Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

Pitt snorted and went out of the “’ouse,” past the rotting wood in the yard, a pile of refuse, and two drunks in the gutter. He made his way rapidly through the rain to George Street. This was a distinctly more salubrious part of the Acre, only a few moments’ walk from the Houses of Parliament.

Max did indeed have an unusual skill. If he had managed to acquire some “ladies of blood,” as Squeaker put it, and three or four thoroughly handsome whores accomplished in their art, he would have made himself a very rich man in a few years.

Pitt found the house without much difficulty. A man asking for such a place was not unusual, and those willing to give directions were often compensated for their trouble by the proprietors of the establishments.

This particular house was inconspicuous, even a little grubby, on the outside. It could easily have been taken for another one of the numerous common lodging houses; anonymity was a necessary part of the trade.

Inside, however, the style changed. The entrance hallway was discreetly elegant. Pitt was reminded of Max’s service in fine houses of men and women whose taste was nurtured by generations of money and breeding. These were people who knew the masters of painting and furniture design as instinctively as they knew how to construct a grammatical sentence, or to walk with head high and a very slight swagger to the hips.

Beyond the hallway in the main reception room there was nothing opulent, nothing vulgar. Its sensuality was one of quiet color, which belied the ease with which each piece of furniture and each painting complemented the others. The pleasure the room afforded was tactile as well: soft velvets, a carpet that made the feet tread silently, almost as if upon grass. Indeed, Max possessed a veritable art!

A man in livery came forward, affecting to be something between a footman and a butler. He was obviously in charge of who would be permitted to become a customer and who would be discreetly redirected elsewhere.

“Good afternoon, sir.” He eyed Pitt’s clothes and, with an almost imperceptible change of expression, determined that he was unlikely to be able to pay the house charges. But he was too skilled to dismiss him immediately. Gentlemen of the most distinguished rank and fortune were known to assume the oddest of disguises at times.

“Good afternoon.” Pitt understood the process exactly, and with a touch of amusement he played it all the way, using his most courteous manner. “I came here by recommendation.” He made sure he stood perfectly straight-shouldered, as if his disastrous clothes were an attempt at passing for a native of the Acre-as indeed they were, but for an entirely different reason. “I have heard from various of my friends”-could Squeaker Harris be termed a friend? — “that you have ladies of far greater quality than any of your competitors.”

The man’s face relaxed. He decided Pitt was a gentleman, after all. His voice, not his clothes, betrayed the man: that beautiful diction, and the bearing.

“That is perfectly true, sir. What kind of quality had you in mind? We have both quality of experience and, if you prefer, quality of breeding-although that, of course, does require a little special arrangement.”

So business was proceeding as usual, in spite of Max’s dramatic demise!

Pitt flared his nostrils a little and widened his eyes, looking very slightly down at the man. “Quality of breeding,” he replied in a tone that suggested there could have been no other answer.

“Quite, sir,” the man replied. “If you would care to make an appointment in advance, I will see that it is arranged. You understand, we can make less deference to individual tastes in such circumstances. But if you care to tell me what coloring, what figure, you prefer, we will endeavor to accommodate you.”

Yes, Max had had more than talent. He had had genius!

“Excellent,” Pitt answered easily. “I like auburn coloring”-automatically he pictured Charlotte-“or, next to that, dark. And I do not care for fat women, nor yet too thin. Don’t give me someone whose bones I can feel!”

“Quite, sir,” the man said again, bowing. “An excellent taste, if I may say so.” He could have been a butler commenting upon a choice of wine for the table. “If you will return in three days’ time, we will provide you with something that will be to your satisfaction. Our financial settlement will be fifty guineas-payable in advance-upon your meeting the lady and believing her acceptable, of course.”

“Naturally,” Pitt replied. “I must say, my friend was correct. You would appear to be by far the most superior establishment in the area.”

“We have no rival, sir,” the man said simply. “Those like Mr. Mercutt, who imagine they can imitate us, are quite inferior-as perhaps you have already heard.”

“Mercutt?” Pitt repeated, frowning a little. “I don’t think I have heard the name?” He let his voice rise, inviting explanation.

“Ambrose Mercutt,” The man’s eyebrows lifted fractionally in disdain. “A most indifferent person, I assure you, sir, but with pretensions.” A duchess might have spoken of a social climber with just such a tone of weary condescension.

Pitt had the name he wanted. He had accomplished all he could here. The local station would know where to find Mr. Mercutt.

“No.” He shook his head. “I cannot think that anyone has mentioned his name to me. He cannot be of any account.” Better to leave the man flattered and secure. Comfortable people betray far more than those who are suspicious.

The man smiled with satisfaction. “Quite, sir-of no account at all. If you care to return at about this time in the afternoon, in three days’ time?”

Pitt inclined his head in agreement and took his leave, equally satisfied.

Inspector Parkins received Pitt with a look of expectant pleasure. The case of Max Burton had been handed over and Parkins was delighted to be rid of it. There were already more than enough unsolved crimes within his responsibility, and this particular one promised little joy.

“Ah! Mr. Pitt, come in. Wretched day. What can I do for you?”

Pitt took off his coat and the appalling hat, then ran his fingers through his hair, making it look as if he had had a bad fright. He sat down in the chair opposite Parkins.

“Ambrose Mercutt?” he asked.

Parkins’ face relaxed into a dry smile. “Ambrose Mercutt,” he repeated. “An elegant pimp with ambitions. You think he might have murdered Max out of a business rivalry?”

“Max was taking his trade.”

Parkins shrugged and raised his eyes. “Do you know how many brothels there are in this area?” It was a rhetorical question.

Pitt took it literally. “About eighty-five thousand prostitutes in London,” he answered.

Parkins put his hands up to his face. “Oh, God-is it that many? I look at them sometimes and wonder how they came to it. Stupid, isn’t it? But there are a couple of thousand at least, here on my patch. We can’t clean them out-and what good would it do anyway? They’d only start up somewhere else. We don’t call it the oldest profession for nothing. And a lot of the patrons are men with money-and power. I dare say you know that as well as I do. A police inspector who made things embarrassing for them would have a good deal more courage than sense.”

Pitt knew it was all ugly and painfully true. “So you didn’t take a lot of interest in Max-or Ambrose Mercutt?”

Parkins pulled a face. “We can’t do everything. Better to concentrate on crimes where there are obvious victims and we can imprison someone, if we catch them-theft, forgery, robbery, assault. There are enough of them to use all our time.”

“Then what is the gossip about Ambrose Mercutt and Max?”