Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [72]
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant on duty answered quickly. “Got a few letters and the like on ’im. Seabrook Walk. Quite a decent sort o’ place, ’bout a couple o’ miles from ’ere. I got a sister as obliges for a lady up that way. Not a lot o’ money, but very respectable, if you know what I mean.”
Pitt knew precisely what he meant. There was a large class of people who would prefer to eat bread and gravy, and sit in a cold house, rather than be seen to lack for the world’s goods, especially for servants. To eat frugally could, by stretching the imagination, be a matter of taste. One might even pretend not to feel the cold, but to be without servants could only mean the depth of poverty. Had Ernest Pomeroy escaped a sad sham of life for a few hectic hours of indulging his starved nature, only to the here in these filthy and equally deceiving streets?
“Yes, I know what you mean,” he replied. “We’ll have to get someone to identify him. Better not the wife—if we can find someone else. Maybe there’s a brother, or—” He looked down at the face again. Ernest Pomeroy was probably nearer fifty than forty. “Or a son.”
“We’ll see to it, sir,” the sergeant said. “Wouldn’t want to do that to any woman, even though as she’d only ’ave to see ’is face. Still—all the same. You goin’ to see the wife, sir?”
“Yes.” It was inevitable. It must be done, and again it must be Pitt. “Yes ... give me that address, will you?” Seabrook Walk looked fiat and gray in the thin light of morning. Somehow the rain did not make it clean, merely wet.
Pitt found the number he was looking for and walked up to the door. As always, there was no point in hesitating; there was nothing that would make it hurt less, and there might be something to learn. Somewhere there must be something that linked these men: a common acquaintance, an appetite, a place or a time, some reason they had been hated so passionately. Whatever the cost, he must find it. Time would not wait for him. The murderer would not wait.
The narrow flower beds were empty now, just dark strips of earth. The grass in the middle had a lifeless, wintry look, and the laurel bushes under the windows seemed sour, holding darkness and stale water. Immaculate lace curtains hung at all the windows, evenly spread. In an hour they would be obscured by the drawn blinds of mourning.
He raised the polished door knocker and let it fall with a jarring sound. It was several moments before a startled betweenmaid opened it a crack, her pasty face peering out. No one called this early.
“Yes, sir?”
“I have come to speak with Mrs. Pomeroy. It is urgent.”
“Oooh, I don’t know as she can see you now.” The tweeny was obviously confused. “She ain’t even”—she swallowed and remembered her loyalties to the house—“even ’ad ’er breakfast yet. Could you come back in an hour or two, sir?”
Pitt was sorry for the girl. She was probably not more than thirteen or fourteen, and this would be her first job. If she lost it through annoying her mistress, she would be in difficult straits. She might even end up wandering the streets, less fortunate than the women with the skill or the personality to end up in a bawdy house with someone like Victoria Dalton.
“I’m from the police.” Pitt took the responsibility from her. “I have bad news for Mrs. Pomeroy, and it would be most cruel to let her hear it by rumor, rather than to tell her discreetly ourselves.”
“Oooh!” The girl swung the door wide and let Pitt step inside. She stared at his dripping clothes; even in the face of crisis, her training was paramount. “’Ere, you’re soakin’ wet! Better take off them things and give ’em to me. I’ll ’ave cook ’ang ’em up in the scullery. You wait in there, an’ I’ll go upstairs an’ tell Mrs. Pomeroy as you’re ’ere, an’ it’s urgent.”
“Thank you.” Pitt took off his coat, hat, and muffler and handed them to her. She scurried out, almost hidden by the bulk of them. He stood obediently until Mrs. Pomeroy should appear.
He looked around the room. It was quite a good size; the furniture was of heavy, dark wood without