Death in the Devil's Acre Read online

  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?

  6

  THE MURDER OF BERTRAM ASTLEY was on the front pages of all the newspapers. The public was outraged. Under the shrill cries of horror, of the offense to decency, beneath even the compassion, there was a hard, real feeling of fear, close and personal. If a man like Astley could be so obscenely murdered for no apparent reason, who was safe in the streets?

  Of course it was not said openly. There were letters to the editor requiring more action from the police, more efficiency, men of better discipline and intelligence. There was a demand to know whose errors were being hidden by this silence. Was there corruption in high places that these monstrous crimes were still unsolved? One elderly gentleman even suggested that the Devil’s Acre be burned to the ground and all its denizens transported to Australia forthwith.

  Charlotte put down the paper and tried to clear the echoes of hysteria from her mind, to think what kind of man Bertram Astley might have been. Everything she had read was filtered by the rosy gloss of emotion that allowed no evil thought of the dead. Simplicity is so much easier, grand sweeps of feeling that are full of dramatic blacks and whites: Max was evil, Astley an innocent victim; the police either fiddled or, worse, were corrupt. Either way, society itself was in peril.

  And Pitt was working from before dawn till long after dark. When he came home, more often than not he was too tired to speak. But where did one even begin to look for a random lunatic?

  She must help. Of course she could not tell him; he had specifically forbidden her to meddle in this affair. But that was before Bertram Astley, when it had involved only people quite outside her social knowledge. Now things were different. Surely Emily would know the Astleys, or someone of their acquaintance through whom an introduction might be scraped. She would have to be very discreet; if Pitt found out before she achieved something significantly helpful, he would be furious.

  “Gracie,” she called cheerfully. Gracie must not even guess. With the best will in the world, the girl was totally transparent.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Gracie’s head appeared around the door, her eyebrows raised. Her glance fell to the newspaper. “Ooo—isn’t it terrible, ma’am, there’s bin another one! A real gentleman this time, with a proper title an’ all! I don’t know wot the world’s comin’ to, I don’t.”

  “Well, perhaps that’s just as well,” Charlotte said briskly. “I never did approve much of ‘second sight.’ Smacks of superstition to me, and only causes a lot of trouble.”

  Gracie was nonplussed, as she was intended to be. “Ma’am?”

  “Don’t dwell on it, Gracie.” Charlotte stood up. “It’s all miles from here, and doesn’t have anything to do with anyone we know.” She passed her the paper. “Here, use it to light the fire in the parlor later.”

  “But there’s the master, ma’am!” Gracie protested.

  “Pardon?”

  “’E ’as to do with it, poor man! ’E looked proper froze yesterdy night w’en ’e came ’ome, an’ I think ’e still don’t know as ’oo done it any more’n we do! Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, if I’m bein’ impertinent.” A trace of anxiety passed over her face. “But I reckon as ’e’s chasin’ the forces o’ evil!”

  “Stuff and nonsense! It’s a lunatic. Now stop thinking about it, put the newspaper on the back of the fire, and get on with your work. I’m going to order myself a new dress. I’m going for a fitting this morning.”

  “Ooh!” Gracie’s eyes lit up immediately. A new dress was more fun than a murder, second hand. “What color, ma’am? Are you going to ’ave it that new line down the front that’s in the pictures in the London Illustrated?”

  “It’s too fashionable.” Charlotte bought what she could afford. “I don’t like following everyone else as if I were a sheep without a mind of my own.”

  “Quite right, ma’am,” Gracie said. She also had an excellent mind for the practical. “Get a good color, I always says, and the rest’ll take care of itself, as long as you smiles at people, polite like, but not so friendly as to lead ’em on.”

  “Excellent advice.” Charlotte nodded. “But I shall take a little look and see what other people are wearing all the same, so I may not be back for luncheon.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Never hurry a new dress.”

  Charlotte arrived at Emily’s house to find her sister out at the dressmaker’s herself, and was obliged to wait nearly an hour for her to return.

  “How on earth can you go visiting seamstresses on a morning like this?” she demanded as soon as Emily was in the room. “For goodness’ sake, don’t you read the newspapers?”

  Emily stopped short; then her face tightened. “You mean about Bertie Astley? Charlotte, there is nothing we can do! Thomas already told you not to meddle.”

  “That was before, when it only concerned pimps and that odd doctor. Now it has struck one of our own social circle!”

  “You mean my social circle!” Emily closed the door and came over to stand in front of the fire. “Actually I don’t know the Astleys, but I don’t see what good it would do if I did.”

