Death in the Devil's Acre (6 page)

It was an area like many of the older slums of London, a curious mixture of societies that lived quite literally on top of each other. In the highest, handsomest houses with frontages on lighted thoroughfares lived successful merchants and men of private means. Below them, in smaller houses on lesser streets, were lodging-rooms for clerks and tradesmen. Beneath even these, squat and grimy, were the sagging tenements and cellars of the very poor, sometimes packed so full of humanity that two or three families shared one room. The stench of refuse and bodily waste was choking. Rats teemed everywhere, so that an untended baby might well be eaten alive. And more children died of starvation or disease than ever reached an age of six or seven years, when they might profitably join one of the schools for pickpockets and apprentice thieves.

Among this warren of alleys and passageways were the sweatshops, the rooms where broken-down lawyers or clerks drafted false affidavits, account books, and receipts, where forgers practiced their art, and where receivers of stolen goods made bargains. And of course there were the gin mills, doss houses and brothels, and the police snouts.

Over it all loomed the shadow of the great towers of Westminster Abbey, coronation cathedral of kings, the tomb of Edward the Confessor before Norman William ever sailed from France to defeat the Saxon king and take England for himself. And beyond the Abbey was Big Ben, the Palace of Westminster, the Mother of Parliaments since the days of Simon de Montfort six hundred years ago.

There was no point in Pitt’s hoping to receive answers to questions posed in this teeming rats’ nest. The police were the natural enemy, and the swarming population knew an outsider as a dog knows one, by senses far subtler than mere sight. In the past he had made a few arrests here, but had also let a few slip by. He had friends—or, if not friends, at least those who knew what could be to their advantage.

Pitt followed gray alleys past youths idle and sullen, watching him with mean eyes. He hunched his shoulders, aping the furtive gait of the long-abused, but he did not look behind him. They would smell fear and be on him like a hunting pack. He walked as if he knew where he was going, as if the narrow passages—sometimes only wide enough to allow two men to pass each other sidewise—were as familiar to him as his home.

Beams creaked, wood rotted and settled. A dozen rats scattered as he approached, their feet scrabbling on the wet stones. Old men lay in doorways, perhaps in drunken stupor, or maybe they were dead.

It took Pitt half an hour before he found the man he was looking for, in a dilapidated attic where he did his work. Squeaker Harris, so named for his sharp, high-pitched voice. He was a little man with narrow eyes and a pointed nose—not unlike a rat himself, Pitt thought. All he lacked was the long, hairless tail. He was a scrivener, a forger of letters of recommendation, of papers of attorney.

“Wotcher want wiv me?” he demanded truculently. “I ain’t done nuffin’, not as yer can prove!”

“Not trying to, Squeaker,” Pitt replied. “Although I dare say I could if I put my mind to it.”

“Nah!” Squeaker dismissed the possibility, but there was anxiety in his quick little face. “Nah—never!”

“We won’t know, will we—if I don’t try?” Pitt pointed out.

“So wotcher want, then? Yer never came ter Devil’s Acre fer yer ’ealf!”

“Information of course.” Pitt looked at him with mild contempt. He should have known that; indeed the pretense was a waste of time.

“I dunno nuffin’ abaht no crimes!” Squeaker warned.

“Of course not,” Pitt said dryly. “You’re an upright citizen, making a few pence writing letters for those who haven’t the skill for themselves.”

“Vat’s right—yer got it in one!” Squeaker nodded vigorously.

“But you know the Devil’s Acre,” Pitt pursued.

“Course I do—I was bloody born ’ere!”

“Ever heard of a pimp named Max? And don’t lie to me, Squeaker, or I’ll arrest you for withholding information about a murder, and it’ll be the long drop for you! This is a bad one.”

“Oh, my Gawd! Yer mean vat poor sod as was—oh, Gawd!” Squeaker paled under the dirt on his face. “Oh, Gawd!” he said again.

“So?” Pitt prompted. “What do you know about Max?”

“I dunno ’oo killed ’im, I swear to yer, Mr. Pitt. Some kind o’ maniac! ‘Oo’d do vat ter any man? It ain’t decent.”

“Of course you don’t know who killed him,” Pitt conceded with a tolerant smile. “Or you’d have told us all about it, naturally.”

“Natcherly,” Squeaker agreed, glancing away nervously. He thought Pitt was laughing at him, but he did not want to put it to the test. “I swear,” he added for good measure.

“What about Max?” Pitt pressed. “What was he like?”

