Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

“Gracie,” she called cheerfully. Gracie must not even guess. With the best will in the world, the girl was totally transparent.

“Yes, ma’am?” Gracie’s head appeared around the door, her eyebrows raised. Her glance fell to the newspaper. “Ooo-isn’t it terrible, ma’am, there’s bin another one! A real gentleman this time, with a proper title an’ all! I don’t know wot the world’s comin’ to, I don’t.”

“Well, perhaps that’s just as well,” Charlotte said briskly. “I never did approve much of ‘second sight.’ Smacks of superstition to me, and only causes a lot of trouble.”

Gracie was nonplussed, as she was intended to be. “Ma’am?”

“Don’t dwell on it, Gracie.” Charlotte stood up. “It’s all miles from here, and doesn’t have anything to do with anyone we know.” She passed her the paper. “Here, use it to light the fire in the parlor later.”

“But there’s the master, ma’am!” Gracie protested.

“Pardon?”

“’E ’as to do with it, poor man! ’E looked proper froze yesterdy night w’en ’e came ’ome, an’ I think ’e still don’t know as ’oo done it any more’n we do! Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, if I’m bein’ impertinent.” A trace of anxiety passed over her face. “But I reckon as ’e’s chasin’ the forces o’ evil!”

“Stuff and nonsense! It’s a lunatic. Now stop thinking about it, put the newspaper on the back of the fire, and get on with your work. I’m going to order myself a new dress. I’m going for a fitting this morning.”

“Ooh!” Gracie’s eyes lit up immediately. A new dress was more fun than a murder, second hand. “What color, ma’am? Are you going to ’ave it that new line down the front that’s in the pictures in the London Illustrated?”

“It’s too fashionable.” Charlotte bought what she could afford. “I don’t like following everyone else as if I were a sheep without a mind of my own.”

“Quite right, ma’am,” Gracie said. She also had an excellent mind for the practical. “Get a good color, I always says, and the rest’ll take care of itself, as long as you smiles at people, polite like, but not so friendly as to lead ’em on.”

“Excellent advice.” Charlotte nodded. “But I shall take a little look and see what other people are wearing all the same, so I may not be back for luncheon.”

“Yes, ma’am. Never hurry a new dress.”

Charlotte arrived at Emily’s house to find her sister out at the dressmaker’s herself, and was obliged to wait nearly an hour for her to return.

“How on earth can you go visiting seamstresses on a morning like this?” she demanded as soon as Emily was in the room. “For goodness’ sake, don’t you read the newspapers?”

Emily stopped short; then her face tightened. “You mean about Bertie Astley? Charlotte, there is nothing we can do! Thomas already told you not to meddle.”

“That was before, when it only concerned pimps and that odd doctor. Now it has struck one of our own social circle!”

“You mean my social circle!” Emily closed the door and came over to stand in front of the fire. “Actually I don’t know the Astleys, but I don’t see what good it would do if I did.”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid!” Charlotte lost her patience. “What do you suppose Bertie Astley was doing in the Devil’s Acre in the middle of the night?”

“Visiting a house of pleasure.”

“You mean a whorehouse!”

Emily winced. “Don’t be so coarse, Charlotte. You are beginning to lose your refinement. Thomas is right. You shouldn’t meddle in this affair-it is not our sort of case at all.”

“Not even if Bertie Astley knew Max, and they were involved in something together-with Dr. Pinchin?” Charlotte dangled the most tempting bait she could think of: a really first-class scandal.

Emily was silent for a moment. Fashion could become extremely tedious, removed from anything that really mattered. Who cared whether someone had a subtler color or a lower neckline? Even gossip at this time of the year was distinctly jaded.

“That would be different,” she said. “And very serious. It would mean it was not a lunatic at all, but someone perfectly sane, and very dreadful.”

“Quite.”

Emily shivered as her ideas changed altogether. “Where should we start?”

That was less easy. The practical possibilities open to them were very few. “The Astleys,” Charlotte decided after a moment. “There isn’t anywhere else. We might be able to discover exactly why he was in the Acre, and if he knew either Max or Dr. Pinchin.”

“What does Thomas say?”

Charlotte was perfectly honest. “He is too tired to say anything much. He hardly ever tells me about this case, just the odd word. There’s been a lot of public outcry, and the police are being accused of inefficiency, even corruption.”

That removed the last shred of reluctant conscience from Emily’s mind. “Then we must help. I don’t know the Astleys personally, but I do know he was paying considerable attention to May Woolmer. Everyone has been wondering if she would catch him. She is this Season’s newest beauty. Not my taste, actually. Very handsome, I suppose, in a creamy sort of way, like an extremely well-bred dairymaid, and about as interesting.”

“Oh dear!” Charlotte pictured something in frills, carrying a bucket.

“Oh, there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with her.” Emily backtracked a step or two. “But that in itself is bound to grow tiresome in time. She is as predictable as a jug of milk.”

“Whatever did Bertie Astley want to marry her for? Has she money? Or influence?” Charlotte inquired hopefully.

“None at all. But her manners are perfect, and she is certainly extremely agreeable. And all that rich white flesh is attractive to some men.”

Considering Emily’s slender shoulders and slight bosom, Charlotte forbore from making comment on the subject. Instead she recalled a fragment of a remark Pitt had made when he was too tired to guard his tongue. “Thomas says that Max even had women of good breeding and family working for him sometimes.”

“Good God!” Emily’s chin dropped in incredulity. “You mean for money-with … Oh, no!”

“Apparently.”

Amazement superseded disbelief, and then a reluctant thrill of horror. “Charlotte, are you sure?”

“I’m sure that’s what Thomas said.”

“But whatever kind of well-bred woman would need money so badly she could think of … I simply cannot imagine it!”

“Not out of need. Married women, out of boredom, or frustration-the way men gamble with more money than they can afford to lose, or drive crazy races with a four-in-hand and get themselves half killed when they turn over.”

“Did he keep books-Max?”

“I don’t know, and I haven’t thought it wise to ask Thomas yet. But, Emily, if we really tried, surely we could discover who some of these women might be? Perhaps one of them killed Max because he was blackmailing her, wouldn’t let her go. That would be a real reason worth killing for.”

Emily pursed her mouth doubtfully. “But what about Dr. Pinchin?”

“Brothels must need doctors sometimes, mustn’t they? Maybe he was in partnership with Max. Perhaps he put up the money, or found the women through his practice. He would be in a position to know.”

“And Bertie Astley?”

“Maybe he was a customer and recognized her. That would account for why he was not so badly-hurt-”

“That doesn’t make sense. If it was her husband who killed them, he would hate Bertie just as much!”

“Well, maybe it wasn’t. But someone did!”

“Charlotte, we shouldn’t-” Emily let out a long breath. “I’ve met May Woolmer two or three times. We could go and convey our condolences to her. I’ve got black accessories you can borrow. We’ve got to start somewhere. We’ll go this afternoon. What are you going to tell Thomas? You’re a terrible liar-you always say too much and end up by giving yourself away.”