Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [22]
Ambrose must have sensed his doubts. He turned back and stared at Pitt defiantly. “Ever wondered—Inspector”—his voice was very delicately sarcastic, as if the title were ill-deserved—“ever wondered just how Max got the quality of women he did? Women like his don’t take to whoring in the Devil’s Acre, you know, just for a little diversion! There’s plenty of whoring to be had in their own circle, if that’s all they want. Surprises you, that, does it?” He looked into Pitt’s eyes and saw that it did not. His face hardened.
“If you want to find out who murdered Max and then castrated him, look among the husbands or lovers of some of the highborn women he’s brought in here! Believe me, if I simply wanted a business rival removed, I should stick a knife into him, by all means, and then throw him into the river—or put him in one of the rat holes deep inside the Acre. I wouldn’t cut him about and then leave him where he’d be found by you lot! No, Inspector”—again he hesitated fractionally, making the title an insult—“look at some man he cuckolded, or whose wife or daughter he’s seduced into whoredom.”
Pitt led him further. “And how would he seduce a wellborn woman into whoredom?” he asked with a trace of doubt. “For that matter, where would he even meet one?”
“He used to be a footman somewhere. He probably knew other ‘menservants.’” Ambrose used the word to convey all his hatred and contempt for Max and his class in general. “Probably blackmail. That’s where your murderer is, believe me!”
“Perhaps,” Pitt conceded with an affectation of far more reluctance than he felt. Much as he disliked Ambrose, what he said made excellent sense. “Then what about Dr. Hubert Pinchin?”
Ambrose threw up his hands theatrically. “God knows! Perhaps he was the one who did the blackmailing. Maybe he used his medical practice to find these women, or to discover their secrets. Maybe they were partners. How should I know? Do you want me to do your entire job for you?”
Pitt smiled and saw a trace of irritation on Ambrose’s face; he had meant to offend, not amuse.
“I’m always glad of a little expert help,” Pitt replied softly. “I’ve worked on a few murders, one sort and another. Arson, burglary—know a lot about fine art—but keeping a whorehouse is outside my experience.”
Ambrose drew a sharp breath to retort, but he did not find the words before Pitt had turned and left the elegant room of pale décor and Ambrose himself standing in his silk robe in the middle of it.
Pitt went out into the rainy, gray-walled street. He felt a glow of satisfaction for at least having been thoroughly rude.
And there was also a strong possibility that Ambrose was right.
4
LADY AUGUSTA BALANTYNE was not looking forward to the morning. She had decided that she could no longer put off visiting her daughter Christina to discuss her behavior in the frankest terms. Christina and Alan Ross would be at the family dinner party this evening, but what Augusta had to say required uninterrupted privacy. As in the past when dealing with Christina’s indiscretions, Augusta intended to keep the entire matter from General Balantyne’s knowledge. He might be an excellent military tactician when he had cannon and horses to dispose, but when the battle concerned emotions and the possibility of scandal, he was a babe in arms.
Over breakfast she maintained a civilized conversation about the usual trivialities. General Balantyne, of course, did not mention the murders in the Devil’s Acre that filled the newspapers, in case he should distress her—not realizing that she had read them for herself. And she was perfectly happy to leave him in his ignorance, if it pleased him.
At ten o’clock Lady Augusta called the carriage and gave the coachman instructions to take her to her daughter’s house. She was received with some surprise.
“Good morning, Mama!”
“Good morning, Christina.” She walked in, for once not bothering to notice if the flowers were fresh or if there were new ornaments—not even if Christina’s gown was the very latest. She had already made her comments on extravagance;