Death in the Devil's Acre tp-7

by Anne Perry

  Were they all victims of the same lunatic? Or perhaps was one a crime fitted in and made to look like the others, an opportunity taken brilliant advantage of: to inherit a title and an estate; or to be rid of a tedious husband; or-and the sweat broke out on his body at the thought-to avenge a cuckolder of one’s bed, one’s home.

  “What was the doctor’s wife like?” he asked huskily, swallowing.

  Ross looked away. “I’ve no idea. Why?”

  Balantyne’s face was stiff. “No reason. My mind was wandering,” he said lamely. He forced the thought away; it was unworthy of such a man.

  Ross offered him the sherry, but he declined it. Its warmth did not reach deep enough inside him. He noticed that Ross himself took none either. How long had he known Christina’s nature? He cannot have understood it when he married her. Had the knowledge come slowly, a gathering pain? Or in a single act of discovery, like a sharp wound?

  He looked at Ross’s face. It would be unpardonable to discuss the subject with him. It was his own private grief, and no matter what Balantyne might guess, he must be silent. He could not bear Ross to know-even for an instant-the thoughts that had come to him.

  He wanted to run away, to exist in some fantasy land where he could be with Charlotte, talk with her, see her face, touch her, learn to share a multitude of things.

  No doubt Alan Ross would like to be in just such a place, with someone clean and generous. But he understood duty, and so far he had found the courage to fulfill it.

  Balantyne sat quite still. His mind fumbled for something to say, anything that would let Ross know that he was not alone; that, far from pity, he felt the most intense admiration for him, and a regard that was perhaps as close to love as one man comes for another. But no words were right; they had all been used too lightly. None of them conveyed the reality of the pain.

  The two men sat for a long time, the untouched sherry decanter between them, the logs settling in the hearth. Finally, Balantyne stood up. Christina would doubtless soon be arriving home, and he did not wish to see her.

  His goodbyes were trivial, the same things he always said, and Ross gave the same replies. But once, as they shook hands, he had the feeling for a moment that perhaps the unsaid things had been understood after all-at least the good things. And there would be other times, other chances to show a gentleness, to allow Ross to perceive that he cared, not blindly, but because he suffered some of the same loneliness, the same ties to duty that would destroy him if he let them go.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Ross said with a faint smile. “Thank you for calling.”

  “Good afternoon, Alan. Pleasure to see you.”

  Neither of them mentioned the women. There was no message, no regards.

  Balantyne turned and walked away into the sharp winter afternoon. He had not brought the carriage. He preferred the isolation and the exercise, the wind hard on his face, and it would take longer to get home.

  10

  Charlotte did not tell Pitt that she had been to see General Balantyne again. In fact, she had not specifically told him of any of her visits, although she knew he was aware of them. Since he had been brought back from the hospital, white-faced, his clothes soaked with blood, she had realized he wanted to catch the Devil’s Acre murderer so desperately that he would take clumsy risks. She still went cold at the thought of how nearly the risks had cost him his life. It was something she normally refused to think about-the chance of his being injured, or even killed. To dwell on it was too frightening, and there was nothing she could do to alter it.

  She knew he disapproved very strongly of her becoming involved in the case in any way, even so peripherally as visiting the Balantynes. And, to tell the truth, she felt some guilt because she had enjoyed the glamour of wearing Emily’s dresses, of swirling around in great spaces full of lights and music and brilliant colors. It was wonderful to show off-just a little!

  She very honestly liked General Balantyne. That was the worst and most thoughtless thing she had done. She had never considered that he might really feel anything deeper for her than a return of her friendship. Naturally, she had wanted him to admire her, to think her beautiful and exciting; she simply had not believed that he would.

  But this time she had seen in his face that soft, intensely personal gaze, unwavering and peculiarly naked. She knew it was no longer a social game to be stepped into or out of as the occasion suited.

  Of course she could not tell Pitt; it was out of the question. When he came in that night tired and cold, his side so sore he moved stiffly, she brought his supper through to the parlor for him on a tray and waited in silence while he ate.

  At last her curiosity and anxiety overcame good sense and, as usual, her tongue won. “Do you know anything yet to connect all the victims?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  He gave her a skeptical look and pushed the tray away. “Thank you, that was very good.”

  She waited.

  “No!” he said emphatically. “They all had their own business in the Acre, and so far I don’t know anyone who knew them all.”

  “All had business?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. He had not told her that before. “Max kept a brothel. But what about the others?”

  “Pinchin performed abortions-”

  “For Max?” she interrupted eagerly.

  “Not so far as I know, but it’s possible.”

  “Then maybe some society woman-” She stopped. Apart from the fact that the idea was not a very good one, she had betrayed herself with her interest-and cut off any more information he might have given her. “I’m sorry.”

  “Accepted.” His mouth curved in a slow smile. He closed his eyes and slid farther down in his chair.

  Charlotte clung to her patience with almost infinite effort. She smoothed her face into a calm expression and counted up to a hundred before she spoke again. “What about Pomeroy? Don’t tell me he was teaching prostitutes how to keep their accounts?”

  His smile widened in spite of himself, then suddenly vanished altogether. “No, he was a pederast … poor rotten inadequate bastard!”

