Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

Pitt smiled, his eyes uncomfortably clear. “Thank you, my dear, but you have no need to be anxious for me. I don’t expect to prowl the Acre alone. I shall be in no danger from madmen.”

She debated whether to be hurt and pretend he had misunderstood her, but decided rapidly that it would not work. “Of course not,” she said. “Perhaps I was being silly. I dare say Dr. Pinchin was not nearly as respectable as the newspapers suggested. After all, they would have to be very careful of what they said, and the poor man is only just dead.” She looked up, wide-eyed and totally candid. “Did he have a family?”

“Charlotte!”

“Yes, Thomas?”

He let out his breath in a sigh. “This is not a case you can involve yourself in. Dr. Pinchin was not the only victim-he was the second that we know of, and whatever is going on, it has its cause in the Devil’s Acre. The other body was found there, too. It is not a domestic crime, Charlotte. It does not involve the sort of motives you are good at.”

She ignored the compliment. “Another one? I didn’t know that! The newspapers didn’t say anything. Are you keeping it secret? Who was it?”

There was a momentary flash of irritation in his face. Charlotte was not sure whether it was directed at her or at circumstances.

Pitt waited several seconds before he answered, and when he did there was resignation in his voice. “Actually, it was someone you have already met.”

Shock tingled through her, not unmixed with a sense of excitement that she was ashamed of the instant after she felt it.

“I’ve met?” she repeated incredulously.

“Do you remember General Balantyne-in Callander Square?”

The excitement turned to horror so intense it almost made her sick. The room swam and she thought she was going to faint. To imagine the general, with his fierce, inarticulate pride, his loneliness, his veneration of duty-how could he have descended to the Devil’s Acre to die not in service or battle but exposed in such a horrible manner.

“Charlotte!”

Surely there must be some way it could be kept quiet? It was the last way on earth such a man deserved to die!

“Charlotte!” Pitt’s voice cut through her thoughts.

She looked up.

“It wasn’t Balantyne!” he said sharply. “It was his old footman, Max-do you remember Max?”

Of course! How could she have been so ridiculous? She took a deep gulp of air. “Max-yes, of course I remember Max. Perfectly odious. He always gave me the feeling that when he looked at me he could see through my clothes.”

Pitt’s face dropped in alarm, then changed to a wide-eyed amusement. “How graphic! I had no idea you were so perceptive.”

She felt herself coloring. She had not meant to let him know she understood that look so well, especially in the eyes of a footman. She ought not have!

“Well …” She attempted an explanation, and gave it up.

He waited, but Charlotte refused to dig herself in any more deeply. “What was Max doing in the Devil’s Acre?” she asked. “I didn’t think people in that sort of area had footmen.”

“They don’t. He was keeping a brothel-in fact, more than one.”

She maintained her composure. Over the years Charlotte had had cause, one way or another, to learn quite a lot about poverty and the prostitution of both adults and children.

“Oh.” She remembered Max’s dark face, with its hooded eyelids and heavy, sensuous mouth. He had always given her an acute consciousness of physical power, of an appetite that was his servant as well as his master. “I should imagine he would do that sort of thing rather well.”

Pitt looked at her with surprise.

“I mean-” she started, then changed her mind. Why should she explain? She may not know as much as he did, but she was not a total innocent! “In that case, he must have had rather a lot of enemies,” she continued reasonably. “If he had several establishments, then he was doing very well-and I imagine in that sort of trade people are not very scrupulous about how they dispose of competition.”

“Not very,” he agreed with an expression that showed such a mixture of feelings she found it quite unreadable.

“Perhaps Dr. Pinchin kept a brothel as well,” she suggested. “Sometimes very respectable people own property in places like that, you know?”

“Yes, I do know,” he said dryly.

She caught his glance. “Of course you know. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing you can do in this case, Charlotte. It isn’t your world.”

“No, of course not,” she said obediently. At this point it would not be to her advantage to pursue the matter, because she could think of no argument to put forward. “I don’t really know anything about the Devil’s Acre.”

Nevertheless, the following morning as soon as Pitt was out of the house, Charlotte began making arrangements to be absent for most of the day. Gracie, who far preferred to look after children than blacken the stove, polish the passage floor, or scrub the doorstep, greeted Charlotte’s instructions with enthusiasm-and a tacit promise of silence. She knew a conspiracy when she met it, even if she did not entirely approve. A lady’s curiosity ought to be restricted to other people’s romances, who was wearing what, and how much it cost-and even then she should always keep her dignity. If a gentleman was murdered, that was one thing-but not a doctor who practiced in the Devil’s Acre and was obviously no better than he should be! Grade had heard about places like that-and people!

Charlotte had said she was going to see her sister Emily, but Gracie had her own ideas of what that was for! She knew perfectly well that Lady Ashworth was not above a good deal of meddling in shocking affairs herself.

“Yes, ma’am.” She bobbed a neat curtsy. “I ’ope as you’ll ’ave a nice day, ma’am. An’ come ’ome safe.”

“Of course I’ll come home safely!” Charlotte switched her skirt past a chair and accepted her coat from Gracie’s outstretched hands. “I’m only going to Paragon Walk.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure.”

Charlotte gave her a sidewise look, but apparently considered she had already said enough about discretion. Anything more might only make Grade’s suspicions worse.

“What shall I say to the master, ma’am?” Gracie asked.

“Nothing. I shall be home long before then. In fact, if Lady Ashworth has an engagement, I may even be home by luncheon.” And with that she swept out the door, down the front step, and went briskly toward the corner where the public omnibus stopped.

Paragon Walk was classically elegant in the winter sun. Charlotte walked smartly along the footpath and up the smooth carriageway to Emily’s front door. The footman opened it before she had reached up for the bellpull. Naturally, in a well-ordered house the pantry would look out onto the drive and guests would be anticipated.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he said courteously.

“Good morning, Albert,” she replied with satisfaction, accepting his tacit invitation and stepping inside. It was a very comfortable feeling to be recognized so easily. It gave her the temporary illusion of belonging to this world again.

“Lady Ashworth is writing letters,” he said almost conversationally as he walked ahead of her across the large hall. On its walls were the Ashworth family portraits stretching back to the days of ruffled collars and Elizabethan pantaloons, with gorgeous slashes of color. “But I am sure she will be pleased to see you.”

Charlotte, knowing how Emily disliked letter-writing, was also sure. And she would be even more pleased when she heard Charlotte’s extraordinary piece of news.

The footman opened the morning-room door. “Mrs. Pitt, m’lady,” he said.