Death in the Devil's Acre Read online

  Accordingly, Emily, George, and Charlotte arrived at Lord and Lady Easterby’s ball for their eldest daughter. They were just late enough still to be civil and yet also to cause a pleasing stir of appreciation among the guests already thronging the hall.

  Emily was dressed in her favorite delicate water green, which flattered her fair skin; the gentle curls of her hair caught the light like an aureole. She looked like the spirit of an elusive early English summer, when the blossom is still clean and the air dappled with cool and shifting light.

  She had taken great care over Charlotte. She had considered deeply what would attract the general most, and would therefore irritate Christina. Thus Charlotte swept into the ballroom in a swirl of vibrant and luminous gentian blue that was delicate on her throat and made her hair gleam with the shadowed luster of old copper. She was like a tropical night when the gold of the sun has gone but the warmth of the earth still lingers. If she had even the faintest idea what Emily’s intentions were, she showed no sign of it whatever. Which was as well, because Emily doubted Charlotte’s conscience would have allowed her to go along with such a plan—however much she liked the idea—had she perceived it. And she was useless at flirting if she tried! But it was a long time since Charlotte had had the chance to dress exquisitely, to be extravagant, to dance all night. She was not even aware of her own hunger for the excitement of it.

  They were received with a flutter of attention. George’s title and the fact that Charlotte was a new face, and therefore mysterious, would have been sufficient, whatever their appearance. That the sisters looked ravishing was cause for a deluge of speculation and rumor enough to keep conversations alive for a month.

  So much the better; it would add to the heat of the evening—Christina would not take well to being outshone. Emily wondered for a prickling moment if perhaps she had miscalculated and the results would be less informative and more purely unpleasant than she had intended; then she dismissed the idea. It was too late to alter things now anyhow.

  She sailed forward with a radiant smile to greet Lady Augusta Balantyne, who was standing stiff and very regal, composing her face into an answering social charm.

  “Good evening, Lady Ashworth,” Augusta said coolly. “Lord Ashworth. How pleasant to see you again. Good evening, Miss Ellison.”

  Emily was suddenly aware of being ashamed. She looked at Augusta, her shoulders tight, the fine tendons in her neck standing out under her ruby necklace, the weight of stones cold and heavy in their blood color. Was Augusta really so afraid of Charlotte? Was it possible that she loved her husband? That this softness about his mouth as he greeted Charlotte, the slightly straighter shoulders, was deeper than a flirtation with an agreeable woman? Something that touched the emotions that endure, that hurt and disturb, and leave a loneliness behind that is never filled by any other affection—and Augusta knew it?

  The ballroom glittered and people laughed around them, but for a moment Emily was unaware of it. Chandeliers full of tinkling facets filled the ceilings; violin strings scraped briefly, then found the full, rich tone; footmen moved with elegance while balancing glasses of champagne and fruit punch.

  All she had intended was to scratch the veneer of Christina’s temper, and perhaps to learn in a moment of carelessness a little of what she knew about the society women who might have frequented Max’s brothel. The last thing Emily wanted was to cause a real and permanent injury. Please heaven Charlotte knew what she was doing!

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the necessities of polite conversation. She attended with only half her mind, making some silly observations about who might or might not win a horse race in the summer—she was not even sure if it was the Derby or the Oaks. Certainly the Prince of Wales’ name was mentioned.

  It was some thirty minutes or so before the subject exhausted itself, and Alan Ross asked Emily if she would honor him with the next dance. It was an odd exercise, to be so close to a person, sharing a movement, at times touching each other, and yet hardly speaking at all; they came together and swirled apart so briefly that any exchange of meaning was impossible.

  She watched his face. He was not as handsome as George, but there was a sensitivity about him that became more and more attractive as she knew him better. The events in Callander Square flashed back into her memory and she wondered how deeply he had been hurt. It had been no secret that he had loved Helena Doran. Was that wound still raw? Was that the pain inside him that honed fine his cheeks and the lines of his mouth?

