“Other one? What are you talking about? Other what?”
Meddows’ face tightened. “Other corpse, man. The other one we found castrated like this. Don’t say you didn’t know about it?”
Pitt was stunned. How could he have failed to hear of such a monstrosity?
“Some gambler or pimp,” Meddows went on. “Other side of the Acre-not your station. But, as I said, he was emasculated, too, poor sod, though not as badly as this one. It looks as if we’ve got some kind of maniac loose. Managed to keep the papers from making too much of the first one. Victim was the sort of man that’s always getting knifed-they do in an occupation of that kind.” He stood up slowly, his knees cracking. “But this one’s different. He’d seen better times, perhaps, but he still ate well. And I’d say at a guess that his shabbiness might be more of an eccentricity than a lack of means. His suit is pretty worn, but his linen is new-and reasonably clean, not had it on more than a day, by the look of it.”
Pitt thought of the Stilton cheese, and the immaculate fingernails. “Yes,” he said flatly. He knew Meddows was staring at him, waiting. “All right. I suppose if you’ve finished here we’d better have him taken away. Do a proper autopsy, and tell me anything else-if there is anything.”
“Naturally.”
Now came the worst part; once again, Pitt mentally debated whether he could delegate the task of informing the family-the widow, if there was one. And, as always, he could not escape the conviction that he must do it himself. If he did not, he would feel he had betrayed both the junior he sent and the bereaved he might have comforted.
He gave all the necessary orders to the men waiting outside. The body must be removed, the yard sealed off and searched for anything at all that might render a clue as to who had done this thing. A search must be initiated for vagrants who had been in the area, for lodgers who might have been returning home, for idle prostitutes, for someone who might have seen something.
Meanwhile he would go to number 23 Lambert Gardens, and inform the household-at this hour probably just sitting down to breakfast-that their master had been murdered.
Pitt was met at the door by an extremely competent butler. “Good morning, sir,” the man said politely. Pitt was a stranger to him, and it was too early for a social call.
“Good morning,” Pitt answered quietly. “I am from the police. Is this the residence of Dr. Hubert Pinchin?”
“Yes, sir, but I am afraid Dr. Pinchin is not at home at the moment. I can recommend another doctor to you if your need is urgent.”
“I don’t require a doctor. I’m sorry, I have bad news for you. Dr. Pinchin is dead.”
“Oh dear.” The butler’s face tightened but his composure remained perfect. He moved back a step, allowing Pitt to enter. “You had better come in, sir. Would you be good enough to tell me what happened? It might be easier if I were to break the news to Mrs. Pinchin. I am sure you would be most tactful, but …” He delicately left the obvious in the air.
“Yes,” Pitt said with a relief that struck a spark of guilt in him. “Yes, of course.”
“How did it happen, sir?”
“He was attacked, stabbed in the back. I think he probably knew very little pain. I’m sorry.”
The butler stared at him in a moment of immobility; then he swallowed. “Murdered?”
“Yes. I’m sorry,” Pitt repeated, “Is there someone who can identify the body-perhaps someone other than Mrs. Pinchin? It will be distressing.” Should he mention the mutilation now?
The butler had regained his self-possession; he was in command of himself and of the household. “Yes, sir. I will inform Mrs. Pinchin of Dr. Pinchin’s death. She has an excellent maid who will care for her. There is another doctor in the neighborhood who will attend her. The footman, Peters, has been with us for twelve years. He will go and identify the body.” He hesitated. “I suppose there is no doubt? Dr. Pinchin was a little less than my height, sir, very well built, clean-shaven, and of a rich complexion….” He let the vague hope hang in the air. But it was pointless.
“Yes,” Pitt answered. “Did Dr. Pinchin have a suit of rough brown tweed, I should judge of some years’ wear?”
“Yes, sir. That is what he was wearing when he left home yesterday.”
“Then I am afraid there can be little doubt. But perhaps your footman should make sure before you say anything to Mrs. Pinchin.”
“Yes, sir, naturally.”
Pitt gave him the address of the mortuary, and then advised him of the nature of the other wounds, and that the newspapers would inevitably make much of it. It would be a kindness to keep the reporters out of the house for as long as possible, until some other event superseded the murder in the public eye.
Pitt left without meeting the widow at all. She had not risen from her bed, and only in his imagination did he see her shock, followed by disbelief, slow acceptance, and finally the beginning of overwhelming pain.
He must, of course, go to see the officer dealing with the other murder that appeared to be so similar. The two crimes may or may not be connected, but to ignore the possibility would be absurd. Perhaps he would even find himself relieved of the case. He would not mind in the least; he felt no sense of proprietorship, as he had in some cases. Whoever had committed this crime had entered a realm far outside the ordinary world of offense and punishment.
As he trod on against the squally wind fluttering rubbish off the pavements, he reflected that he would not mind in the least if they took this one away from him. He crossed the road just before a hansom cab clopped past. A boy who was sweeping a clear path from the horse droppings stopped and rested on his broom. His small hands were chapped red, and his fingers jutted out of the ends of his gloves. A brougham swished by and splattered them both with a mixture of mud and manure.
The boy grinned to see Pitt’s irritation. “Oughter’ve walked on me parf, mister,” he said cheerfully. “Then yer’d not get yerself mucked.”
Pitt handed him a farthing and agreed with him wryly.
At the police station he was greeted with an unexpected warmth. “Inspector Pitt? Yes, sir. I suppose as you’ve come about our murder, sir-it being the same as your one this morning, like?”
Pitt was taken aback. How did this young constable know about Hubert Pinchin? His face must have reflected his thoughts, as it often did, because the constable answered the question before Pitt asked it.
“It’s in the afternoon extras, sir. Screaming about it, they are. Downright ’orrible. Course I know they write up things something chronic, adding bits to shock people into ’ysterics. But all the same-!”
“I doubt they added anything to this one,” Pitt replied dryly. He unwound his muffler and took off his hat. His coat flapped loose, one side longer than the other; he must have done it up on the wrong buttons again. “May I speak to whoever is in charge of your murder, if he’s in?”
“Yes, sir, that’ll be Inspector Parkins. I reckon as ’e’ll be real glad to see you.”
Pitt doubted it, but he followed the constable willingly enough into a warm, dark office that smelled of old paper and wax polish. It was larger than his own, and there was a photograph of a woman and four children on the desk. Parkins was a dark, dapper man; he sat dismally looking at a sheaf of papers in his hand. The constable introduced Pitt with a flourish.
Parkins’ face lost its lugubrious expression immediately. “Come in,” he said heartily. “Come in-sit down. Here, move those files-make yourself comfortable, man. Yes, disgusting affair. You want to know all about it? Found him in the gutter! Dead as mutton. Quite cold-of course no wonder, weather we’ve been having! Filthy! And it’ll get worse. He’d been stabbed in the back, poor devil-long, sharp blade, probably kitchen knife, or something like it.” He paused for breath and pulled a face, running his hands through his sparse hair. “Man was a procurer-corpse found by a local prostitute. At any other time, I would have said that was not inappropriate. I suppose you’ll want to take the case now, since it’s almost certainly connected with yours.” He made it a statement.
Pitt was startled. “No!” he said involuntarily. “I thought you-”
“Not at all.” Parkins waved his arms as if declining some favor. “Not at all. Senior officer, much more experience than I have. Admired you for the way you handled that Bluegate Fields business.” He saw Pitt’s surprised expression. “Oh, we get to hear the odd thing, you know. Friends, a word here, word there.” He held up a finger and waved it in some vague gesture of understanding.
Pitt was surprised and flattered. He was vulnerable enough to like having his courage admired-it was a
