Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [70]
“And was it true?” Pitt inquired.
Ross swallowed. “Yes, I’m afraid it was.”
“Who would that be, Mr. Ross?”
“Bertram Astley.”
“Indeed.” Pitt’s face relaxed. “Was it indeed? So that is where the Astley money comes from. And now of course Sir Beau has it.”
“Yes.” Ross let his breath go. He felt better. Pitt would never know about Christina, that she had gone there to meet Beau Astley in that filthy place. His wife—lying there in—He forced it from his mind, drove it out. Any other pain was better than this. “Yes, it was,” he repeated. “Perhaps that will help you in your investigations. I’m sorry, perhaps I should have told you before.”
Pitt stood up. “Yes, sir, I think perhaps you should. But now that I do know”—his face split in a sudden charming smile—“I’m damned if I can see where it gets me!”
Ross said nothing. There was no emotion left inside him to draw on; he simply watched Pitt walk to the door and out into the hallway to take his coat from the maid.
8
PITT STUMBLED DOWNSTAIRS in the dark and opened the door. Outside on the step, gleaming wet in the lamplight and the rain, a constable stood, water running off his cloak in streams and splashing on the stones. The night was still black, before even the gray smudge of false dawn.
Pitt blinked fuzzily and shuddered with cold as the air hit his body. “For God’s sake come in!” he said irritably. “What is it now?”
The constable stepped inside gingerly, scattering water over the floor, but Pitt was too cold to care. Gracie was not up yet and all the fires were out. “Shut that door behind you, man, and come into the kitchen.” He led the way in enormous strides. The linoleum was like ice under his bare feet. At least the kitchen floor was wooden and kept the warmth of something that had once been alive. And the stove would be alight; it always was. With a little riddling and stoking he might even get the kettle to boil. The idea of a cup of steaming tea was the nearest he could get to decent sense. Going back to bed and the refuge of sleep was obviously impossible.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded again, pushing and pulling at the fire furiously. “And take that thing off”—he gestured at the man’s cloak—“before you drown us all.”
The constable obediently divested himself of the cloak and set it down in the scullery. He was a domestic man, and normally would have known what to do without being told. But the news he had brought had swept away his years of training by mother and wife.
“It’s another one, sir,” he said quietly, coming back into the kitchen and handing Pitt the kettle he was reaching for. “And it’s worse than before.”
Pitt knew why he had come, but it would still be ugly to hear. Before the words were spoken, there was always the hope it might be something else.
The pressure was mounting: Athelstan had called for him again—the newspapers were spreading the panic. And he knew that Charlotte, for all her pretended innocence, was using Emily’s social position to pursue her own suspicions about Max’s women and Bertie Astley’s life. If he accused Charlotte of lying, they would have the sort of argument that would wound them both. Besides, he could not prove he was right; he simply knew her well enough to understand her sense of purpose. And, by God, he was going to get the Devil’s Acre slasher before she did!
He was still standing in the middle of the kitchen floor with the kettle in his hand. “Worse?” he said.
“Yes, sir.” The constable’s voice dropped. “I bin round the Acre ever since I joined the force, but I never seen anythin’ like this before.”
Pitt poured the water into the pot. The steam rose fragrantly into the air. He took half a loaf of bread out of the big wooden bin. Whatever it was that waited for him, however appalling, would be worse on an empty stomach in the icy morning.
“Who is it?”
The constable handed him the bread knife. “A man. Things