Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [71]
Pitt sliced bread and set it on top of the cooking surface to toast. He reached down two plates, the butter from the cool pantry, and marmalade. He tried to imagine the woman, dedicated to good work, sheltering the homeless and uplifting the fallen. She would be used to death; she could hardly fail to be, in the Devil’s Acre. Indecency would be all around her, but she had probably never seen a naked man in her life—perhaps not even imagined one.
“Was he mutilated?” he asked unnecessarily.
“Yes, sir.” The constable’s face blanched at the memory. “Cut to pieces, ’e was, and sort of—well—like ’e’d bin ripped by some kind o’ animal—with claws.” He took a deep breath, the muscles in his throat tight. “Like someone ’ad tried to pull ’is privates off ’im with their ’ands.”
He was right—it was getting worse. Bertie Astley’s injuries had been slight, almost a gesture. The thought returned to him that Bertie was not a victim of the same killer, but that Beau Astley had seen the chance to step into his brother’s place and lay the blame on a lunatic already beyond the pale of ordinary human decency. It was a thought he tried to reject because he had liked Beau Astley, as one likes from a distance someone one does not know but feels to be pleasant.
The toast was smoking. He turned it over smartly and took a sip of his tea. “Was he stabbed in the back, too?”
“Yes, sir, just about the same place as the others, one side of the backbone, and right about the middle. Must ‘a died quick like, thank God.” He screwed up his face. “Wot kind o’ man does that to another man, Mr. Pitt? It ain’t ’uman!”
“Someone who believes he has been wronged beyond bearing,” Pitt replied before he even thought.
“I reckon as you’re right. An’ you’re burnin’ your toast, sir.”
Pitt flipped the two pieces off and handed one to the constable. He took it with surprise and satisfaction. He had not expected breakfast—even of rather scorched toast, eaten standing up. It was good, the marmalade sharp and sweet.
“Maybe if someone killed my little girl, I’d want to kill ’im bad enough,” he said, with his mouth full. “But I’d never want to—to tear out ’is—beggin’ your pardon, sir—’is privates like that.”
“Might depend on how he killed your girl,” Pitt replied, then scowled and dropped his toast as the full horror of what he had said invaded his imagination. He thought of Charlotte and his daughter, Jemima, asleep upstairs.
The constable stared at him, his light brown eyes round. “I reckon as ’ow you could be right at that, sir,” he said in no more than a whisper.
Upstairs everything was silent. Charlotte had not stirred, and the nursery had only a single light burning.
“You’d better eat your breakfast, sir.” The constable was a practical man. This was going to be no day for an empty stomach. “And put plenty o’ clothes on, if you won’t think me impertinent.”
“No,” Pitt agreed absently. “No.” He picked up the toast and ate it There was no time to shave, but he would finish his tea and take the constable’s advice—lots of clothes.
The corpse was appalling. Pitt could not conceive of the rage that could drive a human being to dismember another in this way.
“All right,” he said, standing up slowly. There was nothing more to be seen. It was like those before, but worse. Ernest Pomeroy had been an ordinary-looking man, perhaps less than average height. His clothes were sober, of good fabric, but far from fashionable. His face was bony and rather plain. It was impossible to tell if life had fired him with any charm or humor, if those unbecoming features had been transformed by an inner light.