  Another hundred seconds went by. “Oh,” she said at last.

  “And Bertie Astley owned a whole row of tenement houses, sweatshops, and a gin mill,” he added. “Now you know it all, and there is nothing whatsoever you can do.”

  She tried to imagine Pomeroy. What kind of man hungered for the immature bodies of children too young to want anything but safety, approval, and comfort? They would ask nothing of him, and display neither hunger nor criticism. Certainly, God knows, they would never laugh at him if he was clumsy or inadequate.

  And what of them, dreading every night when some new man would fondle their bodies and become strangely more and more excited, culminating in a final desperate and violently intimate act they would neither understand nor participate in. She shivered in spite of the fire, hunching up as if she were threatened, feeling sick.

  “Leave it,” Pitt said quietly from the chair opposite. His eyes were open now and he was looking at her. “Pomeroy’s dead. And you’ll not stop pederasty-”

  “I know.”

  “Then leave it.”

  But Charlotte could not leave it. As soon as Pitt had gone the following morning, she instructed Gracie for the day, then put on her warmest cloak and walked to the public omnibus stop where she took the next bus going in the direction of Paragon Walk.

  “Well?” Emily asked as soon as she arrived. “What have you learned?”

  She told Emily about Pitt being stabbed. She had not seen her since it happened.

  “That’s terrible! Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry! Is he all right? Do you need anything?”

  “No, thank you. Oh-” It was an offer too good to decline. “Yes, if you have a bottle of good port.”

  “Port?”

  “Yes. It is an excellent restorative, especially in this weather.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer brandy?” Emily was feeling expansive, and she
liked Pitt.

  “No, thank you. Port will do very well. But you can make it two bottles, if you like.”

  “Has he discovered anything? Was it the Devil’s Acre slasher? Did he recognize him?”

  “He thinks it was just ordinary thieves. But he does know quite a lot now.” She recounted the reasons Pinchin and Pomeroy had had for being in the Acre.

  Emily sat silent for several minutes. “Perhaps that explains why Adela Pomeroy looked for lovers in the fast set,” she said at last. “Poor woman. Although whatever her husband was, it hardly warrants indulging in a creature like Max!”

  “Are you quite certain Adela Pomeroy looked for lovers in the fast set?” Charlotte asked, then instantly regretted it. She was afraid of the answer. “And even if she did, it doesn’t mean she had anything to do with Max!”

  “No, I know that. But I’ve taken a lot of trouble lately to be sure just who is in that circle.”

  “Emily! You haven’t-?”

  “No, I haven’t!” Emily said icily. “Which brings me to another subject. Investigating is one thing, Charlotte, but your behavior with General Balantyne has been completely irresponsible. You criticize Christina Ross for flirting, quite rightly, but the only difference between you and her is that you have confined your attentions to one man! And that does not make it better. Indeed, for the damage you may do, it makes it a great deal worse.”

  Charlotte felt the heat of shame burn inside her so painfully that she could not look at Emily’s face. She already knew how deeply she was at fault, but to have Emily tell her so made it the sharper. “It was unintentional,” she said defensively.

  “Rubbish!” Emily snapped back. “You wanted some adventure, and you took it. You did not foresee the result because you did not bother to look!”

  “Well, if you are so excessively clever, why didn’t you tell me?” Charlotte demanded, swallowing on the lump in her throat.

  “Because I didn’t see it either,” Emily admitted. “How was I to know you’d behave like a complete fool? You never used to be able to flirt to save yourself!”

  “I was not flirting!”

  “Yes, you were!” Emily sighed and shut her eyes. “Maybe you are just too stupid to realize your own success, I grant you that. But I’m never going to take you out anywhere again. You’re a disaster.”

  “Yes, you will, because you couldn’t bear to be left out of it if there were another society murder and Thomas got the case.”

  Emily looked around at her.

  “I know I behaved badly,” Charlotte went on. “It doesn’t help to have you tell me. I’d undo it if I could.”

  “You can’t! We might as well put it to some use. What else do you know? I’ve been wondering if all the murders were committed by the same person. Or, even worse, if only one of them really mattered.”

  “What do you mean-mattered? How can a murder not matter?”

  “If only one mattered to the murderer,” Emily said deliberately. “What if Beau Astley wanted to kill his brother for the money? I believe there is quite a lot of it. If he killed Bertie ordinarily, he would be the first suspect himself. But if Bertie were only one of several deaths, all the others having no connection with Beau at all-”

  “That’s ghastly!”

  “Yes, I know. And I like Beau better each time I see him. But murderers, even lunatics, are not necessarily personally objectionable. And unfortunately plenty of totally worthy and sane people are.”

  Charlotte had found this painfully true. “Bertie Astley owned a whole row of houses in the Acre. That’s where the Astley money comes from.”

  “Oh.” Emily let out her breath in a sigh. “I suppose I should have thought of that.”

  “I don’t see where it helps very much.”

  “Who does Thomas think it was?”

  “He won’t tell me.”

  Emily considered in silence for a while.

  “I wonder-” Charlotte began.

