Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

Or was it hatred for Max because he had taken her trade after all? Or something he had not even considered yet? Could she even have been attracted to Max herself? It was conceivable; she was young, the curves of her mouth were soft and rich. Was Max’s killing simply the rage of a woman rejected?

Considered in that light, though, Hubert Pinchin’s death made no sense.

“Where did he meet these highborn women?” he asked instead. “Not here in the Acre?”

The emotion died from her face. Her eyes were calm again, like gray water with flecks of slate in them. “Oh, no, he went to some of the dining places and theaters where such women go,” she replied. “He had been a footman in a big house-he knew how to behave. He was very striking to look at and he had good clothes. He had an art to sense when a woman was dissatisfied, and he knew which ones had the nerve or the desperation to do something about it.”

Once again, Pitt was forced to acknowledge that Max had had a talent of massive proportions, and had exercised it to the full. But if it was immense, it was also dangerous.

What happened when these women grew bored, or frightened? Society would turn a blind eye to a great deal, but whoring for money in the Devil’s Acre was grossly beyond its capacity to ignore. There was an almost infinite difference between what a man might do and get away with-as long as he was discreet-and what a woman, any woman, might be forgiven. Sexual appetite was part of a man’s nature, abhorred by the sanctimonious but accepted-even made the butt of sly jokes-and given a certain reluctant admiration by most.

But, by convention, men chose to believe that women were different. Only harlots took pleasure in the bedroom. To sell one’s body was sin unto damnation. And when these women of Max’s saw their safety-their marriages-imperiled, what did they do? Did Max allow them to leave quietly, as secretly as they had come, and then obliterate their names from his memory? Or did he keep an eternal whip held over them?

The reasons for murder were legion!

Victoria Dalton was still regarding him soberly. He had no idea how much of his thought she had guessed.

“Have you ever heard of a Dr. Hubert Pinchin?” he asked her.

“He was murdered also, wasn’t he.” It was a statement, not a question. “That was some distance from here. No, I don’t think I knew anything about him.” She hesitated. “Not under that name, anyway. People here don’t always give their own names, you know.” She kept all but a shadow of her contempt out of her voice.

“He was stocky, running to paunch,” Pitt said, starting to describe Pinchin as he had seen him dead in the slaughterhouse yard, yet trying to re-create him alive in his mind’s eye. “He had thinning gray-brown hair, a broad, rather squashy nose, mouth apparently good-humored, small eyes, and a plum-colored complexion. He wore baggy clothes. He liked Stilton cheese and good wine.”

She smiled. “There are a lot of gentlemen in London like that, and a great many of them, with unfriendly wives of forbidding virtue, find their way here at some time or another.”

That described Valeria Pinchin remarkably well. It would not be surprising if Hubert Pinchin had found his way to Victoria Dalton’s house, a place of considerable laughter and purchased pleasure, fat pillows, soft bosoms, lush hips, and obliging habits.

“Yes, I imagine so,” he said unhappily. “What about Sir Bertram Astley-young, fair, good-looking, quite tall?” He had forgotten to ascertain the color of his eyes, but the description was useless anyway. There must be several hundred young men in London, even with breeding and money, who would answer it.

“Not by name,” she answered patiently. “And we do not pry. It’s bad for business.”

That was unarguable.

It began to look more and more as if it were a random lunatic with some passionate hatred of masculinity, perhaps some man injured or impotent himself, tormented by it until his mind had turned. That was an unsatisfactory answer. But so far he had discovered no connection, however tenuous, between Max, Dr. Pinchin, and Sir Bertram Astley.

Perhaps if he pursued Max’s conquests something would emerge, some woman known to all of them-perhaps used by all of them. Yes … a revenge-crazed husband was not impossible. Or even if the woman herself had been blackmailed, she might have hired some ruffian to blot out all traces of her aberration. There were plenty in the Devil’s Acre who would do such a thing for a small fee, small compared to the ruin that might face her. And if she spoke to the ruffian anonymously, well cloaked and hooded, she might be safe enough afterward.

But why the terrible mutilation? His stomach tightened and he felt sick again at the memory of Pinchin with his dismembered genitals. Perhaps it was a husband who had done it, after all. Or a father. There was too much hate involved for something as cold as money.

The speculation was useless until he had more information. He stood up.

“Thank you, Miss Dalton, you have been most helpful.” Why was he being so polite, almost deferential to this woman? She was a bawdy-house keeper, like Ambrose Mercutt and Max himself. Maybe it was a mark of his own worth, and had nothing to do with her. “If I can think of anything else I need to ask, I shall come back.”

She stood also. “Of course. Good day, Mr. Pitt.”

The maid showed him out into the grimy street, the already darkening afternoon. The stink of sewage came up from the river, and the long moan of a foghorn sounded as barges, gunwale deep, made their way toward the Pool of London and the busiest docks in the world.

Perhaps it was not even the same murderer in all three cases. They had been given wide publicity. Maybe one at least was a copycat crime. What about Beau Astley, with his brother’s title, fortune-and possibly even May Woolmer-to inherit?

Why should he be surprised to find the Devil’s work here in the Devil’s Acre?

The murder of Bertram Astley was on the front pages of all the newspapers. The public was outraged. Under the shrill cries of horror, of the offense to decency, beneath even the compassion, there was a hard, real feeling of fear, close and personal. If a man like Astley could be so obscenely murdered for no apparent reason, who was safe in the streets?

Of course it was not said openly. There were letters to the editor requiring more action from the police, more efficiency, men of better discipline and intelligence. There was a demand to know whose errors were being hidden by this silence. Was there corruption in high places that these monstrous crimes were still unsolved? One elderly gentleman even suggested that the Devil’s Acre be burned to the ground and all its denizens transported to Australia forthwith.

Charlotte put down the paper and tried to clear the echoes of hysteria from her mind, to think what kind of man Bertram Astley might have been. Everything she had read was filtered by the rosy gloss of emotion that allowed no evil thought of the dead. Simplicity is so much easier, grand sweeps of feeling that are full of dramatic blacks and whites: Max was evil, Astley an innocent victim; the police either fiddled or, worse, were corrupt. Either way, society itself was in peril.

And Pitt was working from before dawn till long after dark. When he came home, more often than not he was too tired to speak. But where did one even begin to look for a random lunatic?

She must help. Of course she could not tell him; he had specifically forbidden her to meddle in this affair. But that was before Bertram Astley, when it had involved only people quite outside her social knowledge. Now things were different. Surely Emily would know the Astleys, or someone of their acquaintance through whom an introduction might be scraped. She would have to be very discreet; if Pitt found out before she achieved something significantly helpful, he would be furious.