Death in the Devil's Acre Read online

  Alan Ross was left to wait like a loiterer on the corner and decide whether to go home himself, soak the chill out of his bones in hot water, and go to bed, or to remain here until Christina came out and to follow her again. But that would be ridiculous; the whole idea had been futile, an aberration of his normal sanity. Christina was frequently selfish, but she was innocent of anything worse than indiscretion—a spoiled and pretty woman’s exercise of power, the hunger to be the center of attention, always lavishly admired.

  The door of the house opened, a stream of light fell on the path, and Christina and Lavinia Hawkesley came out. The door closed behind them and they set off down the street on foot.

  Where in heaven’s name were they going? Ross went after them. When they came to the main road and stopped a hansom cab, he hailed one as soon after as he was able, and ordered the cabbie to follow them.

  The journey was farther than he expected. Again and again they turned corners until he lost sense of direction, except that he thought they were coming closer to the river and the heart of the city. The way was narrower, the lights farther between. A dim halo of mist reflected the glow and the damp air smelled stale. High above loomed a great shadow against the sky. His throat tightened and suddenly he found it hard to breathe.

  The Acre—the Devil’s Acre! Why in God’s name was Christina coming here? His mind was whirling, thoughts like a dark snowstorm battering him and melting into each other. There was no bearable answer.

  The cab ahead stopped and one of the women alighted. She was small, slight, head high and feet quick on the stones. Christina.

  Ross opened his cab door, thrust a coin into the driver’s hands, and stumbled out onto the dim pavement, trying to discern the outline of the house Christina had by now entered. It was high, standing straight, windows glimmering in the faint gaslight—a merchant’s house?

  The other cab with Lavinia Hawkesley in it had disappeared. Wherever she was going, it was still farther into the labyrinth of the Acre.

  For the first time, he looked around at the rest of the street. He had been so absorbed in watching the women he had not thought of anything else, but now he saw a group of four or five men about thirty yards to the left, and on the far side another three lounging in an alley entrance. He turned. There were more to the right, watching him.

  He could not stay here; he was dressed conspicuously, and his coat alone would be worth attacking for. He might fight off one man, even armed, but not half a dozen.

  He started to walk toward the door through which Christina had disappeared. After all, his purpose in following her had been to learn where she was going, and why. The door was closed; if he gained entrance and faced Christina, what could he say? Did he even want her to know he had committed this foolish act of following her here? What could he do about it anyway? Confine her to the house? Withdraw all marital affection from her? Or put her away as a—a what? What was it that she was doing here?

  The wild flights of imagining were worse than knowing; he understood himself well enough not to think he could dismiss it and ever again have an unclouded moment. And perhaps he was unjust to her? Perhaps she was innocent of the things now in his mind.

  There was a noise behind him in the street. A violent shiver of fear ran through him like a drench of cold water. Had the victims of the Devil’s Acre murderer been strangers like himself—men unwanted here, and hacked to pieces for their intrusion? His hand lifted the knocker and crashed it down violently.

  Seconds dragged by. There was the sound of shuffling feet in the street, and the trickle of water. Ross slammed the knocker again and again, then twisted his head to look behind him. Two of the men were closer and still moving toward him. He had nothing to fight them with but his hands; he had not even brought a stick.

  Sweat broke out on his body. It crossed his mind to go out toward them, to start the fight himself so at least it would be quick. He would not think of the mutilation afterward.

  Suddenly the door opened; he lost his balance and stumbled in.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Ross collected his wits and peered at the man holding a candle in the dark hallway. He was shabby; his belly protruded over his trousers, his slippers were loose-soled and fraying. He was a big man, and he stood between Ross and the stairs that led upward.

  “Yes, sir?” he said again quietly.

  Ross said the first thing that came into his head. “I want to rent a room.”

  The man looked him up and down with narrow eyes. “All by yerself, are yer?”

  “None of your business.” Ross gulped. “Do you have rooms? I saw a young woman come in a few minutes ago, and she most assuredly does not live here!”

  “None o’ your business.” The man mimicked his tone with perfect contempt. “People rahnd ’ere keeps their noses in their own muck’eaps and don’t go lookin’ trough nobody else’s, mister. That way vey don’t get nuffin cut orf, like! Nasty fings can ’appen to vem as can’t keep veir eyes and veir marvs to veirselves.”

