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
