Death in the Devil's Acre tp-7

by Anne Perry

  “Sir Bertram-” he began.

  “Is not at home. I know,” Pitt interrupted quietly. “I am afraid he is dead.”

  “Oh.” The footman attempted to collect himself, but the situation was beyond him. “I had-” He swallowed. “I had better fetch Mr. Hodge, the butler-and Mr. Beau, Sir Bertram’s brother.” And before Pitt could speak, the footman flung open the door of the cold morning room where a maid had cleaned the grate but not yet lit the fire. “Sir.” He left Pitt to fend for himself, and disappeared toward the back of the dark hallway, the green baize door, and safety.

  Pitt stared around the room. It was full of rich furniture, much of it exotic: lacquered Japanese tables, inlaid ebony, intaglio, French watercolors on the wall. The Astleys lacked neither taste nor money to indulge themselves, and their choice was exceedingly catholic.

  An elderly butler came in, sober-faced, a silver tray with brandy and French lead-crystal glasses in his hand.

  “Is Frederick correct, sir, that Sir Bertram has met with an accident and is dead?”

  There was no purpose in lying; the butler would be the one who would have to control the staff and see that during the first days’ distress of the family all the necessary duties of the household were continued. “I am sorry, it was not an accident. Sir Bertram was murdered.”

  “Oh dear.” Hodge set the brandy down sharply on the table. “Oh dear.”

  He had not managed to think of anything else to say when a few moments later a young man opened the door and stood staring. He was still dressed in night attire and robe. His fair hair was damp from his morning ablutions, but he was not yet shaved. There was a marked resemblance between his features and those of the dead man: the same good nose and broad brow. But this face, even in the tight expectancy of fear, was animated; there were lines of humor about the mouth, and the eyes were wide and blue.

  He closed the door. “What is it?”

  Pitt realized how fortunate he had been with Mullen and Valeria Pinchin. He thought he had remembered how hard it was, but the impact was there all over again.

  “I am sorry, sir,” he replied very quietly. It was easier to say it all at once, more merciful than spinning it out a detail at a time. “I have to tell you that we have just discovered the body of your brother Sir Bertram, in the Devil’s Acre. I am afraid he has been murdered, in a similar manner to Dr. Hubert Pinchin, although he was far less mutilated-” He stopped; there seemed nothing more to say. “I’m sorry, sir,” he repeated.

  Beau Astley stood perfectly still for several seconds, then straightened his shoulders and walked over to the table. Hodge offered him the brandy, but he ignored it. “In the Devil’s Acre?”

  Was it worse to ask now, in the numbness of shock, or later, when the anesthesia had worn off and the wound was raw and inescapable? Either way, there was only one answer Pitt could act on.

  “Do you know what Sir Bertram might have been doing in that area?”

  Beau Astley looked up. Then at last he took Hodge’s brandy and drank it in two gulps. He poured himself two more fingers, and drank it also.

  “I suppose there is no point in lying, Inspector. Bertie gambled occasionally, not much, and I don’t think he ever lost. In fact, I think he won most of the time. Usually he went to one or the other of the gentlemen’s clubs. But once in a while he liked to go slumming somewhere like Whitechapel, or the Acre. Can’t think why-disgusting places!” He paused, as if the incomprehensibility of it might yet make it untrue.

  Pitt was surprised; in his state of shock, Beau Astley was so jarred out of his normal composure that he seemed not even to resent a policeman in his own morning room, asking him personal questions about his family. There was no condescension in his voice.

  “And Sir Bertram went gambling yesterday evening?” Pitt pursued.

  Beau reached for a chair and Hodge pulled it in position for him immediately. He sat down. Hodge retreated silently and closed the door behind him.

  “No.” Beau put his head in his hands and stared at the table. “No, that’s it. He went to call upon May. He was invited there to dinner.”

  “May?”

  “Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know. Miss Woolmer, she and Bertie were to be betrothed-at least I think so. Oh, God! I’d better go and tell her. I can’t let her find out from the police, or some idiotic gossip.” He looked up without hope. “I suppose there’s no chance of keeping it out of the newspapers? My father is dead-but Mother lives in Gloucestershire. I’ll have to write …” His voice trailed off.

