Death in the Devil's Acre

by Anne Perry

  For once, Brandy was silenced.

  Balantyne stared at the flames of a candelabra. He tried to imagine what it might be like, trapped in such a relationship, suspecting and yet knowing you dare not acknowledge such a truth. In fact, for your own survival, and perhaps the survival of your children, you must be the most ardent accomplice in hiding it. It had never occurred to him that Augusta was anything but a virtuous and satisfied wife. Was that insufferably complacent of him—blindly, stupidly insensitive? Or was it simply a measure of his trust in her, even perhaps a kind of happiness? He had never used a prostitute in his life, even in his early army days. There had been the occasional lapse, of course, before he was married—but for mutual pleasure, never for money. But after that he had not ever questioned his moral duty to abstinence when either he or Augusta were away from home or indisposed. Augusta was not a passionate woman; perhaps decency precluded it? And he had long ago disciplined himself to master his own body and its demands upon him; such control was part of the mind of a soldier. Exhaustion, pain, and loneliness must be governed.

  Alan Ross sat back. “I’m sorry,” he said, running his hand over his hair again. “It was not a suitable subject to discuss. I have spoiled your dinner.”

  “No.” Balantyne swallowed and dragged his thoughts back. “What you said is true,” he corrected quickly. “The situation is hideous. But you cannot blame people for not acknowledging what can only destroy them. God knows—a man who procures prostitutes is barely fit to live. But murder cannot be the answer. And this mutilation is barbaric.”

  “Have you ever been to the Devil’s Acre, Papa?” Brandy spoke without fire now, his face somber. “Or any of our other slums?”

  Balantyne knew what he was thinking. In the fight for survival in grinding, hopeless poverty, what else could people be but barbaric? Memories of army camps came back to him, of the Crimea, of Scutari, of sudden and violent death—of what men do in towns during the weeks and the nights waiting for battle. Any day their bodies could be mangled, faceless under the sun of Africa or frozen in the Himalayan snows. If he did not really know Brandy, neither did Brandy know him.

  “I’ve been thirty years in the army, Brandy,” he replied. “I know what can happen to people. Is that an answer?”

  “No.” Brandy drank the last of his port. “Only I don’t find it acceptable to avoid the question anymore.”

  Balantyne stood up. “We had better rejoin the ladies in the withdrawing room before they realize we have been discussing this subject again.”

  Alan Ross rose also. “I know a member of Parliament I’d like to see. Do you wish to come, Brandy? We might be of assistance to him. I hear he has some sort of bill to put before the House.”

  “What about?” Brandy followed them.

  “Child prostitution, of course,” Ross replied, opening the door. “But don’t mention it in front of Christina, if you don’t mind. I think the subject is one that distresses her.”

  Balantyne was pleased. He had thought from her remarks that she merely considered the matter in ill taste rather than painful. This was entirely different. He was ashamed for having misjudged her. But there was nothing he could say; to apologize would only betray the thought.

  Just before midnight, when the others had gone, Balantyne followed Augusta slowly up the stairs. “You know, I like Alan Ross better each time I see him. Christina is very fortunate,” he remarked.

  She turned and looked at him coldly. “And what do you mean by that?”

  “Precisely what I said—that with the best intention, one may still find that a person is not what one had hoped. Alan Ross is even more than we might have presumed on our early acquaintance.”

  “Not on mine,” she answered firmly. “Do you imagine I would have permitted my daughter to marry a man of whose worth I was not sure?”

  He was surprisingly stung, and spoke the truth without thinking. “It is difficult to know how much choice we had in the matter with Christina.”

  Augusta’s eyes were as unfamiliar as those of some stranger he had accidentally jostled in the street. The sense of comfort he had felt at the dinner table among the wineglasses vanished like an illusion.

  “I have every choice,” she said cuttingly. “I see to it that I do. Do you imagine that I am incompetent?”

