Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [39]
It was possible that Astley had been abducted, but extremely unlikely. Still, if the Woolmers did not know of his habit of occasionally slumming in the Devil’s Acre, there was no point in telling them now. They would probably not believe him anyway. And perhaps this anger was their way of encountering grief; it was not uncommon. In illness it was the doctor who could not save who received the blame; in crime it was the police.
Pitt looked at them; May still adhered to the rules for a young lady’s behavior. None of the awkwardness of real grief showed yet. Her feet were tucked carefully on the chaise longue, her skirt draped in the most modestly becoming folds. Her hands were twisted a little in her lap, but they were still beautiful; the lines were composed, serene. She could have sat just so for a neoclassical painter, had they removed three-quarters of the decoration from the tables and the pianoforte behind her.
Mrs. Woolmer was bracing herself like Britannia to repel the foe. They were both gathering their thoughts out of the confusion, and would betray nothing yet. There was no point in pressing them. They had not really understood. In time, it would come—perhaps a memory of some word or gesture that mattered.
“He left in a hansom about eleven,” he repeated. “And, as far as you know, he was in good health and spirits, and intended returning directly home.”
“Precisely,” Mrs. Woolmer agreed. “I do not know what else you imagined we could tell you.”
“Only the time, ma’am, and the means of transport. And that as far as you know, he had no intention of calling upon anyone else.”
She blew down her nose with a little snort, reminding him of a dray horse. “Then if that is all, perhaps you would be kind enough to take your leave, and permit us to be alone.”
He went outside, past the footman and down the step into the street. He started to walk east again, facing into the wind. He wondered what May Woolmer was like when her mother was not present. Had Bertram Astley loved her? She was undoubtedly handsome, and well mannered enough to make any gentleman a wife acceptable to Society. Did she also have wit and courage, the honesty to laugh at herself and to praise others without grudge? Was she gentle? Or had Bertie Astley even considered such things? Perhaps beauty and a temperate disposition were enough. They were for most men.
And what was it he had seen in Beau Astley’s face at the instant thought of May, even in the moment of his own bereavement? Had that been love also?
He would have to remember next time he saw him that he was now Sir Beau! And presumably a considerably wealthier man. After the appropriate interval, would he step into his brother’s shoes and marry May Woolmer as well? It was not unlikely that Mrs. Woolmer would do her best to see that he did. There were not so many eligible young men around with titles and money, and it was late in the year—the next Season was almost on them.
Pitt pulled his coat collar up; the east wind had a breath of sleet in it. He hated the thought of examining the private failures and weaknesses of the Astleys’ lives.
In the morning he was sent for by his superior.
Dudley Athelstan was standing in his office. His suit fit him as immaculately as the tailor’s art could contrive, but his tie was askew and his collar seemed too tight for him. The morning’s newspapers lay spread over his great desk.
“Pitt! Pitt, come in. We’ve got to do something about this—it’s appalling! Commissioner’s been to see me about it, came here himself. Next thing I’ll be getting letters from the Prime Minister!”
“Over three murders in a slum?” Pitt looked at the chaos on the desk and at Athelstan’s flushed face. “There’ll be a new society scandal for them to talk about in a day or two, and they’ll forget it.”
“You swear that?” Athelstan’s eyes bulged and he threw his hands