Death in the Devil's Acre (21 page)

Pitt blinked fuzzily and shuddered with cold as the air hit his body. “For God’s sake come in!” he said irritably. “What is it now?”

The constable stepped inside gingerly, scattering water over the floor, but Pitt was too cold to care. Gracie was not up yet and all the fires were out. “Shut that door behind you, man, and come into the kitchen.” He led the way in enormous strides. The linoleum was like ice under his bare feet. At least the kitchen floor was wooden and kept the warmth of something that had once been alive. And the stove would be alight; it always was. With a little riddling and stoking he might even get the kettle to boil. The idea of a cup of steaming tea was the nearest he could get to decent sense. Going back to bed and the refuge of sleep was obviously impossible.

“Well, what is it?” he demanded again, pushing and pulling at the fire furiously. “And take that thing off”—he gestured at the man’s cloak—“before you drown us all.”

The constable obediently divested himself of the cloak and set it down in the scullery. He was a domestic man, and normally would have known what to do without being told. But the news he had brought had swept away his years of training by mother and wife.

“It’s another one, sir,” he said quietly, coming back into the kitchen and handing Pitt the kettle he was reaching for. “And it’s worse than before.”

Pitt knew why he had come, but it would still be ugly to hear. Before the words were spoken, there was always the hope it might be something else.

The pressure was mounting: Athelstan had called for him again—the newspapers were spreading the panic. And he knew that Charlotte, for all her pretended innocence, was using Emily’s social position to pursue her own suspicions about Max’s women and Bertie Astley’s life. If he accused Charlotte of lying, they would have the sort of argument that would wound them both. Besides, he could not prove he was right; he simply knew her well enough to understand her sense of purpose. And, by God, he was going to get the Devil’s Acre slasher before she did!

He was still standing in the middle of the kitchen floor with the kettle in his hand. “Worse?” he said.

“Yes, sir.” The constable’s voice dropped. “I bin round the Acre ever since I joined the force, but I never seen anythin’ like this before.”

Pitt poured the water into the pot. The steam rose fragrantly into the air. He took half a loaf of bread out of the big wooden bin. Whatever it was that waited for him, however appalling, would be worse on an empty stomach in the icy morning.

“Who is it?”

The constable handed him the bread knife. “A man. Things in his pockets says ’e’s called Ernest Pomeroy. They found ’im on the steps of a charity ’ouse, Sisters o’ Mercy, or something—not Popish—reg’lar church,” he explained hastily. “Woman as found ’im’ll never be the same again. In ’ysterics, she was, poor creature, white as paper and screamin’ somethin’ terrible.” He shook his head in bewilderment and accepted the china mug of tea Pitt handed him. Automatically he put both hands around it and let the heat tingle his numb flesh.

Pitt sliced bread and set it on top of the cooking surface to toast. He reached down two plates, the butter from the cool pantry, and marmalade. He tried to imagine the woman, dedicated to good work, sheltering the homeless and uplifting the fallen. She would be used to death; she could hardly fail to be, in the Devil’s Acre. Indecency would be all around her, but she had probably never seen a naked man in her life—perhaps not even imagined one.

“Was he mutilated?” he asked unnecessarily.

“Yes, sir.” The constable’s face blanched at the memory. “Cut to pieces, ’e was, and sort of—well—like ’e’d bin ripped by some kind o’ animal—with claws.” He took a deep breath, the muscles in his throat tight. “Like someone ’ad tried to pull ’is privates off ’im with their ’ands.”

He was right—it was getting worse. Bertie Astley’s injuries had been slight, almost a gesture. The thought returned to him that Bertie was not a victim of the same killer, but that Beau Astley had seen the chance to step into his brother’s place and lay the blame on a lunatic already beyond the pale of ordinary human decency. It was a thought he tried to reject because he had liked Beau Astley, as one likes from a distance someone one does not know but feels to be pleasant.

The toast was smoking. He turned it over smartly and took a sip of his tea. “Was he stabbed in the back, too?”

“Yes, sir, just about the same place as the others, one side of the backbone, and right about the middle. Must ‘a died quick like, thank God.” He screwed up his face. “Wot kind o’ man does that to another man, Mr. Pitt? It ain’t ’uman!”

