He began again. “The first victim was Max Burton. He kept a house in George Street. Perhaps you knew of him?”
“Of course,” she said. “We knew he had been murdered.”
“He was good at his business?” Why was he finding it so hard to question her? Was it because she gave him no openings and, unlike Ambrose Mercutt, was not defensive?
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “He had a remarkable talent.” For the first time, her face showed some expression, one of anger. Her full lips turned down at the corners, but Pitt had the odd conviction that it was a reflection of disapproval, not any sense of personal injury.
“Ambrose Mercutt says he used a number of wellborn women in his George Street establishment,” Pitt went on.
She gave a slight smile. “Yes, Ambrose Mercutt would tell you that.”
“Is it true?”
“Oh, yes. Max was very clever. He was very attractive to women, you know. And there is a certain class of women, wellborn, idle, married for convenience to some bloodless man-probably a great deal older than themselves, poor in the bedroom, without appetite or imagination-and they become bored. Max appealed to them. They began by having an affair with him; then he introduced them to the top end of the trade. He could get a high price for whores like that.” She discussed it as any merchant might speak of her goods, a marketing process.
“Did he take any of your custom?” he asked equally bluntly.
She was quite sober. “Not much. We provide skill rather than novelty. Most of these wellborn women have more sense of adventure, more”-she frowned a little-“more need to fill their boredom than patience or knowledge how to please. A good whore has humor and generosity, and doesn’t ask questions.” She smiled bleakly. “As well as a good deal of practice.”
She was so used to the idea that it was ordinary to her. The traffic in womanhood was her daily life, and it did not move her emotions. To know her business was necessary for survival.
“What about Ambrose Mercutt?” He changed direction.
“Oh, yes, Ambrose was suffering,” she said. “He caters to the same trade: gentlemen with jaded tastes who want something novel, something to stimulate their imagination, and are prepared to pay for it.” Now there was real contempt in her face. Her eyes narrowed and there was a sudden brilliant glitter in them that could even have been hatred, but for whom he had no idea. Perhaps for those rich, spoiled women with money and time to dabble in whoredom for entertainment-her women did it to live. Perhaps for Ambrose because he pandered to them. Or maybe for the men who made it all worthwhile by paying.
Or was it hatred for Max because he had taken her trade after all? Or something he had not even considered yet? Could she even have been attracted to Max herself? It was conceivable; she was young, the curves of her mouth were soft and rich. Was Max’s killing simply the rage of a woman rejected?
Considered in that light, though, Hubert Pinchin’s death made no sense.
“Where did he meet these highborn women?” he asked instead. “Not here in the Acre?”
The emotion died from her face. Her eyes were calm again, like gray water with flecks of slate in them. “Oh, no, he went to some of the dining places and theaters where such women go,” she replied. “He had been a footman in a big house-he knew how to behave. He was very striking to look at and he had good clothes. He had an art to sense when a woman was dissatisfied, and he knew which ones had the nerve or the desperation to do something about it.”
Once again, Pitt was forced to acknowledge that Max had had a talent of massive proportions, and had exercised it to the full. But if it was immense, it was also dangerous.
What happened when these women grew bored, or frightened? Society would turn a blind eye to a great deal, but whoring for money in the Devil’s Acre was grossly beyond its capacity to ignore. There was an almost infinite difference between what a man might do and get away with-as long as he was discreet-and what a woman, any woman, might be forgiven. Sexual appetite was part of a man’s nature, abhorred by the sanctimonious but accepted-even made the butt of sly jokes-and given a certain reluctant admiration by most.
But, by convention, men chose to believe that women were different. Only harlots took pleasure in the bedroom. To sell one’s body was sin unto damnation. And when these women of Max’s saw their safety-their marriages-imperiled, what did they do? Did Max allow them to leave quietly, as secretly as they had come, and then obliterate their names from his memory? Or did he keep an eternal whip held over them?
The reasons for murder were legion!
Victoria Dalton was still regarding him soberly. He had no idea how much of his thought she had guessed.
“Have you ever heard of a Dr. Hubert Pinchin?” he asked her.
“He was murdered also, wasn’t he.” It was a statement, not a question. “That was some distance from here. No, I don’t think I knew anything about him.” She hesitated. “Not under that name, anyway. People here don’t always give their own names, you know.” She kept all but a shadow of her contempt out of her voice.
“He was stocky, running to paunch,” Pitt said, starting to describe Pinchin as he had seen him dead in the slaughterhouse yard, yet trying to re-create him alive in his mind’s eye. “He had thinning gray-brown hair, a broad, rather squashy nose, mouth apparently good-humored, small eyes, and a plum-colored complexion. He wore baggy clothes. He liked Stilton cheese and good wine.”
She smiled. “There are a lot of gentlemen in London like that, and a great many of them, with unfriendly wives of forbidding virtue, find their way here at some time or another.”
That described Valeria Pinchin remarkably well. It would not be surprising if Hubert Pinchin had found his way to Victoria Dalton’s house, a place of considerable laughter and purchased pleasure, fat pillows, soft bosoms, lush hips, and obliging habits.
“Yes, I imagine so,” he said unhappily. “What about Sir Bertram Astley-young, fair, good-looking, quite tall?” He had forgotten to ascertain the color of his eyes, but the description was useless anyway. There must be several hundred young men in London, even with breeding and money, who would answer it.
“Not by name,” she answered patiently. “And we do not pry. It’s bad for business.”
That was unarguable.
It began to look more and more as if it were a random lunatic with some passionate hatred of masculinity, perhaps some man injured or impotent himself, tormented by it until his mind had turned. That was an unsatisfactory answer. But so far he had discovered no connection, however tenuous, between Max, Dr. Pinchin, and Sir Bertram Astley.
Perhaps if he pursued Max’s conquests something would emerge, some woman known to all of them-perhaps used by all of them. Yes … a revenge-crazed husband was not impossible. Or even if the woman herself had been blackmailed, she might have hired some ruffian to blot out all traces of her aberration. There were plenty in the Devil’s Acre who would do such a thing for a small fee, small compared to the ruin that might face her. And if she spoke to the ruffian anonymously, well cloaked and hooded, she might be safe enough afterward.
But why the terrible mutilation? His stomach tightened and he felt sick again at the memory of Pinchin with his dismembered genitals. Perhaps it was a husband who had done it, after all. Or a father. There was too much hate involved for something as cold as money.
The speculation was useless until he had more information. He stood up.
“Thank you, Miss Dalton, you have been most helpful.” Why was he being so polite, almost deferential to this woman? She was a bawdy-house keeper, like Ambrose Mercutt and Max himself. Maybe it was a mark of his own worth, and had nothing to do with her. “If I can think of anything else I need to ask, I shall come back.”
She stood also. “Of course. Good day, Mr. Pitt.”