Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [22]
Was the use of a prostitute a little like riding the hounds, a gentlemanly sport—the chase was all, the kill merely the natural outcome? And perhaps foxes were vermin anyway?
His thoughts were interrupted by his arrival at the entrance of the Regency Club. He alighted, paid the cabby and crossed the pavement to go up the steps.
“Are you a member, sir?” the doorman enquired. His face was expressionless, but the overemphasized enquiry in his voice made it profoundly plain that he knew Pitt was not.
“No,” Pitt replied, forcing himself to smile. “I require to speak to one of your members about a matter of delicacy and extreme unpleasantness. Perhaps you would convey that message to him and then find some place where I may do it in private, and avoid the embarrassment for him of approaching him in public?”
The doorman regarded him as if he were a blackmailer.
Pitt kept his smile. “I am from the police,” he added. “The Bow Street Station.”
“I see.” The doorman did not see at all. Pitt was not what he expected of such persons.
“If you please?” Pitt said a trifle more sharply. “My business is with Mr. Norbert Helliwell. His butler informed me he was here.”
“Yes sir.” The doorman could see no other way of dealing with a deplorable situation which was threatening to get completely out of hand. He instructed the steward to show Pitt to a small side room, possibly kept for such needs. He could not be left in the hallway where he might speak to other members and make the matter even worse. The steward did so, then turned on his heel and went to inform Helliwell of his visitor.
Norbert Helliwell was in his early thirties, of very ordinary appearance. He could have been mistaken for any young man of good family and comfortable means.
“Good morning, sir.” He came in and closed the door. “Prebble tells me there has been some unpleasantness with which you think I can help you. Do sit down.” He waved directly to one of the chairs, and sat comfortably in the one opposite it. “What is it?”
Pitt had never seen a man look less guilty.
“I can give you ten minutes,” Helliwell went on magnanimously. “Then I am afraid I have to meet my wife and mother-in-law. They’ve been shopping. The ladies like to do that, you know?” He shrugged. “No, perhaps you don’t. But they can get very upset if left waiting. Not proper at all. Gets oneself misunderstood. Sure you can see that. Only two sorts of women, what.” He smiled. “At least waiting around the streets, there are. Remember that perfectly awful business of that perfectly respectable woman … arrested out shopping!” There was derision in his voice, and indeed the case did not reflect well on the police.
“Then I shall come immediately to the point,” Pitt replied, aware that he was gaining an opinion of this man too rapidly. He was allowing the man’s assumptions to make him also prejudge. “Were you once a member of a young gentlemen’s association known as the Hellfire Club?”
Helliwell was startled, but there was no alarm in his bland, self-confident face.
“A long time ago. Why? Has someone resurrected it?” He shrugged very slightly. “Not very original, I’m afraid. Rather obvious sort of name, when one thinks of it. Speaks of Regency dandies a bit, don’t you think?” He leaned back and crossed his legs. “Much more fashionable to be an aesthete now, if you have the emotional energy. Personally, I couldn’t be bothered to stir up so much passion about art. Too busy with life!” He laughed very slightly.
Was there an edge to his voice, or did Pitt imagine it?
“Used you to have a badge, about so big?” Pitt held up his finger and thumb half an inch apart. “Enamel on gold, with your name engraved on the back?”
“I really