Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

Augusta’s eyes were as unfamiliar as those of some stranger he had accidentally jostled in the street. The sense of comfort he had felt at the dinner table among the wineglasses vanished like an illusion.

“I have every choice,” she said cuttingly. “I see to it that I do. Do you imagine that I am incompetent?”

That was one thought that had never crossed his mind since the day he had first met her, at her coming-out ball. She had been formidably composed even then. Her lack of nervousness, the fact that she neither flirted nor giggled, was among the things that had attracted him. The memory was of too long ago. He tried to recapture the feeling he had had then-the excitement, the sense of anticipation-and it eluded him. Vaguely it hurt. The qualities that had delighted him then were now frightening, like a closed door.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” He was wounded into a defense of himself, affecting the arrogance that had once sat on him so easily. “I am as well acquainted with Christina as you are.” A lie of majestic proportions. “She is excessively strong-willed. And even you, my dear Augusta, are capable of the occasional error.”

She was tired; her face hardened, finally shutting him out. She turned and continued her way up the stairs. Her back was straight, but she climbed with an effort.

“Naturally,” she said. “And so are you, Brandon. I wish you would refrain from discussing at the table such disagreeable subjects as slums and their various unfortunates-especially when we have guests. It is ill-mannered and can only lead to embarrassment. I would have expected you to see that for yourself! A social conscience is a worthy thing, but there are appropriate times and places for exercising it. In view of the fact that that wretched footman once served in this house, I would be obliged if you would refrain from mentioning him again. I do not wish the entire staff sent into hysterics, or the next thing we know, half of them will be giving notice-and it is hard enough to keep good servants these days as it is!” She reached the landing and turned for her bedroom. “Good night, Brandon.”

There was nothing else for him to do but reply, and to go on along to his own room. He closed the door and stood still. The room felt unfamiliar, though every furnishing, every book and memento had been his for years.

Balantyne was met the following morning in the hall by Stride, his face white, hands knotted in front of him instead of by his sides as usual. There were no members of the female staff to be seen. For an instant, it flashed across Balantyne’s mind that Augusta was right. All the maids had given notice and fled in the night, afraid that they were employed under the same roof as some creature like Max, and that they might be spirited off to a life of whoredom at any moment.

Stride was waiting, his eyes bleak.

“What is it?” Balantyne demanded. “What has happened?”

“The newspapers, sir-”

Was that all! Balantyne was furious with relief. “God damn it, man, so they’re late! If they haven’t come in an hour, send someone out for them!” He turned to brush past him and go in to breakfast.

Stride stood firm. “No, sir. I fear I have not made myself clear. The newspapers are here-it is what they contain, sir. There has been another murder in the Devil’s Acre, sir, this one far worse.”

Balantyne could not conceive of anything worse than the mutilation of Hubert Pinchin. His mind fumbled in horror, and failed.

“He was not so badly-” Stride hesitated and swallowed. “So injured, sir.”

Balantyne was confused, and relieved. “Not so badly? I thought you said worse?”

Stride’s voice dropped. “It was Sir Bertram Astley, sir. He was found outside a house of pleasure, for male persons only.”

“For male-? Good God! You mean a homosexual brothel?”

Stride winced; he was not accustomed to such vulgar frankness. “Yes, sir.”

“Bertie Astley …” Balantyne felt a little sick. Suddenly the smell of kedgeree drifting from the silver serving dish on the breakfast-room sideboard was nauseating.

“Would you like brandy in the library, sir?” Stride offered.

“Yes, please.” Bless the man. Balantyne had never appreciated him fully before. “Yes, I would.” He started gratefully toward the library.

“What would you like me to tell Her Ladyship, sir?”

Balantyne stopped. He would like to have protected her from knowing at all. It was ugly; she should not have to learn about such things.

“Tell her there has been another murder.” Reality would be forced upon her anyway; he could not shield her from that. But better she become acquainted with it by the decent words of someone like Stride, rather than the anonymous sensationalism of the newspaper or someone’s unthinking tattle. “You had better tell her it was Sir Bertram Astley, but do not say where he was found.”

“Quite so, sir. Unfortunately, Sir Bertram’s death will become common knowledge quite soon,” Stride said.

“Yes.” Balantyne could think of nothing more to say. “Yes. Thank you, Stride.” He went into the library and found the brandy already there, on a salver beside the newspaper. He poured himself a stiff tot and then sat down to read.

The corpse of Sir Bertram Astley had been found on the doorstep of a house of dubious repute in the Devil’s Acre. How idiotically they phrased it! The cause of death was a deep stab wound in the back, but he had also been slashed across the groin and the pit of the stomach. They did not mention the more private organs, but the implication was obvious, inexplicably the more grotesque for its omission. Apparently the murderer had intended to mutilate him as he had the previous victims, but had been frightened away before he could do more than vent his insane hatred in a single violent sweep of the knife. Inspector Thomas Pitt was in charge of this case, as he was of the two others.

Balantyne put down the paper and finished the brandy in a single, burning gulp.

Pitt had been called for in the pre-dawn darkness by a white-faced sergeant in a hansom cab. The man fumbled with his hat and clung to it with numb fingers as he tried to convey the urgency of his message without articulating the horror he had seen.-

Pitt understood. There had been another murder. Only a very grave discovery would bring the sergeant to his door at such an hour.

“It’s mortal cold outside, sir,” the sergeant offered, intending to be helpful.

“Thank you.” Pitt put on his jacket and then a voluminous coat that made him look as if a stiff wind might fill him out like a sail. He accepted a muffler from the sergeant’s outstretched hand, wound it around his neck, jammed on his hat, squashing his hair over his ears, and opened the front door. It was, as the sergeant had said, mortal cold.

They sat together in the hansom while it jolted over the uneven cobbles toward the Devil’s Acre.

“Well?” Pitt asked.

The sergeant shook his head. “Bad one,” he said sadly. “Sir Bertram Astley. Cut about-but not-well, not actually in pieces, as you might say.”

“Not mutilated like the others?”

“No-rather looked like our maniac was interrupted. Bit o’ late business, maybe.” He shook his head again. “I dunno!”

Pitt was confused. “Bit of late business-what do you mean?”

“Some’d say as that’s the worst part, sir. I dunno ’oo’s goin’ to tell ’is family! ’E was found in the doorway of a brothel-for male persons only.”

“Oh, God!” Pitt suddenly knew why the sergeant felt so awkward, why it was all so difficult to put into words. How do you tell people like the Astleys that the scion of their house has been murdered and indecently wounded in the doorway of a male brothel? Now he understood the reason for the pity in the sergeant’s face, the unnecessary warning that it was cold outside.