Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [35]
“Have you sent for the surgeon?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” Of course he had; his professional pride would not permit him to forget such a primary task.
Pitt looked around the street. There was nothing else unusual. It was narrow, lined with houses that sagged as timbers rotted and plaster grew mold and bulged, crumbling away. Drains overflowed. Would anyone have noticed a man carrying a corpse, or two people righting? He doubted it. If there had been a witness entering or leaving the brothel, would they ever be found—or speak if they were? Hardly. Homosexuality was a crime carrying a long penalty of imprisonment, and social ruin for life. Of course to practice it discreetly was common enough, but to force people to admit they were aware of it was utterly different.
“See what else you can do here,” he instructed. “Do you have the address of the family?”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant handed it to him on a slip torn from his notebook.
Pitt sighed. “Then I’d better go and tell them before the newspapers have time to print a late extra. No one should learn of this sort of thing from a paper.”
“No, sir. I’m afraid there was reporters ’ere over an hour ago. I don’t know ’ow they ’eard—”
It was not worth discussing. There were eyes and ears everywhere!—people accustomed to death, and keen for a sixpence to let some newshound be the first to run to Fleet Street with material for glaring headlines.
Pitt climbed back into the hansom and gave the driver the address of the Astleys’ London house.
There was faint light in the sky when he stepped out and dismissed the cab. He had no idea how long he would be.
The street was almost deserted. A kitchenmaid carried out rubbish; a bootboy slammed a back door. Only the servants’ quarters were alive. He climbed the steps to the front door and knocked. A footman, looking sur- prised, answered. Pitt did not give him time to make judgments.
“Good morning,” he said firmly. “I am from the police. I am afraid I have very serious news to deliver. Will you please conduct me to a suitable place, and inform the head of the family? And you had better bring brandy, or whatever you consider best for the treatment of shock.”
The footman was stunned. He made no protest as Pitt stepped in past him and closed the door.
“Sir Bertram—” he began.
“Is not at home. I know,” Pitt interrupted quietly. “I am afraid he is dead.”
“Oh.” The footman attempted to collect himself, but the situation was beyond him. “I had—” He swallowed. “I had better fetch Mr. Hodge, the butler—and Mr. Beau, Sir Bertram’s brother.” And before Pitt could speak, the footman flung open the door of the cold morning room where a maid had cleaned the grate but not yet lit the fire. “Sir.” He left Pitt to fend for himself, and disappeared toward the back of the dark hallway, the green baize door, and safety.
Pitt stared around the room. It was full of rich furniture, much of it exotic: lacquered Japanese tables, inlaid ebony, intaglio, French watercolors on the wall. The Astleys lacked neither taste nor money to indulge themselves, and their choice was exceedingly catholic.
An elderly butler came in, sober-faced, a silver tray with brandy and French lead-crystal glasses in his hand.
“Is Frederick correct, sir, that Sir Bertram has met with an accident and is dead?”
There was no purpose in lying; the butler would be the one who would have to control the staff and see that during the first days’ distress of the family all the necessary duties of the household were continued. “I am sorry, it was not an accident. Sir Bertram was murdered.”
“Oh dear.” Hodge set the brandy down sharply on the table. “Oh dear.”
He had not managed to think of anything else to say when a few moments later a young man opened the door and stood staring. He was still dressed in