  “I’m sorry, the newspapers had already been there by the time I was called myself,” Pitt replied. “In an area like that, sixpence is a lot of money.” He thought he did not need to explain further.

  “Of course.” Beau was suddenly terribly tired, his face leached of the animation that had been there only minutes before. “Do you mind if I get dressed and go to Miss Woolmer immediately? I don’t want her to hear it from anyone else.”

  “No, sir, that would be by far the best thing,” Pitt said. He watched as Beau stood up. He must tell him the rest; it would be common knowledge by late morning. “I–I’m afraid there is one more thing, sir. He was found in a most”-he searched for the right word-“a most unfortunate place.”

  “You said. The Devil’s Acre.”

  “Yes, sir-but in the doorway of a brothel, for men only.”

  Beau’s face tightened in an attempt at a smile. He was past any further shock. “Surely brothels are, Inspector?”

  Pitt hated telling him; already he liked the man. “No,” he said very quietly. “In most brothels the staff are female….” He let it hang.

  Beau’s dark blue eyes widened. “That’s ridiculous…. Bertie wasn’t-”

  “No,” Pitt said quickly. “He was near-I expect that was merely where his attacker caught up with him. But I had to warn you-the newspapers will possibly mention it.”

  Beau ran his hand through the hair that was falling forward over his brow. “Yes, I suppose they will. They can’t leave the Prince of Wales alone, so they certainly won’t have any compunction about Bertie. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get dressed. Hodge will get you a brandy, or something.” He was gone before Pitt could thank him.

  Pitt decided to ask for hot tea, and perhaps a slice of toast. The thought was enough to make him even more conscious of the cold void inside him. To look at a corpse was grim, but the dead were beyond feeling. It was telling the living that hurt Pitt, and made him feel guilty and helpless. He was the bringer of pain, the onlooker, shielded from everything but its mirror image.

  He would take his tea in the kitchen. There was nothing else he could ask Beau Astley at the moment, but there might be something to be learned in the servants’ quarters, even inadvertently. Then later, when the first news had been broken, he would have to see Miss May Woolmer, who apparently had been the last person they knew of to talk with Bertram Astley before he left for the Devil’s Acre.

  During that brief respite in the kitchen’s warmth, nursing a mug of tea, Pitt learned a great deal of detail from Hodge, the footman, the valet, and from several of the maids. Later he had an excellent luncheon with the entire staff, very sober, at their long table. Housemaids were sniffling, footmen silent, cook and kitchenmaid red-nosed.

  But none of it, as far as he could judge, amounted to anything other than the outline of an ordinary young man of title, of very much more than adequate means and extremely pleasing looks. His character had not been unusual: a little selfish, as one might expect in an elder son who had known from birth that he had the exclusive right of inheritance. But if he had practiced either malice or outward greed, it appeared his household had been blind to it. His personal habits had been typical: a little high-spirited gambling now and then-but who did not, if he could afford it? Occasionally he drank rather too much, but he was neither quarrelsome nor licentious. None of the maids had complained, and he was not niggardly with the expenses of the house. Altogether he was a fine gentlem
an.

  A little after two o’clock, Pitt was permitted into the Woolmer house, again reluctantly and only in order to keep him from being observed importuning on the doorstep by inquisitive neighbors. No one wished it known that there were police in the house, whatever the reason!

  “Miss Woolmer will be unable to see you,” the footman said coolly. “She has received news of a bereavement, and is indisposed.”

  “I am aware of the bereavement,” Pitt answered. “Unfortunately, because Sir Bertram apparently dined here yesterday, I am obliged to ask Miss Woolmer what she may know of his frame of mind, any remark he may have made as to his intentions….”

  The man stared at him, abhorring his crassness. “I’m sure if Miss Woolmer knows anything of value to you, she will be happy to inform you when she is recovered,” he said coldly.

