Pomeroy was not the best she could have done for herself?
Had she loved him or was it perhaps a debt of honor? Did her parents know Pomeroy, and owe him something?
He searched through all of Pomeroy’s rooms and read every letter and receipt. As Adela Pomeroy had said, his affairs were meticulously kept. From the accounts, the age and quality of the furnishings, the number of house servants, and the stock in the kitchen and pantry, it appeared they lived frugally. There was no sign of extravagance-except the vase of colored silk flowers in the withdrawing room and Adela’s gowns.
Had he bought them as gifts for her, an indulgent expression of his love? He could not imagine it of a man with the face he had seen in the Devil’s Acre. But by then he had already been robbed of that quickening that inhabits the flesh, of the capability for passion and pain, moments of tenderness, dreams or illusions.
Even in life we mask our vulnerability. What right had Pitt, or anyone else, to know what this man had felt for his wife? What vain or hopeless ideas still haunted him?
Or was her indifference apparent now because there had long ago ceased to be any real emotion between them? Was his death merely the formal ending of a relationship that was merely a facade? They had been married fifteen years; that much she had told him. There were no children. Had there ever been?
Could that even have been the reason she chose this plain, older man-a kindness to a woman whose moral character had been blemished? Or perhaps who already knew she was barren? Had gratitude turned over the years to hatred?
Had she sought love elsewhere? Was that where the silk flowers and the gowns came from? It was an obvious question, and he would be obliged to search.
He asked her if she had ever heard of Bertram Astley, Max Burton, or Dr. Pinchin. The names produced no answering flicker in her face. If she was a liar, she was superb. Neither did he find any mention of the other victims in Pomeroy’s papers.
There was nothing to do but thank Mrs. Pomeroy and leave with a peculiar feeling of unreality, as if all the time she was speaking she had barely been aware of him. He was an usher in the theater, and she was watching the main drama somewhere else, out of his sight.
The next obvious thing was to try the Acre again, and the best source was Squeaker Harris. Pitt found him in his grubby attic, hunched over the table by the window-the cleanest thing in the place-so that the winter light could fall onto his paper. Too many careful, suspicious eyes would examine his work. It must meet the highest standards of perfection or he would not remain in his trade.
He glared at Pitt balefully. “You ain’t got no right bustin’ inter a man’s ’ouse!” he exclaimed as he covered the paper he was working on as inconspicuously as possible. “I could ’ave yer-fer trespassin’. Vat’s agin ve law, Mr. Pitt. An’ wot’s more, it ain’t right.”
“It’s a social call,” Pitt replied, sitting on an upended box and balancing with some difficulty. “I’m not interested in your business skills.”
“Ain’t yer?” Squeaker was not convinced.
“Why don’t you put them away?” Pitt suggested helpfully. “In case dust falls on them. You don’t want anything spoiled.”
Squeaker gave him a squinting glare. Such leniency was confusing. It was very contrary of policemen to be so inconsistent in their behavior. How was anyone to know where he stood? However, he was glad of the chance to put the half-completed forgeries out of sight. He returned and sat down, considerably easier in his mind.
“Well?” he demanded. “Wotcher want ven? Yer ain’t come ’ere fer nuffin’!”
“Of course not,” Pitt said. “What’s the word about these murders now? What are they saying, Squeaker?”
“The Acre slasher? Vere ain’t no word. Nobody knows nuffin’, and nobody ain’t sayin’ nuffin’.”
“Nonsense. You telling me there’ve been four murders and mutilations in the Acre, and nobody’s got any ideas as to who did them, or why? Come on, Squeaker-I wasn’t born yesterday!”
“Neever was I, Mr. Pitt. And I don’t want ter know nuffin’ abaht it. I’m a lot more scared o’ ‘ooever done vose geezers like vat van I ever am o’ you! You crushers is a nuisance, Gawd knows, bad fer ve ’ealf an’ bad fer business, and some of yer is downright nasty at times. But yer ain’t mad-least not ravin’ mad like ve lunatic wot does vis! I can understand a decent murder along wiv ve next man! I ain’t unreasonable. But I don’t ’old wiv vis, an’ I don’t know nobody as does!”
Pitt leaned forward and nearly fell off the box. “Then help me find him, Squeaker! Help me put him away!”
