Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [78]
But she did not hesitate. “The point of view of Max’s women,” she replied instantly. “These murders were committed with a great deal of hatred.”
He smiled sourly. It was a ludicrous understatement, and, sitting here in her own safe home, what on earth could she know about it? He had seen the corpses!
“You should look for someone whose life has been ruined,” she went on. “If Max had seduced some woman, and then her husband had found out, he might well hate enough to kill like that—not only Max but whoever had had anything to do with her disgrace.”
“And how would he find out?” he asked. If she was going to play policeman, let her answer all the difficult, ugly questions that Athelstan would have thrown at him. “There is no connection whatsoever between Max and Hubert Pinchin. We can’t find anyone who knew them both.”
“Maybe Pinchin was the doctor for Max’s establishments,” she suggested.
“Good idea. But he wasn’t. There’s a disbarred old crow who does that—and very lucrative it is, too. He wouldn’t share his practice with anyone.”
“Crow? Is that an underworld term for a doctor?” She did not wait for a reply. “What if the husband came as a customer and found the whore was his own wife? That way he would know who the procurer was as well!” It was an excellently rational solution, and she knew it. She glowed with triumph.
“And what about the woman?” he said scathingly. “He just bundled her up and took her back home again? I’m sure he wanted her—after that!”
“I don’t suppose so for a moment.” She sniffed and looked at him impatiently. “But he couldn’t divorce her, could he?”
“Why not? God knows, he would have cause!”
“Oh, Thomas, don’t be ridiculous! No man is going to admit he found his wife in the Devil’s Acre working as a whore! Even if the police weren’t looking for someone with a motive for murder, it would ruin him forever! If there is anything worse than death for a man, it is to be laughed at and pitied at the same time.”
He could not argue. “No,” he said irritably. “He’ll probably kill her, too, but quietly, when he’s ready.”
Her face paled. “Do you think so?”
“Damn it, Charlotte! How should I know? If he’s capable of cutting up her pimp and her lovers, what would stop him leaving her in some more respectable gutter when he’s ready? So you bear that in mind, and stop meddling in things you don’t understand—where you can only do damage by stirring up a lot of suspicions. Remember—if you’re right, he’s got precious little left to lose!”
“I haven’t been—”
“For heaven’s sake, do you think I’m stupid? I don’t know what you’ve been doing with Emily, but I most assuredly know why!”
She sat perfectly still, color high in her cheeks. “I haven’t been anywhere near the Devil’s Acre, and to the best of my knowledge I haven’t spoken to anyone who has!” she said righteously.
He knew from the brilliance of her eyes that she was speaking the literal truth. Anyway, he did not think she would lie to him, not in so many words.
“Not for want of trying,” he said acidly,
“Well, you don’t appear to have got very far either,” she retorted. “I could give you the names of half a dozen women to try. How about Lavinia Hawkesley? She is married to a boring man at least thirty years older than she is. And Dorothea Blandish and Mrs. Dinford and Lucy Abercorn, and what about the new widow Pomeroy? I hear she is very pretty, and she knows one or two people in the fast set.”
“Adela Pomeroy?” He was momentarily startled out of his anger.
“Yes,” she said with satisfaction, seeing his face. “And there are others. I’ll write them down for you.”
“Write them down, then forget the whole thing. Stay at home! This is murder, Charlotte, very ugly and violent murder. And if you go meddling in it you may very well end up dead in a gutter yourself. Do as you are told!”
She said nothing.
“Do you hear me?” He had not meant to, but he was raising his voice. “If you and Emily go blundering about, God knows what lunatic you’ll disturb—presuming you get anywhere near the truth! Far more likely