“Someone who believes he has been wronged beyond bearing,” Pitt replied before he even thought.

“I reckon as you’re right. An’ you’re burnin’ your toast, sir.”

Pitt flipped the two pieces off and handed one to the constable. He took it with surprise and satisfaction. He had not expected breakfast—even of rather scorched toast, eaten standing up. It was good, the marmalade sharp and sweet.

“Maybe if someone killed my little girl, I’d want to kill ’im bad enough,” he said, with his mouth full. “But I’d never want to—to tear out ’is—beggin’ your pardon, sir—’is privates like that.”

“Might depend on how he killed your girl,” Pitt replied, then scowled and dropped his toast as the full horror of what he had said invaded his imagination. He thought of Charlotte and his daughter, Jemima, asleep upstairs.

The constable stared at him, his light brown eyes round. “I reckon as ’ow you could be right at that, sir,” he said in no more than a whisper.

Upstairs everything was silent. Charlotte had not stirred, and the nursery had only a single light burning.

“You’d better eat your breakfast, sir.” The constable was a practical man. This was going to be no day for an empty stomach. “And put plenty o’ clothes on, if you won’t think me impertinent.”

“No,” Pitt agreed absently. “No.” He picked up the toast and ate it There was no time to shave, but he would finish his tea and take the constable’s advice—lots of clothes.

The corpse was appalling. Pitt could not conceive of the rage that could drive a human being to dismember another in this way.

“All right,” he said, standing up slowly. There was nothing more to be seen. It was like those before, but worse. Ernest Pomeroy had been an ordinary-looking man, perhaps less than average height. His clothes were sober, of good fabric, but far from fashionable. His face was bony and rather plain. It was impossible to tell if life had fired him with any charm or humor, if those unbecoming features had been transformed by an inner light.

“Do we know where he comes from?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant on duty answered quickly. “Got a few letters and the like on ’im. Seabrook Walk. Quite a decent sort o’ place, ’bout a couple o’ miles from ’ere. I got a sister as obliges for a lady up that way. Not a lot o’ money, but very respectable, if you know what I mean.”

Pitt knew precisely what he meant. There was a large class of people who would prefer to eat bread and gravy, and sit in a cold house, rather than be seen to lack for the world’s goods, especially for servants. To eat frugally could, by stretching the imagination, be a matter of taste. One might even pretend not to feel the cold, but to be without servants could only mean the depth of poverty. Had Ernest Pomeroy escaped a sad sham of life for a few hectic hours of indulging his starved nature, only to the here in these filthy and equally deceiving streets?

“Yes, I know what you mean,” he replied. “We’ll have to get someone to identify him. Better not the wife—if we can find someone else. Maybe there’s a brother, or—” He looked down at the face again. Ernest Pomeroy was probably nearer fifty than forty. “Or a son.”

“We’ll see to it, sir,” the sergeant said. “Wouldn’t want to do that to any woman, even though as she’d only ’ave to see ’is face. Still—all the same. You goin’ to see the wife, sir?”

“Yes.” It was inevitable. It must be done, and again it must be Pitt. “Yes ... give me that address, will you?” Seabrook Walk looked fiat and gray in the thin light of morning. Somehow the rain did not make it clean, merely wet.

Pitt found the number he was looking for and walked up to the door. As always, there was no point in hesitating; there was nothing that would make it hurt less, and there might be something to learn. Somewhere there must be something that linked these men: a common acquaintance, an appetite, a place or a time, some reason they had been hated so passionately. Whatever the cost, he must find it. Time would not wait for him. The murderer would not wait.

The narrow flower beds were empty now, just dark strips of earth. The grass in the middle had a lifeless, wintry look, and the laurel bushes under the windows seemed sour, holding darkness and stale water. Immaculate lace curtains hung at all the windows, evenly spread. In an hour they would be obscured by the drawn blinds of mourning.

He raised the polished door knocker and let it fall with a jarring sound. It was several moments before a startled betweenmaid opened it a crack, her pasty face peering out. No one called this early.

“Yes, sir?”

“I have come to speak with Mrs. Pomeroy. It is urgent.”

“Oooh, I don’t know as she can see you now.” The tweeny was obviously confused. “She ain’t even”—she swallowed and remembered her loyalties to the house—“even ’ad ’er breakfast yet. Could you come back in an hour or two, sir?”

