Pentecost Alley

“Unfolds in a masterly fashion, sure to satisfy devotees of the classic
puzzle;
at the same time its insight into nineteenth-century British character and wealth of period detail ensure that it will please Anne Perry’s many readers.”

—Houston Chronicle

“A big pleasure in the arrival of a new Thomas and Charlotte Pitt mystery lies in greeting old friends, learning what changes have come into their lives, seeing how the children have grown, and discovering that Thomas is gaining more confidence with his new responsibilities and status
.
Pentecost Alley
delivers all that, and the fact that there’s a fine mystery included is simply icing on the cake.”

—Detroit Free
Press

“Demonstrates Perry’s trademark skill for enhancing well-designed mystery plots with convincing historical settings and cleverly drawn relationships among characters … As Perry edges toward her surprise ending, she crafts her tale with elegance, narrative depth, and gratifying scope.”

—Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“The Ripper’s legacy is frighteningly alive in Anne Perry’s satisfying new novel…. Perry is one of the few mystery writers today with the power to evoke so completely the London of 1890: from the wretched, vicious slums to the elaborate—and just as vicious—drawing rooms.”

—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“Recommended … Perry’s evocation of late-nineteenth-century London is a major reason for reading her mysteries—the sights, smells, and voices of the period all ring true.”

—Library Journal

“Tantalizing suspense … A web of intrigue that will stump even the most experienced mystery fan.”

—Mostly Murder

“Beautifully crafted, filled with the gaslit atmosphere of a bygone world.”

—Cosmopolitan

“[Perry] has outdone herself…
.
Pentecost Alley
is a spellbinding drama that explores the depths man will go to keep things ‘right’ in his world. This story is a shocker, gaining a steady momentum that leads to a dynamite conclusion. Once more, Anne Perry gives the reader an experience that will linger long after the final page is turned.”

—Romantic Times

“As always, Anne Perry comes up with a surprise and credible ending to the mystery.”

—Abilene Reporter News

“Perry seems to have lost none of her enthusiasm for the Pitts nor for mystery writing. Her intricate plot never slows down…. [A] satisfying resolution.”

—Arizona Daily Star

By Anne Perry
Published by Fawcett Books:

Featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt:
THE CATER STREET HANGMAN
CALLANDER SQUARE
PARAGON WALK
RESURRECTION ROW
BLUEGATE FIELDS
RUTLAND PLACE
DEATH IN THE DEVIL’S ACRE
CARDINGTON CRESCENT
SILENCE IN HANOVER CLOSE
BETHLEHEM ROAD
HIGHGATE RISE
BELGRAVE SQUARE
FARRIERS’ LANE
THE HYDE PARK HEADSMAN
TRAITORS GATE
PENTECOST ALLEY
ASHWORTH HALL
BRUNSWICK GARDENS
BEDFORD SQUARE
HALF MOON STREET
THE WHITECHAPEL CONSPIRACY
SOUTHHAMPTON ROW
SEVEN DIALS
LONG SPOON LANE
BUCKINGHAM PALACE GARDENS

Featuring William Monk:
THE FACE OF A STRANGER
A DANGEROUS MOURNING
DEFEND AND BETRAY
A SUDDEN, FEARFUL DEATH
THE SINS OF THE WOLF
CAIN HIS BROTHER
WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE
THE SILENT CRY
A BREACH OF PROMISE
THE TWISTED ROOT
SLAVES OF OBSESSION
FUNERAL IN BLUE
DEATH OF A STRANGER
THE SHIFTING TIDE
DARK ASSASSIN
EXECUTION DOCK

The World War I Novels:
NO GRAVES AS YET
SHOULDER THE SKY
ANGELS IN THE GLOOM
AT SOME DISPUTED BARRICADE
WE SHALL NOT SLEEP

The Christmas Novels:
A CHRISTMAS JOURNEY
A CHRISTMAS VISITOR
A CHRISTMAS GUEST
A CHRISTMAS SECRET
A CHRISTMAS BEGINNING
A CHRISTMAS GRACE
A CHRISTMAS PROMISE

1

“S
ORRY SIR,”
Inspector Ewart said quietly as Pitt stared down at the woman’s body sprawled across the big bed, at her face swollen in the asphyxia of death. “But this one you ought to see.”

“So I assume,” Pitt said wryly. Since his promotion to command of the Bow Street Station, he no longer dealt with ordinary episodes of violence, theft and fraud. The assistant commissioner had directed that he reserve his attention for those crimes which had, or threatened to have, political implications; those which involved persons of social prominence and might provoke embarrassment in high places if not dealt with both rapidly and tactfully.

So his being sent for at two in the morning to come to this Whitechapel slum over the murder of a prostitute required some explanation. The pale-faced constable who had ridden with him in the hansom had said nothing as they clattered through the August night, the streets narrowing, becoming meaner, the smell of sour smoke, crowded middens and the sharp odor of the river stronger as they moved eastwards.

They had stopped at Old Montague Street opposite the cul-de-sac of Pentecost Alley. The light from the gas lamp on the corner did not reach this far. Holding his bull’s-eye lantern high, the constable had led Pitt past refuse and sleeping beggars, up the steep, creaking steps
of the tenement building, in through the deep-stained wooden door, and along the passage to where Ewart was waiting. The sound of weeping came from somewhere farther back, sounding frightened and carrying a rising note of hysteria.

Pitt knew Ewart by reputation, and he nurtured no doubts that there was some very real reason why he had been sent for, and so urgently. If nothing else, Ewart would be highly unwilling to yield command of his case to another officer, especially one who had risen from the ranks as Pitt had and who only a short while ago had been his equal. Like many regulars in the police force, Ewart believed that the only man with a right to such a position was one born to it, as had been Pitt’s predecessor, Micah Drummond, a man of independent wealth and military experience.

Pitt looked at the woman. She was young. It was difficult to tell a prostitute’s age. The life was harsh, often short. But the skin on her bosom where her dress was torn open was still unmarred by drink or disease, and the flesh was firm on her thighs where her red-and-black skirt had been lifted. Her left wrist was tied to the bedpost with a stocking, and there was a garter around her arm just above the elbow, a blue satin rose stitched to it. The other stocking was tied in a noose around her neck, tight, biting into it, almost cutting. The top half of her body, and all the bed around it, was drenched with water.

The sound of weeping was still audible, but it was quieter now, and there were other voices as well, and footsteps in the passage, light and quick.

Pitt looked around the room. It was surprisingly well furnished. The walls had been papered a long time ago, and though they were marked by the incessant damp and mold, and faded where the light had struck them, there was still a recognizable pattern. The fireplace was small, the dead ashes in it gray-white. The fire had been a gesture, something flickering and alive rather than a source of heat. The one chair was a cheerful red with a hand-stitched
cushion on it, and there was a rag mat on the floor. An embroidered sampler hung over the shallow mantel, and the wooden chest for clothes and linens was polished. Even its brass handles gleamed.

The washstand held a single ewer and basin.

On the floor beside the bed were the girl’s high black boots, not side by side, but half over each other. The round, shiny buttons of the left one had been fastened through the buttonholes of the right one. A bone-handled buttonhook lay beside them. It was a ridiculous, distorted gesture, and one that could only have been done deliberately.

Pitt drew in his breath and let it out in a sigh. It was ugly, and sad, but there was nothing in it to cause Ewart to have sent for him. Prostitution was a dangerous way to make a living. Murders were not unique, and certainly not reason for scandal in high places, or even in low ones.