  That was one thought that had never crossed his mind since the day he had first met her, at her coming-out ball. She had been formidably composed even then. Her lack of nervousness, the fact that she neither flirted nor giggled, was among the things that had attracted him. The memory was of too long ago. He tried to recapture the feeling he had had then—the excitement, the sense of anticipation—and it eluded him. Vaguely it hurt. The qualities that had delighted him then were now frightening, like a closed door.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” He was wounded into a defense of himself, affecting the arrogance that had once sat on him so easily. “I am as well acquainted with Christina as you are.” A lie of majestic proportions. “She is excessively strong-willed. And even you, my dear Augusta, are capable of the occasional error.”

  She was tired; her face hardened, finally shutting him out. She turned and continued her way up the stairs. Her back was straight, but she climbed with an effort.

  “Naturally,” she said. “And so are you, Brandon. I wish you would refrain from discussing at the table such disagreeable subjects as slums and their various unfortunates—especially when we have guests. It is ill-mannered and can only lead to embarrassment. I would have expected you to see that for yourself! A social conscience is a worthy thing, but there are appropriate times and places for exercising it. In view of the fact that that wretched footman once served in this house, I would be obliged if you would refrain from mentioning him again. I do not wish the entire staff sent into hysterics, or the next thing we know, half of them will be giving notice—and it is hard enough to keep good servants these days as it is!” She reached the landing and turned for her bedroom. “Good night, Brandon.”

  There was nothing else for him to do but reply, and to go on along to his own room. He closed the door and stood still. The room felt unfamiliar, though every furnishing, every book and memento had been his for years.

  Balantyne was met the following morning in the hall by Stride, his face white, hands knotted in front of him instead of by his sides as usual. There were no members of the female staff to be seen. For an instant, it flashed across Balantyne’s mind that Augusta was right. All the maids had given notice and fled in the night, afraid that they were employed under the same roof as some creature like Max, and that they might be spirited off to a life of whoredom at any moment.

  Stride was waiting, his eyes bleak.

  “What is it?” Balantyne demanded. “What has happened?”

  “The newspapers, sir—”

  Was that all! Balantyne was furious with relief. “God damn it, man, so they’re late! If they haven’t come in an hour, send someone out for them!” He turned to brush past him and go in to breakfast.

  Stride stood firm. “No, sir. I fear I have not made myself clear. The newspapers are here—it is what they contain, sir. There has been another murder in the Devil’s Acre, sir, this one far worse.”

  Balantyne could not conceive of anything worse than the mutilation of Hubert Pinchin. His mind fumbled in horror, and failed.

  “He was not so badly—” Stride hesitated and swallowed. “So injured, sir.”

  Balantyne was confused, and relieved. “Not so badly? I thought you said worse?”

  Stride’s voice dropped. “It was Sir Bertram Astley, sir. He was found outside a house of pleasure, for male persons only.”

  “For male—? Good God! You mean a homosexual brothel?”

  Stride winced; he was not accustomed to such vulgar frankness. “Yes, sir.”

  “Bertie Astley ...” Balantyne felt a little sick. Suddenly the smell of kedgeree drifting from the silver serving dish on the breakfast-room sideboard was nauseating.

>   “Would you like brandy in the library, sir?” Stride offered.

  “Yes, please.” Bless the man. Balantyne had never appreciated him fully before. “Yes, I would.” He started gratefully toward the library.

  “What would you like me to tell Her Ladyship, sir?”

  Balantyne stopped. He would like to have protected her from knowing at all. It was ugly; she should not have to learn about such things.

  “Tell her there has been another murder.” Reality would be forced upon her anyway; he could not shield her from that. But better she become acquainted with it by the decent words of someone like Stride, rather than the anonymous sensationalism of the newspaper or someone’s unthinking tattle. “You had better tell her it was Sir Bertram Astley, but do not say where he was found.”

  “Quite so, sir. Unfortunately, Sir Bertram’s death will become common knowledge quite soon,” Stride said.

