Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [80]
“Ever thought of going on the halls?” Pitt asked cheerfully. “You’d have them in the aisles with that.”
The man hesitated; all sorts of glittering possibilities appeared in his mind. He was flattered in spite of himself. He had expected abuse, not appreciation, let alone such a golden idea.
Pitt pulled out the picture of Pomeroy.
“What’s that?” the man asked.
“Know him?” Pitt passed it over. There had been no picture of him in the newspapers.
“What of it? What d’you care?”
“That’s none of your business. Just believe me, I do care—so much so that I shall go on looking until I find someone who catered for his particular tastes. And if I keep on coming round here, that won’t be good for business, now, will it?”
“All right, yer sod! So we know ’im. Wot then?”
“What did he come here for?”
The man looked incredulous. “Wot did you say? You ’alf-witted or somethin’? Wot the ’ell d’yer think ’e come fer? ’E was bloody bent, the dirty little sod. ’E liked ’em real young—seven or eight, mebbe. But yer’ll never prove it, an’ I ain’t said nothin’. Nah git aht of ’ere afore I spoil your nice pretty neck with a red ring round it—right from one ear to the other!”
Pitt believed him, and he did not need proof. He had always known there would be none. “Thank you.” He gave the man a curt nod. “I don’t think I shall need to trouble you again.”
“Yer better not!” the man called after him. “Yer ain’t liked around ’ere! Best fer yer ’ealth ter try somewhere else!”
Pitt had every intention of leaving as rapidly as possible. He started to walk briskly, hands in his pockets against the cold, scarf pulled up around his ears. So Pomeroy was a pederast. That was no surprise; it was what he had expected. All he had been looking for was confirmation. Bertie Astley had owned a row of houses here in the Acre—sweatshops, tenements, a gin mill. Max’s occupation had never been a secret. All that remained was to establish Pinchin’s reason for being here. And then, of course, to find the common link, the place or the person that bound them together—the motive.
It was desperately cold. The wind with its acrid sewer smell made his eyes water. He lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and strode out more rapidly.
Perhaps that was why he did not hear them come up behind him in the shadowy light. He had solved the mystery of Pomeroy in his mind; he had completed his business and had forgotten he was still well inside the Acre. Walking like a happy man, a man with purpose, he was as conspicuous as a white rabbit on a new-turned field.
The first one struck him from behind. There was a stinging blow in the small of his back; his feet were suddenly entangled and the pavement hit him in the face. He rolled over, knees hunched, then straightened with all his strength. His feet met flesh that gave under his weight, falling away with a grunt. But there was another at his head. He lashed out with his fists and tried to regain his balance. A blow landed on his shoulder, bruising but harmless. He threw his weight behind his answering punch and was exhilarated to hear the crack of bone. Then there was a numbing punch in his side. It would have been his back had he not turned and kicked as hard as he could at precisely the moment he was struck.
There was nothing he could do now but run for it. A hundred yards, or two at the most, and he would be on the edge of the Acre and within hailing distance of a hansom, and safety. His side hurt; he must have a terrible bruise there, but a hot bath and a little embrocation would cure that. His feet were flying over the cobbles. He