  “Oh, don’t be so stupid!” Charlotte lost her patience. “What do you suppose Bertie Astley was doing in the Devil’s Acre in the middle of the night?”
/>   “Visiting a house of pleasure.”

  “You mean a whorehouse!”

  Emily winced. “Don’t be so coarse, Charlotte. You are beginning to lose your refinement. Thomas is right. You shouldn’t meddle in this affair—it is not our sort of case at all.”

  “Not even if Bertie Astley knew Max, and they were involved in something together—with Dr. Pinchin?” Charlotte dangled the most tempting bait she could think of: a really first-class scandal.

  Emily was silent for a moment. Fashion could become extremely tedious, removed from anything that really mattered. Who cared whether someone had a subtler color or a lower neckline? Even gossip at this time of the year was distinctly jaded.

  “That would be different,” she said. “And very serious. It would mean it was not a lunatic at all, but someone perfectly sane, and very dreadful.”

  “Quite.”

  Emily shivered as her ideas changed altogether. “Where should we start?”

  That was less easy. The practical possibilities open to them were very few. “The Astleys,” Charlotte decided after a moment. “There isn’t anywhere else. We might be able to discover exactly why he was in the Acre, and if he knew either Max or Dr. Pinchin.”

  “What does Thomas say?”

  Charlotte was perfectly honest. “He is too tired to say anything much. He hardly ever tells me about this case, just the odd word. There’s been a lot of public outcry, and the police are being accused of inefficiency, even corruption.”

  That removed the last shred of reluctant conscience from Emily’s mind. “Then we must help. I don’t know the Astleys personally, but I do know he was paying considerable attention to May Woolmer. Everyone has been wondering if she would catch him. She is this Season’s newest beauty. Not my taste, actually. Very handsome, I suppose, in a creamy sort of way, like an extremely well-bred dairymaid, and about as interesting.”

  “Oh dear!” Charlotte pictured something in frills, carrying a bucket.

  “Oh, there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with her.” Emily backtracked a step or two. “But that in itself is bound to grow tiresome in time. She is as predictable as a jug of milk.”

  “Whatever did Bertie Astley want to marry her for? Has she money? Or influence?” Charlotte inquired hopefully.

  “None at all. But her manners are perfect, and she is certainly extremely agreeable. And all that rich white flesh is attractive to some men.”

  Considering Emily’s slender shoulders and slight bosom, Charlotte forbore from making comment on the subject. Instead she recalled a fragment of a remark Pitt had made when he was too tired to guard his tongue. “Thomas says that Max even had women of good breeding and family working for him sometimes.”

  “Good God!” Emily’s chin dropped in incredulity. “You mean for money—with ... Oh, no!”

  “Apparently.”

  Amazement superseded disbelief, and then a reluctant thrill of horror. “Charlotte, are you sure?”

  “I’m sure that’s what Thomas said.”

  “But whatever kind of well-bred woman would need money so badly she could think of ... I simply cannot imagine it!”

  “Not out of need. Married women, out of boredom, or frustration—the way men gamble with more money than they can afford to lose, or drive crazy races with a four-in-hand and get themselves half killed when they turn over.”

  “Did he keep books—Max?”

  “I don’t know, and I haven’t thought it wise to ask Thomas yet. But, Emily, if we really tried, surely we could discover who some of these women might be? Perhaps one of them killed Max because he was blackmailing her, wouldn’t let her go. That would be a real reason worth killing for.”

  Emily pursed her mouth doubtfully. “But what about Dr. Pinchin?”

  “Brothels must need doctors sometimes, mustn’t they? Maybe he was in partnership with Max. Perhaps he put up the money, or found the women through his practice. He would be in a position to know.”

  “And Bertie Astley?”

  “Maybe he was a customer and recognized her. That would account for why he was not so badly—hurt—”

  “That doesn’t make sense. If it was her husband who killed them, he would hate Bertie just as much!”

  “Well, maybe it wasn’t. But someone did!”

  “Charlotte, we shouldn’t—” Emily let out a long breath. “I’ve met May Woolmer two or three times. We could go and convey our condolences to her. I’ve got black accessories you can borrow. We’ve got to start somewhere. We’ll go this afternoon. What are you going to tell Thomas? You’re a terrible liar—you always say too much and end up by giving yourself away.”

  “I told Gracie I was going to the dressmaker.”

  Emily grunted and gave her a suspicious look. “Then I suppose I had better give you a dress—for your alibi!”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said graciously. “That is very generous of you. I’d like a red one.”

  “Would you indeed!”

  Mrs. Woolmer turned over the gold-embossed card and examined it carefully. It was of excellent quality, discreet. And there was no denying the title, Viscountess Ashworth.

