Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [2]
Pitt was stunned. How could he have failed to hear of such a monstrosity?
“Some gambler or pimp,” Meddows went on. “Other side of the Acre—not your station. But, as I said, he was emasculated, too, poor sod, though not as badly as this one. It looks as if we’ve got some kind of maniac loose. Managed to keep the papers from making too much of the first one. Victim was the sort of man that’s always getting knifed—they do in an occupation of that kind.” He stood up slowly, his knees cracking. “But this one’s different. He’d seen better times, perhaps, but he still ate well. And I’d say at a guess that his shabbiness might be more of an eccentricity than a lack of means. His suit is pretty worn, but his linen is new—and reasonably clean, not had it on more than a day, by the look of it.”
Pitt thought of the Stilton cheese, and the immaculate fingernails. “Yes,” he said flatly. He knew Meddows was staring at him, waiting. “All right. I suppose if you’ve finished here we’d better have him taken away. Do a proper autopsy, and tell me anything else—if there is anything.”
“Naturally.”
Now came the worst part; once again, Pitt mentally debated whether he could delegate the task of informing the family—the widow, if there was one. And, as always, he could not escape the conviction that he must do it himself. If he did not, he would feel he had betrayed both the junior he sent and the bereaved he might have comforted.
He gave all the necessary orders to the men waiting outside. The body must be removed, the yard sealed off and searched for anything at all that might render a clue as to who had done this thing. A search must be initiated for vagrants who had been in the area, for lodgers who might have been returning home, for idle prostitutes, for someone who might have seen something.
Meanwhile he would go to number 23 Lambert Gardens, and inform the household—at this hour probably just sitting down to breakfast—that their master had been murdered.
Pitt was met at the door by an extremely competent butler. “Good morning, sir,” the man said politely. Pitt was a stranger to him, and it was too early for a social call.
“Good morning,” Pitt answered quietly. “I am from the police. Is this the residence of Dr. Hubert Pinchin?”
“Yes, sir, but I am afraid Dr. Pinchin is not at home at the moment. I can recommend another doctor to you if your need is urgent.”
“I don’t require a doctor. I’m sorry, I have bad news for you. Dr. Pinchin is dead.”
“Oh dear.” The butler’s face tightened but his composure remained perfect. He moved back a step, allowing Pitt to enter. “You had better come in, sir. Would you be good enough to tell me what happened? It might be easier if I were to break the news to Mrs. Pinchin. I am sure you would be most tactful, but ...” He delicately left the obvious in the air.
“Yes,” Pitt said with a relief that struck a spark of guilt in him. “Yes, of course.”
“How did it happen, sir?”
“He was attacked, stabbed in the back. I think he probably knew very little pain. I’m sorry.”
The butler stared at him in a moment of immobility; then he swallowed. “Murdered?”
“Yes. I’m sorry,” Pitt repeated, “Is there someone who can identify the body—perhaps someone other than Mrs. Pinchin? It will be distressing.” Should he mention the mutilation now?
The butler had regained his self-possession; he was in command of himself and of the household. “Yes, sir. I will inform Mrs. Pinchin of Dr. Pinchin’s death. She has an excellent maid who will care for her. There is another doctor in the neighborhood who will attend her. The footman, Peters, has been with us for twelve years. He will go and identify the body.” He hesitated. “I suppose there is no doubt? Dr. Pinchin was a little less than my height, sir, very well built, clean-shaven, and of a rich complexion... .” He let the vague hope hang in the air. But it was pointless.
“Yes,” Pitt answered. “Did Dr. Pinchin have a suit of rough brown tweed, I should judge of some years’ wear?”
“Yes, sir. That