Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [43]
The maid brought the tea and left it on a tray for them. Victoria Dalton poured and handed him a cup. He accepted it with thanks.
He began again. “The first victim was Max Burton. He kept a house in George Street. Perhaps you knew of him?”
“Of course,” she said. “We knew he had been murdered.”
“He was good at his business?” Why was he finding it so hard to question her? Was it because she gave him no openings and, unlike Ambrose Mercutt, was not defensive?
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “He had a remarkable talent.” For the first time, her face showed some expression, one of anger. Her full lips turned down at the corners, but Pitt had the odd conviction that it was a reflection of disapproval, not any sense of personal injury.
“Ambrose Mercutt says he used a number of wellborn women in his George Street establishment,” Pitt went on.
She gave a slight smile. “Yes, Ambrose Mercutt would tell you that.”
“Is it true?”
“Oh, yes. Max was very clever. He was very attractive to women, you know. And there is a certain class of women, wellborn, idle, married for convenience to some bloodless man—probably a great deal older than themselves, poor in the bedroom, without appetite or imagination—and they become bored. Max appealed to them. They began by having an affair with him; then he introduced them to the top end of the trade. He could get a high price for whores like that.” She discussed it as any merchant might speak of her goods, a marketing process.
“Did he take any of your custom?” he asked equally bluntly.
She was quite sober. “Not much. We provide skill rather than novelty. Most of these wellborn women have more sense of adventure, more”—she frowned a little—“more need to fill their boredom than patience or knowledge how to please. A good whore has humor and generosity, and doesn’t ask questions.” She smiled bleakly. “As well as a good deal of practice.”
She was so used to the idea that it was ordinary to her. The traffic in womanhood was her daily life, and it did not move her emotions. To know her business was necessary for survival.
“What about Ambrose Mercutt?” He changed direction.
“Oh, yes, Ambrose was suffering,” she said. “He caters to the same trade: gentlemen with jaded tastes who want something novel, something to stimulate their imagination, and are prepared to pay for it.” Now there was real contempt in her face. Her eyes narrowed and there was a sudden brilliant glitter in them that could even have been hatred, but for whom he had no idea. Perhaps for those rich, spoiled women with money and time to dabble in whoredom for entertainment—her women did it to live. Perhaps for Ambrose because he pandered to them. Or maybe for the men who made it all worthwhile by paying.
Or was it hatred for Max because he had taken her trade after all? Or something he had not even considered yet? Could she even have been attracted to Max herself? It was conceivable; she was young, the curves of her mouth were soft and rich. Was Max’s killing simply the rage of a woman rejected?
Considered in that light, though, Hubert Pinchin’s death made no sense.
“Where did he meet these highborn women?” he asked instead. “Not here in the Acre?”
The emotion died from her face. Her eyes were calm again, like gray water with flecks of slate in them. “Oh, no, he went to some of the dining places and theaters where such women go,” she replied. “He had been a footman in a big house—he knew how to behave. He was very striking to look at and he had good clothes. He had an art to sense when a woman was dissatisfied, and he knew which ones had the nerve or the desperation to do something about it.”
Once again, Pitt was forced to acknowledge that Max had had a talent of massive proportions, and had exercised it to the full. But if it was immense, it was also dangerous.
What happened when these women grew bored, or frightened? Society would turn a blind eye