  That could be a very good reason for Christina’s sharpness, for her apparent need to hurt Charlotte. Charlotte would remember about Helena, and was now overstepping the lines of accepted flirtation with the general by making a friend of him. It was understandable, if a little crude, to entertain a relationship simply on the fullness of a bosom or the curve of a hip. But to engage the mind, the compassion, and the imagination was beyond the rules.

  What rules did Christina observe? What did she even know?

  Emily glanced around the room as she turned in Alan Ross’s arms and, over his shoulder, saw Christina clinging close to a cavalry officer in resplendent uniform. She was laughing up into his eyes and she looked brilliantly alive. The officer was obviously enthralled.

  Emily looked back at Alan Ross. He must have seen it; he had faced that way only the moment before, but there was no change in his expression. Either he was so used to it that he had learned to mask his emotions, or else he no longer cared.

  The thought after that was obvious, and yet it was so unpleasant that for an instant Emily lost her footing and was clumsy. At another time she would have been mortified, but consumed as she was by the new thought, the triviality of mere physical gaucheness seemed quite banal.

  Was Christina herself one of Max’s women? Alan Ross was neither old nor in the slightest way boring. But perhaps his very charm, the unattainability of the inner man, was a far sharper goad to other conquests, no matter how shallow, than any boredom could be?

  Suddenly Emily’s animosity toward Christina turned to pity. She still could not like her, but she was forced to care. She was dancing close to Alan Ross; she could feel the cloth of his coat under her glove, and she was moving in perfect time with his body. Although they were barely touching, there was a union. Did he know about Christina, or guess? Was it his outraged vanity, suppressed for so long, that had finally murdered and mutilated Max?

  It was ridiculous! Here she was, dressed in pale green silk, dancing to violins under all these lights, in and out of the arms of a man she spoke to as a friend, and her mind was following him down filthy alleys to a confrontation with a footman turned whoremonger, to commit a murder of hatred and obscene revenge for the degradation of his wife.

  How could two such disparate worlds exist so closely side-by-side—or even within each other? How far away was the Devil’s Acre—three miles, five miles? How far away was it in thought?

  How many of these men here, with their spotless white shirts and precise manners, went on the nights it suited them, to drink and fumble and copulate in the beds of some laughing whore in a house like Max’s?

  The dance came to an end. She spoke some formal words to Alan Ross, and wondered if he had had even the faintest idea what she was thinking. Or if his own mind had been as far from her as hers was from this twinkling ballroom.

  Lady Augusta was talking to a young man with blond whiskers. Charlotte had been dancing with Brandy Balantyne, but now the general stepped forward and offered her his arm, not to dance but to accompany him away somewhere in the direction of the enormous conservatory. His broad shoulders were very straight, but his head was bent toward her, full of attention, and he was talking. Damn Charlotte! Sometimes she was so intensely stupid Emily could have slapped her! Could she not see the man was falling in love? He was fifty, lonely, intelligent, emotionally inarticulate—and idiotically, desperately vulnerable.

  But Emily could hardly stride after Charlotte now and pry her loose and kick some sense
into her. And, worst of all, when she realized what she had done she would be filled with pain—because she really had not the faintest idea! She simply liked the man enormously, and was unsophisticated enough to show it in the way that was natural to her—the giving of friendship.

  George was at Emily’s side, saying something to her.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said absently.

  “Balantyne,” he repeated. “Really quite odd, for a man of his breeding.”

  Emily might have her own private opinions about Charlotte, and at the moment they were a good deal less than charitable. But she was not about to accept criticism of her from anyone else, even George.

  “I cannot imagine what you are talking about,” she said stiffly. “But if you choose to apologize, I shall accept.”

  He was nonplussed. “I thought you were interested in social reform?” he said with a little shake of his head. “It was you who brought up the whole subject in the first place—and Charlotte, of course.”