Pitt was sorry for the girl. She was probably not more than thirteen or fourteen, and this would be her first job. If she lost it through annoying her mistress, she would be in difficult straits. She might even end up wandering the streets, less fortunate than the women with the skill or the personality to end up in a bawdy house with someone like Victoria Dalton.

“I’m from the police.” Pitt took the responsibility from her. “I have bad news for Mrs. Pomeroy, and it would be most cruel to let her hear it by rumor, rather than to tell her discreetly ourselves.”

“Oooh!” The girl swung the door wide and let Pitt step inside. She stared at his dripping clothes; even in the face of crisis, her training was paramount. “’Ere, you’re soakin’ wet! Better take off them things and give ’em to me. I’ll ’ave cook ’ang ’em up in the scullery. You wait in there, an’ I’ll go upstairs an’ tell Mrs. Pomeroy as you’re ’ere, an’ it’s urgent.”

“Thank you.” Pitt took off his coat, hat, and muffler and handed them to her. She scurried out, almost hidden by the bulk of them. He stood obediently until Mrs. Pomeroy should appear.

He looked around the room. It was quite a good size; the furniture was of heavy, dark wood without luster in the thin light. There were embroidered antimacassars on the backs of the chairs, but no extra cushions on the seats. The pictures on the walls were views of Italy painted in hard blues—blue sea, blue sky—with harsh sunlight. He found them ugly and offensive; he had always imagined Italy to be a beautiful place. There was an embroidered religious text over the mantelpiece: “The price of a good woman is above rubies.” He wondered who had selected it.

On the chiffonier at the side there was a vase of artificial silk flowers, delicate things with gay, gossamer petals. It was a surprising touch of beauty in an unimaginative house.

Adela Pomeroy was at least fifteen years younger than her husband. She stood in the doorway in a lavender robe, trimmed with froths of lace at throat and wrists, and stared at Pitt. Her hair tumbled down her back; she had not bothered to dress it. Her face was fine-boned, her neck too slender. For another few years she would be lovely, before nervous tensions ate the lines deeper and marred the roundness of the flesh.

“Birdie said you are from the police.” She came in and closed the door.

“Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy. I am sorry, but I have bad news for you.” He wished she would sit down, but she did not. “A man was found this morning whom we believe to be your husband. He had letters identifying him, but we will have someone make certain, of course.”

She still stood without movement or change of expression. Perhaps it was too soon. Shock was like that.

“I am sorry,” he repeated.

“He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes wandered around the room, looking at familiar things. “He wasn’t ill. Was it an accident?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I am afraid it was murder.” She would have to know; there was no kindness in pretending.

“Oh.” There seemed to be no emotion in her. Slowly she walked over to the sofa and sat down. Automatically she pulled across her knees the silk of the robe, and Pitt thought momentarily how beautiful it was. Pomeroy must have been a wealthy man, and more generous than his face suggested. Perhaps it was not a meanness he had seen, but merely the emptiness of death. Maybe he had loved this woman very much, and saved hard to give her these luxuries—the flowers and the robe, Pitt felt what could be a quite unjust dislike well up inside him that he could see no agony or grief in her.

“How did it happen?” she asked.

“He was attacked in the street,” he replied. “He was stabbed. It was probably over very quickly. I dare say there was only a moment of pain.”

Still there was nothing in her face, then a faint surprise. “In the street? You mean he—he was robbed?”

What had she expected? Robbery was not such an uncommon crime, although it was not usually accompanied by such dreadful violence. Maybe he carried little of value. But then robbers were not to know that, until too late.

“He had no money on him,” he answered her. “But his watch was still in his pocket, and a very good leather case for cards and letters.”

“He never carried much money.” She was still staring ahead of her, as if Pitt were a disembodied voice. “A guinea or two.”

“When did you last see him, Mrs. Pomeroy?” He would have to tell her the rest; where he was found, the mutilation. Better she hear it from him ...

“Yesterday evening.” Her answer cut into his thoughts. “He was going to deliver a book to one of his pupils. He was a teacher. But you probably know that—mathematics.”

“No, I didn’t know. Did he tell you the name of the pupil, and where he lived?”