  Ross felt the cold run through him. For a moment, half his brain had forgotten murder. He tried to sound calm, sure of himself. His throat was dry, his voice higher than usual.

  “I don’t care in the slightest what she came for,” he said, trying to put a sneer in his voice. “Whom she meets is of no possible interest to me. I merely wish to come to a similar arrangement myself.”

  “Well, vat’ll be kind o’ difficult, mister, seein’ as she comes ter see the gent wot owns ’ole row o’ ahses!” He gave a harsh laugh and spat on the floor. “Nah as ’is bruvver’s bin snuffed, like! Reckon as ve Acre’s slasher done ’im a good turn!”

  Ross froze.

  “Wot’s ve matter wiv yer? Scared? ’Fraid ve slasher’s after you too, eh? Mebbe ’e is an’ all!” He sniggered. “Mebbe yer’d better scarper w’ile yer still got all yer parts—yer dirty little git!” His voice was filled with disgust, and Ross felt his face sting as the hot blood burned up inside him. This creature thought he had come sneaking here to satisfy some appetite that—

  Ross straightened up, muscles tight, chin high. Then he remembered the men outside in the street. He crumpled again. He could not afford pride, and he most certainly dare not appear inquisitive.

  “Have you rooms or have you not?” he asked quietly.

  “’Ave you money?” The man held out a dirty finger and thumb and rubbed them together.

  “Of course I have! How much?”

  “’Ow long?”

  “All night, of course! Do you think I want to be shuffled in and out with someone waiting on my heels and looking at his watch?”

  “All by yerself?” The man’s eyebrows rose. “W’y don’tcher lock yer door an’ do it at ’ome? Wotever it is as takes yer fancy—”

  Ross dearly wanted to hit him. He resisted the temptation for a moment; then anger, fear, and the scalding wound of Christina’s betrayal exploded inside him. He struck the man hard with a closed fist, sending him hurtling back, head cracking against the wall. He slithered down into a heap on the floor and lay still.

  Ross turned and pulled the door open and stepped out into the street. Whoever was there, he had to face them. He had made it impossible to stay here. This time he did not hesitate. His heart was racing, his fists already clenched ready to strike anyone who had the recklessness to molest him. He walked quickly, bumping into a beggar on the corner and knocking him sidewise. The man swore and Ross passed on oblivious. He knew the direction of Westminster, and he was making for well-lit streets and safety.

  Footsteps echoed behind him and he increased his pace. It must be only a few hundred yards now. There were people huddled in doorways, both men and women. Someone giggled in the dark. There was a slap of flesh. A pile of refuse fell over with a scatter of rats. He ran.

  It was late in the afternoon two days later when the maid came into his study and told Ross that a Mr. Pitt was here and would like to speak with him.

  Pitt? He knew no one called Pitt. “
Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir.” The maid looked doubtful. “He is a very odd person, sir. Beggin’ your pardon, but he was most insistent. Wouldn’t give no reason, sir, but says as you know ’im.”

  “He must be mistaken.”

  “’E won’t go away, sir. Shall I get Donald to put ’im out, sir? I daresn’t tell ’im meself. ’E’s sort o’—well, ’is clothes is all any’ow, like they wasn’t properly ’is to begin with, if you know what I mean. But ’e speaks like a gentleman, real proper—”

  Suddenly, Ross remembered. “Oh, God! Yes, send him in. I do know him.”

  “Yes, sir.” She forgot her curtsy and scurried out, overwhelmed with relief.

  A moment later, Pitt came in, smiling casually as if he had been invited. “Good morning, Mr. Ross. Nasty weather.”

  “Horrible,” Ross agreed. “What can I do for you, Mr. Pitt?”

  Pitt sat down as if the offer had been one of natural hospitality. He pulled himself a little closer to the fire. He must already have given the maid whatever outer clothing he had, because he now wore only dark trousers, a clean but rather voluminous shirt, and a jacket whose pockets appeared to be stuffed with objects of awkward sizes. The whole thing hung crooked and looked to be fastened on uneven buttons.

