Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [36]
He closed the door. “What is it?”
Pitt realized how fortunate he had been with Mullen and Valeria Pinchin. He thought he had remembered how hard it was, but the impact was there all over again.
“I am sorry, sir,” he replied very quietly. It was easier to say it all at once, more merciful than spinning it out a detail at a time. “I have to tell you that we have just discovered the body of your brother Sir Bertram, in the Devil’s Acre. I am afraid he has been murdered, in a similar manner to Dr. Hubert Pinchin, although he was far less mutilated—” He stopped; there seemed nothing more to say. “I’m sorry, sir,” he repeated.
Beau Astley stood perfectly still for several seconds, then straightened his shoulders and walked over to the table. Hodge offered him the brandy, but he ignored it. “In the Devil’s Acre?”
Was it worse to ask now, in the numbness of shock, or later, when the anesthesia had worn off and the wound was raw and inescapable? Either way, there was only one answer Pitt could act on.
“Do you know what Sir Bertram might have been doing in that area?”
Beau Astley looked up. Then at last he took Hodge’s brandy and drank it in two gulps. He poured himself two more fingers, and drank it also.
“I suppose there is no point in lying, Inspector. Bertie gambled occasionally, not much, and I don’t think he ever lost. In fact, I think he won most of the time. Usually he went to one or the other of the gentlemen’s clubs. But once in a while he liked to go slumming somewhere like Whitechapel, or the Acre. Can’t think why—disgusting places!” He paused, as if the incomprehensibility of it might yet make it untrue.
Pitt was surprised; in his state of shock, Beau Astley was so jarred out of his normal composure that he seemed not even to resent a policeman in his own morning room, asking him personal questions about his family. There was no condescension in his voice.
“And Sir Bertram went gambling yesterday evening?” Pitt pursued.
Beau reached for a chair and Hodge pulled it in position for him immediately. He sat down. Hodge retreated silently and closed the door behind him.
“No.” Beau put his head in his hands and stared at the table. “No, that’s it. He went to call upon May. He was invited there to dinner.”
“May?”
“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know. Miss Woolmer, she and Bertie were to be betrothed—at least I think so. Oh, God! I’d better go and tell her. I can’t let her find out from the police, or some idiotic gossip.” He looked up without hope. “I suppose there’s no chance of keeping it out of the newspapers? My father is dead—but Mother lives in Gloucestershire. I’ll have to write ...” His voice trailed off.
“I’m sorry, the newspapers had already been there by the time I was called myself,” Pitt replied. “In an area like that, sixpence is a lot of money.” He thought he did not need to explain further.
“Of course.” Beau was suddenly terribly tired, his face leached of the animation that had been there only minutes before. “Do you mind if I get dressed and go to Miss Woolmer immediately? I don’t want her to hear it from anyone else.”
“No, sir, that would be by far the best thing,” Pitt said. He watched as Beau stood up. He must tell him the rest; it would be common knowledge by late morning. “I—I’m afraid there is one more thing, sir. He was found in a most”—he searched for the right word—“a most unfortunate place.”
“You said. The Devil’s Acre.”
“Yes, sir—but in the doorway of a brothel, for men only.”
Beau’s face tightened in an attempt at a smile. He was past any further shock. “Surely brothels are, Inspector?”
Pitt hated telling him; already he liked the man. “No,” he said very quietly. “In most brothels the staff are female... .” He let it hang.
Beau