Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [69]
Suddenly, Ross remembered. “Oh, God! Yes, send him in. I do know him.”
“Yes, sir.” She forgot her curtsy and scurried out, overwhelmed with relief.
A moment later, Pitt came in, smiling casually as if he had been invited. “Good morning, Mr. Ross. Nasty weather.”
“Horrible,” Ross agreed. “What can I do for you, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt sat down as if the offer had been one of natural hospitality. He pulled himself a little closer to the fire. He must already have given the maid whatever outer clothing he had, because he now wore only dark trousers, a clean but rather voluminous shirt, and a jacket whose pockets appeared to be stuffed with objects of awkward sizes. The whole thing hung crooked and looked to be fastened on uneven buttons.
“Thank you.” He rubbed his hands and held them out to the flames. “A lot of police work is very tedious.”
“I’m sure it must be.” Ross was really not interested. He was unable to be sorry for the man.
“Endless questioning of not very pleasant people,” Pitt went on. “And of course we have certain acquaintances who keep us informed if anything unusual happens.”
“Quite. But I’m afraid I am not one of them. I know nothing that could be of use to you. I’m sorry.”
Pitt turned to look up at him. He had remarkable eyes; the light shone through them like a shaft of sun through seawater.
“I was referring to quite a different sort of person, Mr. Ross. Like the old fellow that told me today of a gentleman looking for rooms in Drake Street, in the Devil’s Acre, a couple of nights ago. Lot of gentlemen do, for reasons of their own. However this particular one, well dressed, well spoken, just like most, got very upset when his reasons were commented on. And that’s most unusual. Most gentlemen using such places are only too glad to be as discreet as possible.”
He appeared to be waiting for an answer. Ross felt suddenly stiff, as if he had walked miles and slept ill. “I suppose they are,” he said awkwardly. His memory flashed back to the dim hallway, the smell of dirt, the man’s enraging, filthy leer. His throat tightened.
“Completely lost his temper,” Pitt went on with a lift of surprise in his voice. “Hit him!”
Ross swallowed. “Was he hurt?”
Pitt smiled, pulling the corners of his mouth down in a tiny grimace. “Pretty good crack on his skull, broken collarbone. He’s certainly very angry about it. Put the word about that if the fellow comes back to the Acre he’s to be taught a lesson in a way he won’t forget! That’s how I heard about it—the word around.” Suddenly he looked directly at Ross and his eyes were full of brilliance. “But you didn’t kill him, if that’s what you are afraid of.”
“Thank God—I—I—” He stopped, but it was too late. “I didn’t go there for—” He could not bear anyone, even this policeman, to think he had intended to hire some whore and take her there.
Pitt’s face was quite smooth, even friendly. “No, Mr. Ross, I didn’t think for a moment that you did,” he said. “What did you go there for?”
Oh, God! This was even worse. He could not possibly tell him about Christina. His heart pounded at the memory and the room seemed red-edged, whirling far away.
“I cannot say—it is a private matter.” Pitt would have to think whatever he wished. The truth was worse than any imagining.
“Very dangerous, sir.” Pitt’s voice was getting gentler and gentler, as if he were speaking to someone in great trouble. “Three men have been murdered in the Devil’s Acre. But I’m sure you knew that.”
“Of course I knew that!” Ross shouted.
Pitt took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Not a place to go sightseeing, Mr. Ross. It’s ugly and it’s dangerous, and people have paid very highly for then-pleasures there lately. What particular curiosity was it that took you to that house?”
Ross hesitated. The man was like a ferret, tracking him in all the tunnels of his misery to corner him into some damning truth. Better give him one and send him away with it. That would at least guard the others, the ones he could not bear to tell.
“I had an idea whom it