Death in the Devil's Acre Read online

  They all seemed for the moment to have forgotten that, as far as they knew, Charlotte fell into that category.

  “I think perhaps I shall take to riding in the park,” Emily mused. “One might meet all manner of interesting people there—or so I have heard.”

  “Indeed,” Christina said. “I know exactly what you mean. But believe me, there are things which one may do that have far more spirit of adventure, and are a great deal more entertaining, than writing letters or making social calls upon people who are inexpressibly dull. It is not really improper, if one does not go alone, for one to visit—”

  “Do you paint, Miss Ellison?” Augusta cut across Christina in a loud, penetrating voice. “Or play the pianoforte? Or perhaps you sing?”

  “I paint,” Charlotte replied immediately.

  “How pleasant for you.” Christina’s opinion of painting was implicit in her tone. Single women who could think of nothing more exciting to do than sit about with brushes and bits of wet paper were too pathetic to waste emotion upon. She turned back to Emily. “I have quite decided that I shall ride in the Row every morning that the wish takes me and the weather is agreeable! I am sure that with a spirited animal one might have a great deal of pleasure.”

  “With a spirited animal, my girl, one may very well land flat on one’s face in the mud!” Augusta snapped. “And I would have you remember it, and not behave as if taking a fall were a light thing!”

  Christina’s face drained of all color. She stared straight ahead, looking neither at Augusta nor at Emily. If she had any rebuttal, it was stillborn inside her.

  Charlotte tried desperately to think of something to say to cover the silence, but everything trivial and polite seemed grotesque after the sudden reality of emotion, even though she did not understand it or its cause. If Christina had injured herself, perhaps in some recklessness on horseback, it was a most indelicate subject to refer to. It did flicker wildly into her mind that perhaps that was the reason she appeared as yet to have no family. The uprush of pity was painful; she did not wish to feel anything for Christina but dislike.

  “Emily plays the piano,” Charlotte said emptily, merely to change the subject and dismiss her thoughts.

  “I beg your pardon?” Augusta swallowed. There were very fine lines on her throat that Charlotte had not noticed before.

  “Emily plays the piano,” Charlotte repeated with increasing embarrassment. Now she felt ridiculous.

  “Indeed? And you did not learn?”

  ‘No. I preferred to paint, and Papa did not insist.”

  “How wise of him. It is a waste of time to force a child who has no talent.”

  There was no civil answer to that. Charlotte suddenly ceased to feel guilty about the softness she had seen in the general’s face, or the quick honesty in his eyes when he had forgotten the niceties of the table and simply spoken to her as a friend with whom he might speak of things that mattered, things of the mind and the emotions.

  Indeed, when the gentlemen rejoined them shortly afterward, she was perfectly happy to find herself almost immediately engaged in a long discussion with him about the retreat from Moscow. She did not need to make the least pretense to follow his every word and share his fascination with the wide sweep of history as the tide of Europe turned, or the wound of pity for the solitary deaths of men in the bitter snows of Russia.

  When they rose to leave, it was the general’s face that was in her mind, not Christina’s. It was only afterward, when Emily spoke to her on the way home, that any sense of guilt returned.

  “Really, Charlotte, I asked you to engage the general’s sympathy so that we might learn something of use to us—not enchant the man out of his wits!” she said acidly. “I really do think you might learn to control yourself. That apricot gown has gone to your head!”

  Charlotte blushed in the darkness, but fortunately neither Emily nor George could see her. “Well, there was little point in my trying to pursue Christina’s more flighty acquaintances!” she said sharply. “You all had me marked as a poor little creature who sits at home painting when I am not going out doing good works among the unfortunates!”

  “I quite understand your disliking Christina.” Emily changed tactics and assumed elaborate patience instead. “I do myself—and she was certainly very rude to you. But that is not the point! We were there to pursue the investigation, not to enjoy ourselves!”

  Charlotte had no answer for that. She had learned nothing whatsoever, and, if she were even remotely honest, she had enjoyed herself indecently much. At least she had at times; there were moments that had been perfectly ghastly. She had forgotten how very crushing Society could be.

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” Emily replied in the darkness. “Perhaps.”

  7

  EMILY HAD THOUGHT ABOUT ALL the murders and the many different tragedies that might lie behind them. She was perfectly aware that a great many marriages were made quite as much for practical reasons as for romantic ones, attempts either to improve positions in Society or to maintain ones that were endangered. Sometimes such alliances worked out quite as well as those embarked upon in the heat of infatuation, but where the difference of age or temperament was too great, they became prisonlike.

  She also knew the morally numbing effect of boredom. That she did not suffer from it herself was due to her periodic adventures into the stimulating, frightening, and turbulent world of criminal tragedy. But the long, arid intervals of social trivia in the meantime were the more pronounced because of the contrast. It was a world enclosed upon itself, where the most superficial flirtations assumed the proportions of great love, mere insults in etiquette or precedence became wounds, and matters of dress—the cut, the color, the trimming—were noticed and discussed as if they were of immense importance.

