Ross dearly wanted to hit him. He resisted the temptation for a moment; then anger, fear, and the scalding wound of Christina’s betrayal exploded inside him. He struck the man hard with a closed fist, sending him hurtling back, head cracking against the wall. He slithered down into a heap on the floor and lay still.
Ross turned and pulled the door open and stepped out into the street. Whoever was there, he had to face them. He had made it impossible to stay here. This time he did not hesitate. His heart was racing, his fists already clenched ready to strike anyone who had the recklessness to molest him. He walked quickly, bumping into a beggar on the corner and knocking him sidewise. The man swore and Ross passed on oblivious. He knew the direction of Westminster, and he was making for well-lit streets and safety.
Footsteps echoed behind him and he increased his pace. It must be only a few hundred yards now. There were people huddled in doorways, both men and women. Someone giggled in the dark. There was a slap of flesh. A pile of refuse fell over with a scatter of rats. He ran.
It was late in the afternoon two days later when the maid came into his study and told Ross that a Mr. Pitt was here and would like to speak with him.
Pitt? He knew no one called Pitt. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.” The maid looked doubtful. “He is a very odd person, sir. Beggin’ your pardon, but he was most insistent. Wouldn’t give no reason, sir, but says as you know ’im.”
“He must be mistaken.”
“’E won’t go away, sir. Shall I get Donald to put ’im out, sir? I daresn’t tell ’im meself. ’E’s sort o’-well, ’is clothes is all any’ow, like they wasn’t properly ’is to begin with, if you know what I mean. But ’e speaks like a gentleman, real proper-”
Suddenly, Ross remembered. “Oh, God! Yes, send him in. I do know him.”
“Yes, sir.” She forgot her curtsy and scurried out, overwhelmed with relief.
A moment later, Pitt came in, smiling casually as if he had been invited. “Good morning, Mr. Ross. Nasty weather.”
“Horrible,” Ross agreed. “What can I do for you, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt sat down as if the offer had been one of natural hospitality. He pulled himself a little closer to the fire. He must already have given the maid whatever outer clothing he had, because he now wore only dark trousers, a clean but rather voluminous shirt, and a jacket whose pockets appeared to be stuffed with objects of awkward sizes. The whole thing hung crooked and looked to be fastened on uneven buttons.
“Thank you.” He rubbed his hands and held them out to the flames. “A lot of police work is very tedious.”
“I’m sure it must be.” Ross was really not interested. He was unable to be sorry for the man.
“Endless questioning of not very pleasant people,” Pitt went on. “And of course we have certain acquaintances who keep us informed if anything unusual happens.”
“Quite. But I’m afraid I am not one of them. I know nothing that could be of use to you. I’m sorry.”
Pitt turned to look up at him. He had remarkable eyes; the light shone through them like a shaft of sun through seawater.
“I was referring to quite a different sort of person, Mr. Ross. Like the old fellow that told me today of a gentleman looking for rooms in Drake Street, in the Devil’s Acre, a couple of nights ago. Lot of gentlemen do, for reasons of their own. However this particular one, well dressed, well spoken, just like most, got very upset when his reasons were commented on. And that’s most unusual. Most gentlemen using such places are only too glad to be as discreet as possible.”
He appeared to be waiting for an answer. Ross felt suddenly stiff, as if he had walked miles and slept ill. “I suppose they are,” he said awkwardly. His memory flashed back to the dim hallway, the smell of dirt, the man’s enraging, filthy leer. His throat tightened.
“Completely lost his temper,” Pitt went on with a lift of surprise in his voice. “Hit him!”
Ross swallowed. “Was he hurt?”
Pitt smiled, pulling the corners of his mouth down in a tiny grimace. “Pretty good crack on his skull, broken collarbone. He’s certainly very angry about it. Put the word about that if the fellow comes back to the Acre he’s to be taught a lesson in a way he won’t forget! That’s how I heard about it-the word around.” Suddenly he looked directly at Ross and his eyes were full of brilliance. “But you didn’t kill him, if that’s what you are afraid of.”
“Thank God-I–I-” He stopped, but it was too late. “I didn’t go there for-” He could not bear anyone, even this policeman, to think he had intended to hire some whore and take her there.
Pitt’s face was quite smooth, even friendly. “No, Mr. Ross, I didn’t think for a moment that you did,” he said. “What did you go there for?”
Oh, God! This was even worse. He could not possibly tell him about Christina. His heart pounded at the memory and the room seemed red-edged, whirling far away.
“I cannot say-it is a private matter.” Pitt would have to think whatever he wished. The truth was worse than any imagining.
“Very dangerous, sir.” Pitt’s voice was getting gentler and gentler, as if he were speaking to someone in great trouble. “Three men have been murdered in the Devil’s Acre. But I’m sure you knew that.”
“Of course I knew that!” Ross shouted.
Pitt took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Not a place to go sightseeing, Mr. Ross. It’s ugly and it’s dangerous, and people have paid very highly for then-pleasures there lately. What particular curiosity was it that took you to that house?”
Ross hesitated. The man was like a ferret, tracking him in all the tunnels of his misery to corner him into some damning truth. Better give him one and send him away with it. That would at least guard the others, the ones he could not bear to tell.
“I had an idea whom it belonged to,” he lied, looking Pitt squarely in his bright eyes. “I wanted to know if it was true. I hated to think any acquaintance of mine should make his living on the ownership of such places.”
“And was it true?” Pitt inquired.
Ross swallowed. “Yes, I’m afraid it was.”
“Who would that be, Mr. Ross?”
“Bertram Astley.”
“Indeed.” Pitt’s face relaxed. “Was it indeed? So that is where the Astley money comes from. And now of course Sir Beau has it.”
“Yes.” Ross let his breath go. He felt better. Pitt would never know about Christina, that she had gone there to meet Beau Astley in that filthy place. His wife-lying there in-He forced it from his mind, drove it out. Any other pain was better than this. “Yes, it was,” he repeated. “Perhaps that will help you in your investigations. I’m sorry, perhaps I should have told you before.”
Pitt stood up. “Yes, sir, I think perhaps you should. But now that I do know”-his face split in a sudden charming smile-“I’m damned if I can see where it gets me!”
Ross said nothing. There was no emotion left inside him to draw on; he simply watched Pitt walk to the door and out into the hallway to take his coat from the maid.
8
Pitt stumbled downstairs in the dark and opened the door. Outside on the step, gleaming wet in the lamplight and the rain, a constable stood, water running off his cloak in streams and splashing on the stones. The night was still black, before even the gray smudge of false dawn.
Pitt blinked fuzzily and shuddered with cold as the air hit his body. “For God’s sake come in!” he said irritably. “What is it now?”
The constable stepped inside gingerly, scattering water over the floor, but Pitt was too cold to care. Gracie was not up yet and all the fires were out. “Shut that door behind you, man, and come into the kitchen.” He led the way in enormous strides. The linoleum was like ice under his bare feet. At least the kitchen floor was wooden and kept the warmth of something that had once been alive. And the stove would be alight; it always was. With a little riddling and stoking he might even get the kettle to boil. The idea of a cup of steaming tea was the nearest he could get to decent sense. Going back to bed and the refuge of sleep was obviously impossible.