Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [74]
“Can you think of any reason he should go to the Devil’s Acre, ma’am?” he asked. As usual, it was brutal, but she seemed so emotionless; perhaps this was the best time.
She did not turn, but stayed with her back to him. He was not sure whether it was his imagination that the delicate shoulders stiffened under the lavender silk. “I have no idea.”
“But you did know that he went there, from time to time?” he pressed.
She hesitated for a moment. “No.”
There was no point in arguing with her. It was only an impression. He remained silent; perhaps in her speech she would give something away.
“Is that where he was found?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Was it—the same—the same as the others?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Ah.”
She stood so long he could not tell if she kept her back to him to hide some overwhelming private feelings, if perhaps he should call a maid to help her, to bring her some restorative, or if she preferred the dignity of being left alone. Or was she simply waiting for him to speak again?
“Can I call your maid to bring something, ma’am?” He broke the silence from his own necessity.
“What?”
He repeated the offer.
At last she turned around; her face seemed perfectly composed. “No, thank you. Is there anything else you wish to know from me?”
He was worried for her; this dry, calm shock was dangerous. He must have some responsible servant call her doctor. “Yes, please. I would like the names and addresses of his pupils, and any close acquaintances you believe he may have seen in the last few weeks.”
“His study is on the other side of the hall. Take whatever you want. Now if you will excuse me, I would like to be alone.” Without waiting for his answer, she walked past him with a faint waft of perfume—something sweet and mildly flowery—and went out the door.
He spent the rest of the morning looking through the books and papers in Pomeroy’s study, trying to form some picture of the man’s life, his nature.
Pomeroy emerged as a meticulous, pedestrian man who had taught mathematics ever since he had graduated with academic qualifications. Most of his students seemed to have been aged about twelve or fourteen, and of quite average ability, except an occasional one of real promise. He tutored families privately, both boys and girls together.
It seemed a conscientious and blameless life, without any outward mark of humor. The flamboyant silk flowers in the withdrawing room could never have been his. In fact, the lavender silk gown with its foam of lace seemed far beyond his imagination—or his financial reach.
Pitt was offered luncheon by a cook who burst into tears every time he spoke to her. Then in the afternoon he copied out all the names and addresses of the current pupils, plus a few of those from the recent past, and those of acquaintances and tradesmen. He took his leave without seeing Adela Pomeroy again.
He went home earlier than usual. He was tired and beginning to feel the chill of the day spread through him. He had been woken to the news of another death, had gone to see the corpse lying grotesquely on the steps of a house of charity, then had had to bear the news of it to the widow whose shock he had been helpless to reach. He had spent the long hours of the day intruding into the details of the man’s life, searching it and taking it apart, looking for the flaws that had led him to the Devil’s Acre ... and murder. He had accumulated a multitude of facts, and none of them told him anything that seemed to matter. He felt helpless, hemmed in on every side by grief and trivia.
If Charlotte made one cheerful or inquisitive remark, his temper would explode.
Pitt spent the next four days picking at ragged edges, trying to unravel enough to find one thread sufficiently strong to evoke something better than the random destruction of a madman.
He spoke to Pomeroy’s students, who seemed to think well of their tutor despite the fact that he had spent