  “Thank you.” He rubbed his hands and held them out to the flames. “A lot of police work is very tedious.”

  “I’m sure it must be.” Ross was really not interested. He was unable to be sorry for the man.

  “Endless questioning of not very pleasant people,” Pitt went on. “And of course we have certain acquaintances who keep us informed if anything unusual happens.”

  “Quite. But I’m afraid I am not one of them. I know nothing that could be of use to you. I’m sorry.”

  Pitt turned to look up at him. He had remarkable eyes; the light shone through them like a shaft of sun through seawater.

  “I was referring to quite a different sort of person, Mr. Ross. Like the old fellow that told me today of a gentleman looking for rooms in Drake Street, in the Devil’s Acre, a couple of nights ago. Lot of gentlemen do, for reasons of their own. However this particular one, well dressed, well spoken, just like most, got very upset when his reasons were commented on. And that’s most unusual. Most gentlemen using such places are only too glad to be as discreet as possible.”

  He appeared to be waiting for an answer. Ross felt suddenly stiff, as if he had walked miles and slept ill. “I suppose they are,” he said awkwardly. His memory flashed back to the dim hallway, the smell of dirt, the man’s enraging, filthy leer. His throat tightened.

  “Completely lost his temper,” Pitt went on with a lift of surprise in his voice. “Hit him!”

  Ross swallowed. “Was he hurt?”

  Pitt smiled, pulling the corners of his mouth down in a tiny grimace. “Pretty good crack on his skull, broken collarbone. He’s certainly very angry about it. Put the word about that if the fellow comes back to the Acre he’s to be taught a lesson in a way he won’t forget! That’s how I heard about it—the word around.” Suddenly he looked directly at Ross and his eyes were full of brilliance. “But you didn’t kill him, if that’s what you are afraid of.”

  “Thank God—I—I—” He stopped, but it was too late. “I didn’t go there for—” He could not bear anyone, even this policeman, to think he had intended to hire some whore and take her there.

  Pitt’s face was quite smooth, even friendly. “No, Mr. Ross, I didn’t think for a moment that you did,” he said. “What did you go there for?”

  Oh, God! This was even worse. He could not possibly tell him about Christina. His heart pounded at the memory and the room seemed red-edged, whirling far away.

  “I cannot say—it is a private matter.” Pitt would have to think whatever he wished. The truth was worse than any imagining.

  “Very dangerous, sir.” Pitt’s voice was getting gentler and gentler, as if he were speaking to someone in great trouble. “Three men have been murdered in the Devil’s Acre. But I’m sure you knew that.”

  “Of course I knew that!” Ross shouted.

  Pitt took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Not a place to go sightseeing, Mr. Ross. It’s ugly and it’s dangerous, and people have paid very highly for then-pleasures there lately. What particular curiosity was it that took you to that house?”

  Ross hesitated. The man was like a ferret, tracking him in all the tunnels of his misery to corner him into some damning truth. Better give him one and send him away with it. That would at least guard the others, the ones he could not bear to tell.

  “I had an idea whom it belonged to,” he lied, looking Pitt squarely in his bright eyes. “I wanted to know if it was true. I hated to think any acquaintance of mine should make his living on the ownership of such places.”

  “And was it true?” Pitt inquired.

  Ross swallowed. “Yes, I’m afraid it was.”

  “Who would that be, Mr. Ross?”

  “Bertram Astley.”

  “Indeed.” Pitt’s face relaxed. “Was it indeed? So that is where the Astley money comes from. And now of course Sir Beau has it.”

  “Yes.” Ross let his breath go. He felt better. Pitt would never know about Christina, that she had gone there to meet Beau Astley in that filthy place. His wife—lying there in—He forced it from his mind, drove it out. Any other pain was better than this. “Yes, it was,” he repeated. “Perhaps that will help you in your investigations. I’m sorry, perhaps I should have told you before.”

  Pitt stood up. “Yes, sir, I think perhaps you should. But now that I do know”—his face split in a sudden charming smile—“I’m damned if I can see where it gets me!”

  Ross said nothing. There was no emotion left inside him to draw on; he simply watched Pitt walk to the door and out into the hallway to take his coat from the maid.

