“Good night.” She picked up the ruched skirt of her dinner dress and swept out. How different she was from the girl he had thought her! They were strangers, without humor and without trust.
Five minutes later, when he heard the front door close, he stood up and went to the cloakroom where his heavy coat was hanging and put it on. He added a muffler and a hat, then went out into the icy street after her. It was not difficult to follow the carriage; it could not go quickly on the rime-encrusted cobbles, and at a brisk walk he kept within twenty feet of it. No one paid him the least attention.
He had gone over a mile when he saw the carriage draw to a halt outside a large house. Christina got out of the carriage and went into the house. From the opposite pavement he could not distinguish the number, but he knew Lavinia Hawkesley lived in this area.
So Christina had come, precisely as she had said, for a simple call upon a woman friend. He was standing here shaking with cold for no reason at all. It was stupid-and pathetic! The carriage was moving away. It was turning and coming back, not round to the mews. Christina must have dismissed it. Was she proposing to remain here all night? Or simply to use the Hawkesley coach to come home?
Alan Ross was left to wait like a loiterer on the corner and decide whether to go home himself, soak the chill out of his bones in hot water, and go to bed, or to remain here until Christina came out and to follow her again. But that would be ridiculous; the whole idea had been futile, an aberration of his normal sanity. Christina was frequently selfish, but she was innocent of anything worse than indiscretion-a spoiled and pretty woman’s exercise of power, the hunger to be the center of attention, always lavishly admired.
The door of the house opened, a stream of light fell on the path, and Christina and Lavinia Hawkesley came out. The door closed behind them and they set off down the street on foot.
Where in heaven’s name were they going? Ross went after them. When they came to the main road and stopped a hansom cab, he hailed one as soon after as he was able, and ordered the cabbie to follow them.
The journey was farther than he expected. Again and again they turned corners until he lost sense of direction, except that he thought they were coming closer to the river and the heart of the city. The way was narrower, the lights farther between. A dim halo of mist reflected the glow and the damp air smelled stale. High above loomed a great shadow against the sky. His throat tightened and suddenly he found it hard to breathe.
The Acre-the Devil’s Acre! Why in God’s name was Christina coming here? His mind was whirling, thoughts like a dark snowstorm battering him and melting into each other. There was no bearable answer.
The cab ahead stopped and one of the women alighted. She was small, slight, head high and feet quick on the stones. Christina.
Ross opened his cab door, thrust a coin into the driver’s hands, and stumbled out onto the dim pavement, trying to discern the outline of the house Christina had by now entered. It was high, standing straight, windows glimmering in the faint gaslight-a merchant’s house?
The other cab with Lavinia Hawkesley in it had disappeared. Wherever she was going, it was still farther into the labyrinth of the Acre.
For the first time, he looked around at the rest of the street. He had been so absorbed in watching the women he had not thought of anything else, but now he saw a group of four or five men about thirty yards to the left, and on the far side another three lounging in an alley entrance. He turned. There were more to the right, watching him.
He could not stay here; he was dressed conspicuously, and his coat alone would be worth attacking for. He might fight off one man, even armed, but not half a dozen.
He started to walk toward the door through which Christina had disappeared. After all, his purpose in following her had been to learn where she was going, and why. The door was closed; if he gained entrance and faced Christina, what could he say? Did he even want her to know he had committed this foolish act of following her here? What could he do about it anyway? Confine her to the house? Withdraw all marital affection from her? Or put her away as a-a what? What was it that she was doing here?
The wild flights of imagining were worse than knowing; he understood himself well enough not to think he could dismiss it and ever again have an unclouded moment. And perhaps he was unjust to her? Perhaps she was innocent of the things now in his mind.
There was a noise behind him in the street. A violent shiver of fear ran through him like a drench of cold water. Had the victims of the Devil’s Acre murderer been strangers like himself-men unwanted here, and hacked to pieces for their intrusion? His hand lifted the knocker and crashed it down violently.
Seconds dragged by. There was the sound of shuffling feet in the street, and the trickle of water. Ross slammed the knocker again and again, then twisted his head to look behind him. Two of the men were closer and still moving toward him. He had nothing to fight them with but his hands; he had not even brought a stick.
Sweat broke out on his body. It crossed his mind to go out toward them, to start the fight himself so at least it would be quick. He would not think of the mutilation afterward.
Suddenly the door opened; he lost his balance and stumbled in.
“Yes, sir?”
Ross collected his wits and peered at the man holding a candle in the dark hallway. He was shabby; his belly protruded over his trousers, his slippers were loose-soled and fraying. He was a big man, and he stood between Ross and the stairs that led upward.
“Yes, sir?” he said again quietly.
Ross said the first thing that came into his head. “I want to rent a room.”
The man looked him up and down with narrow eyes. “All by yerself, are yer?”
“None of your business.” Ross gulped. “Do you have rooms? I saw a young woman come in a few minutes ago, and she most assuredly does not live here!”
“None o’ your business.” The man mimicked his tone with perfect contempt. “People rahnd ’ere keeps their noses in their own muck’eaps and don’t go lookin’ trough nobody else’s, mister. That way vey don’t get nuffin cut orf, like! Nasty fings can ’appen to vem as can’t keep veir eyes and veir marvs to veirselves.”
Ross felt the cold run through him. For a moment, half his brain had forgotten murder. He tried to sound calm, sure of himself. His throat was dry, his voice higher than usual.
“I don’t care in the slightest what she came for,” he said, trying to put a sneer in his voice. “Whom she meets is of no possible interest to me. I merely wish to come to a similar arrangement myself.”
“Well, vat’ll be kind o’ difficult, mister, seein’ as she comes ter see the gent wot owns ’ole row o’ ahses!” He gave a harsh laugh and spat on the floor. “Nah as ’is bruvver’s bin snuffed, like! Reckon as ve Acre’s slasher done ’im a good turn!”
Ross froze.
“Wot’s ve matter wiv yer? Scared? ’Fraid ve slasher’s after you too, eh? Mebbe ’e is an’ all!” He sniggered. “Mebbe yer’d better scarper w’ile yer still got all yer parts-yer dirty little git!” His voice was filled with disgust, and Ross felt his face sting as the hot blood burned up inside him. This creature thought he had come sneaking here to satisfy some appetite that-
Ross straightened up, muscles tight, chin high. Then he remembered the men outside in the street. He crumpled again. He could not afford pride, and he most certainly dare not appear inquisitive.
“Have you rooms or have you not?” he asked quietly.
“’Ave you money?” The man held out a dirty finger and thumb and rubbed them together.
“Of course I have! How much?”
“’Ow long?”
“All night, of course! Do you think I want to be shuffled in and out with someone waiting on my heels and looking at his watch?”
“All by yerself?” The man’s eyebrows rose. “W’y don’tcher lock yer door an’ do it at ’ome? Wotever it is as takes yer fancy-”