Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [76]
Could that even have been the reason she chose this plain, older man—a kindness to a woman whose moral character had been blemished? Or perhaps who already knew she was barren? Had gratitude turned over the years to hatred?
Had she sought love elsewhere? Was that where the silk flowers and the gowns came from? It was an obvious question, and he would be obliged to search.
He asked her if she had ever heard of Bertram Astley, Max Burton, or Dr. Pinchin. The names produced no answering flicker in her face. If she was a liar, she was superb. Neither did he find any mention of the other victims in Pomeroy’s papers.
There was nothing to do but thank Mrs. Pomeroy and leave with a peculiar feeling of unreality, as if all the time she was speaking she had barely been aware of him. He was an usher in the theater, and she was watching the main drama somewhere else, out of his sight.
The next obvious thing was to try the Acre again, and the best source was Squeaker Harris. Pitt found him in his grubby attic, hunched over the table by the window—the cleanest thing in the place—so that the winter light could fall onto his paper. Too many careful, suspicious eyes would examine his work. It must meet the highest standards of perfection or he would not remain in his trade.
He glared at Pitt balefully. “You ain’t got no right bustin’ inter a man’s ’ouse!” he exclaimed as he covered the paper he was working on as inconspicuously as possible. “I could ’ave yer—fer trespassin’. Vat’s agin ve law, Mr. Pitt. An’ wot’s more, it ain’t right.”
“It’s a social call,” Pitt replied, sitting on an upended box and balancing with some difficulty. “I’m not interested in your business skills.”
“Ain’t yer?” Squeaker was not convinced.
“Why don’t you put them away?” Pitt suggested helpfully. “In case dust falls on them. You don’t want anything spoiled.”
Squeaker gave him a squinting glare. Such leniency was confusing. It was very contrary of policemen to be so inconsistent in their behavior. How was anyone to know where he stood? However, he was glad of the chance to put the half-completed forgeries out of sight. He returned and sat down, considerably easier in his mind.
“Well?” he demanded. “Wotcher want ven? Yer ain’t come ’ere fer nuffin’!”
“Of course not,” Pitt said. “What’s the word about these murders now? What are they saying, Squeaker?”
“The Acre slasher? Vere ain’t no word. Nobody knows nuffin’, and nobody ain’t sayin’ nuffin’.”
“Nonsense. You telling me there’ve been four murders and mutilations in the Acre, and nobody’s got any ideas as to who did them, or why? Come on, Squeaker—I wasn’t born yesterday!”
“Neever was I, Mr. Pitt. And I don’t want ter know nuffin’ abaht it. I’m a lot more scared o’ ‘ooever done vose geezers like vat van I ever am o’ you! You crushers is a nuisance, Gawd knows, bad fer ve ’ealf an’ bad fer business, and some of yer is downright nasty at times. But yer ain’t mad—least not ravin’ mad like ve lunatic wot does vis! I can understand a decent murder along wiv ve next man! I ain’t unreasonable. But I don’t ’old wiv vis, an’ I don’t know nobody as does!”
Pitt leaned forward and nearly fell off the box. “Then help me find him, Squeaker! Help me put him away!”
“Yer mean ‘ang ‘im.” Squeaker pulled a face. “I dunno nuffin’, an’ I don’t want ter! It’s no use yer arskin’ me, Mr. Pitt. ’E ain’t one o’ us!”
“Then who are the strangers? Who’s new in the Acre?” Pitt pressed.
Squeaker put on an elaborate air of grievance. “’Ow ve ’ell do I know? ’E’s mad! Mebbe ’e only conies aht at nights. Mebbe ’e ain’t even ’uman. I dunno anyone as knows anyfink abaht it! None o’ ve pimps or blaggers or shofulmen I know ’as got any call ter do vat kind o’ fing! An’ yer know we screevers don’t go in fer nastiness. I’m an artist, I am. Fer me ter get violent wiv me ’ands ’d ruin me touch.” He waved his fingers