  Now she was confused. She stared back at him impatiently; he did not seem to be making any sense.

  “What is the matter with you—do you feel faint?” he said at last. Then a flash of suspicion crossed his face. “Emily! What are you doing?”

  It was very seldom that George questioned her affairs, but she had always contrived to provide herself with satisfactory answers beforehand. And if they were less than the truth, she was usually positive beyond any doubt that he would never discover it. This was too short notice to invent a successful lie. Evasion was all that was left.

  “I’m sorry,” she said demurely. “I was watching Charlotte and General Balantyne. I fear she is not aware of quite what she is doing. I thought you were speaking of that. Now, of course, I realize you were not.”

  “I thought that was what you intended,” he said sincerely. “You gave her the dress. You might have foreseen she would look well in it.”

  It was too close to the truth for comfort, and Emily felt guilt sweep over her again. She had planned it, even if it had now gone beyond her control.

  “I did not intend her to flirt like a fool!” she snapped at him.

  “I think she does it rather well.” He sounded surprised himself. He had known Charlotte since the days before she married Pitt. She had been her mother’s despair then, because she simply would not conduct herself with the required charm and the mixture of frankness and deceit, excitement and humor that make for a successful flirtation. But time and confidence had effected a considerable change in her. And she was not flirting in the usual sense; the invitation she extended tacitly to Balantyne was not for a little game of dalliance, but for a very real friendship, where pain and pleasure last, and something of the inner self is given away.

  Emily had a sudden feeling that she was going to need George. “What were you saying about social reform?” she inquired.

  Maybe he sensed her unhappiness, or possibly he was only exercising good manners. “Brandy Balantyne was talking about social reform,” he answered agreeably. “These disgusting events in the Devil’s Acre seem to have affected him quite surprisingly. I think he really intends to do something about it!”

  She spoke spontaneously. “George, what kind of men go to the Devil’s Acre, to houses like Max’s?”

  “Really, Emily ... I hardly think ...” To her astonishment, he looked awkward, as though in spite of his more rational self, he still found the subject embarrassing in front of her.

  She gave him a wide stare. “Do you go, George?”

  “No, I do not!” He was genuinely shocked. “If I were going to do anything of that sort, I should at least go to the Haymarket, or the—Well, I certainly would not go to the Devil’s Acre.”

  “And what would you think of me, if I did?” she asked.

  “Don’t be absurd.” He did not even consider it seriously.

  “There must be women there,” she pointed out, “or there would be no brothels.” She momentarily forgot to use the euphemism for such establishments.

  “Of course there are women there, Emily,” he said with exaggerated patience. “But they are of a different sort. They are not—well—they are not women that one would—would do anything but ...”

  “Fornicate with,” she finished incisively. Another euphemism was abandoned.

  “Quite.” He was a little pink in the face, but she preferred to think it was due to a general discomfort for his own sex at large, rather than any personal guilt. She was perfectly aware that his conduct had not always been exemplary, but she was wise enough not to inquire into it. Such curiosity would bring nothing but unhappiness. To the best of her belief, he had been loyal since their marriage, and that was all she could reasonably ask.

  She smiled at him with quite honest warmth. “But Bertram Astley did.”

  The shadow returned to his eyes and he looked confused. “Odd,” he muttered. “I don’t think you should inquire into that, Emily. It’s really very sordid. I don’t mind your taking an interest in Charlotte’s investigations when they are moderately respectable—if you absolutely must.” He was aware of the limitations of the authority he could exercise without unpleasantness, and he hated unpleasantness. “But I think you should not seek to know about certain aberrations. It will only distress you.”

  Suddenly she was overwhelmingly fond of him. His concern was quite genuine; he knew the world she was beginning to examine, knew the frailties and the twisted hungers. He did not want her to be touched by it, and hurt.

