Pitt could see instantly why Max had succeeded him as the proprietor for the carriage trade. Max had had a sensuality himself that would attract the women who worked for him, and a taste of his own to appreciate and select the best new whores for the trade-perhaps even teach them a little? Nature had given him an advantage that Ambrose, with all his intelligence, could not hope to emulate.
“I’ve never heard of you!” Ambrose said, his eyes wide, looking Pitt up and down. “You must be new in the Acre. I can’t imagine what you want here. I have some very good custom. You’d be foolish to make life-awkward-for me, Inspector.” His paused as if to see if Pitt had the mental agility to understand him.
Pitt smiled. “I believe you do have some very good custom,” he agreed coolly. “But perhaps not as much as you had before Max Burton moved into the trade?”
Ambrose was shaken. His hand moved down his body and tightened on his silk robe, pulling it a little further around himself. “Is that what you’re here about, Max’s murder?”
So he was not going to pretend to be stupid. That was a relief. Pitt was not in the frame of mind to play games with him. “Yes. I’m not interested in your other affairs. But Max took a lot of your business, and maybe some of your women as well-and don’t waste time in denying it.”
Ambrose shrugged and turned away. “It’s a chancy trade. You do better one year, worse another-depends on your girls. Max was doing well now-his girls would have left in time. High-class women always do. Either they get bored, or settle their debts, or they marry someone and get out of it altogether. He wouldn’t have lasted.”
Perhaps Ambrose had talked himself into believing this, but personally Pitt thought Max would have been well able to replace any women that left.
Ambrose must have sensed his doubts. He turned back and stared at Pitt defiantly. “Ever wondered-Inspector”-his voice was very delicately sarcastic, as if the title were ill-deserved-“ever wondered just how Max got the quality of women he did? Women like his don’t take to whoring in the Devil’s Acre, you know, just for a little diversion! There’s plenty of whoring to be had in their own circle, if that’s all they want. Surprises you, that, does it?” He looked into Pitt’s eyes and saw that it did not. His face hardened.
“If you want to find out who murdered Max and then castrated him, look among the husbands or lovers of some of the highborn women he’s brought in here! Believe me, if I simply wanted a business rival removed, I should stick a knife into him, by all means, and then throw him into the river-or put him in one of the rat holes deep inside the Acre. I wouldn’t cut him about and then leave him where he’d be found by you lot! No, Inspector”-again he hesitated fractionally, making the title an insult-“look at some man he cuckolded, or whose wife or daughter he’s seduced into whoredom.”
Pitt led him further. “And how would he seduce a wellborn woman into whoredom?” he asked with a trace of doubt. “For that matter, where would he even meet one?”
“He used to be a footman somewhere. He probably knew other ‘menservants.’” Ambrose used the word to convey all his hatred and contempt for Max and his class in general. “Probably blackmail. That’s where your murderer is, believe me!”
“Perhaps,” Pitt conceded with an affectation of far more reluctance than he felt. Much as he disliked Ambrose, what he said made excellent sense. “Then what about Dr. Hubert Pinchin?”
Ambrose threw up his hands theatrically. “God knows! Perhaps he was the one who did the blackmailing. Maybe he used his medical practice to find these women, or to discover their secrets. Maybe they were partners. How should I know? Do you want me to do your entire job for you?”
Pitt smiled and saw a trace of irritation on Ambrose’s face; he had meant to offend, not amuse.
“I’m always glad of a little expert help,” Pitt replied softly. “I’ve worked on a few murders, one sort and another. Arson, burglary-know a lot about fine art-but keeping a whorehouse is outside my experience.”
Ambrose drew a sharp breath to retort, but he did not find the words before Pitt had turned and left the elegant room of pale decor and Ambrose himself standing in his silk robe in the middle of it.
Pitt went out into the rainy, gray-walled street. He felt a glow of satisfaction for at least having been thoroughly rude.
And there was also a strong possibility that Ambrose was right.
4
Lady Augusta Balantyne was not looking forward to the morning. She had decided that she could no longer put off visiting her daughter Christina to discuss her behavior in the frankest terms. Christina and Alan Ross would be at the family dinner party this evening, but what Augusta had to say required uninterrupted privacy. As in the past when dealing with Christina’s indiscretions, Augusta intended to keep the entire matter from General Balantyne’s knowledge. He might be an excellent military tactician when he had cannon and horses to dispose, but when the battle concerned emotions and the possibility of scandal, he was a babe in arms.
Over breakfast she maintained a civilized conversation about the usual trivialities. General Balantyne, of course, did not mention the murders in the Devil’s Acre that filled the newspapers, in case he should distress her-not realizing that she had read them for herself. And she was perfectly happy to leave him in his ignorance, if it pleased him.
At ten o’clock Lady Augusta called the carriage and gave the coachman instructions to take her to her daughter’s house. She was received with some surprise.
“Good morning, Mama!”
“Good morning, Christina.” She walked in, for once not bothering to notice if the flowers were fresh or if there were new ornaments-not even if Christina’s gown was the very latest. She had already made her comments on extravagance; from now on it was Alan Ross’s affair. Today something infinitely more serious filled her mind.
Christina still looked surprised. “I have only just finished breakfast. Would you care for a dish of tea, Mama?”
“No, thank you. I do not wish to be interrupted by servants coming and going, or the inconvenience of fiddling about with cups.”
Christina opened her mouth to say something, then decided against it. She sat down on the sofa and picked up a piece of embroidery. “I hope you have not been obliged to cancel this evening’s dinner?”
“I have footmen to send on errands like that,” Augusta said dryly. “I wish to talk to you privately, and the opportunity will not present itself tonight.” She looked at her daughter’s charming profile, her soft chin and wide, tilted eyes. How could anyone have such a passionate will and at the same time so little sense of survival? Augusta had tried all her life to impart to her her own understanding of the possible and the impossible, and she had failed. This was going to be unpleasant, but it was unavoidable.
“Will you please put that down-I wish for your attention! A situation has arisen which means that I can no longer allow you to continue with your present behavior.”
Christina’s blue eyes widened in surprise at the questioning of her conduct. She was a married woman and accountable to her husband, but certainly not to her mother!
“My behavior, Mama?”
“Don’t treat me as if I were foolish, Christina. I am perfectly aware that you have been amusing yourself in some most unsavory places. I can understand boredom-”
“Can you?” Christina said scathingly. “Have you really the faintest idea what it is like to be so bored you feel as if your whole life is sliding away and you might as well be asleep for all you do with it?”
“Of course I have. Do you imagine you are the only woman to find her husband tedious and her usual acquaintances infinitely predictable, till she could recite every word of their conversation before they begin?”