Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [4]
Pitt was surprised and flattered. He was vulnerable enough to like having his courage admired—it was a singularly warming feeling. And he had been afraid during the Bluegate Fields investigation; he had risked more than he could afford to lose.
“Our fellow was only a pimp,” Parkins went on. “Better off without him—not that it’ll make any difference, of course. Soon as he’s gone, someone else’ll step into his place—probably have already. Like taking a bucket of water out of the river. Tide comes and goes just the same—can’t see where it’s been. No, not at all! Your fellow was a doctor? Decent chap. You better have all the papers we’ve got—autopsy report, and so on. And I suppose you’ll want to see the body.”
“You still have it?” Pitt asked.
“Oh, yes—only a week ago, you know. Weather like this, cold enough to keep bodies for ages. Yes, you’d better see it. Never know, might be able to tell if it’s the same maniac.”
Pitt followed him silently to the mortuary. Parkins opened the door and had a quiet word with the attendant, then conducted Pitt inside. The room was chilly and dry, with a faint musty smell, like old medicine.
Parkins went to one of the white, sheet-covered tables and pulled the cloth off entirely, showing not only the face but the whole naked body. It was a curiously indecent gesture, even toward the dead. Pitt’s instinct was to seize the sheet and cover the lower part again, but he knew it was ridiculous. After all, that was what he had come to see.
But the wound was not identical. This was a messy and extremely inexpert castration. The glands had been removed and the organ all but severed.
“All right.” Pitt swallowed, his throat rough.
Parkins replaced the sheet and looked at Pitt, his mouth twisted with wry, sad humor. “Nasty, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “Makes you feel sick. Don’t suppose you know him, by any chance? Not likely, but you can never tell.” He turned the sheet back at the top.
Pitt had not even looked at the face. Now he did so, and instantly felt a prickling sense of shock. He had seen those dark, surly features before, the heavy eyelids and curling, sensuous mouth. At least he was almost sure he had.
“Who is he?” he asked.
“Max. Used two or three different surnames: Bracknall, Rawlins, Dunmow. Kept more than one establishment. Very enterprising fellow. Why? Do you know him?”
“I think so,” Pitt replied slowly. “At least he looks like someone I dealt with a few years ago—murders in Callander Square.”
“Callander Square?” Parkins was surprised. “Hardly the area for a creature of this sort. Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure. He was a footman. His name was Max Burton then—if it is the same man.”
Parkins’ voice lifted with curiosity. “Can’t you find out? It could be important.” Then his tone fell again and he smiled bleakly at himself. “Although I hardly suppose so. He’s changed his style of living more than somewhat since then!”
“I expect I can,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Oh, where was the wound that caused his death?”
“Here,” Parkins replied, as if he too had momentarily forgotten it. “Stab in the back, about so.” He indicated on Pitt’s body a place close to the spine, an inch or two to the left. It was lower than the wound in Pinchin’s back, but only by a fraction, and on the same side. But then Max had been taller than Pinchin.
“What kind of weapon? How long? How broad?”
“About eight inches long, and an inch and a half broad at the hilt. Could have been a kitchen knife. Everybody has one, ordinary enough. Sorry.” Parkins raised one eyebrow, understanding perfectly. “Same as yours, is it?”
Pitt disliked the reference to Pinchin as “his,” but he knew what Parkins meant. “Yes,” he conceded. “Almost exactly.” He was compelled to add,