by Anne Perry
The toast was smoking. He turned it over smartly and took a sip of his tea. “Was he stabbed in the back, too?”
“Yes, sir, just about the same place as the others, one side of the backbone, and right about the middle. Must ‘a died quick like, thank God.” He screwed up his face. “Wot kind o’ man does that to another man, Mr. Pitt? It ain’t ’uman!”
“Someone who believes he has been wronged beyond bearing,” Pitt replied before he even thought.
“I reckon as you’re right. An’ you’re burnin’ your toast, sir.”
Pitt flipped the two pieces off and handed one to the constable. He took it with surprise and satisfaction. He had not expected breakfast—even of rather scorched toast, eaten standing up. It was good, the marmalade sharp and sweet.
“Maybe if someone killed my little girl, I’d want to kill ’im bad enough,” he said, with his mouth full. “But I’d never want to—to tear out ’is—beggin’ your pardon, sir—’is privates like that.”
“Might depend on how he killed your girl,” Pitt replied, then scowled and dropped his toast as the full horror of what he had said invaded his imagination. He thought of Charlotte and his daughter, Jemima, asleep upstairs.
The constable stared at him, his light brown eyes round. “I reckon as ’ow you could be right at that, sir,” he said in no more than a whisper.
Upstairs everything was silent. Charlotte had not stirred, and the nursery had only a single light burning.
“You’d better eat your breakfast, sir.” The constable was a practical man. This was going to be no day for an empty stomach. “And put plenty o’ clothes on, if you won’t think me impertinent.”
“No,” Pitt agreed absently. “No.” He picked up the toast and ate it There was no time to shave, but he would finish his tea and take the constable’s advice—lots of clothes.
The corpse was appalling. Pitt could not conceive of the rage that could drive a human being to dismember another in this way.
“All right,” he said, standing up slowly. There was nothing more to be seen. It was like those before, but worse. Ernest Pomeroy had been an ordinary-looking man, perhaps less than average height. His clothes were sober, of good fabric, but far from fashionable. His face was bony and rather plain. It was impossible to tell if life had fired him with any charm or humor, if those unbecoming features had been transformed by an inner light.
“Do we know where he comes from?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant on duty answered quickly. “Got a few letters and the like on ’im. Seabrook Walk. Quite a decent sort o’ place, ’bout a couple o’ miles from ’ere. I got a sister as obliges for a lady up that way. Not a lot o’ money, but very respectable, if you know what I mean.”
Pitt knew precisely what he meant. There was a large class of people who would prefer to eat bread and gravy, and sit in a cold house, rather than be seen to lack for the world’s goods, especially for servants. To eat frugally could, by stretching the imagination, be a matter of taste. One might even pretend not to feel the cold, but to be without servants could only mean the depth of poverty. Had Ernest Pomeroy escaped a sad sham of life for a few hectic hours of indulging his starved nature, only to the here in these filthy and equally deceiving streets?
“Yes, I know what you mean,” he replied. “We’ll have to get someone to identify him. Better not the wife—if we can find someone else. Maybe there’s a brother, or—” He looked down at the face again. Ernest Pomeroy was probably nearer fifty than forty. “Or a son.”
“We’ll see to it, sir,” the sergeant said. “Wouldn’t want to do that to any woman, even though as she’d only ’ave to see ’is face. Still—all the same. You goin’ to see the wife, sir?”
“Yes.” It was inevitable. It must be done, and again it must be Pitt. “Yes ... give me that address, will you?” Seabrook Walk looked fiat and gray in the thin light of morning. Somehow the rain did not make it clean, merely wet.
Pitt found the number he was looking for and walked up to the door. As always, there was no point in hesitating; there was nothing that would make it hurt less, and there might be something to learn. Somewhere there must be something that linked these men: a common acquaintance, an appetite, a place or a time, some reason they had been hated so passionately. Whatever the cost, he must find it. Time would not wait for him. The murderer would not wait.
The narrow flower beds were empty now, just dark strips of earth. The grass in the middle had a lifeless, wintry look, and the laurel bushes under the windows seemed sour, holding darkness and stale water. Immaculate lace curtains hung at all the windows, evenly spread. In an hour they would be obscured by the drawn blinds of mourning.
He raised the polished door knocker and let it fall with a jarring sound. It was several moments before a startled betweenmaid opened it a crack, her pasty face peering out. No one called this early.
“Yes, sir?”
“I have come to speak with Mrs. Pomeroy. It is urgent.”
“Oooh, I don’t know as she can see you now.” The tweeny was obviously confused. “She ain’t even”—she swallowed and remembered her loyalties to the house—“even ’ad ’er breakfast yet. Could you come back in an hour or two, sir?”