  All day Pitt had felt nothing but grief; now at last he found release for it in anger. “I am afraid the pursuit of murder cannot wait upon the convenience of Miss Woolmer,” he retorted. “There is an insane creature loose in the Devil’s Acre. Three people have been murdered and mutilated already, and if we do not catch him, there is no reason to doubt there will be a fourth and a fifth. There is no time to wait upon indisposition! Will you please inform Miss Woolmer that I regret the necessity of disturbing her at such a time,” Pitt continued, “but she may be able to give me information that will assist us to arrest whoever killed Sir Bertram.”

  The footman’s face was white. “Yes-if it is unavoidable,” he conceded grudgingly. He left Pitt alone and went down the hall searching in his mind for words to relay the order.

  More than half an hour passed before Pitt was shown into the withdrawing room, a place crowded with pictures, ornaments, lace, crochetwork, and embroidery. A brilliant fire burned and all the lamps were lit. Of course the curtains were lowered, as suited a house suffering a violent bereavement.

  May Woolmer was a remarkably handsome girl with a fine figure, now draped in elegant grief on a chaise longue. She was dressed in dove gray-neither too colorful for such a delicate moment nor yet an ostentatious display of her feelings. Her hair was thick and shining like honey, and her features were regular. She stared at Pitt with her large, wide-spaced eyes, and held a handkerchief in one white hand.

  Mrs. Woolmer stood behind her like a sentry, her large bosom encased in beaded purple, suitable for half mourning, very appropriate in such awkward circumstances. Her hair was as fair as her daughter’s, but faded in patches, and her face was heavier, her chin too soft, her throat thick. Without question, she was grossly offended, and Pitt was the obvious target for her wrath. He was here, and she assumed he was without defense. She glared at him.

  “I cannot imagine why you feel it necessary to intrude upon our distress,” she said icily. “I trust you have sufficient good taste to be brief.”

  Pitt wanted to be equally rude in return, to tell her what be believed good taste really was: a matter of self-mastery, of consideration so that you did not avoidably discomfort others, least of all those unable to retaliate. “I shall try to, ma’am,” he said simply. “Mr. Beau Astley tells me that Sir Bertram expected to dine here yesterday evening. Did he in fact do so?”

  They did not invite him to sit down, and Mrs. Woolmer still remained standing, on guard. “Yes he did,” she answered bluntly.

  “What time did he leave?”

  “A little after eleven. I cannot tell you precisely.”

  “Was he in good health, and good spirits?” It was almost a meaningless question. If they had had a furious quarrel, neither of these women would be in the least likely to tell him.

  “Excellent.” Mrs. Woolmer lifted her chin. “Sir Bertram was always most happy here. He was devoted to my daughter. In fact, he had approached me with a view to asking for her hand.” She took a breath, and a shadow of indecision flickered across her face.

  Was that a lie that no one could now disprove? No-Beau Astley had said much the same. Then why the doubt? Had there been some ill-feeling last night, a change of mind?

  “I am most distressed for you, ma’am,” he said automatically. “Did Sir Bertram say anything about where he intended to go after he left here?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Why-home, I assume!”

  “I can’t understand it.” May spoke for the first time. She had a pleasant voice, a little soft, but agreeably low. “I simply cannot understand it at all.”

  “Of course you can’t!” Mrs. Woolmer said irritably. “It is incomprehensible to any person of decency. One may only assume he was kidnapped. That is the course you should follow, Mr.-” She disregarded his name, hunching one shoulder to indicate its unimportance. “Poor Sir Bertram must have been abducted. Then when the perpetrators of this crime became aware of whom they had taken, they were afraid-”

  “Perhaps Bertie fought them?” May suggested. Tears came to her eyes. “How brave of him! He would!”

  Mrs. Woolmer liked that explanation. “It is perfectly dastardly! That is what must have occurred, I am sure of it. I don’t know why we pay the police, when they allow such things to happen!”

  Pitt had already questioned the Astley coachman over luncheon. “Sir Bertram did not leave in his own carriage?” he said aloud.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Woolmer had expected an apology or an attempt at defense, not this extraordinary question.

  “No,” May answered for her. “He dismissed his own brougham, and then had Willis call him a hansom. We offered to have our carriage take him, but he would not hear of it. He was most considerate.” She dabbed at her cheek with her handkerchief. “Most.”