  “Yes.” Balantyne could think of nothing more to say. “Yes. Thank you, Stride.” He went into the library and found the brandy already there, on a salver beside the newspaper. He poured himself a stiff tot and then sat down to read.

  The corpse of Sir Bertram Astley had been found on the doorstep of a house of dubious repute in the Devil’s Acre. How idiotically they phrased it! The cause of death was a deep stab wound in the back, but he had also been slashed across the groin and the pit of the stomach. They did not mention the more private organs, but the implication was obvious, inexplicably the more grotesque for its omission. Apparently the murderer had intended to mutilate him as he had the previous victims, but had been frightened away before he could do more than vent his insane hatred in a single violent sweep of the knife. Inspector Thomas Pitt was in charge of this case, as he was of the two others.

  Balantyne put down the paper and finished the brandy in a single, burning gulp.

  5

  PITT HAD BEEN CALLED for in the pre-dawn darkness by a white-faced sergeant in a hansom cab. The man fumbled with his hat and clung to it with numb fingers as he tried to convey the urgency of his message without articulating the horror he had seen.-

  Pitt understood. There had been another murder. Only a very grave discovery would bring the sergeant to his door at such an hour.

  “It’s mortal cold outside, sir,” the sergeant offered, intending to be helpful.

  “Thank you.” Pitt put on his jacket and then a voluminous coat that made him look as if a stiff wind might fill him out like a sail. He accepted a muffler from the sergeant’s outstretched hand, wound it around his neck, jammed on his hat, squashing his hair over his ears, and opened the front door. It was, as the sergeant had said, mortal cold.

  They sat together in the hansom while it jolted over the uneven cobbles toward the Devil’s Acre.

  “Well?” Pitt asked.

  The sergeant shook his head. “Bad one,” he said sadly. “Sir Bertram Astley. Cut about—but not—well, not actually in pieces, as you might say.”

  “Not mutilated like the others?”

  “No—rather looked like our maniac was interrupted. Bit o’ late business, maybe.” He shook his head again. “I dunno!”

  Pitt was confused. “Bit of late business—what do you mean?”

  “Some’d say as that’s the worst part, sir. I dunno ’oo’s goin’ to tell ’is family! ’E was found in the doorway of a brothel—for male persons only.”

  “Oh, God!” Pitt suddenly knew why the sergeant felt so awkward, why it was all so difficult to put into words. How do you tell people like the Astleys that the scion of their house has been murdered and indecently wounded in the doorway of a male brothel? Now he understood the reason for the pity in the sergeant’s face, the unnecessary warning that it was cold outside.

  But before all that he must see the corpse, and the place where they had found him.

  “Sorry, sir.” The sergeant put on his hat and banged it with the flat of his hand.

  “Who discovered him, and when?” Pitt asked.

  “Constable Dabb, sir. I left ’im there in charge to see that nothin’ was moved. Bright lad. Saw ’im—Sir Bertram, that is—about quarter past four, or a few moments after. ’Eard Big Ben, ’e did. Body was lyin’ in the doorway. So Constable Dabb goes over to look at wot ’e’s doin’ there, like. Then o’ course ’e sees as ’e’s dead. We gets a fair few dead uns in the Acre and all around there, so ’e don’t take all that much notice, not like to send for me, till ’is coat falls open and poor Dabb sees wot’s bin done to ’is—wot’s bin done to ‘im. Then, o’ course, ’e sends for us—’otfoot! And we sends for you.”

  “How did you know who he was?” How long could a dead man lie in the Devil’s Acre and not be robbed of everything but his clothes?

  The sergeant understood. “No money, o’ course, but still got ’is cards and a few letters and the like. Anyway, don’t know what the doc’ll say yet, but ’e won’t ’ave bin there that long, not more’n an hour. Trade comin’ and goin’ ’d ’ave fallen over ’im otherwise. Course they finish on the early side. Daylight, an’ they all want to be w’ere they ain’t ashamed to be seen. Back at their own tables, most like, to lead family prayers!” The contempt in his voice was as thick and pungent as tar, although Pitt was not sure whether it was for their use of the place itself or for their hypocrisy in hiding it. Another time, perhaps, he would ask.

