Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [1]
Searching further, he found a wide, dark stain under the man, matting the cloth of his jacket. It was near the spine, straight through the ribs to the heart. He held the lamp higher for a closer look, but there was no blood anywhere else on the stones. He let out his breath and stood up, unconsciously wiping his hands on the legs of his trousers. Now he could look at the face.
It was a heavy-jowled, broad-nosed face; the skin was faintly plum-colored, the mouth marked with lines of humor. The eyes small and round—the face of a man who enjoyed good living. The body was portly and of barely average height, the hands were strong, plump, and immaculately clean; the hair was gray-brown.
The clothes were made of thick brown wool, baggy in places from wear, and wrinkled over the stomach. There were a few crumbs caught in the folds of the waistcoat. Pitt picked one up, crushed it experimentally in his fingers, and sniffed it. Cheese: Stilton, if he was not mistaken, or something like it. Inhabitants of the Devil’s Acre did not dine on Stilton!
There was a noise behind him, a scuffle of feet. He turned to see who it was, glad of company.
“Morning, Pitt. What’ve you got this time?” It was Meddows, the police surgeon, a man capable of insufferable good cheer at the most inopportune times. But instead of seeming offensive, his voice this time was like a sweet breath of sanity in a terrible nightmare.
“Oh, my good God!” He stood beside Pitt and stared down. “Poor fellow.”
“He was stabbed in the back,” Pitt said quickly.
“Indeed?” Meddows cocked an eyebrow and looked at Pitt sidewise. “Well, I suppose that’s something.” He squatted down, balanced his bull’s-eye lamp at precisely the right angle, and began to examine the body with care. “Don’t need to watch,” he remarked without turning his head. “I’ll tell you if there’s anything interesting. For a start, this mutilation is a pretty rough job—just took a sharp knife and sliced! And there you are!”
“No skill?” Pitt asked quietly as he stared over Meddows’ head at the dawn’s light reflected in the slaughterhouse windows.
“None at all, just—” Meddows sighed. “Just the most god-awful hate.”
“Insane?”
Meddows pulled a face. “Who knows? Catch him and then I’ll tell you—maybe. Anyway, who is this poor devil. Do you know yet?”
Pitt had not even thought of searching the body. It was the first thing he should have done. Without answering he bent down and began going through the man’s pockets.
He found everything he would have expected, except money—and perhaps he had not really expected that. There was a gold watch, very scratched but still working, and a key ring with four keys on it. One of the keys appeared to be a safe key, two were door keys, and one was for a cupboard or drawer, judging by its size—just what any middle-aged, moderately prosperous man might have. There were two handkerchiefs, both grubby but of good Egyptian cotton with finely rolled hems. There were three receipted bills, two for quite ordinary household expenses, the third for a dozen bottles of a highly expensive burgundy—apparently a man of self-indulgence, at least as far as the table was concerned.
But what mattered was that his name and address were on the bills: Dr. Hubert Pinchin, 23 Lambert Gardens—a long way from the Devil’s Acre, in social standing and every other aspect of the quality of life, if not so very far as the London sparrow flies. What was Dr. Pinchin doing here in this slaughterhouse yard, appallingly murdered and maimed?
“Well?” Meddows asked.
Pitt repeated the name and address.
Meddows’ face creased into comic surprise. “How very unlikely,” he observed. “By the way, he was probably unconscious and damn near dead by the time they did this to him.” He gestured toward the lower part of the body. “If that’s any comfort. I suppose you know about the other one?”
“Other one? What are you talking about? Other what?”
Meddows’ face tightened. “Other corpse, man. The