  As Christina Ross had said, idle men might occupy themselves with all manner of sport, healthy or otherwise, even finding excitement in risking money or broken limbs. Industrious or morally minded men might seek power in Parliament or trade, or might travel abroad upon missions to benighted nations somewhere, or join the army, or follow the White Nile to discover its source in the heart of the Dark Continent!

  But a woman had only the outlet of charitable works. Her home was cared for by servants, her children by a nursery maid, a nanny, and then a governess. For those who were neither artistic nor gifted with any particular intelligence, there was little else but to entertain and be entertained. Small wonder that spirited young women, like some of Christina’s set, trapped in marriages without passion, laughter, or even companionship, could be lured away by someone as raw and dangerous as Max Burton.

  And of course Emily had never hidden from herself the other side of the argument, the fact that a number of men do not find all their appetites satisfied at home. Many abstained for one reason or another, but of course there were those who did not. One did not discuss “houses of pleasure”—or the “fallen doves” who occupied them. God!—that was a euphemism she hated! And only with the most intimate friends did one speak of the various affairs that were conducted at country houses over long shooting weekends, in croquet games on summer lawns, at great balls in the hunting season, or any other of a dozen times and places. None of which was to excuse it, but to understand it.

  Therefore, in considering murder, Emily took into account the names and situations, such as she knew them, of Christina’s social circle and those who might conceivably have been involved with Max. There were about seven or eight she found likely, and another half dozen possible, though she believed they lacked the courage, or the indifference to values of modesty or loyalty, to have taken such a step. But if nothing better presented itself, she would bear in mind to suggest their names to Pitt, so that he might discover where their husbands had been at the relevant times.

  And there was always the possibility of an unfortunate recognition to consider—a little betrayal—or blackmail. What of a man who took his pleasur
es in a whorehouse and found he had bought his own wife! The permutations were legion, all of them painful and desperately foolish.

  It could be that one such woman had been used by Max, that one of her customers had been Bertie Astley and, for some reason, a fear or hatred had arisen that resulted in the murder not only of Max but of Astley also. How Hubert Pinchin was involved, however, she did not yet have any suggestion.

  The other most obvious possibility was even less pleasant to her: that Beau Astley had read of the startling murders of Max and Dr. Pinchin, and had seized the opportunity to imitate these crimes and get rid of his elder brother. It would not be the first murder to ape another—and so saddle a man guilty of two murders with the blame for one more.

  Beau Astley had enough to gain from his brother’s death, that was certain. But how much had he wanted it? Was he in financial straits, or did he manage very well upon whatever resources he had? Was he in love with May Woolmer? In fact, what kind of a person was he in general?

  At the breakfast table, Emily sipped her tea. George was not at his best. He was hiding behind the newspaper, not to read it but to avoid having to think of something to say.

  “I called upon poor May Woolmer recently,” Emily remarked cheerfully.

  “Did you?” George’s voice was absentminded, and Emily realized he had forgotten who May Woolmer was.

  “She is still in mourning, of course,” she continued. An outright request for information would be unlikely to produce it. George did not like curiosity—it was vulgar, and likely to offend people. He did not care if people took offense when it was unwarranted, but he disliked the thought of being oafish, or anything that might appear ignorant of courtesy. He knew very well the value of acceptance.

  “I beg your pardon?” He had not been paying attention, and now put the paper down reluctantly as he realized that she had no intention of allowing the matter to drop.

  “She is still in mourning for Bertie Astley,” Emily repeated.

  His face cleared a little. “Oh, yes, she would be. Pity about that. Nice enough fellow.”

  “Oh, George!” She contrived to look shocked.

  “What?” He clearly failed to understand. It was a harmless remark, and surely Astley had been perfectly amiable.

  “George!” She let her voice slide down, and lowered her eyes. “I do know where he was found, you know!”

  “What?”

  She wished she could blush to order. Some women could, and it was a most useful accomplishment. She avoided looking at him, in case he read curiosity in her eyes instead of modest horror.

  “He was found on the doorstep of a house of pleasure.” She voiced the euphemism as if it came to her tongue with some embarrassment. “Where the ‘occupants’ are men as well!”

  “Oh, God! How did you know that?” This time he needed no pretense whatever to show interest. His face was startled, his dark eyes very wide. “Emily?”

  For a moment Emily could think of nothing to say. The conversation had taken a turn she should have foreseen, but had not. Should she admit to having read the newspapers? Or should she blame Charlotte? No, that was not a good idea—it might have unfortunate repercussions. George might even take it into his head that she should not associate with Charlotte quite so much, especially during the investigation of scandalous murders like these.

  She had a sudden inspiration. “May told me. Goodness knows where she heard it. But you know how these whispers spread. Why? Is it not true, after all?” She met his eyes squarely and with total innocence this time. She had no qualms about deceiving George in trivial matters—it was for his own good. She was never less than honest in things of importance, like loyalty, or money. But sometimes George needed a little managing.

  His shoulders eased and he sat back in his chair again, but his expression was still full of confusion. Two things troubled him: the extremely unsavory facts concerning Bertie Astley, and quite how much of them it was proper to tell Emily.

