Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

But before all that he must see the corpse, and the place where they had found him.

“Sorry, sir.” The sergeant put on his hat and banged it with the flat of his hand.

“Who discovered him, and when?” Pitt asked.

“Constable Dabb, sir. I left ’im there in charge to see that nothin’ was moved. Bright lad. Saw ’im-Sir Bertram, that is-about quarter past four, or a few moments after. ’Eard Big Ben, ’e did. Body was lyin’ in the doorway. So Constable Dabb goes over to look at wot ’e’s doin’ there, like. Then o’ course ’e sees as ’e’s dead. We gets a fair few dead uns in the Acre and all around there, so ’e don’t take all that much notice, not like to send for me, till ’is coat falls open and poor Dabb sees wot’s bin done to ’is-wot’s bin done to ‘im. Then, o’ course, ’e sends for us-’otfoot! And we sends for you.”

“How did you know who he was?” How long could a dead man lie in the Devil’s Acre and not be robbed of everything but his clothes?

The sergeant understood. “No money, o’ course, but still got ’is cards and a few letters and the like. Anyway, don’t know what the doc’ll say yet, but ’e won’t ’ave bin there that long, not more’n an hour. Trade comin’ and goin’ ’d ’ave fallen over ’im otherwise. Course they finish on the early side. Daylight, an’ they all want to be w’ere they ain’t ashamed to be seen. Back at their own tables, most like, to lead family prayers!” The contempt in his voice was as thick and pungent as tar, although Pitt was not sure whether it was for their use of the place itself or for their hypocrisy in hiding it. Another time, perhaps, he would ask.

The hansom jarred to a stop and they both climbed down. They were on the southern edge of the Acre, hard by the river, its damp breath swirling up over the rime of ice hardening on the pavement since the rain had stopped. Above and beyond them in the clogging darkness loomed the Gothic towers of the Houses of Parliament.

A young constable with a lantern was standing guard over a body crumpled in a doorway, all of it but the face covered by a heavy overcoat. Decency had prompted the constable to hide the face with his own cape, and he stood shivering beside it. A strange reverence, Pitt thought, that makes us take off our own clothing and stand chilled to the bone in order to clothe the dead already touched with the final coldness of the grave.

“Mornin’, sir,” the constable said respectfully. “Mornin’, Mr. Pitt.”

Such is fame.

“Good morning, Constable Dabb,” he said, returning the compliment. It was a mean street, smelling of dirt and refuse. There were other derelicts asleep in the doorways opposite. Glanced at in the gray light, they did not look significantly different from the corpse of Bertram Astley. “How did you know he was dead?” he asked, wondering what had made the constable stop and examine this particular body.

Constable Dabb straightened a little. “West side of the street, sir,” he replied.

“West side?”

“Wind’s from the east, sir. And bin rainin’, too. Nobody, even a drunk, is goin’ to sleep in the wet when there’s shelter twenty feet away on the other side.”

Pitt gave him a smile of appreciation, then picked up the cape and handed it back to him. He bent over the corpse. Bertram Astley had been a handsome man: regular features, good nose, fair hair and side whiskers, and very slightly darker mustache. His eyes were closed, and it was impossible to guess what vitality he might have possessed in life.

Pitt looked down and opened the coat where Constable Dabb’s sense of decency had compelled him to close it over the wound. This one was peremptory, a single slash, not deep. There was not a great deal of blood. He lifted the shoulders enough to see the back. The coat was cut and there was a long, dark stain a little to the left of the spine. This was the death wound, the same as the others. He let the body ease back to its position.

“Have you sent for the surgeon?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” Of course he had; his professional pride would not permit him to forget such a primary task.

Pitt looked around the street. There was nothing else unusual. It was narrow, lined with houses that sagged as timbers rotted and plaster grew mold and bulged, crumbling away. Drains overflowed. Would anyone have noticed a man carrying a corpse, or two people righting? He doubted it. If there had been a witness entering or leaving the brothel, would they ever be found-or speak if they were? Hardly. Homosexuality was a crime carrying a long penalty of imprisonment, and social ruin for life. Of course to practice it discreetly was common enough, but to force people to admit they were aware of it was utterly different.

“See what else you can do here,” he instructed. “Do you have the address of the family?”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant handed it to him on a slip torn from his notebook.

Pitt sighed. “Then I’d better go and tell them before the newspapers have time to print a late extra. No one should learn of this sort of thing from a paper.”

“No, sir. I’m afraid there was reporters ’ere over an hour ago. I don’t know ’ow they ’eard-”

It was not worth discussing. There were eyes and ears everywhere! — people accustomed to death, and keen for a sixpence to let some newshound be the first to run to Fleet Street with material for glaring headlines.

Pitt climbed back into the hansom and gave the driver the address of the Astleys’ London house.

There was faint light in the sky when he stepped out and dismissed the cab. He had no idea how long he would be.

The street was almost deserted. A kitchenmaid carried out rubbish; a bootboy slammed a back door. Only the servants’ quarters were alive. He climbed the steps to the front door and knocked. A footman, looking sur- prised, answered. Pitt did not give him time to make judgments.

“Good morning,” he said firmly. “I am from the police. I am afraid I have very serious news to deliver. Will you please conduct me to a suitable place, and inform the head of the family? And you had better bring brandy, or whatever you consider best for the treatment of shock.”

The footman was stunned. He made no protest as Pitt stepped in past him and closed the door.

“Sir Bertram-” he began.

“Is not at home. I know,” Pitt interrupted quietly. “I am afraid he is dead.”

“Oh.” The footman attempted to collect himself, but the situation was beyond him. “I had-” He swallowed. “I had better fetch Mr. Hodge, the butler-and Mr. Beau, Sir Bertram’s brother.” And before Pitt could speak, the footman flung open the door of the cold morning room where a maid had cleaned the grate but not yet lit the fire. “Sir.” He left Pitt to fend for himself, and disappeared toward the back of the dark hallway, the green baize door, and safety.

Pitt stared around the room. It was full of rich furniture, much of it exotic: lacquered Japanese tables, inlaid ebony, intaglio, French watercolors on the wall. The Astleys lacked neither taste nor money to indulge themselves, and their choice was exceedingly catholic.

An elderly butler came in, sober-faced, a silver tray with brandy and French lead-crystal glasses in his hand.

“Is Frederick correct, sir, that Sir Bertram has met with an accident and is dead?”

There was no purpose in lying; the butler would be the one who would have to control the staff and see that during the first days’ distress of the family all the necessary duties of the household were continued. “I am sorry, it was not an accident. Sir Bertram was murdered.”

“Oh dear.” Hodge set the brandy down sharply on the table. “Oh dear.”

He had not managed to think of anything else to say when a few moments later a young man opened the door and stood staring. He was still dressed in night attire and robe. His fair hair was damp from his morning ablutions, but he was not yet shaved. There was a marked resemblance between his features and those of the dead man: the same good nose and broad brow. But this face, even in the tight expectancy of fear, was animated; there were lines of humor about the mouth, and the eyes were wide and blue.