Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [68]
“Yes, sir?” he said again quietly.
Ross said the first thing that came into his head. “I want to rent a room.”
The man looked him up and down with narrow eyes. “All by yerself, are yer?”
“None of your business.” Ross gulped. “Do you have rooms? I saw a young woman come in a few minutes ago, and she most assuredly does not live here!”
“None o’ your business.” The man mimicked his tone with perfect contempt. “People rahnd ’ere keeps their noses in their own muck’eaps and don’t go lookin’ trough nobody else’s, mister. That way vey don’t get nuffin cut orf, like! Nasty fings can ’appen to vem as can’t keep veir eyes and veir marvs to veirselves.”
Ross felt the cold run through him. For a moment, half his brain had forgotten murder. He tried to sound calm, sure of himself. His throat was dry, his voice higher than usual.
“I don’t care in the slightest what she came for,” he said, trying to put a sneer in his voice. “Whom she meets is of no possible interest to me. I merely wish to come to a similar arrangement myself.”
“Well, vat’ll be kind o’ difficult, mister, seein’ as she comes ter see the gent wot owns ’ole row o’ ahses!” He gave a harsh laugh and spat on the floor. “Nah as ’is bruvver’s bin snuffed, like! Reckon as ve Acre’s slasher done ’im a good turn!”
Ross froze.
“Wot’s ve matter wiv yer? Scared? ’Fraid ve slasher’s after you too, eh? Mebbe ’e is an’ all!” He sniggered. “Mebbe yer’d better scarper w’ile yer still got all yer parts—yer dirty little git!” His voice was filled with disgust, and Ross felt his face sting as the hot blood burned up inside him. This creature thought he had come sneaking here to satisfy some appetite that—
Ross straightened up, muscles tight, chin high. Then he remembered the men outside in the street. He crumpled again. He could not afford pride, and he most certainly dare not appear inquisitive.
“Have you rooms or have you not?” he asked quietly.
“’Ave you money?” The man held out a dirty finger and thumb and rubbed them together.
“Of course I have! How much?”
“’Ow long?”
“All night, of course! Do you think I want to be shuffled in and out with someone waiting on my heels and looking at his watch?”
“All by yerself?” The man’s eyebrows rose. “W’y don’tcher lock yer door an’ do it at ’ome? Wotever it is as takes yer fancy—”
Ross dearly wanted to hit him. He resisted the temptation for a moment; then anger, fear, and the scalding wound of Christina’s betrayal exploded inside him. He struck the man hard with a closed fist, sending him hurtling back, head cracking against the wall. He slithered down into a heap on the floor and lay still.
Ross turned and pulled the door open and stepped out into the street. Whoever was there, he had to face them. He had made it impossible to stay here. This time he did not hesitate. His heart was racing, his fists already clenched ready to strike anyone who had the recklessness to molest him. He walked quickly, bumping into a beggar on the corner and knocking him sidewise. The man swore and Ross passed on oblivious. He knew the direction of Westminster, and he was making for well-lit streets and safety.
Footsteps echoed behind him and he increased his pace. It must be only a few hundred yards now. There were people huddled in doorways, both men and women. Someone giggled in the dark. There was a slap of flesh. A pile of refuse fell over with a scatter of rats. He ran.
It was late in the afternoon two days later when the maid came into his study and told Ross that a Mr. Pitt was here and would like to speak with him.
Pitt? He knew no one called Pitt. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.” The maid looked doubtful. “He is a very odd person, sir. Beggin’ your pardon, but he was most insistent. Wouldn’t give no reason, sir, but says as you know ’im.”
“He must be mistaken.”
“’E won’t go away, sir. Shall I get Donald to put ’im out, sir? I daresn’t tell ’im meself. ’E’s sort o’—well, ’is clothes is all any’ow, like they wasn’t properly ’is to begin with, if you know