  8

  PITT STUMBLED DOWNSTAIRS in the dark and opened the door. Outside on the step, gleaming wet in the lamplight and the rain, a constable stood, water running off his cloak in streams and splashing on the stones. The night was still black, before even the gray smudge of false dawn.

  Pitt blinked fuzzily and shuddered with cold as the air hit his body. “For God’s sake come in!” he said irritably. “What is it now?”

  The constable stepped inside gingerly, scattering water over the floor, but Pitt was too cold to care. Gracie was not up yet and all the fires were out. “Shut that door behind you, man, and come into the kitchen.” He led the way in enormous strides. The linoleum was like ice under his bare feet. At least the kitchen floor was wooden and kept the warmth of something that had once been alive. And the stove would be alight; it always was. With a little riddling and stoking he might even get the kettle to boil. The idea of a cup of steaming tea was the nearest he could get to decent sense. Going back to bed and the refuge of sleep was obviously impossible.

  “Well, what is it?” he demanded again, pushing and pulling at the fire furiously. “And take that thing off”—he gestured at the man’s cloak—“before you drown us all.”

  The constable obediently divested himself of the cloak and set it down in the scullery. He was a domestic man, and normally would have known what to do without being told. But the news he had brought had swept away his years of training by mother and wife.

  “It’s another one, sir,” he said quietly, coming back into the kitchen and handing Pitt the kettle he was reaching for. “And it’s worse than before.”

  Pitt knew why he had come, but it would still be ugly to hear. Before the words were spoken, there was always the hope it might be something else.

  The pressure was mounting: Athelstan had called for him again—the newspapers were spreading the panic. And he knew that Charlotte, for all her pretended innocence, was using Emily’s social position to pursue her own suspicions about Max’s women and Bertie Astley’s life. If he accused Charlotte of lying, they would have the sort of argument that would wound them both. Besides, he could
not prove he was right; he simply knew her well enough to understand her sense of purpose. And, by God, he was going to get the Devil’s Acre slasher before she did!

  He was still standing in the middle of the kitchen floor with the kettle in his hand. “Worse?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” The constable’s voice dropped. “I bin round the Acre ever since I joined the force, but I never seen anythin’ like this before.”

  Pitt poured the water into the pot. The steam rose fragrantly into the air. He took half a loaf of bread out of the big wooden bin. Whatever it was that waited for him, however appalling, would be worse on an empty stomach in the icy morning.

  “Who is it?”

  The constable handed him the bread knife. “A man. Things in his pockets says ’e’s called Ernest Pomeroy. They found ’im on the steps of a charity ’ouse, Sisters o’ Mercy, or something—not Popish—reg’lar church,” he explained hastily. “Woman as found ’im’ll never be the same again. In ’ysterics, she was, poor creature, white as paper and screamin’ somethin’ terrible.” He shook his head in bewilderment and accepted the china mug of tea Pitt handed him. Automatically he put both hands around it and let the heat tingle his numb flesh.

  Pitt sliced bread and set it on top of the cooking surface to toast. He reached down two plates, the butter from the cool pantry, and marmalade. He tried to imagine the woman, dedicated to good work, sheltering the homeless and uplifting the fallen. She would be used to death; she could hardly fail to be, in the Devil’s Acre. Indecency would be all around her, but she had probably never seen a naked man in her life—perhaps not even imagined one.

  “Was he mutilated?” he asked unnecessarily.

  “Yes, sir.” The constable’s face blanched at the memory. “Cut to pieces, ’e was, and sort of—well—like ’e’d bin ripped by some kind o’ animal—with claws.” He took a deep breath, the muscles in his throat tight. “Like someone ’ad tried to pull ’is privates off ’im with their ’ands.”

  He was right—it was getting worse. Bertie Astley’s injuries had been slight, almost a gesture. The thought returned to him that Bertie was not a victim of the same killer, but that Beau Astley had seen the chance to step into his brother’s place and lay the blame on a lunatic already beyond the pale of ordinary human decency. It was a thought he tried to reject because he had liked Beau Astley, as one likes from a distance someone one does not know but feels to be pleasant.