Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [45]
She stood also. “Of course. Good day, Mr. Pitt.”
The maid showed him out into the grimy street, the already darkening afternoon. The stink of sewage came up from the river, and the long moan of a foghorn sounded as barges, gunwale deep, made their way toward the Pool of London and the busiest docks in the world.
Perhaps it was not even the same murderer in all three cases. They had been given wide publicity. Maybe one at least was a copycat crime. What about Beau Astley, with his brother’s title, fortune—and possibly even May Woolmer—to inherit?
Why should he be surprised to find the Devil’s work here in the Devil’s Acre?
6
THE MURDER OF BERTRAM ASTLEY was on the front pages of all the newspapers. The public was outraged. Under the shrill cries of horror, of the offense to decency, beneath even the compassion, there was a hard, real feeling of fear, close and personal. If a man like Astley could be so obscenely murdered for no apparent reason, who was safe in the streets?
Of course it was not said openly. There were letters to the editor requiring more action from the police, more efficiency, men of better discipline and intelligence. There was a demand to know whose errors were being hidden by this silence. Was there corruption in high places that these monstrous crimes were still unsolved? One elderly gentleman even suggested that the Devil’s Acre be burned to the ground and all its denizens transported to Australia forthwith.
Charlotte put down the paper and tried to clear the echoes of hysteria from her mind, to think what kind of man Bertram Astley might have been. Everything she had read was filtered by the rosy gloss of emotion that allowed no evil thought of the dead. Simplicity is so much easier, grand sweeps of feeling that are full of dramatic blacks and whites: Max was evil, Astley an innocent victim; the police either fiddled or, worse, were corrupt. Either way, society itself was in peril.
And Pitt was working from before dawn till long after dark. When he came home, more often than not he was too tired to speak. But where did one even begin to look for a random lunatic?
She must help. Of course she could not tell him; he had specifically forbidden her to meddle in this affair. But that was before Bertram Astley, when it had involved only people quite outside her social knowledge. Now things were different. Surely Emily would know the Astleys, or someone of their acquaintance through whom an introduction might be scraped. She would have to be very discreet; if Pitt found out before she achieved something significantly helpful, he would be furious.
“Gracie,” she called cheerfully. Gracie must not even guess. With the best will in the world, the girl was totally transparent.
“Yes, ma’am?” Gracie’s head appeared around the door, her eyebrows raised. Her glance fell to the newspaper. “Ooo—isn’t it terrible, ma’am, there’s bin another one! A real gentleman this time, with a proper title an’ all! I don’t know wot the world’s comin’ to, I don’t.”
“Well, perhaps that’s just as well,” Charlotte said briskly. “I never did approve much of ‘second sight.’ Smacks of superstition to me, and only causes a lot of trouble.”
Gracie was nonplussed, as she was intended to be. “Ma’am?”
“Don’t dwell on it, Gracie.” Charlotte stood up. “It’s all miles from here, and doesn’t have anything to do with anyone we know.” She passed her the paper. “Here, use it to light the fire in the parlor later.”
“But there’s the master, ma’am!” Gracie protested.
“Pardon?”
“’E ’as to do with it, poor man! ’E looked proper froze yesterdy night w’en ’e came ’ome, an’ I think ’e still don’t know as ’oo done it any more’n we do! Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, if I’m bein’ impertinent.” A trace of anxiety passed over her face. “But I reckon as ’e’s chasin’ the forces o’ evil!”
“Stuff and nonsense! It’s a lunatic. Now stop thinking about it, put the newspaper on the back of the fire, and get on with your work. I’m going to order myself a new dress. I’m going for a fitting this morning.”
“Ooh!”