remember faces.
“Wotcher want?” he demanded angrily. “Yer can’t come ’ere nah, it’s business hours!”
“I’m on business!” Pitt snapped. “And I’m perfectly happy to come and go quietly, and not disturb your customers, if you’ll treat me civilly and answer a few questions.”
The man considered for a moment. He was long and lean and he had half an ear missing. He was dressed in a modishly cut jacket, with a silk kerchief tied around his throat. “Wot’s it worth to yer?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Pitt said immediately. “But I’ll tell you what it’s worth to you: continued employment and a nice pretty neck-no ugly rope burns! Can ruin a man’s future, a hemp collar.”
The man snorted. “I ain’t murdered no one. Duffed up a few wot didn’t know w’en they’d ’ad their money’s worth.” He tittered, showing his long teeth. “But they ain’t makin’ no complaints. Gentlemen as comes to these parts never do! And there ain’t nothin’ you can do, rozzer, as’ll make ’em. Rather the than lay a complaint against a pimp, they would!” He struck a pose and his voice rose to a falsetto. “Please Yer Honor, Mr. Beak, there’s this whore I used, an’ I want to complain as she didn’t give me value fer me money! I wants as yer should make ’er be more obligin’, me lud!” He switched position and put his other hand on his hip, looking down his nose. “Why, certainly, Lord Mud-in-Yer-Eye. You just tell me ’ow much yer paid this ’ere whore, and w’ere I can find ’er, and I’ll see as she gives yer satisfaction!”
“Ever thought of going on the halls?” Pitt asked cheerfully. “You’d have them in the aisles with that.”
The man hesitated; all sorts of glittering possibilities appeared in his mind. He was flattered in spite of himself. He had expected abuse, not appreciation, let alone such a golden idea.
Pitt pulled out the picture of Pomeroy.
“What’s that?” the man asked.
“Know him?” Pitt passed it over. There had been no picture of him in the newspapers.
“What of it? What d’you care?”
“That’s none of your business. Just believe me, I do care-so much so that I shall go on looking until I find someone who catered for his particular tastes. And if I keep on coming round here, that won’t be good for business, now, will it?”
“All right, yer sod! So we know ’im. Wot then?”
“What did he come here for?”
The man looked incredulous. “Wot did you say? You ’alf-witted or somethin’? Wot the ’ell d’yer think ’e come fer? ’E was bloody bent, the dirty little sod. ’E liked ’em real young-seven or eight, mebbe. But yer’ll never prove it, an’ I ain’t said nothin’. Nah git aht of ’ere afore I spoil your nice pretty neck with a red ring round it-right from one ear to the other!”
Pitt believed him, and he did not need proof. He had always known there would be none. “Thank you.” He gave the man a curt nod. “I don’t think I shall need to trouble you again.”
“Yer better not!” the man called after him. “Yer ain’t liked around ’ere! Best fer yer ’ealth ter try somewhere else!”
Pitt had every intention of leaving as rapidly as possible. He started to walk briskly, hands in his pockets against the cold, scarf pulled up around his ears. So Pomeroy was a pederast. That was no surprise; it was what he had expected. All he had been looking for was confirmation. Bertie Astley had owned a row of houses here in the Acre-sweatshops, tenements, a gin mill. Max’s occupation had never been a secret. All that remained was to establish Pinchin’s reason for being here. And then, of course, to find the common link, the place or the person that bound them together-the motive.
It was desperately cold. The wind with its acrid sewer smell made his eyes water. He lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and strode out more rapidly.
Perhaps that was why he did not hear them come up behind him in the shadowy light. He had solved the mystery of Pomeroy in his mind; he had completed his business and had forgotten he was still well inside the Acre. Walking like a happy man, a man with purpose, he was as conspicuous as a white rabbit on a new-turned field.
The first one struck him from behind. There was a stinging blow in the small of his back; his feet were suddenly entangled and the pavement hit him in the face. He rolled over, knees hunched, then straightened with all his strength. His feet met flesh that gave under his weight, falling away with a grunt. But there was another at his head. He lashed out with his fists and tried to regain his balance. A blow landed on his shoulder, bruising but harmless. He threw his weight behind his answering punch and was exhilarated to hear the crack of bone. Then there was a numbing punch in his side. It would have been his back had he not turned and kicked as hard as he could at precisely the moment he was struck.
There was nothing he could do now but run for it. A hundred yards, or two at the most, and he would be on the edge of the Acre and within hailing distance of a hansom, and safety. His side hurt; he must have a terrible bruise there, but a hot bath and a little embrocation would cure that. His feet were flying over the cobbles. He was not in the least ashamed to run; only a fool stayed against impossible odds.
He was short of breath. The pain in his side was sharper. It seemed a mile to the lighted street and traffic. The ghostly rings of the gas lamps were always ahead. They never drew level.
“Now then! Were you goin’ in such an almighty ’urry then?” An arm came out and caught hold of him.
In a moment of panic, he tried to raise his hand and strike the man, but the arm was leaden. “What?”
It was a constable-a constable on the beat.
“Oh, thank God!” he exclaimed. The man’s face grew enormous and vacant, shining in the mist like the gas lamps.
“’Ere, guv, you look rough, wot’s the matter wiv yer? Eh? ’Ere! You got blood all over yer side! I think as I’d better get yer to an ’orspital right quick! Don’t want yer passin’ out on me. ’Ere! ’Old up a bit longer. Cabbie! Cabbie!”
Through a haze of swinging lights and numbing cold Pitt felt himself bundled into a hansom and jolted through the streets, then helped gingerly down and through a labyrinth of bright rooms. He was stripped of his clothes, examined, swabbed with something that stung abominably, stitched through flesh that was mercifully still anesthetized by the original blow, bandaged and dressed, then given a fiery drink that scorched his throat and made his head muzzy. At last he was courteously accompanied home. It was midnight.
The following morning, he woke up so sore he could barely move, and it was a moment before he could remember why. Charlotte was standing over him, her hair pulled back untidily, her face pale.
“Thomas?” she said anxiously.
He groaned.
“You were stabbed,” she said. “They told me it isn’t very deep, but you’ve lost quite a lot of blood. Your jacket and shirt are ruined!”
He smiled in spite of himself. She was very pale indeed. “That’s terrible. Are you sure they’re completely ruined?”
She sniffed furiously, but the tears ran down her face and she put her hands up to cover them. “I will not cry! It’s your own stupid fault. You’re a perfect idiot! You sit there as pompous as a churchwarden and tell me what I must and must not do, and then you go into the Acre all by yourself asking dangerous questions and get stabbed.” She took one of his big handkerchiefs from the dresser and blew her nose hard. “I don’t suppose for a moment you even saw the slasher after all that-did you!”
He hitched himself up a little, wincing at the pain in his side. Actually, he was not at all sure it was the Acre slasher who had attacked him. It could have been any group of cutpurses prepared for a fight.
“And I expect you’re hungry,” she said, stuffing the handkerchief into her apron pocket. “Well, the doctor said a day in bed and you’ll be a lot better.”
“I’ll get up-”
“You’ll do as you’re told!” she shouted. “You’ll not get out of that bed till I tell you you may! And don’t you argue with me! Just don’t you dare!”
It was three days before he was strong enough to return to the police station, tightly bandaged and fortified with a flask of rather expensive port wine. The wound was healing, and although it was still painful, he was able to move about. Meanwhile the threads of the Devil’s Acre murders had drawn closer in his mind, and he felt compelled to return to the case.
“I’ve put other men on it,” Athelstan assured him, with a worried gesture. “All I can spare.”
