Death in the Devil's Acre (30 page)

Christina’s hands tightened and the gun barrel came higher. Charlotte lunged forward, kicking. She was too far away to reach the gun, but she knocked Christina off her feet and the gun fell, unexploded, onto the floor.

There was a scream of rage, and Charlotte felt strong, clawlike hands tearing at her. The floor hit her hard on the thigh, skirts smothered her. She reached for anything to strike or to pull. Her hands found hair, twisted into it, and jerked. There was a scream of pain. Another body landed heavily on top of her, more skirts, boots in her thigh, kicking hard.

There was more shrieking and Christina’s voice swearing. Charlotte was pinned to the ground, half suffocated by mountains of fabric and the weight of bodies. Her hair was undone, streaming down her back, over her face. A hand grasped at it and pulled. Pain ripped through her head. She punched back, her fists closed. Where was the gun!

“Stop it!” Balantyne’s voice thundered above the din. No one took any notice.

Christina, on hands and knees on the floor, was screaming at Victoria Dalton, her face contorted with rage. Mary Dalton swung her hand back and slapped Christina as hard as she could, the ring of it singing in the air. Christina scrambled to her feet and aimed a kick. It caught Mary on the shoulder, and she fell over onto her back, moaning.

Victoria lunged for the gun, but Charlotte threw herself on top of her, jerking her head back hard by the hair. Charlotte’s skirt was torn to the waist, showing her underwear and a long stretch of white thigh. Shouting, though she was unaware of it, she looked frantically for the gun.

Suddenly it went off with a deafening roar. They all froze, as if each one of them had been hit.

“Stop it!” Balantyne commanded furiously. “Stand up! I’ll shoot the first one to disobey me!”

Very slowly they climbed to their feet—scratched, clothes ripped, hair wild. Charlotte tried to tie her skirt together to hide the expanse of her thigh.

“Oh, my God!” Balantyne was holding the gun, his face so pale the bones of his cheeks looked sharp, his jaw white.

Christina took a step forward. “Stand still!” His voice was like a knife cut.

Charlotte felt the tears well behind her eyes. She guessed the answers now, and there was nothing she could do: nothing for Balantyne, nothing for Victoria or Mary—nothing for Alan Ross.

“These women killed Max Burton?” He was talking to Christina as if the others were not there.

“Yes! They’re insane! They—” She stopped, gulping, horrified at his face.

He turned to Victoria Dalton. “Why now? Why did you wait so long?”

Victoria’s face was hard, glittering. “She paid me to,” she said levelly, crucifyingly honest. “First she fornicated with Max herself, and then she whored with other men for him... . Then, when he started to get greedy and blackmail her, she got frightened. She needed to be rid of him.” Her face twisted with pity—pity for Ross—and contempt for Christina. “She was afraid her husband would find out, poor sod! She only kept one lover: Beau Astley.”

Charlotte stared at Balantyne. His face was white with pain. But there was no struggle in him, no attempt to reject the truth. “And why Dr. Pinchin?” he asked, still holding the gun up.

“He deserved to die,” Victoria replied coldly. “He was a butcher!”

“And what did Bertie Astley do that you executed him?”

Victoria’s lip curled in scorn. “He owned all that street. He let it out a room at a time for rich men and their whores that wanted privacy. He was collecting rent. His family kept up their fine drawing rooms and their safe white ladies on the profits of our filth!”

“And his brother should have been grateful! He should have paid us—” Mary began, but Victoria swung around and slapped her hard across the face, leaving a red welt.

In that instant, Charlotte moved forward, reaching for the gun; her hands clasped over Balantyne’s and swung it around to aim at Victoria.

Victoria swept her arm over a side table. There was a brief gleam of light on blades, and scissors came down in Christina’s chest, blood billowing out. The gun fired into the ceiling.

Balantyne caught his daughter as she slowly sank to her knees and crumpled down into a little huddle. He held her in his arms.

Charlotte picked up a footstool and hit Victoria with it as hard as she could, knocking her over and leaving her stunned and motionless on the red carpet. Then she stood in the middle of the room, the stool still in her hands. Mary, seized with fear now that she was alone, turned and bent over Victoria, crying like a lost child.

Where was Pitt? It was all too much; the pain was too persistent and too hard. She was exhausted of anger, of anything but pity, and her body ached with bruises. Tears were running down her face, but she was too empty to sob.

Balantyne let Christina go gently onto the floor. Her eyes were closed; the lace front of her gown was scarlet with blood.

Charlotte reached out and touched her hand to Balantyne’s head, feeling the texture of his hair under her fingers. She stroked it for a moment, once, then again more softly. She turned away and saw a police constable standing in the doorway, and behind him the familiar, beautiful scarecrow figure of Pitt. Of course—the shots! Pitt must have left policemen outside; he had worked it out without her—this had been unnecessary.

He came in slowly, pushing past the constable who was fishing in his pockets for handcuffs for Mary and Victoria. He did not speak to Balantyne. There was nothing to say that would mean anything to his horror or his grief now—and Christina was beyond them all.

Gently he put his arms around Charlotte and held her. He touched her hands, her arms, pushed back her hair.

“You look ridiculous!” he said in sudden fury when he knew she was not injured, when he felt her bones were whole, her body strong. “Good God—you look terrible! Go home! And don’t you ever dare do this again! Not ever! You damn well do as you’re told! Do you hear me?”

She nodded, too overwhelmed with horror and pity, and a sense of her own safety in his love, to look for any words.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1985 by Anne Perry

cover design by Jason Gabbert

978-1-4532-1911-9

This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media

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