Death in the Devil's Acre (24 page)

There was nothing he could do now but run for it. A hundred yards, or two at the most, and he would be on the edge of the Acre and within hailing distance of a hansom, and safety. His side hurt; he must have a terrible bruise there, but a hot bath and a little embrocation would cure that. His feet were flying over the cobbles. He was not in the least ashamed to run; only a fool stayed against impossible odds.

He was short of breath. The pain in his side was sharper. It seemed a mile to the lighted street and traffic. The ghostly rings of the gas lamps were always ahead. They never drew level.

“Now then! Were you goin’ in such an almighty ’urry then?” An arm came out and caught hold of him.

In a moment of panic, he tried to raise his hand and strike the man, but the arm was leaden. “What?”

It was a constable—a constable on the beat.

“Oh, thank God!” he exclaimed. The man’s face grew enormous and vacant, shining in the mist like the gas lamps.

“’Ere, guv, you look rough, wot’s the matter wiv yer? Eh? ’Ere! You got blood all over yer side! I think as I’d better get yer to an ’orspital right quick! Don’t want yer passin’ out on me. ’Ere! ’Old up a bit longer. Cabbie! Cabbie!”

Through a haze of swinging lights and numbing cold Pitt felt himself bundled into a hansom and jolted through the streets, then helped gingerly down and through a labyrinth of bright rooms. He was stripped of his clothes, examined, swabbed with something that stung abominably, stitched through flesh that was mercifully still anesthetized by the original blow, bandaged and dressed, then given a fiery drink that scorched his throat and made his head muzzy. At last he was courteously accompanied home. It was midnight.

The following morning, he woke up so sore he could barely move, and it was a moment before he could remember why. Charlotte was standing over him, her hair pulled back untidily, her face pale.

“Thomas?” she said anxiously.

He groaned.

“You were stabbed,” she said. “They told me it isn’t very deep, but you’ve lost quite a lot of blood. Your jacket and shirt are ruined!”

He smiled in spite of himself. She was very pale indeed. “That’s terrible. Are you sure they’re completely ruined?”

She sniffed furiously, but the tears ran down her face and she put her hands up to cover them. “I will not cry! It’s your own stupid fault. You’re a perfect idiot! You sit there as pompous as a churchwarden and tell me what I must and must not do, and then you go into the Acre all by yourself asking dangerous questions and get stabbed.” She took one of his big handkerchiefs from the dresser and blew her nose hard. “I don’t suppose for a moment you even saw the slasher after all that—did you!”

He hitched himself up a little, wincing at the pain in his side. Actually, he was not at all sure it was the Acre slasher who had attacked him. It could have been any group of cutpurses prepared for a fight.

“And I expect you’re hungry,” she said, stuffing the handkerchief into her apron pocket. “Well, the doctor said a day in bed and you’ll be a lot better.”

“I’ll get up—”

“You’ll do as you’re told!” she shouted. “You’ll not get out of that bed till I tell you you may! And don’t you argue with me! Just don’t you dare!”

It was three days before he was strong enough to return to the police station, tightly bandaged and fortified with a flask of rather expensive port wine. The wound was healing, and although it was still painful, he was able to move about. Meanwhile the threads of the Devil’s Acre murders had drawn closer in his mind, and he felt compelled to return to the case.

“I’ve put other men on it,” Athelstan assured him, with a worried gesture. “All I can spare.”

“And what have they come up with?” Pitt asked, for once permitted—even pleaded with—to sit in the big padded chair instead of standing. He enjoyed the sensation and leaned back, spreading his legs. It might never happen again.

“Nothing much,” Athelstan admitted. “Still don’t know what tied those four men together. Don’t know why Pinchin went to the Acre, for that matter. Are you sure it’s not a lunatic, Pitt?”

“No, I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. A doctor could find a dozen occupations in the Acre if he wasn’t particularly scrupulous.”

Athelstan winced with distaste. “I presume so. But which of them did Pinchin practice, and for whom? Do you think he procured these well-bred women for Max that you insist he had?”

“Possibly. Although there weren’t many society women among his patients.”

“‘Well-bred’ is relative, Pitt. Almost anything would appear to be a lady in the Acre.”

Pitt stood up reluctantly. “Then I’d better go and ask a few more questions—”

“You’re not going by yourself!” Athelstan said in alarm. “I can’t afford another murder in the Acre!”