“Yer mean ‘ang ‘im.” Squeaker pulled a face. “I dunno nuffin’, an’ I don’t want ter! It’s no use yer arskin’ me, Mr. Pitt. ’E ain’t one o’ us!”
“Then who are the strangers? Who’s new in the Acre?” Pitt pressed.
Squeaker put on an elaborate air of grievance. “’Ow ve ’ell do I know? ’E’s mad! Mebbe ’e only conies aht at nights. Mebbe ’e ain’t even ’uman. I dunno anyone as knows anyfink abaht it! None o’ ve pimps or blaggers or shofulmen I know ’as got any call ter do vat kind o’ fing! An’ yer know we screevers don’t go in fer nastiness. I’m an artist, I am. Fer me ter get violent wiv me ’ands ’d ruin me touch.” He waved his fingers expressively, like a pianist. “Dips don’t neever,” he added as an afterthought.
Pitt conceded with a smile. Unwillingly he believed Squeaker. Still he gave it a last try. “What about Ambrose Mercutt? Max was taking his trade.”
“So ‘e was,” Squeaker agreed. “Better at it, see? An’ Ambrose is a nasty little bastard w’en ’e’s crossed as many o’ ’is girls’d tell yer. But ’e ain’t mad! If ’n someone’d stuck a shiv inter Max and dropped ’im inter ve water, or even strangled ’is froat, I’d ’ave said Ambrose, quick as look atcher.” His lip curled. “But you lot’d never ’ave fahnd ’im! Just gorn, vat’s all-Max’d just ’ave gorn, and you rozzers’d never ’ave known ve diff’rence. Nobody but a fool or a lunatic draws attention ter ’isself by cuttin’ people abaht an’ leavin’ ’em in gutters fer people ter fall over.” He raised his scruffy eyebrows. “I arks yer, Mr. Pitt-now ’oo’d leave a corpus in front of an ’ouse ’o mercy, wiv all vem ’oly women in it-if n ’e was right in ’is mind, like?”
“Did Ambrose employ children in his brothel, Squeaker?”
Squeaker screwed up his face. “I don’t ’old wiv vat. It ain’t ’ealfy. A proper man wants a proper woman, not some scared little kid.”
“Does he, Squeaker?”
“Gawd! ‘Ow do I know? You fink I got vat kind o’ money?”
“Does he, Squeaker?” Pitt persisted, his voice harder.
“Yes! Yes ‘e does! Greedy little git! Go an’ ’ang ’im, Mr. Pitt, an’ welcome!” He spat on the floor in disgust.
“Thank you. I’m obliged.” Pitt stood up and the box collapsed.
Squeaker looked at the box and his face wrinkled up. “Yer shouldn’t ’ave sat on vat, Mr. Pitt! Yer too ’eavy fer it-now look wot yer done! I oughta charge yer fer breakages, I ought!”
Pitt pulled out a sixpence and gave it to him. “I wouldn’t like to owe you, Squeaker.”
Squeaker hesitated, the coin halfway to his teeth. The thought of Pitt owing him was extremely attractive, even tempting. But sixpence now was better than a debt Pitt might let slip from his rather erratic mind.
“Vat’s right, Mr. Pitt,” he agreed. “Shouldn’t never owe nobody. Never knows as w’en vey might collect at an inconvenient moment.” He raised candid eyes. “But if n I ’ears ’oo done the poor geezers-fer sure like-I’ll send and tell yer.”
“Oh, yes?” Pitt said skeptically. “You do that, Squeaker.”
Squeaker spat again. “’Ope ter die! Oh, Gawd-I didn’t oughter said vat! Geez! May Gawd strike me if’n I don’t!” he amended-with greater trust in his ability to obtain mercy from the Almighty than from the Acre slasher.
“He can have you after I’ve finished with you.” Pitt looked him up and down. “If He can be bothered with what’s left!”
“Nah, Mr. Pitt, vat ain’t nice. Yer abusin’ me ’orspitality.” Squeaker was aggrieved, but happily so. It was a feeling he enjoyed. “Ve trouble wiv you crushers is yer ain’t got no happreciation.”
Pitt smiled and went out the door. He picked his way down the stairs carefully, avoiding the rotted ones, and went outside into the cold malodorous air of the alley. Tomorrow he would get a picture of Ernest Pomeroy and take it around the brothels in the Acre.