  She put her hand on his arm and moved a little closer. She had no intention whatsoever of doing as he suggested. She was far tougher than he supposed, but it was very pleasant indeed that he imagined her so tender, so untouched. It was an idiotic notion, but just for a little while, perhaps till the end of the evening when the laughter and the lights died down, she would pretend to be the innocent creature he thought she was.

  Perhaps in the hard light of truth of Astley’s and Max’s deaths, and because of his fears for Alan Ross whom he liked, he, too, needed to pretend for a while.

  Alan Ross did not enjoy the ball; the lights and the music gave him no pleasure. All he could see was Christina’s laughing face staring up at one man after another as she danced closely and easily in their arms. He turned and saw Augusta staring in the same direction. She was quite still. Her hand was resting on the balustrade of the staircase, and it was gripping so hard the fingers were crooked and clenched inside her lace gloves.

  Ross’s eyes traveled past the bracelets on her wrists, over her white shoulders to her face. He had never realized she was capable of such emotion. He did not understand what it was—desperation, fear, a tenderness that made her angry?

  Beyond the dancers in their flower colors was the conservatory door where General Balantyne stood leaning forward a little, his face soft as he spoke to Charlotte Ellison. Ross’s eyes were drawn to her because she was beautiful. She had not the flawless loveliness of the young girls, or the chiseled bones of classic beauty, but a sheer intensity of life. Even across the swirl of the room he could feel her emotions. And next to her, so close that his hand brushed her arm, Balantyne was oblivious of all the world.

  Was that what Augusta saw that wounded her and caused the confusion he had seen?

  “He looked again. No—her head was turned the other way now, and she could not possibly see the general. She was still looking at Christina, at the foot of the curved stairway leading to the gallery, her mulberry-colored taffeta skirt billowing, gleaming where the light caught it, her cheeks flushed. The man beside her put his arm around her waist and whispered something so close to her ear she must have felt his breath on her skin.

  Alan Ross decided that moment that the next evening Christina went out alone in the carriage, whomever she was going to visit, he would follow her and know for himself the truth. However painful, the truth must be better than the hideous thoughts that were crowding his imagination now.

  His opportunity came almost before he was ready for
it. It was the following day, shortly after dinner. Christina excused herself, saying she had developed a headache and would take a short drive to get a breath of fresh air. She had been in the house all day and felt the atmosphere too close. She might call upon Lavinia Hawkesley, who had been indisposed lately, and Ross was not to wait up for her.

  He opened his mouth to protest; then, with cold fear inside him, he realized she had offered the perfect opportunity. “Very well, if you think she is well enough to receive,” he agreed, with only the smallest shake in his voice.

  “Oh, I’m sure,” she said cheerfully. “She is probably bored stiff, poor soul, if she has been alone all day and confined to the house. I expect she will be delighted with an hour or two’s company. Do not wait up for me.

  “No,” he said, turning away from her. “No. Good night, Christina.”

  “Good night.” She picked up the ruched skirt of her dinner dress and swept out. How different she was from the girl he had thought her! They were strangers, without humor and without trust.

  Five minutes later, when he heard the front door close, he stood up and went to the cloakroom where his heavy coat was hanging and put it on. He added a muffler and a hat, then went out into the icy street after her. It was not difficult to follow the carriage; it could not go quickly on the rime-encrusted cobbles, and at a brisk walk he kept within twenty feet of it. No one paid him the least attention.

  He had gone over a mile when he saw the carriage draw to a halt outside a large house. Christina got out of the carriage and went into the house. From the opposite pavement he could not distinguish the number, but he knew Lavinia Hawkesley lived in this area.

  So Christina had come, precisely as she had said, for a simple call upon a woman friend. He was standing here shaking with cold for no reason at all. It was stupid—and pathetic! The carriage was moving away. It was turning and coming back, not round to the mews. Christina must have dismissed it. Was she proposing to remain here all night? Or simply to use the Hawkesley coach to come home?