why not. There was an air of femininity about the place, a simple sensuality that was less self-conscious and infinitely less effete than the house of either Max or Ambrose Mercutt. Somehow he found it less offensive, although he could not think why.

“Either Miss Dalton will do,” he answered. “And I am sorry, but I insist upon seeing them. It is a matter of murder. If they make it necessary, I shall return with other officers, and things may become unpleasant. I cannot imagine that anyone will wish that. It is bad for business.”

The girl looked startled. His manner was courteous, his voice so very civilized, and yet what he said jarred. “If you’ll wait here—” She scuttled away, and immediately Pitt was sorry. He had had no need to be so harsh, but it was impossible to undo it now.

Barely moments later, a slightly older woman appeared, perhaps in her early thirties, buxomly built, with a blunt, handsome face and a dusting of freckles on her skin. She looked like a competent parlormaid on her day off. Her dress was high to her neck and of plain lavender color; there was no paint on her face that Pitt could see.

“I am Victoria Dalton,” she said civilly. “Violet says you are from the police and you wish to speak to me. Would you like to come into the parlor at the back? Violet will bring us tea.”

Feeling ludicrous, as if he had made a wild error of judgment, Pitt silently followed her trim back as she walked out of the big red and pink hall, with its sofas and cushions, along a corridor and into a small, more intimate room where there was another fire burning. From somewhere upstairs he heard the peal of woman’s laughter, followed by a shriek of delight and a fit of giggles. He did not hear any man. Apparently it was two women recounting exploits to each other—not a matter of trade.

Victoria Dalton sat down on a large green sofa and invited Pitt to make himself comfortable on a similar one opposite her. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at him pleasantly.

“Well, what is it you wish of us?”

He was a little taken aback; she was so composed, so totally different from Max, or Ambrose Mercutt. This place was like a middle-class house, comfortable, with an air of family about it. He felt impelled to use euphemisms, which was ridiculous.

“I am investigating a murder, ma’am,” he began, not as he had intended. Somehow she had put him out of ease. “In fact, three murders.”

“How unpleasant.” She spoke as if he had remarked upon the weather.

She continued to regard him candidly, like an obedient child, waiting for him to continue. It was disconcerting. Either she had not fully understood him, or else death was so commonplace it held no power to shock her. Meeting her steady gray eyes, he believed it was the latter.

The maid brought the tea and left it on a tray for them. Victoria Dalton poured and handed him a cup. He accepted it with thanks.

He began again. “The first victim was Max Burton. He kept a house in George Street. Perhaps you knew of him?”

“Of course,” she said. “We knew he had been murdered.”

“He was good at his business?” Why was he finding it so hard to question her? Was it because she gave him no openings and, unlike Ambrose Mercutt, was not defensive?

“Oh, yes,” she answered. “He had a remarkable talent.” For the first time, her face showed some expression, one of anger. Her full lips turned down at the corners, but Pitt had the odd conviction that it was a reflection of disapproval, not any sense of personal injury.

“Ambrose Mercutt says he used a number of wellborn women in his George Street establishment,” Pitt went on.

She gave a slight smile. “Yes, Ambrose Mercutt would tell you that.”

“Is it true?”

“Oh, yes. Max was very clever. He was very attractive to women, you know. And there is a certain class of women, wellborn, idle, married for convenience to some bloodless man—probably a great deal older than themselves, poor in the bedroom, without appetite or imagination—and they become bored. Max appealed to them. They began by having an affair with him; then he introduced them to the top end of the trade. He could get a high price for whores like that.” She discussed it as any merchant might speak of her goods, a marketing process.

“Did he take any of your custom?” he asked equally bluntly.

She was quite sober. “Not much. We provide skill rather than novelty. Most of these wellborn women have more sense of adventure, more”—she frowned a little—“more need to fill their boredom than patience or knowledge how to please. A good whore has humor and generosity, and doesn’t ask questions.” She smiled bleakly. “As well as a good deal of practice.”

She was so used to the idea that it was ordinary to her. The traffic in womanhood was her daily life, and it did not move her emotions. To know her business was necessary for survival.

“What about Ambrose Mercutt?” He changed direction.

“Oh, yes, Ambrose was suffering,” she said. “He caters to the same trade: gentlemen with jaded tastes who want something novel, something to stimulate their imagination, and are prepared to pay for it.” Now there was real contempt in her face. Her eyes narrowed and there was a sudden brilliant glitter in them that could even have been hatred, but for whom he had no idea. Perhaps for those rich, spoiled women with money and time to dabble in whoredom for entertainment—her women did it to live. Perhaps for Ambrose because he pandered to them. Or maybe for the men who made it all worthwhile by paying.

Or was it hatred for Max because he had taken her trade after all? Or something he had not even considered yet? Could she even have been attracted to Max herself? It was conceivable; she was young, the curves of her mouth were soft and rich. Was Max’s killing simply the rage of a woman rejected?