  She understood him very well, and rescued the situation before she lost the initiative and was obliged to begin all over again. “Perhaps I should call upon May and reassure her?” she suggested. “If it is only a malicious invention—”

  “Oh, no!” He was unhappy, but quite decided. “I am afraid you cannot do that—it is perfectly true.”

  Emily looked suitably downcast, as though she had actually entertained a hope that it was not. “George? Was Sir Bertram—I mean, did he have ... a peculiar nature?”

  “Good God, no! That is what is so damned odd! I simply don’t understand it.” He pulled a face, in rare outspokenness. “Although I suppose we seldom know people as well as we imagine. Perhaps he was ... and no one knew it.”

  Emily put her hand out across the table and clasped his. “Don’t think it, George,” she said gently. “Is it not far more likely that some other suitor of May Woolmer’s was so crazed he simply took the opportunity to rid himself of a rival and slander him horribly at the same time? That way he could be rid of him both literally and in memory. After all, how could May cherish the thought of a man who practiced such indecencies!”

  He considered it for a moment, closing his hand over hers. There were times when he was really extremely fond of her. One thing about Emily: even after five years of marriage, she was never a bore.

  “I doubt it,” he said at last. “She is a handsome creature, certainly, but I cannot imagine anyone getting so infatuated with her as to do that. She hasn’t the—the fire. And she has very little money, you know.”

  “I thought Beau Astley was exceedingly attracted to her,” she suggested.

  “Beau?” He looked incredulous.

  “Is he not?” Now she was confused also.

  “I think he likes her very well, yes, but he has other interests, and he’s hardly the sort to kill his own brother!”

  “There is the title, and the money,” she pointed out.

  “Do you know Beau Astley?”

  “No,” she said hopefully. At last they had come to the point. “What sort of a man is he?”

  “Agreeable—rather more than poor Bertie, actually. And generous,” he said with conviction. “I really think I should go and see him.” He let the newspaper slide to the floor and stood up. “I always liked Beau. Poor fellow’s probably feeling terrible. Mourning is such a tedious business—it makes you feel infinitely worse. No matter how grieved you are, you don’t want to sit around in a house full of gaslights and black crepe, with servants speaking in whispers and maids who sniffle every time they see you. I’ll go and offer him a little companionship.”

  “What a good idea,” she agreed earnestly. “I am sure he will be very grateful for it. It is most sensitive of you.” How could she persuade him, without arousing suspicion, to question Beau Astley a little? “He may very well be longing to unburden himself to someone, a good friend he can trust,” she said, watching George’s face. “After all, a great many disturbing and unhappy thoughts must have troubled him as to what can possibly have happened. And he cannot be unaware of other people’s speculations. I am sure if I were in his situation I should long for someone to confide in!”

  If it occurred to him that she had any ulterior motive, he did not show it in his face. At least, she did not think his flicker of a smile was for that reason... . Was it?

  “Indeed,” he answered soberly. “Sometimes it is a great relief to talk—in confidence!”

  Was George perhaps more astute than she had supposed? And enamored of the idea of a little detective work of his own? Surely not! Watching his elegant back as he went out the door, she felt a sharp tingle of pleasant surprise.

  Three days later, Emily had contrived to take Charlotte with herself and George to a small private ball, where she had ascertained in advance that the Balantynes were to be present, as well as Alan Ross and Christina. What excuse Charlotte offered to Pitt was her own affair.

  Emily was not sure quite what knowledge she hoped to acquire, but she was not innocent of
the general habits of the gentlemen of Society. She had learned to accept the extraordinary feat of mental and ethical agility that enabled a man to indulge his physical appetites in the expensive brothels near the Haymarket all night, and then to come home and preside over his family at a silent and obedient breakfast table, where his wish was enough to produce a flurry of eagerness and his word held the force of law. She had chosen to live in Society and enjoy its privileges. Therefore, though she did not admire its hypocrisy, she did not rebel against it.

  Emily had no liking at all for Christina Ross, but she could very well believe that Christina had sympathy for the few women who dared to break from social confines and play men at their own game, even to the point of risking everything for a wild masquerade at a house such as Max’s in the Devil’s Acre. Emily thought it was excessively foolish! Only a woman with no brains at all would wager so much for such a tawdry return—and she despised such idiocy.

  But she was aware that boredom occasionally drove out all intelligence, even the sense of self-preservation. She had seen overwrought women imagine themselves in love and rush headlong, like lemmings, to their own destruction. Usually they were young, a first passion. But perhaps it was only the outside that changed with age: habits learned, a little camouflage for vulnerability. The desperation inside might be the same at any time. So by chance among Christina Ross’s acquaintances tonight might there not be at least one of Max’s women?

  She wished Charlotte to come also for her added ability to observe. Charlotte was very naïve on certain points, but on others she was surprisingly acute. Added to which, Christina disliked her, seemed in some way to be almost jealous. And in the heat of strong emotion people were inclined to betray themselves. Charlotte could be extremely handsome when she was enjoying herself, giving someone all her attention—as she did, for some quite unaccountable reason, to General Balantyne. If anything might cause Christina to lose her self-mastery, her judgment, it would be Charlotte flirting with the general—and even perhaps with Alan Ross.