“Good at it,” Squeaker said grudgingly. Pimping was a lot more profitable than petty forgery, as well as probably more fun. “’Ad a natcheral talent, ’e ’ad—fer vat sort o’ fing!” He did not want to be too fulsome in his praise. After all, Max could not have made a good forgery to save himself. In fact, Squeaker was not sure if he could even write a legible hand! There was great skill in writing well, and it should not be undervalued.

Remembering the heavy, sensual face with its dark eyes, Pitt could well believe that Max had such a talent. “Yes,” he said. “So I heard. Had several houses, didn’t he?”

Squeaker looked at him cautiously. “Know vat, do yer?”

“I do. What sort of clients did he cater to?”

“Depends which ’ouse as yer talkin’ abaht,” Squeaker said. “If ’n yer means ve one in Partridge Lane—well, anyone as ’ad ve price. Real scrubbers, vey are. But if ’n yer means ve one up by George Street—well, nah, vat’s diff ’rent altergevver. Nah some o’ vem ’as real class. An’ I ’as ’eard say as ’e’ll provide a gentleman wiv enough money ter spend wiv some ladies o’ blood, as yer might say.” He leered knowingly, showing brown teeth. The idea obviously amused him, as a sort of obscene revenge upon the society that had excluded him completely.

“Ladies of blood, eh?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. That sounded promising. He fixed Squeaker with a look of suspicion. “Ladies of blood?” he repeated skeptically.

“Vat’s wot I said—take it or leave it.” Squeaker knew he had Pitt’s interest, and he enjoyed the sensation. “Mebbe vat’s w’ere yer murder comes from. Never mess wiv the Quality—golden rule. Vey ain’t used ter bein’ took, and vey feels it very ’ard—can get real nasty. Stick to yer own—ven yer won’t get someone as don’t know ve rules, comin’ all over spiteful and stickin’ a shiv in yer gut. Although wot vey done ter Max was uncalled for, Mr. Pitt—real uncalled for. I don’t know wot you rozzers is lettin’ the place come to!”

Pitt hid a smile. “Disgusting,” he agreed. “But a jealous man can get carried to extraordinary lengths if someone has taken his woman and then used her to sell to other men as a whore.”

Squeaker sighed. He had neither wife nor children, but he dreamed of them sometimes: a woman whose warmth would not have to be traded for or bought, someone who would become familiar with time, children who would treat him with respect—every man should have that, at least for a while.

“I reckon as yer right, Mr. Pitt,” he said slowly. “Never mess wiv a man’s family—vat’s anuvver rule as should be writ in gold. On the ’ole, I reckon as pimpin’ ain’t such an ’ealfy occupation after all. Women is a dangerous kind o’ goods ter deal in—not ter mention a man’s private needs, wot can be very odd in some o’ them gents from up west, so I’ve ’eard say. Some o’ them stories yer wouldn’t believe! Papers is much better fings ter sell. Knows w’ere yer is wiv papers. People don’t lose veir ’eads over paper.”

Pitt did not bother to argue with him. “And this more expensive house of Max’s is in George Street?”

“Ain’t vat wot I jus’ said?” Squeaker was patient, like a schoolmaster with an unnaturally dim pupil.

“Yes—thank you.” Pitt fished in his pocket and brought out a shilling. He gave it to Squeaker, whose grimy hand closed over it quickly. He raised it to his mouth and bit it sharply. It met with his satisfaction and he pushed it into his pocket.

“Fanks, Mr. Pitt,” he said.

“Don’t leave the Acre,” Pitt warned. “If you’ve told me lies, I’ll be back here to take that out of your skin!”

Squeaker was taken aback. “I wouldn’t tell yer no lies, Mr. Pitt! Wouldn’t be worf me w’ile, nah, would it? Yer’d only come back and ruin me business. Ain’t good fer trade to ’ave crushers ‘angin’ around, beggin’ yer pardon. Gives the ’ouse a bad name!”

Pitt snorted and went out of the “’ouse,” past the rotting wood in the yard, a pile of refuse, and two drunks in the gutter. He made his way rapidly through the rain to George Street. This was a distinctly more salubrious part of the Acre, only a few moments’ walk from the Houses of Parliament.

Max did indeed have an unusual skill. If he had managed to acquire some “ladies of blood,” as Squeaker put it, and three or four thoroughly handsome whores accomplished in their art, he would have made himself a very rich man in a few years.

Pitt found the house without much difficulty. A man asking for such a place was not unusual, and those willing to give directions were often compensated for their trouble by the proprietors of the establishments.