Considered in that light, though, Hubert Pinchin’s death made no sense.

“Where did he meet these highborn women?” he asked instead. “Not here in the Acre?”

The emotion died from her face. Her eyes were calm again, like gray water with flecks of slate in them. “Oh, no, he went to some of the dining places and theaters where such women go,” she replied. “He had been a footman in a big house—he knew how to behave. He was very striking to look at and he had good clothes. He had an art to sense when a woman was dissatisfied, and he knew which ones had the nerve or the desperation to do something about it.”

Once again, Pitt was forced to acknowledge that Max had had a talent of massive proportions, and had exercised it to the full. But if it was immense, it was also dangerous.

What happened when these women grew bored, or frightened? Society would turn a blind eye to a great deal, but whoring for money in the Devil’s Acre was grossly beyond its capacity to ignore. There was an almost infinite difference between what a man might do and get away with—as long as he was discreet—and what a woman, any woman, might be forgiven. Sexual appetite was part of a man’s nature, abhorred by the sanctimonious but accepted—even made the butt of sly jokes—and given a certain reluctant admiration by most.

But, by convention, men chose to believe that women were different. Only harlots took pleasure in the bedroom. To sell one’s body was sin unto damnation. And when these women of Max’s saw their safety—their marriages—imperiled, what did they do? Did Max allow them to leave quietly, as secretly as they had come, and then obliterate their names from his memory? Or did he keep an eternal whip held over them?

The reasons for murder were legion!

Victoria Dalton was still regarding him soberly. He had no idea how much of his thought she had guessed.

“Have you ever heard of a Dr. Hubert Pinchin?” he asked her.

“He was murdered also, wasn’t he.” It was a statement, not a question. “That was some distance from here. No, I don’t think I knew anything about him.” She hesitated. “Not under that name, anyway. People here don’t always give their own names, you know.” She kept all but a shadow of her contempt out of her voice.

“He was stocky, running to paunch,” Pitt said, starting to describe Pinchin as he had seen him dead in the slaughterhouse yard, yet trying to re-create him alive in his mind’s eye. “He had thinning gray-brown hair, a broad, rather squashy nose, mouth apparently good-humored, small eyes, and a plum-colored complexion. He wore baggy clothes. He liked Stilton cheese and good wine.”

She smiled. “There are a lot of gentlemen in London like that, and a great many of them, with unfriendly wives of forbidding virtue, find their way here at some time or another.”

That described Valeria Pinchin remarkably well. It would not be surprising if Hubert Pinchin had found his way to Victoria Dalton’s house, a place of considerable laughter and purchased pleasure, fat pillows, soft bosoms, lush hips, and obliging habits.

“Yes, I imagine so,” he said unhappily. “What about Sir Bertram Astley—young, fair, good-looking, quite tall?” He had forgotten to ascertain the color of his eyes, but the description was useless anyway. There must be several hundred young men in London, even with breeding and money, who would answer it.

“Not by name,” she answered patiently. “And we do not pry. It’s bad for business.”

That was unarguable.

It began to look more and more as if it were a random lunatic with some passionate hatred of masculinity, perhaps some man injured or impotent himself, tormented by it until his mind had turned. That was an unsatisfactory answer. But so far he had discovered no connection, however tenuous, between Max, Dr. Pinchin, and Sir Bertram Astley.

Perhaps if he pursued Max’s conquests something would emerge, some woman known to all of them—perhaps used by all of them. Yes ... a revenge-crazed husband was not impossible. Or even if the woman herself had been blackmailed, she might have hired some ruffian to blot out all traces of her aberration. There were plenty in the Devil’s Acre who would do such a thing for a small fee, small compared to the ruin that might face her. And if she spoke to the ruffian anonymously, well cloaked and hooded, she might be safe enough afterward.

But why the terrible mutilation? His stomach tightened and he felt sick again at the memory of Pinchin with his dismembered genitals. Perhaps it was a husband who had done it, after all. Or a father. There was too much hate involved for something as cold as money.

The speculation was useless until he had more information. He stood up.

“Thank you, Miss Dalton, you have been most helpful.” Why was he being so polite, almost deferential to this woman? She was a bawdy-house keeper, like Ambrose Mercutt and Max himself. Maybe it was a mark of his own worth, and had nothing to do with her. “If I can think of anything else I need to ask, I shall come back.”

She stood also. “Of course. Good day, Mr. Pitt.”

The maid showed him out into the grimy street, the already darkening afternoon. The stink of sewage came up from the river, and the long moan of a foghorn sounded as barges, gunwale deep, made their way toward the Pool of London and the busiest docks in the world.

Perhaps it was not even the same murderer in all three cases. They had been given wide publicity. Maybe one at least was a copycat crime. What about Beau Astley, with his brother’s title, fortune—and possibly even May Woolmer—to inherit?

Why should he be surprised to find the Devil’s work here in the Devil’s Acre?