Pitt was sorry for the girl. She was probably not more than thirteen or fourteen, and this would be her first job. If she lost it through annoying her mistress, she would be in difficult straits. She might even end up wandering the streets, less fortunate than the women with the skill or the personality to end up in a bawdy house with someone like Victoria Dalton.
“I’m from the police.” Pitt took the responsibility from her. “I have bad news for Mrs. Pomeroy, and it would be most cruel to let her hear it by rumor, rather than to tell her discreetly ourselves.”
“Oooh!” The girl swung the door wide and let Pitt step inside. She stared at his dripping clothes; even in the face of crisis, her training was paramount. “’Ere, you’re soakin’ wet! Better take off them things and give ’em to me. I’ll ’ave cook ’ang ’em up in the scullery. You wait in there, an’ I’ll go upstairs an’ tell Mrs. Pomeroy as you’re ’ere, an’ it’s urgent.”
“Thank you.” Pitt took off his coat, hat, and muffler and handed them to her. She scurried out, almost hidden by the bulk of them. He stood obediently until Mrs. Pomeroy should appear.
He looked around the room. It was quite a good size; the furniture was of heavy, dark wood without luster in the thin light. There were embroidered antimacassars on the backs of the chairs, but no extra cushions on the seats. The pictures on the walls were views of Italy painted in hard blues—blue sea, blue sky—with harsh sunlight. He found them ugly and offensive; he had always imagined Italy to be a beautiful place. There was an embroidered religious text over the mantelpiece: “The price of a good woman is above rubies.” He wondered who had selected it.
On the chiffonier at the side there was a vase of artificial silk flowers, delicate things with gay, gossamer petals. It was a surprising touch of beauty in an unimaginative house.
Adela Pomeroy was at least fifteen years younger than her husband. She stood in the doorway in a lavender robe, trimmed with froths of lace at throat and wrists, and stared at Pitt. Her hair tumbled down her back; she had not bothered to dress it. Her face was fine-boned, her neck too slender. For another few years she would be lovely, before nervous tensions ate the lines deeper and marred the roundness of the flesh.
“Birdie said you are from the police.” She came in and closed the door.
“Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy. I am sorry, but I have bad news for you.” He wished she would sit down, but she did not. “A man was found this morning whom we believe to be your husband. He had letters identifying him, but we will have someone make certain, of course.”
She still stood without movement or change of expression. Perhaps it was too soon. Shock was like that.
“I am sorry,” he repeated.
“He’s dead?”
“Yes.”
> Her eyes wandered around the room, looking at familiar things. “He wasn’t ill. Was it an accident?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I am afraid it was murder.” She would have to know; there was no kindness in pretending.
“Oh.” There seemed to be no emotion in her. Slowly she walked over to the sofa and sat down. Automatically she pulled across her knees the silk of the robe, and Pitt thought momentarily how beautiful it was. Pomeroy must have been a wealthy man, and more generous than his face suggested. Perhaps it was not a meanness he had seen, but merely the emptiness of death. Maybe he had loved this woman very much, and saved hard to give her these luxuries—the flowers and the robe, Pitt felt what could be a quite unjust dislike well up inside him that he could see no agony or grief in her.
“How did it happen?” she asked.
“He was attacked in the street,” he replied. “He was stabbed. It was probably over very quickly. I dare say there was only a moment of pain.”
Still there was nothing in her face, then a faint surprise. “In the street? You mean he—he was robbed?”
What had she expected? Robbery was not such an uncommon crime, although it was not usually accompanied by such dreadful violence. Maybe he carried little of value. But then robbers were not to know that, until too late.
“He had no money on him,” he answered her. “But his watch was still in his pocket, and a very good leather case for cards and letters.”
“He never carried much money.” She was still staring ahead of her, as if Pitt were a disembodied voice. “A guinea or two.”
“When did you last see him, Mrs. Pomeroy?” He would have to tell her the rest; where he was found, the mutilation. Better she hear it from him ...
“Yesterday evening.” Her answer cut into his thoughts. “He was going to deliver a book to one of his pupils. He was a teacher. But you probably know that—mathematics.”
“No, I didn’t know. Did he tell you the name of the pupil, and where he lived?”
“Morrison. I’m afraid I don’t know where—not far away. I think he intended to walk. He would have a note of it in his books. He was very meticulous.” Still there was no emotion in her voice except the faint surprise, as if she could not comprehend that such a violent thing should have happened to so ordinary a man. She stood up and went to the window. She was very slight and fragile, like a bird. Even in this apparent state of numbness she had a grace that was individual, a way of holding her head high. Pitt found it hard to imagine her in the arms of the man whose face he had seen in the Devil’s Acre. But then so often one cannot fathom the loves or hates of other people. Why should this be comprehensible? He knew nothing of either of them.
“Can you think of any reason he should go to the Devil’s Acre, ma’am?” he asked. As usual, it was brutal, but she seemed so emotionless; perhaps this was the best time.
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 o
f 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.
