“See what else you can do here,” he instructed. “Do you have the address of the family?”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant handed it to him on a slip torn from his notebook.
Pitt sighed. “Then I’d better go and tell them before the newspapers have time to print a late extra. No one should learn of this sort of thing from a paper.”
“No, sir. I’m afraid there was reporters ’ere over an hour ago. I don’t know ’ow they ’eard-”
It was not worth discussing. There were eyes and ears everywhere! — people accustomed to death, and keen for a sixpence to let some newshound be the first to run to Fleet Street with material for glaring headlines.
Pitt climbed back into the hansom and gave the driver the address of the Astleys’ London house.
There was faint light in the sky when he stepped out and dismissed the cab. He had no idea how long he would be.
The street was almost deserted. A kitchenmaid carried out rubbish; a bootboy slammed a back door. Only the servants’ quarters were alive. He climbed the steps to the front door and knocked. A footman, looking sur- prised, answered. Pitt did not give him time to make judgments.
“Good morning,” he said firmly. “I am from the police. I am afraid I have very serious news to deliver. Will you please conduct me to a suitable place, and inform the head of the family? And you had better bring brandy, or whatever you consider best for the treatment of shock.”
The footman was stunned. He made no protest as Pitt stepped in past him and closed the door.
“Sir Bertram-” he began.
“Is not at home. I know,” Pitt interrupted quietly. “I am afraid he is dead.”
“Oh.” The footman attempted to collect himself, but the situation was beyond him. “I had-” He swallowed. “I had better fetch Mr. Hodge, the butler-and Mr. Beau, Sir Bertram’s brother.” And before Pitt could speak, the footman flung open the door of the cold morning room where a maid had cleaned the grate but not yet lit the fire. “Sir.” He left Pitt to fend for himself, and disappeared toward the back of the dark hallway, the green baize door, and safety.
Pitt stared around the room. It was full of rich furniture, much of it exotic: lacquered Japanese tables, inlaid ebony, intaglio, French watercolors on the wall. The Astleys lacked neither taste nor money to indulge themselves, and their choice was exceedingly catholic.
An elderly butler came in, sober-faced, a silver tray with brandy and French lead-crystal glasses in his hand.
“Is Frederick correct, sir, that Sir Bertram has met with an accident and is dead?”
There was no purpose in lying; the butler would be the one who would have to control the staff and see that during the first days’ distress of the family all the necessary duties of the household were continued. “I am sorry, it was not an accident. Sir Bertram was murdered.”
“Oh dear.” Hodge set the brandy down sharply on the table. “Oh dear.”
He had not managed to think of anything else to say when a few moments later a young man opened the door and stood staring. He was still dressed in night attire and robe. His fair hair was damp from his morning ablutions, but he was not yet shaved. There was a marked resemblance between his features and those of the dead man: the same good nose and broad brow. But this face, even in the tight expectancy of fear, was animated; there were lines of humor about the mouth, and the eyes were wide and blue.
He closed the door. “What is it?”
Pitt realized how fortunate he had been with Mullen and Valeria Pinchin. He thought he had remembered how hard it was, but the impact was there all over again.
“I am sorry, sir,” he replied very quietly. It was easier to say it all at once, more merciful than spinning it out a detail at a time. “I have to tell you that we have just discovered the body of your brother Sir Bertram, in the Devil’s Acre. I am afraid he has been murdered, in a similar manner to Dr. Hubert Pinchin, although he was far less mutilated-” He stopped; there seemed nothing more to say. “I’m sorry, sir,” he repeated.
Beau Astley stood perfectly still for several seconds, then straightened his shoulders and walked over to the table. Hodge offered him the brandy, but he ignored it. “In the Devil’s Acre?”
Was it worse to ask now, in the numbness of shock, or later, when the anesthesia had worn off and the wound was raw and inescapable? Either way, there was only one answer Pitt could act on.
“Do you know what Sir Bertram might have been doing in that area?”
Beau Astley looked up. Then at last he took Hodge’s brandy and drank it in two gulps. He poured himself two more fingers, and drank it also.
“I suppose there is no point in lying, Inspector. Bertie gambled occasionally, not much, and I don’t think he ever lost. In fact, I think he won most of the time. Usually he went to one or the other of the gentlemen’s clubs. But once in a while he liked to go slumming somewhere like Whitechapel, or the Acre. Can’t think why-disgusting places!” He paused, as if the incomprehensibility of it might yet make it untrue.
Pitt was surprised; in his state of shock, Beau Astley was so jarred out of his normal composure that he seemed not even to resent a policeman in his own morning room, asking him personal questions about his family. There was no condescension in his voice.
“And Sir Bertram went gambling yesterday evening?” Pitt pursued.
Beau reached for a chair and Hodge pulled it in position for him immediately. He sat down. Hodge retreated silently and closed the door behind him.
“No.” Beau put his head in his hands and stared at the table. “No, that’s it. He went to call upon May. He was invited there to dinner.”
“May?”
“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know. Miss Woolmer, she and Bertie were to be betrothed-at least I think so. Oh, God! I’d better go and tell her. I can’t let her find out from the police, or some idiotic gossip.” He looked up without hope. “I suppose there’s no chance of keeping it out of the newspapers? My father is dead-but Mother lives in Gloucestershire. I’ll have to write …” His voice trailed off.
“I’m sorry, the newspapers had already been there by the time I was called myself,” Pitt replied. “In an area like that, sixpence is a lot of money.” He thought he did not need to explain further.
“Of course.” Beau was suddenly terribly tired, his face leached of the animation that had been there only minutes before. “Do you mind if I get dressed and go to Miss Woolmer immediately? I don’t want her to hear it from anyone else.”
“No, sir, that would be by far the best thing,” Pitt said. He watched as Beau stood up. He must tell him the rest; it would be common knowledge by late morning. “I–I’m afraid there is one more thing, sir. He was found in a most”-he searched for the right word-“a most unfortunate place.”
“You said. The Devil’s Acre.”
“Yes, sir-but in the doorway of a brothel, for men only.”
Beau’s face tightened in an attempt at a smile. He was past any further shock. “Surely brothels are, Inspector?”
Pitt hated telling him; already he liked the man. “No,” he said very quietly. “In most brothels the staff are female….” He let it hang.
Beau’s dark blue eyes widened. “That’s ridiculous…. Bertie wasn’t-”
“No,” Pitt said quickly. “He was near-I expect that was merely where his attacker caught up with him. But I had to warn you-the newspapers will possibly mention it.”
Beau ran his hand through the hair that was falling forward over his brow. “Yes, I suppose they will. They can’t leave the Prince of Wales alone, so they certainly won’t have any compunction about Bertie. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get dressed. Hodge will get you a brandy, or something.” He was gone before Pitt could thank him.
Pitt decided to ask for hot tea, and perhaps a slice of toast. The thought was enough to make him even more conscious of the cold void inside him. To look at a corpse was grim, but the dead were beyond feeling. It was telling the living that hurt Pitt, and made him feel guilty and helpless. He was the bringer of pain, the onlooker, shielded from everything but its mirror image.