Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [0]
Anne Perry
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
1
P.C. WITHERS SNEEZED as the icy January wind howled up the alley off the Thames. It was still three hours before dawn, and the gas lamps of the main streets barely lit this dismal passage on the very edge of the Devil’s Acre, swarming with filth in the shadow of Westminster itself.
He sneezed again. The smell of the slaughterhouse fifty yards away was thick in his throat, along with the stench of the drains, old refuse, and the grime of years past.
Now that was funny—the yard gate was open! Shouldn’t be, rightly—not at this time of the morning. Not important, probably; some apprentice boy forgot to do his job—careless, some lads were. But what meat there was would likely be safe in cold rooms. Still, it was something to do in the long boredom of walking the gray pavements.
He crossed the alley to the cold rooms. Better just look inside, see everything was in order.
He poked his head around. It was silent—just one old drunk dossed down right in the middle. Better move him on, for his own sake, before the slaughtermen arrived and kicked him out. Apt to make a bit of sport of the old boys, some of them were.
“’Ere, dad,” he said loudly as he bent down and shook the man’s ample shoulder. “Best be gone. You’ve no business in ’ere. Although as why anyone’d want to choose a place like this to kip, I dunno.”
The man did not move.
“Come on, dad!” He shook him harder and lifted his lantern for a better look. Surely the poor old fellow was not frozen to death? Not that he would have been the first P.C. Withers had seen, by any means—and not all of them old either. Plenty of kids not more than a few years froze to death in a hard winter.
The light shone on the man’s face. Yes, poor old basket, he was dead; the eyes were open and glazed.
“Funny,” he said aloud. “Them as freezes to death usually goes in their sleep.” This face had a startled look, as though his death had taken him by surprise. He moved the lantern farther down.
“Oh, God Almighty!” The crotch and thighs of the body were drenched in blood; the brown woolen trousers had been slit open with a knife and the genital organs completely removed. They were lying useless between the knees—bloody, unrecognizable flesh, a mass of scarlet pulp.
The sweat broke out on P.C. Withers’ face and froze instantly. He felt sick, and his legs shook uncontrollably. Great God in heaven—what sort of a creature would do that to a man? He staggered backward and leaned against the wall, lowering his head a little to overcome the nausea that engulfed him.
It was several moments before his head cleared enough so he could think what he must do. Call help, that was certain. And get away from here, and from that abomination lying on the ground.
He straightened up, made for the gate, and closed it hard behind him, glad for the slicing wind from the east, even though it carried the raw iciness of the sea with it. Murder was hardly rare in the teeming slums of London in this year of Our Lord, 1887. But this was an act of bestiality unlike anything he had seen before.
He must find another man to stand guard; then he could report in and get his superiors to take charge. Thank heaven he was not senior enough to have to sort out this one!
Two hours later, Inspector Thomas Pitt, holding a lamp, closed the slaughterhouse gate and stood in the yard. He stared down at the corpse, still lying exactly as the constable had found it. In the gray morning light it looked grotesque.
Pitt bent down and lifted the shoulder of the corpse to see if there was anything under it—a weapon perhaps, or further injury. This dismemberment by itself would not account for his death. And surely a man so appallingly violated would have made some attempt to protect himself—to staunch the fountain of blood? The thought was sickening, and he forced it out of his mind. He ignored the cold sweat running on his skin, soaking his shirt.
He looked down the body. There was no blood on the dead man’s hands, none at all. Even the nails