  “If only we had been more persuasive, he might not have been abducted!” Mrs. Woolmer still directed the accusation at Pitt; it was the police who were at fault. People of quality should not have to protect themselves from blackguards in the streets.

  It was possible that Astley had been abducted, but extremely unlikely. Still, if the Woolmers did not know of his habit of occasionally slumming in the Devil’s Acre, there was no point in telling them now. They would probably not believe him anyway. And perhaps this anger was their way of encountering grief; it was not uncommon. In illness it was the doctor who could not save who received the blame; in crime it was the police.

  Pitt looked at them; May still adhered to the rules for a young lady’s behavior. None of the awkwardness of real grief showed yet. Her feet were tucked carefully on the chaise longue, her skirt draped in the most modestly becoming folds. Her hands were twisted a little in her lap, but they were still beautiful; the lines were composed, serene. She could have sat just so for a neoclassical painter, had they removed three-quarters of the decoration from the tables and the pianoforte behind her.

  Mrs. Woolmer was bracing herself like Britannia to repel the foe. They were both gathering their thoughts out of the confusion, and would betray nothing yet. There was no point in pressing them. They had not really understood. In time, it would come-perhaps a memory of some word or gesture that mattered.

  “He left in a hansom about eleven,” he repeated. “And, as far as you know, he was in good health and spirits, and intended returning directly home.”

  “Precisely,” Mrs. Woolmer agreed. “I do not know what else you imagined we could tell you.”

  “Only the time, ma’am, and the means of transport. And that as far as you know, he had no intention of calling upon anyone else.”

  She blew down her nose with a little snort, reminding him of a dray horse. “Then if that is all, perhaps you would be kind enough to take your leave, and permit us to be alone.”

  He went outside, past the footman and down the step into the street. He started to walk east again, facing into the wind. He wondered what May Woolmer was like when her mother was not present. Had Bertram Astley loved her? She was undoubtedly handsome, and well mannered enough to make any gentleman a wife acceptable to Society. Did she also have wit and courage, the honesty to laugh at herself and to praise others without grudge? Was sh
e gentle? Or had Bertie Astley even considered such things? Perhaps beauty and a temperate disposition were enough. They were for most men.

  And what was it he had seen in Beau Astley’s face at the instant thought of May, even in the moment of his own bereavement? Had that been love also?

  He would have to remember next time he saw him that he was now Sir Beau! And presumably a considerably wealthier man. After the appropriate interval, would he step into his brother’s shoes and marry May Woolmer as well? It was not unlikely that Mrs. Woolmer would do her best to see that he did. There were not so many eligible young men around with titles and money, and it was late in the year-the next Season was almost on them.

  Pitt pulled his coat collar up; the east wind had a breath of sleet in it. He hated the thought of examining the private failures and weaknesses of the Astleys’ lives.

  In the morning he was sent for by his superior.

  Dudley Athelstan was standing in his office. His suit fit him as immaculately as the tailor’s art could contrive, but his tie was askew and his collar seemed too tight for him. The morning’s newspapers lay spread over his great desk.

  “Pitt! Pitt, come in. We’ve got to do something about this-it’s appalling! Commissioner’s been to see me about it, came here himself. Next thing I’ll be getting letters from the Prime Minister!”

  “Over three murders in a slum?” Pitt looked at the chaos on the desk and at Athelstan’s flushed face. “There’ll be a new society scandal for them to talk about in a day or two, and they’ll forget it.”

  “You swear that?” Athelstan’s eyes bulged and he threw his hands up. “You’ll arrange one, will you? Great heaven, man, have you got any idea what this latest murder has done? Decent men are terrified to-” He stopped abruptly.

  “To go into the Devil’s Acre?” Pitt finished for him, smiling.

  Athelstan grunted. “It’s all very well for you to be pious, Pitt. You don’t have to explain yourself to these people-thank God! — or we’d have the whole police force thrown out on its ear! Some very influential men find the odd entertainment in establishments like Max Burton’s. They accept the risk of being overcharged, even robbed outright in the street, or the occasional roughing up. But being murdered and emasculated! God-it doesn’t bear thinking of! And the scandal, the shame!”