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure.” She was thinking of Christina. If Christina had also been one of Max’s women-young, hungry, dissatisfied because Alan Ross did not give her the fierce, total love she wanted, the essence of him was always just out of reach-had she looked to prove herself with other men, and so been drawn into one affair after another, in an endless pursuit?

  And if Ross had found out-And why should he not? It would surely be simple enough, once he suspected.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Emily said impatiently. “Of course you’re sure. You may not be right, but you know what you mean!”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh, Charlotte!” Emily’s face softened. “You can’t hide from it-not once you’ve realized. Of course it could be Balantyne.”

  “The general!” Charlotte was appalled. “Oh, no! No, it couldn’t!”

  “Why not?” Emily said gently. “If Christina is one of Max’s women, he wouldn’t be able to bear the disgrace. He’s used to discipline and sacrifice. Soldiers who disgrace themselves find a gun and take the honorable way out. Somehow it evens the balance for them-they can be looked on with an obscure kind of respect. He would do that for Christina, wouldn’t he?”

  “But Christina wasn’t shot! Why would he do that to all those other people? It doesn’t make any sense!” It was a protest in the wind, and she knew it.

  “Of course it does.” Emily put out her hand and touched Charlotte. “He fought in Africa, didn’t he? He’s seen all kinds of savage rituals and atrocities. Perhaps it isn’t so terrible to him. Maybe Max came back to her, saw her at some party or out somewhere, and approached her-and she became one of his women. That would be reason to kill Max, and dismember him that way.”

  “Why Bertie Astley?” It was a silly question. The answer was obvious-he had been her lover. Emily did not even bother to reply.

  “All right-then why Pinchin?” Charlotte went on.

  “He might have done an abortion on her, and perhaps she cannot have any children now.”

  “And Pomeroy? What about him? He only liked children!”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he knew about it. Maybe he saw something.”

  “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe General Balantyne would-that he could!”

  “Of course you don’t. You don’t want to. But, my dear, sometimes people one cares for very much can do horrible things. Heaven knows, we even do them ourselves-ugly, stupid, and painful things. Perhaps this just grew from a small mistake till it became …”

  Charlotte took a long, deep breath and shook her head. She could feel the tears aching in her throat.

  “I don’t believe it. It could have been Alan Ross. He had more reason, and he would be more likely to find out. Or it could just as easily be any other woman’s husband. We must find out more! When we do, it will prove it wasn’t the general or Alan Ross. Who else is in that fast set?”

  “Lots of people. I’ve already told you a dozen or more.”

  “Then we must find out who their husbands are, their fathers, brothers, their lovers, and then establish where they were on the nights of any of the murders.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to have Thomas do that?” Emily asked reasonably.

  “I can’t tell him we are involved. He’s angry enough already with the little he knows. You don’t have to find out where they were on each of the nights-any one of them will do!”

  “Oh, thank you very much! That makes it so much easier-a mere bagatelle! And what are you going to be doing in the meantime?”

  “I’m going to see General Balantyne. I’ll prove it wasn’t him. Or Alan Ross.”

  “ Charlotte-be careful!”

  Charlotte gave her a withering look. “And what do you imagine they are going to do to me? The very worst they are likely to do is lie a little. They can hardly drum me out of society, since I am not in it. You get started on your own investigations. If you are nice to George, you can persuade him to do at least half of it for you. Good day.”

  She
arrived at the Balantyne house at the appropriate hour for calling, partly for the convenience of being allowed in but mostly because that was when she was most likely to find the general alone. Lady Augusta would be out making her own calls.

  The footman opened the door and regarded her with expectation.

  “Good afternoon,” she said firmly. For heaven’s sake, she must remember they knew her as Miss Ellison! She had nearly announced herself as Mrs. Pitt. That was a lie that would have to be explained, but it was too painful to contend with now.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Ellison,” the footman said civilly. If he noticed her plain clothes or her wet boots, scuffed at the toes, he affected not to. “Her Ladyship is not at home, but the general is in, and Miss Christina.” He held the door wide in mute invitation.

  Charlotte accepted with alacrity, hoping he attributed it to the withering wind and the hard-driving snow rather than an unbecoming eagerness to visit.

  “Thank you,” she said with what she trusted was a compensating dignity. “I should be grateful to speak with the general, if I may.” She had already thought of her excuse. “It is with regard to the letters from the Peninsular War that he lent me.”

  “Certainly, ma’am, if you care to come this way.” He closed the door against the ice-whirling dusk, and led her to the withdrawing room. It was empty, but a fire was burning hard. Presumably the general was in the library, and perhaps Christina was with him. That was a contingency Charlotte had not considered. She would much rather not speak in Christina’s presence. Christina would be far too quick to understand, and she was possessive of her father. She would end the whole visit as quickly as was decent, it would descend to a painful battle of wits. Charlotte would have to try to bore her away with whatever details of soldiering she could bring to mind!

  The footman left her. Several minutes later, he returned and conducted her to the library. Thank heaven Christina had already gone, perhaps finding even the thought of Charlotte and her letters too tedious to bother with.

  General Balantyne was standing with his back to the fire. He was tense, his eyes on the doorway, waiting for her.