Pitt stared at him. “Thank you,” he said dryly. “I shouldn’t like to embarrass you.”

“Damn it—”

“I’ll take a constable with me—two, if you like?”

Athelstan pulled himself to attention. “It’s an order, Pitt—an order, you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll go now ... with two constables.”

Ambrose Mercutt was incensed with a mixture of outrage and very real fear that he would be blamed for Pitt’s injury, which was now common talk in the Acre.

“It’s your own fault!” Mercutt said peevishly. “Go wandering around places you’re not wanted, poking your nose into other people’s private business—of course you get stabbed. Lucky you weren’t garroted! Downright stupid. If you pushed everyone around the way you did my people, I’m only surprised you weren’t killed.”

Pitt did not argue. He knew his own mistake; it was not in having come into the Acre, but in having forgotten to keep up the appearance, to walk like a man who belonged here. He had allowed himself to become conspicuous. It was careless and, as Ambrose said, stupid.

“And sorry, too, no doubt,” Pitt said. “Who looks after your women when they get sick?”

“What?”

Pitt repeated the question, but Ambrose was quick to understand. “Not Pinchin, if that’s what you think.”

“Maybe. But we’ll speak to all your women, just in case. They may remember something you don’t.”

Mercutt’s face was white. “All right! He may have looked after one or two of them from time to time. What of it? He was very useful. Some of the stupid bitches get with child sometimes. He took care of it, and took his pay in kind. So I’d be the last person to kill him, wouldn’t I?”

“Not if he was blackmailing you.”

“Blackmailing me?” His voice rose to a screech at the idiocy of the idea. “Whatever for? Everyone knows what business I’m in. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. I could have blackmailed
him
—I could have ruined his nice respectable practice at Highgate—if I’d wanted to. But the arrangement suited me well enough. When he was killed, I had to find someone else.”

Pitt could not move him from that, no matter what other questions or pressures he put forth. Finally he and the constables left and went to another bawdy house, and another, and another.

It was five o’clock when Pitt, tired and sore, came with the two constables to the house of the Dalton sisters. He had kept them until last on purpose; he was looking forward to the warmth, the agreeable atmosphere, and perhaps a cup of hot tea.

Both Mary and Victoria were present this time; he was received with the same domestic calm as before and invited to the sitting room. He accepted the offer of refreshment with rather more speed than grace.

Mary looked at him suspiciously, but Victoria was as civil as before. “Ernest Pomeroy did not come here,” she said candidly, pouring the tea and passing it to him. The constables were in the main entrance room, embarrassed and thoroughly enjoying themselves.

“No,” Pitt said, accepting the cup. “I already know where he went. I was thinking of Dr. Pinchin.”

Her eyebrows rose and her gray eyes were like smooth winter seas. “I don’t see all our customers, but I don’t recall him. He was certainly not murdered here—or anywhere near here.”

“Did you know him? Professionally, perhaps?”

The ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “His profession or mine, Mr. Pitt?”

He smiled back. “His, Miss Dalton.”

“No. I have good health, and when I do not, I know well enough what to do for myself.”

“How about your women—your girls?”

“No,” Mary said immediately. “If anyone is sick, we look after them.”

Pitt turned to look at her. She was younger than Victoria. Her face lacked the power of will, the resolution in the eyes, but it had the same smooth, country look, the short nose and soft freckles. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. The meaning was obvious to Pitt; she did not want to admit to abortion.

“Of course we have doctors sometimes.” Victoria took charge again. “But we have not used Pinchin. He has never had anything to do with this establishment.”

Pitt actually believed her, but he wanted to stay in the warmth a little longer, and he had not finished his tea. “Can you give me any reason I should believe that?” he asked. “The man was murdered. You would not wish to admit acquaintance with him.”

Victoria glanced at her sister, then at Pitt’s cup. She reached for the pot and filled it without asking him. “None at all,” she said with an expression Pitt could not fathom. “Except that he was a butcher, and I don’t want my girls cut about so they either bleed to death or are too mutilated ever to work again. Believe that!”

Pitt found himself apologizing. It was ridiculous. He was taking tea with a brothel-keeper and telling her he was sorry because some doctor had aborted whores so clumsily that they never recovered—and they were not even her whores! ... Or was she a brilliant liar?

