Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [102]
Christina’s hands tightened and the gun barrel came higher. Charlotte lunged forward, kicking. She was too far away to reach the gun, but she knocked Christina off her feet and the gun fell, unexploded, onto the floor.
There was a scream of rage, and Charlotte felt strong, clawlike hands tearing at her. The floor hit her hard on the thigh, skirts smothered her. She reached for anything to strike or to pull. Her hands found hair, twisted into it, and jerked. There was a scream of pain. Another body landed heavily on top of her, more skirts, boots in her thigh, kicking hard.
There was more shrieking and Christina’s voice swearing. Charlotte was pinned to the ground, half suffocated by mountains of fabric and the weight of bodies. Her hair was undone, streaming down her back, over her face. A hand grasped at it and pulled. Pain ripped through her head. She punched back, her fists closed. Where was the gun!
“Stop it!” Balantyne’s voice thundered above the din. No one took any notice.
Christina, on hands and knees on the floor, was screaming at Victoria Dalton, her face contorted with rage. Mary Dalton swung her hand back and slapped Christina as hard as she could, the ring of it singing in the air. Christina scrambled to her feet and aimed a kick. It caught Mary on the shoulder, and she fell over onto her back, moaning.
Victoria lunged for the gun, but Charlotte threw herself on top of her, jerking her head back hard by the hair. Charlotte’s skirt was torn to the waist, showing her underwear and a long stretch of white thigh. Shouting, though she was unaware of it, she looked frantically for the gun.
Suddenly it went off with a deafening roar. They all froze, as if each one of them had been hit.
“Stop it!” Balantyne commanded furiously. “Stand up! I’ll shoot the first one to disobey me!”
Very slowly they climbed to their feet—scratched, clothes ripped, hair wild. Charlotte tried to tie her skirt together to hide the expanse of her thigh.
“Oh, my God!” Balantyne was holding the gun, his face so pale the bones of his cheeks looked sharp, his jaw white.
Christina took a step forward. “Stand still!” His voice was like a knife cut.
Charlotte felt the tears well behind her eyes. She guessed the answers now, and there was nothing she could do: nothing for Balantyne, nothing for Victoria or Mary—nothing for Alan Ross.
“These women killed Max Burton?” He was talking to Christina as if the others were not there.
“Yes! They’re insane! They—” She stopped, gulping, horrified at his face.
He turned to Victoria Dalton. “Why now? Why did you wait so long?”
Victoria’s face was hard, glittering. “She paid me to,” she said levelly, crucifyingly honest. “First she fornicated with Max herself, and then she whored with other men for him... . Then, when he started to get greedy and blackmail her, she got frightened. She needed to be rid of him.” Her face twisted with pity—pity for Ross—and contempt for Christina. “She was afraid her husband would find out, poor sod! She only kept one lover: Beau Astley.”
Charlotte stared at Balantyne. His face was white with pain. But there was no struggle in him, no attempt to reject the truth. “And why Dr. Pinchin?” he asked, still holding the gun up.
“He deserved to die,” Victoria replied coldly. “He was a butcher!”
“And what did Bertie Astley do that you executed him?”
Victoria’s lip curled in scorn. “He owned all that street. He let it out a room at a time for rich men and their whores that wanted privacy. He was collecting rent. His family kept up their fine drawing rooms and their safe white ladies on the profits of our filth!”
“And his brother should have been grateful! He should have paid us—” Mary began, but Victoria swung around and slapped her hard across the face, leaving