Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [3]
“Then I am afraid there can be little doubt. But perhaps your footman should make sure before you say anything to Mrs. Pinchin.”
“Yes, sir, naturally.”
Pitt gave him the address of the mortuary, and then advised him of the nature of the other wounds, and that the newspapers would inevitably make much of it. It would be a kindness to keep the reporters out of the house for as long as possible, until some other event superseded the murder in the public eye.
Pitt left without meeting the widow at all. She had not risen from her bed, and only in his imagination did he see her shock, followed by disbelief, slow acceptance, and finally the beginning of overwhelming pain.
He must, of course, go to see the officer dealing with the other murder that appeared to be so similar. The two crimes may or may not be connected, but to ignore the possibility would be absurd. Perhaps he would even find himself relieved of the case. He would not mind in the least; he felt no sense of proprietorship, as he had in some cases. Whoever had committed this crime had entered a realm far outside the ordinary world of offense and punishment.
As he trod on against the squally wind fluttering rubbish off the pavements, he reflected that he would not mind in the least if they took this one away from him. He crossed the road just before a hansom cab clopped past. A boy who was sweeping a clear path from the horse droppings stopped and rested on his broom. His small hands were chapped red, and his fingers jutted out of the ends of his gloves. A brougham swished by and splattered them both with a mixture of mud and manure.
The boy grinned to see Pitt’s irritation. “Oughter’ve walked on me parf, mister,” he said cheerfully. “Then yer’d not get yerself mucked.”
Pitt handed him a farthing and agreed with him wryly.
At the police station he was greeted with an unexpected warmth. “Inspector Pitt? Yes, sir. I suppose as you’ve come about our murder, sir—it being the same as your one this morning, like?”
Pitt was taken aback. How did this young constable know about Hubert Pinchin? His face must have reflected his thoughts, as it often did, because the constable answered the question before Pitt asked it.
“It’s in the afternoon extras, sir. Screaming about it, they are. Downright ’orrible. Course I know they write up things something chronic, adding bits to shock people into ’ysterics. But all the same—!”
“I doubt they added anything to this one,” Pitt replied dryly. He unwound his muffler and took off his hat. His coat flapped loose, one side longer than the other; he must have done it up on the wrong buttons again. “May I speak to whoever is in charge of your murder, if he’s in?”
“Yes, sir, that’ll be Inspector Parkins. I reckon as ’e’ll be real glad to see you.”
Pitt doubted it, but he followed the constable willingly enough into a warm, dark office that smelled of old paper and wax polish. It was larger than his own, and there was a photograph of a woman and four children on the desk. Parkins was a dark, dapper man; he sat dismally looking at a sheaf of papers in his hand. The constable introduced Pitt with a flourish.
Parkins’ face lost its lugubrious expression immediately. “Come in,” he said heartily. “Come in—sit down. Here, move those files—make yourself comfortable, man. Yes, disgusting affair. You want to know all about it? Found him in the gutter! Dead as mutton. Quite cold—of course no wonder, weather we’ve been having! Filthy! And it’ll get worse. He’d been stabbed in the back, poor devil—long, sharp blade, probably kitchen knife, or something like it.” He paused for breath and pulled a face, running his hands through his sparse hair. “Man was a procurer—corpse found by a local prostitute. At any other time, I would have said that was not inappropriate. I suppose you’ll want to take the case now, since it’s almost certainly connected with yours.” He made it a statement.
Pitt was startled. “No!” he said involuntarily. “I thought you—”
“Not at all.” Parkins waved his arms as if declining