“I’ll ask them myself.” He drank the rest of his tea and stood up. “Especially those who’ve come to you most recently.”

Mary stood up too, hands clenched in her skirt. “You can’t!”

“Don’t be silly,” Victoria said briskly. “Of course he can, if he wants to. We’ve never had Pinchin in this house, unless he’s come as a customer. I’d be obliged to you, Mr. Pitt, if you’d not be abusive to our girls. I won’t permit it.” She fixed him with a firm eye, and Pitt was reminded of governesses he had met in great houses. She did not wait for his answer, but led him into the upper part of the house and began knocking on one door after another.

Pitt went through the routine of asking questions and showing Pinchin’s picture to plump and giggling prostitutes. The rooms were warm and smelled of cheap perfume and body odors, but the colors were gay and the rooms cleaner than he had expected.

After the fourth one, Victoria was called away to attend to some domestic crisis, and he was left with Mary. He was speaking to the last girl, skinny, not more than fifteen or sixteen years old, and plainly frightened. She looked at Pinchin’s face on the paper, and instantly Pitt knew she was lying when she said she had never seen him.

“Think hard,” Pitt warned. “Be very careful. You can be put in prison for lying to the police.”

The girl went pasty white.

“That’s enough!” Mary said sharply. “She’s only a housemaid—what would she want with the likes of him? Leave her alone. She just dusts and sweeps. She has nothing to do with that side of things.”

The girl started to move away. Pitt caught hold of her arm, not roughly, but hard enough to prevent her going. She began to cry, great shuddering sobs as if she were overtaken with some desperate, animal grief.

Instantly, in the bottom of his stomach, Pitt knew she must be one of Pinchin’s “butcheries,” one who had lived, but so damaged she would never be a normal woman. At her age, she should have been laughing, dreaming of romance, looking forward to marriage. He wanted to comfort her, and there was nothing he could say or do, nothing anyone could.

“Elsie!” It was Mary’s voice, loud and frightened. “Elsie!” The little maid was still weeping, clinging now to Mary’s arm.

From the end of the passage came the sound of a low singing snarl. Pitt swung around. There, under the gas lamp, stood a squat, white, rat-faced bullterrier, with teeth bared and bow legs quivering. Behind him was the most enormous woman he had ever seen, her bare arms hanging loosely, her flat face like a suet pudding, with eyes shrouded in creases of fat.

“Never you mind, Miss Mary,” the woman said, in a soft, high voice like that of a little girl. “I won’t let ’im ’urt yer. Yer just leavin’, ain’t yer, mister?” She took a step forward, and the dog, bristling, lurched a step forward with her.

Pitt felt horror flood through him. Was he looking at the Devil’s Acre slasher? Was it this woman mountain and her dog? His throat was dry; he swallowed on nothing.

“Throw him out, Elsie!” Mary shrieked. “Throw him out! Throw him hard, go on! Put him in the gutter! Set Dutch on him!”

The great woman took another step forward. Her face was expressionless. She could have had her sleeves rolled up to do laundry or knead bread. Beside her, Dutch’s snarl grew higher.

“Stop it!” Victoria’s voice shouted from the head of the stairs where she had disappeared a short time before. “That’s not necessary, Elsie. Mr. Pitt is not a customer—and he won’t hurt anyone.” Her tone became sharper. “Really, Mary, sometimes you are stupid!” She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and handed it to the maid. “Now pull yourself together, Millie, and get on with your work! Stop sniffling—there’s nothing to cry about. Go on!” She watched as the girl ran away and the enormous woman and the dog turned and trundled obediently after her.

Mary looked sullen, but kept her peace.

“I’m sorry,” Victoria said to Pitt. “We found Millie in a bad way. I didn’t know who was responsible, but perhaps it was Pinchin. Poor little creature nearly bled to death. She got with child and her father threw her out. She worked herself into one of the houses, where someone aborted her. Then, when they threw her out because she was useless to them, we picked her up.”

There was nothing Pitt could say, the situation was beyond trite sympathy.

Victoria led the way back toward the front rooms. “Mary shouldn’t have called Elsie. She’s only for customers who get difficult.” Her face was bleak. “I hope you were not frightened, Mr. Pitt.”