Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [77]
Pitt conceded with a smile. Unwillingly he believed Squeaker. Still he gave it a last try. “What about Ambrose Mercutt? Max was taking his trade.”
“So ‘e was,” Squeaker agreed. “Better at it, see? An’ Ambrose is a nasty little bastard w’en ’e’s crossed as many o’ ’is girls’d tell yer. But ’e ain’t mad! If ’n someone’d stuck a shiv inter Max and dropped ’im inter ve water, or even strangled ’is froat, I’d ’ave said Ambrose, quick as look atcher.” His lip curled. “But you lot’d never ’ave fahnd ’im! Just gorn, vat’s all—Max’d just ’ave gorn, and you rozzers’d never ’ave known ve diff’rence. Nobody but a fool or a lunatic draws attention ter ’isself by cuttin’ people abaht an’ leavin’ ’em in gutters fer people ter fall over.” He raised his scruffy eyebrows. “I arks yer, Mr. Pitt—now ’oo’d leave a corpus in front of an ’ouse ’o mercy, wiv all vem ’oly women in it—if n ’e was right in ’is mind, like?”
“Did Ambrose employ children in his brothel, Squeaker?”
Squeaker screwed up his face. “I don’t ’old wiv vat. It ain’t ’ealfy. A proper man wants a proper woman, not some scared little kid.”
“Does he, Squeaker?”
“Gawd! ‘Ow do I know? You fink I got vat kind o’ money?”
“Does he, Squeaker?” Pitt persisted, his voice harder.
“Yes! Yes ‘e does! Greedy little git! Go an’ ’ang ’im, Mr. Pitt, an’ welcome!” He spat on the floor in disgust.
“Thank you. I’m obliged.” Pitt stood up and the box collapsed.
Squeaker looked at the box and his face wrinkled up. “Yer shouldn’t ’ave sat on vat, Mr. Pitt! Yer too ’eavy fer it—now look wot yer done! I oughta charge yer fer breakages, I ought!”
Pitt pulled out a sixpence and gave it to him. “I wouldn’t like to owe you, Squeaker.”
Squeaker hesitated, the coin halfway to his teeth. The thought of Pitt owing him was extremely attractive, even tempting. But sixpence now was better than a debt Pitt might let slip from his rather erratic mind.
“Vat’s right, Mr. Pitt,” he agreed. “Shouldn’t never owe nobody. Never knows as w’en vey might collect at an inconvenient moment.” He raised candid eyes. “But if n I ’ears ’oo done the poor geezers—fer sure like—I’ll send and tell yer.”
“Oh, yes?” Pitt said skeptically. “You do that, Squeaker.”
Squeaker spat again. “’Ope ter die! Oh, Gawd—I didn’t oughter said vat! Geez! May Gawd strike me if’n I don’t!” he amended—with greater trust in his ability to obtain mercy from the Almighty than from the Acre slasher.
“He can have you after I’ve finished with you.” Pitt looked him up and down. “If He can be bothered with what’s left!”
“Nah, Mr. Pitt, vat ain’t nice. Yer abusin’ me ’orspitality.” Squeaker was aggrieved, but happily so. It was a feeling he enjoyed. “Ve trouble wiv you crushers is yer ain’t got no happreciation.”
Pitt smiled and went out the door. He picked his way down the stairs carefully, avoiding the rotted ones, and went outside into the cold malodorous air of the alley. Tomorrow he would get a picture of Ernest Pomeroy and take it around the brothels in the Acre.
Charlotte was waiting for him when he arrived home. She was beautiful, her face radiant, hair soft and sweet to smell. She clung to him fiercely as if she were bursting with energy.
“Where have you been?” he asked, holding her hard.
“Only to see Emily.” She dismissed it as a trifle, but he knew perfectly well why she had gone.
She gave him a quick kiss and pulled away. “You’re cold. Sit down and warm yourself. Gracie will have dinner in half an hour. Your coat looks very dirty. Where have you been?”
“To the Devil’s Acre,” he said tartly as he eased off his boots and wriggled his toes. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his feet out toward the fire.
Charlotte passed him his slippers. “Did you learn anything?”
“No,” he lied. After all, it was not definable.
Her face fell into lines of commiseration. “Oh. I am sorry.” Then she brightened, as if an idea had just occurred to her. “Perhaps it would be better to approach it from the other point of view.”
In spite of himself, he asked, “What other