Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

She did not turn, but stayed with her back to him. He was not sure whether it was his imagination that the delicate shoulders stiffened under the lavender silk. “I have no idea.”

“But you did know that he went there, from time to time?” he pressed.

She hesitated for a moment. “No.”

There was no point in arguing with her. It was only an impression. He remained silent; perhaps in her speech she would give something away.

“Is that where he was found?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Was it-the same-the same as the others?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Ah.”

She stood so long he could not tell if she kept her back to him to hide some overwhelming private feelings, if perhaps he should call a maid to help her, to bring her some restorative, or if she preferred the dignity of being left alone. Or was she simply waiting for him to speak again?

“Can I call your maid to bring something, ma’am?” He broke the silence from his own necessity.

“What?”

He repeated the offer.

At last she turned around; her face seemed perfectly composed. “No, thank you. Is there anything else you wish to know from me?”

He was worried for her; this dry, calm shock was dangerous. He must have some responsible servant call her doctor. “Yes, please. I would like the names and addresses of his pupils, and any close acquaintances you believe he may have seen in the last few weeks.”

“His study is on the other side of the hall. Take whatever you want. Now if you will excuse me, I would like to be alone.” Without waiting for his answer, she walked past him with a faint waft of perfume-something sweet and mildly flowery-and went out the door.

He spent the rest of the morning looking through the books and papers in Pomeroy’s study, trying to form some picture of the man’s life, his nature.

Pomeroy emerged as a meticulous, pedestrian man who had taught mathematics ever since he had graduated with academic qualifications. Most of his students seemed to have been aged about twelve or fourteen, and of quite average ability, except an occasional one of real promise. He tutored families privately, both boys and girls together.

It seemed a conscientious and blameless life, without any outward mark of humor. The flamboyant silk flowers in the withdrawing room could never have been his. In fact, the lavender silk gown with its foam of lace seemed far beyond his imagination-or his financial reach.

Pitt was offered luncheon by a cook who burst into tears every time he spoke to her. Then in the afternoon he copied out all the names and addresses of the current pupils, plus a few of those from the recent past, and those of acquaintances and tradesmen. He took his leave without seeing Adela Pomeroy again.

He went home earlier than usual. He was tired and beginning to feel the chill of the day spread through him. He had been woken to the news of another death, had gone to see the corpse lying grotesquely on the steps of a house of charity, then had had to bear the news of it to the widow whose shock he had been helpless to reach. He had spent the long hours of the day intruding into the details of the man’s life, searching it and taking it apart, looking for the flaws that had led him to the Devil’s Acre … and murder. He had accumulated a multitude of facts, and none of them told him anything that seemed to matter. He felt helpless, hemmed in on every side by grief and trivia.

If Charlotte made one cheerful or inquisitive remark, his temper would explode.

Pitt spent the next four days picking at ragged edges, trying to unravel enough to find one thread sufficiently strong to evoke something better than the random destruction of a madman.

He spoke to Pomeroy’s students, who seemed to think well of their tutor despite the fact that he had spent his entire time instilling into their minds the principles of mathematics. They stood in front of Pitt, each in his own separate, overcrowded parlor. They were sober and scrubbed, and spoke respectfully of their elders, as became well-brought-up children. He thought he even detected beneath the ritual phrases a genuine affection, pleasant memories, perceptions of beauty in mathematical reason.

Occasionally, in spite of himself, ugly thoughts crossed Pitt’s mind of intimacies between man and child, of cases he had known in the past. But he could discover no instance where any child, boy or girl, had been tutored alone.

Ernest Pomeroy emerged as an admirable man, even if there was too little humor or imagination to make him likable. But then it is hard to catch the essence of a man when all you know is his dead face, and the memories of stunned and obedient children who had been grimly forewarned of the consequences of speaking ill of the deceased-and of the general disgrace of having anything to do with the police for any reason. The majesty of the law was better observed from afar. Respectable people did not become involved with the less savory minions who served to enforce its rule.

Pitt also, of course, asked Mrs. Pomeroy if he might look through the dead man’s personal effects to see if there were any letters or records that might suggest enmity, threat, or any motive at all to harm him. She hesitated and stared at him out of eyes that still looked frozen in shock. It was an intrusion, and he felt no surprise that she should resent his request. But it seemed that she realized the necessity and that to refuse would be pointless. And of course if she had any guilt or complicity in the murder, she would have had more than enough time to destroy anything she wished before he had first come with the news.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, if you wish. I do not believe he had much correspondence. I recall very few letters. But if you feel it would be useful you may have them.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” She made him feel peculiarly awkward because her grief was so inaccessible. If she had wept, there was no sign of it in her face; her eyes were smooth, the lids pale and unswollen. And yet she did not move with the stilted, sleepwalking gait of those who are so profoundly shocked that emotion is still petrified inside them-before the shell cracks and the pain bursts free.

Had she loved Pomeroy? More probably it had been one of the many marriages arranged by parents and suitor. Pomeroy was considerably older; he might have been her father’s choice rather than her own.

Yet even in this state of limbo between the news of death and the beginning of acceptance of life as it must become, Pitt could see that she was a woman of grace and delicacy. Her clothes were very feminine, her hair soft. Her bones were just a little too fine to appeal to him. But to many men she must have been beautiful. Surely Pomeroy was not the best she could have done for herself?

Had she loved him or was it perhaps a debt of honor? Did her parents know Pomeroy, and owe him something?

He searched through all of Pomeroy’s rooms and read every letter and receipt. As Adela Pomeroy had said, his affairs were meticulously kept. From the accounts, the age and quality of the furnishings, the number of house servants, and the stock in the kitchen and pantry, it appeared they lived frugally. There was no sign of extravagance-except the vase of colored silk flowers in the withdrawing room and Adela’s gowns.

Had he bought them as gifts for her, an indulgent expression of his love? He could not imagine it of a man with the face he had seen in the Devil’s Acre. But by then he had already been robbed of that quickening that inhabits the flesh, of the capability for passion and pain, moments of tenderness, dreams or illusions.

Even in life we mask our vulnerability. What right had Pitt, or anyone else, to know what this man had felt for his wife? What vain or hopeless ideas still haunted him?