Charlotte was waiting for him when he arrived home. She was beautiful, her face radiant, hair soft and sweet to smell. She clung to him fiercely as if she were bursting with energy.
“Where have you been?” he asked, holding her hard.
“Only to see Emily.” She dismissed it as a trifle, but he knew perfectly well why she had gone.
She gave him a quick kiss and pulled away. “You’re cold. Sit down and warm yourself. Gracie will have dinner in half an hour. Your coat looks very dirty. Where have you been?”
“To the Devil’s Acre,” he said tartly as he eased off his boots and wriggled his toes. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his feet out toward the fire.
Charlotte passed him his slippers. “Did you learn anything?”
“No,” he lied. After all, it was not definable.
Her face fell into lines of commiseration. “Oh. I am sorry.” Then she brightened, as if an idea had just occurred to her. “Perhaps it would be better to approach it from the other point of view.”
In spite of himself, he asked, “What other point of view?” And then was angry with his gullibility.
But she did not hesitate. “The point of view of Max’s women,” she replied instantly. “These murders were committed with a great deal of hatred.”
He smiled sourly. It was a ludicrous understatement, and, sitting here in her own safe home, what on earth could she know about it? He had seen the corpses!
“You should look for someone whose life has been ruined,” she went on. “If Max had seduced some woman, and then her husband had found out, he might well hate enough to kill like that-not only Max but whoever had had anything to do with her disgrace.”
“And how would he find out?” he asked. If she was going to play policeman, let her answer all the difficult, ugly questions that Athelstan would have thrown at him. “There is no connection whatsoever between Max and Hubert Pinchin. We can’t find anyone who knew them both.”
“Maybe Pinchin was the doctor for Max’s establishments,” she suggested.
“Good idea. But he wasn’t. There’s a disbarred old crow who does that-and very lucrative it is, too. He wouldn’t share his practice with anyone.”
“Crow? Is that an underworld term for a doctor?” She did not wait for a reply. “What if the husband came as a customer and found the whore was his own wife? That way he would know who the procurer was as well!” It was an excellently rational solution, and she knew it. She glowed with triumph.
“And what about the woman?” he said scathingly. “He just bundled her up and took her back home again? I’m sure he wanted her-after that!”
“I don’t suppose so for a moment.” She sniffed and looked at him impatiently. “But he couldn’t divorce her, could he?”
“Why not? God knows, he would have cause!”
“Oh, Thomas, don’t be ridiculous! No man is going to admit he found his wife in the Devil’s Acre working as a whore! Even if the police weren’t looking for someone with a motive for murder, it would ruin him forever! If there is anything worse than death for a man, it is to be laughed at and pitied at the same time.”
He could not argue. “No,” he said irritably. “He’ll probably kill her, too, but quietly, when he’s ready.”
Her face paled. “Do you think so?”
“Damn it, Charlotte! How should I know? If he’s capable of cutting up her pimp and her lovers, what would stop him leaving her in some more respectable gutter when he’s ready? So you bear that in mind, and stop meddling in things you don’t understand-where you can only do damage by stirring up a lot of suspicions. Remember-if you’re right, he’s got precious little left to lose!”
“I haven’t been-”
“For heaven’s sake, do you think I’m stupid? I don’t know what you’ve been doing with Emily, but I most assuredly know why!”
She sat perfectly still, color high in her cheeks. “I haven’t been anywhere near the Devil’s Acre, and to the best of my knowledge I haven’t spoken to anyone who has!” she said righteously.
He knew from the brilliance of her eyes that she was speaking the literal truth. Anyway, he did not think she would lie to him, not in so many words.
“Not for want of trying,” he said acidly,
“Well, you don’t appear to have got very far either,” she retorted. “I could give you the names of half a dozen women to try. How about Lavinia Hawkesley? She is married to a boring man at least thirty years older than she is. And Dorothea Blandish and Mrs. Dinford and Lucy Abercorn, and what about the new widow Pomeroy? I hear she is very pretty, and she knows one or two people in the fast set.”
“Adela Pomeroy?” He was momentarily startled out of his anger.
“Yes,” she said with satisfaction, seeing his face. “And there are others. I’ll write them down for you.”
“Write them down, then forget the whole thing. Stay at home! This is murder, Charlotte, very ugly and violent murder. And if you go meddling in it you may very well end up dead in a gutter yourself. Do as you are told!”
She said nothing.
“Do you hear me?” He had not meant to, but he was raising his voice. “If you and Emily go blundering about, God knows what lunatic you’ll disturb-presuming you get anywhere near the truth! Far more likely it’s a business vengeance in the Acre and nothing to do with society at all.”
“What about Bertie Astley?” she demanded.
“What about him? He owned a block of buildings in the Acre, a whole street. That’s where the Astley money comes from, their own private slum.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes! Perhaps he had a brothel as well, and he was removed by a rival.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Go back and look again, of course! What else?”
“Thomas, please be careful!” She stopped, unsure what more to say.
He knew the dangers, but the alternatives were worse: another murder; public outrage reaching hysteria; Athelstan, afraid for his position, putting more and more pressure on Pitt to arrest someone, anyone, to satisfy Parliament, the church, the patrons of the Acre and other whorehouses all over London. And then terror, fury, and guilt when there was yet another atrocity.
But, perhaps foremost in his own mind, he felt the need to solve this case himself, to solve it before Charlotte, unwinding some thread from Emily’s society connections, started to follow it from the other end and ran into something she could not handle. He had forbidden her to meddle not only because her life could be in great danger, but also because he must demonstrate that he did not need her help.
“Of course I shall be careful,” he said stiffly. “I’m not a fool!”
She gave him a sidelong look and held her tongue.
“And you stay at home and keep out of it!” he added. “You’ve plenty to attend to here without interfering where you can only get into trouble.”
Nevertheless, when he went into the Acre the next day, he took even more care than usual to dress inconspicuously, and to walk with that mixture of sureness of where he was going and the furtive, beaten air of someone whose journey is futile and who knows it.
The day was cold, with gloomy skies and a hard wind blowing up from the river. There was every excuse to pull his hat down and wind his muffler over the bare skin of his face. The sparse gaslights of the Acre glimmered in the murky morning air like lost moons in a sunken, crooked world.
Pitt had a good likeness of Pomeroy, and he intended to find out everything he could about the brothels that catered to customers who liked children. Somewhere in this cesspit he expected to find Pomeroy’s reason for being here, and he believed it had to do with a need the man could not or dared not satisfy in Seabrook Walk. Nothing else would have brought such a prim, almost obsessively meticulous creature into this world.
He had begun the day in Parkins’ office, gathering all the information the local police could give him about brothels that were known to employ children. He was even offered the names of snouts, and small personal secrets that might allow him to exert a little pressure to assure the truth.
But no one was prepared to say that he knew Pomeroy, or had ever catered to him.
By ten that night Pitt was cold, bone-aching tired; he intended to try one more house before going home. There was no point in lying about who he was this time; Ambrose Mercutt’s doorman knew him. It was his job to
