Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [67]
The door of the house opened, a stream of light fell on the path, and Christina and Lavinia Hawkesley came out. The door closed behind them and they set off down the street on foot.
Where in heaven’s name were they going? Ross went after them. When they came to the main road and stopped a hansom cab, he hailed one as soon after as he was able, and ordered the cabbie to follow them.
The journey was farther than he expected. Again and again they turned corners until he lost sense of direction, except that he thought they were coming closer to the river and the heart of the city. The way was narrower, the lights farther between. A dim halo of mist reflected the glow and the damp air smelled stale. High above loomed a great shadow against the sky. His throat tightened and suddenly he found it hard to breathe.
The Acre—the Devil’s Acre! Why in God’s name was Christina coming here? His mind was whirling, thoughts like a dark snowstorm battering him and melting into each other. There was no bearable answer.
The cab ahead stopped and one of the women alighted. She was small, slight, head high and feet quick on the stones. Christina.
Ross opened his cab door, thrust a coin into the driver’s hands, and stumbled out onto the dim pavement, trying to discern the outline of the house Christina had by now entered. It was high, standing straight, windows glimmering in the faint gaslight—a merchant’s house?
The other cab with Lavinia Hawkesley in it had disappeared. Wherever she was going, it was still farther into the labyrinth of the Acre.
For the first time, he looked around at the rest of the street. He had been so absorbed in watching the women he had not thought of anything else, but now he saw a group of four or five men about thirty yards to the left, and on the far side another three lounging in an alley entrance. He turned. There were more to the right, watching him.
He could not stay here; he was dressed conspicuously, and his coat alone would be worth attacking for. He might fight off one man, even armed, but not half a dozen.
He started to walk toward the door through which Christina had disappeared. After all, his purpose in following her had been to learn where she was going, and why. The door was closed; if he gained entrance and faced Christina, what could he say? Did he even want her to know he had committed this foolish act of following her here? What could he do about it anyway? Confine her to the house? Withdraw all marital affection from her? Or put her away as a—a what? What was it that she was doing here?
The wild flights of imagining were worse than knowing; he understood himself well enough not to think he could dismiss it and ever again have an unclouded moment. And perhaps he was unjust to her? Perhaps she was innocent of the things now in his mind.
There was a noise behind him in the street. A violent shiver of fear ran through him like a drench of cold water. Had the victims of the Devil’s Acre murderer been strangers like himself—men unwanted here, and hacked to pieces for their intrusion? His hand lifted the knocker and crashed it down violently.
Seconds dragged by. There was the sound of shuffling feet in the street, and the trickle of water. Ross slammed the knocker again and again, then twisted his head to look behind him. Two of the men were closer and still moving toward him. He had nothing to fight them with but his hands; he had not even brought a stick.
Sweat broke out on his body. It crossed his mind to go out toward them, to start the fight himself so at least it would be quick. He would not think of the mutilation afterward.
Suddenly the door opened; he lost his balance and stumbled in.
“Yes, sir?”
Ross collected his wits and peered at the man holding a candle in the dark hallway. He was shabby; his belly protruded over his trousers, his slippers were loose-soled