  “Who is she, Mama?” May inquired hopefully. She was finding this state of limbo exceedingly tiresome. No one yet seemed sure whether Bertie had been the victim or an offender who deserved whatever end he met. May herself, therefore, could not be sure what attitude to adopt, and meeting people in the meantime was testing all her abilities. On the other hand, not meeting people was like being imprisoned.

  “I have no idea,” Mrs. Woolmer replied with a frown between her carefully plucked brows. She was wearing purple again, a good choice for those who were not quite certain whether they were in mourning or not. May wore black because she looked utterly dazzling in it; she glowed like warm alabaster in sunlight.

  The parlormaid dropped a curtsy. “If you please, ma’am, she is most soberly dressed, ma’am, an’ she came in a carriage with a coat of arms on the side, and two footmen, ma’am, in livery. An’ she ’as ’er sister with ’er, very proper like. An’ she looks like she would be a lady, too, but she didn’t give me any card.”

  Mrs. Woolmer made a rapid decision. Social behavior must be judged to a nicety if one were to climb to the heights. Nature had given her one great advantage in the most beautiful daughter of the Season. It would be ungracious to squander it with a clumsy gesture now.

  She smiled at the maid. “Please invite Lady Ashworth and her sister to come in, Marigold, and then tell cook to prepare refreshments—tea, and the best cakes and delicacies—and bring them to us.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Marigold withdrew to do as she was bidden.

  As soon as Emily and Charlotte came in, Mrs. Woolmer was reassured. Obviously the Viscountess Ashworth was a lady; one had but to observe the quality and discretion of her clothes. Only the nobility mixed good taste with the spending of money in quite such a way.

  May was also delighted. They were young enough to gossip a little, and perhaps before too long even extend her an invitation. A private dinner would not be unseemly; after all, she had not actually been betrothed to Bertie! The more she thought about it, the more she considered it would be best to maintain a gentle and dignified silence upon the whole affair. Let people interpret that as they wished; to say nothing was always safer than to commit oneself. And a great many men preferred women without too many opinions of their own. And—rather more to the point in the marriage stakes—their mothers always approved. Silence and a sweet smile were taken as signs of an obedient nature, a thing much to be desired in a daughter-in-law.

  Lady Ashworth was dressed in the height of fashion, in a subdued color that made her look all the more elegant. Her sister was far less fashionable, but undeniably handsome. Indeed her face was quite individual; there was a warmth in it May found herself drawn to.

  “My dear.” Lady Ashworth came forward, her hands outstretched, and took May’s before she could readily think of anything to say. “I am so sorry.
I had to come and assure you of my sympathy in your distress.”

  May had been distressed, but not as Lady Ashworth supposed. She had not been especially fond of Bertie. In fact, she greatly preferred Beau Astley; he was better-looking and a good deal more fun. But one had to be practical. He had been a younger son with very few prospects, and he would have had even fewer when Bertie married and there was a new mistress in Astley House.

  She re-collected herself and smiled sadly. “Thank you, Lady Ashworth, that is most sensitive of you. I can still hardly believe that anyone I knew could meet with such a dreadful fate.”

  Mrs. Woolmer cast her a warning glance. She must not say anything to link herself irretrievably with the Astleys. They might turn out to have possessed heaven knew what disgusting habits! For all the newspapers’ genteelisms, one knew where he had been found. But May was perfectly aware of all the pitfalls and had no intention of falling into any of them.

  Lady Ashworth introduced her sister Mrs. Pitt, and the ladies accepted seats graciously. “Life can give us some cruel surprises,” Emily observed, her expression one of wise sorrow. “They can be very hard to bear.” She lowered her head, apparently overcome with her own thoughts.

  May felt compelled to say something; good manners demanded it. “Indeed. I—I realize now how little I knew him. I had never imagined such a ...” She stopped because there was no satisfactory conclusion to that sentence. She looked frankly at Lady Ashworth’s sister Mrs. Pitt. “I believe I must be most lamentably innocent. I fear the less charitable might be laughing at me already.”

  “The envious,” Mrs. Pitt corrected generously. “And they will always be there. The only way to avoid them is to fail where they may see it and be satisfied. I assure you, no person of worth will feel anything but understanding for you. It is a situation in which any woman might find herself.”

  May had a fluttering, nervous feeling that Mrs. Pitt was referring to her indecision about Beau Astley with a very acute perception, and not at all to her grief for Bertie. It was uncomfortable to have her motives so thoroughly perceived. She looked at Lady Ashworth and saw the same frank understanding in her clear blue eyes. She decided at once to enlist them as allies. May was blessed with one virtue of perspicacity; she knew precisely whom she could deceive and whom she could not.