  The hansom jarred to a stop and they both climbed down. They were on the southern edge of the Acre, hard by the river, its damp breath swirling up over the rime of ice hardening on the pavement since the rain had stopped. Above and beyond them in the clogging darkness loomed the Gothic towers of the Houses of Parliament.

  A young constable with a lantern was standing guard over a body crumpled in a doorway, all of it but the face covered by a heavy overcoat. Decency had prompted the constable to hide the face with his own cape, and he stood shivering beside it. A strange reverence, Pitt thought, that makes us take off our own clothing and stand chilled to the bone in order to clothe the dead already touched with the final coldness of the grave.

  “Mornin’, sir,” the constable said respectfully. “Mornin’, Mr. Pitt.”

  Such is fame.

  “Good morning, Constable Dabb,” he said, returning the compliment. It was a mean street, smelling of dirt and refuse. There were other derelicts asleep in the doorways opposite. Glanced at in the gray light, they did not look significantly different from the corpse of Bertram Astley. “How did you know he was dead?” he asked, wondering what had made the constable stop and examine this particular body.

  Constable Dabb straightened a little. “West side of the street, sir,” he replied.

  “West side?”

  “Wind’s from the east, sir. And bin rainin’, too. Nobody, even a drunk, is goin’ to sleep in the wet when there’s shelter twenty feet away on the other side.”

  Pitt gave him a smile of appreciation, then picked up the cape and handed it back to him. He bent over the corpse. Bertram Astley had been a handsome man: regular features, good nose, fair hair and side whiskers, and very slightly darker mustache. His eyes were closed, and it was impossible to guess what vitality he might have possessed in life.

  Pitt looked down and opened the coat where Constable Dabb’s sense of decency had compelled him to close it over the wound. This one was peremptory, a single slash, not deep. There was not a great deal of blood. He lifted the shoulders enough to see the back. The coat was cut and there was a long, dark stain a little to the left of the spine. This was the death wound, the same as the others. He let the body ease back to its position.

  “Have you sent for the surgeon?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Of course he had; his professional pride would not permit him to forget such a primary task.

  Pitt looked around the street. There was nothing else unusual. It was narrow, lined with houses that sagged as timbers rotted and plaster grew mold and bulged, crumbling away. Drains overflowed. Would anyone have noticed a man carrying a corpse, or two peo
ple righting? He doubted it. If there had been a witness entering or leaving the brothel, would they ever be found—or speak if they were? Hardly. Homosexuality was a crime carrying a long penalty of imprisonment, and social ruin for life. Of course to practice it discreetly was common enough, but to force people to admit they were aware of it was utterly different.

  “See what else you can do here,” he instructed. “Do you have the address of the family?”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant handed it to him on a slip torn from his notebook.

  Pitt sighed. “Then I’d better go and tell them before the newspapers have time to print a late extra. No one should learn of this sort of thing from a paper.”

  “No, sir. I’m afraid there was reporters ’ere over an hour ago. I don’t know ’ow they ’eard—”

  It was not worth discussing. There were eyes and ears everywhere!—people accustomed to death, and keen for a sixpence to let some newshound be the first to run to Fleet Street with material for glaring headlines.

  Pitt climbed back into the hansom and gave the driver the address of the Astleys’ London house.

  There was faint light in the sky when he stepped out and dismissed the cab. He had no idea how long he would be.

  The street was almost deserted. A kitchenmaid carried out rubbish; a bootboy slammed a back door. Only the servants’ quarters were alive. He climbed the steps to the front door and knocked. A footman, looking sur- prised, answered. Pitt did not give him time to make judgments.