This particular house was inconspicuous, even a little grubby, on the outside. It could easily have been taken for another one of the numerous common lodging houses; anonymity was a necessary part of the trade.

Inside, however, the style changed. The entrance hallway was discreetly elegant. Pitt was reminded of Max’s service in fine houses of men and women whose taste was nurtured by generations of money and breeding. These were people who knew the masters of painting and furniture design as instinctively as they knew how to construct a grammatical sentence, or to walk with head high and a very slight swagger to the hips.

Beyond the hallway in the main reception room there was nothing opulent, nothing vulgar. Its sensuality was one of quiet color, which belied the ease with which each piece of furniture and each painting complemented the others. The pleasure the room afforded was tactile as well: soft velvets, a carpet that made the feet tread silently, almost as if upon grass. Indeed, Max possessed a veritable art!

A man in livery came forward, affecting to be something between a footman and a butler. He was obviously in charge of who would be permitted to become a customer and who would be discreetly redirected elsewhere.

“Good afternoon, sir.” He eyed Pitt’s clothes and, with an almost imperceptible change of expression, determined that he was unlikely to be able to pay the house charges. But he was too skilled to dismiss him immediately. Gentlemen of the most distinguished rank and fortune were known to assume the oddest of disguises at times.

“Good afternoon.” Pitt understood the process exactly, and with a touch of amusement he played it all the way, using his most courteous manner. “I came here by recommendation.” He made sure he stood perfectly straight-shouldered, as if his disastrous clothes were an attempt at passing for a native of the Acre—as indeed they were, but for an entirely different reason. “I have heard from various of my friends”—could Squeaker Harris be termed a friend?—“that you have ladies of far greater quality than any of your competitors.”

The man’s face relaxed. He decided Pitt was a gentleman, after all. His voice, not his clothes, betrayed the man: that beautiful diction, and the bearing.

“That is perfectly true, sir. What kind of quality had you in mind? We have both quality of experience and, if you prefer, quality of breeding—although that, of course, does require a little special arrangement.”

So business was proceeding as usual, in spite of Max’s dramatic demise!

Pitt flared his nostrils a little and widened his eyes, looking very slightly down at the man. “Quality of breeding,” he replied in a tone that suggested there could have been no other answer.

“Quite, sir,” the man replied. “If you would care to make an appointment in advance, I will see that it is arranged. You understand, we can make less deference to individual tastes in such circumstances. But if you care to tell me what coloring, what figure, you prefer, we will endeavor to accommodate you.”

Yes, Max had had more than talent. He had had genius!

“Excellent,” Pitt answered easily. “I like auburn coloring”—automatically he pictured Charlotte—“or, next to that, dark. And I do not care for fat women, nor yet too thin. Don’t give me someone whose bones I can feel!”

“Quite, sir,” the man said again, bowing. “An excellent taste, if I may say so.” He could have been a butler commenting upon a choice of wine for the table. “If you will return in three days’ time, we will provide you with something that will be to your satisfaction. Our financial settlement will be fifty guineas—payable in advance—upon your meeting the lady and believing her acceptable, of course.”

“Naturally,” Pitt replied. “I must say, my friend was correct. You would appear to be by far the most superior establishment in the area.”

“We have no rival, sir,” the man said simply. “Those like Mr. Mercutt, who imagine they can imitate us, are quite inferior—as perhaps you have already heard.”

“Mercutt?” Pitt repeated, frowning a little. “I don’t think I have heard the name?” He let his voice rise, inviting explanation.

“Ambrose Mercutt,” The man’s eyebrows lifted fractionally in disdain. “A most indifferent person, I assure you, sir, but with pretensions.” A duchess might have spoken of a social climber with just such a tone of weary condescension.

Pitt had the name he wanted. He had accomplished all he could here. The local station would know where to find Mr. Mercutt.

“No.” He shook his head. “I cannot think that anyone has mentioned his name to me. He cannot be of any account.” Better to leave the man flattered and secure. Comfortable people betray far more than those who are suspicious.

The man smiled with satisfaction. “Quite, sir—of no account at all. If you care to return at about this time in the afternoon, in three days’ time?”

Pitt inclined his head in agreement and took his leave, equally satisfied.

Inspector Parkins received Pitt with a look of expectant pleasure. The case of Max Burton had been handed over and Parkins was delighted to be rid of it. There were already more than enough unsolved crimes within his responsibility, and this particular one promised little joy.