“Well, what is it?” he demanded again, pushing and pulling at the fire furiously. “And take that thing off”-he gestured at the man’s cloak-“before you drown us all.”
The constable obediently divested himself of the cloak and set it down in the scullery. He was a domestic man, and normally would have known what to do without being told. But the news he had brought had swept away his years of training by mother and wife.
“It’s another one, sir,” he said quietly, coming back into the kitchen and handing Pitt the kettle he was reaching for. “And it’s worse than before.”
Pitt knew why he had come, but it would still be ugly to hear. Before the words were spoken, there was always the hope it might be something else.
The pressure was mounting: Athelstan had called for him again-the newspapers were spreading the panic. And he knew that Charlotte, for all her pretended innocence, was using Emily’s social position to pursue her own suspicions about Max’s women and Bertie Astley’s life. If he accused Charlotte of lying, they would have the sort of argument that would wound them both. Besides, he could not prove he was right; he simply knew her well enough to understand her sense of purpose. And, by God, he was going to get the Devil’s Acre slasher before she did!
He was still standing in the middle of the kitchen floor with the kettle in his hand. “Worse?” he said.
“Yes, sir.” The constable’s voice dropped. “I bin round the Acre ever since I joined the force, but I never seen anythin’ like this before.”
Pitt poured the water into the pot. The steam rose fragrantly into the air. He took half a loaf of bread out of the big wooden bin. Whatever it was that waited for him, however appalling, would be worse on an empty stomach in the icy morning.
“Who is it?”
The constable handed him the bread knife. “A man. Things in his pockets says ’e’s called Ernest Pomeroy. They found ’im on the steps of a charity ’ouse, Sisters o’ Mercy, or something-not Popish-reg’lar church,” he explained hastily. “Woman as found ’im’ll never be the same again. In ’ysterics, she was, poor creature, white as paper and screamin’ somethin’ terrible.” He shook his head in bewilderment and accepted the china mug of tea Pitt handed him. Automatically he put both hands around it and let the heat tingle his numb flesh.
Pitt sliced bread and set it on top of the cooking surface to toast. He reached down two plates, the butter from the cool pantry, and marmalade. He tried to imagine the woman, dedicated to good work, sheltering the homeless and uplifting the fallen. She would be used to death; she could hardly fail to be, in the Devil’s Acre. Indecency would be all around her, but she had probably never seen a naked man in her life-perhaps not even imagined one.
“Was he mutilated?” he asked unnecessarily.
“Yes, sir.” The constable’s face blanched at the memory. “Cut to pieces, ’e was, and sort of-well-like ’e’d bin ripped by some kind o’ animal-with claws.” He took a deep breath, the muscles in his throat tight. “Like someone ’ad tried to pull ’is privates off ’im with their ’ands.”
He was right-it was getting worse. Bertie Astley’s injuries had been slight, almost a gesture. The thought returned to him that Bertie was not a victim of the same killer, but that Beau Astley had seen the chance to step into his brother’s place and lay the blame on a lunatic already beyond the pale of ordinary human decency. It was a thought he tried to reject because he had liked Beau Astley, as one likes from a distance someone one does not know but feels to be pleasant.
The toast was smoking. He turned it over smartly and took a sip of his tea. “Was he stabbed in the back, too?”
“Yes, sir, just about the same place as the others, one side of the backbone, and right about the middle. Must ‘a died quick like, thank God.” He screwed up his face. “Wot kind o’ man does that to another man, Mr. Pitt? It ain’t ’uman!”
“Someone who believes he has been wronged beyond bearing,” Pitt replied before he even thought.
“I reckon as you’re right. An’ you’re burnin’ your toast, sir.”
Pitt flipped the two pieces off and handed one to the constable. He took it with surprise and satisfaction. He had not expected breakfast-even of rather scorched toast, eaten standing up. It was good, the marmalade sharp and sweet.
“Maybe if someone killed my little girl, I’d want to kill ’im bad enough,” he said, with his mouth full. “But I’d never want to-to tear out ’is-beggin’ your pardon, sir-’is privates like that.”
“Might depend on how he killed your girl,” Pitt replied, then scowled and dropped his toast as the full horror of what he had said invaded his imagination. He thought of Charlotte and his daughter, Jemima, asleep upstairs.
The constable stared at him, his light brown eyes round. “I reckon as ’ow you could be right at that, sir,” he said in no more than a whisper.
Upstairs everything was silent. Charlotte had not stirred, and the nursery had only a single light burning.
“You’d better eat your breakfast, sir.” The constable was a practical man. This was going to be no day for an empty stomach. “And put plenty o’ clothes on, if you won’t think me impertinent.”
“No,” Pitt agreed absently. “No.” He picked up the toast and ate it There was no time to shave, but he would finish his tea and take the constable’s advice-lots of clothes.
The corpse was appalling. Pitt could not conceive of the rage that could drive a human being to dismember another in this way.
“All right,” he said, standing up slowly. There was nothing more to be seen. It was like those before, but worse. Ernest Pomeroy had been an ordinary-looking man, perhaps less than average height. His clothes were sober, of good fabric, but far from fashionable. His face was bony and rather plain. It was impossible to tell if life had fired him with any charm or humor, if those unbecoming features had been transformed by an inner light.
“Do we know where he comes from?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant on duty answered quickly. “Got a few letters and the like on ’im. Seabrook Walk. Quite a decent sort o’ place, ’bout a couple o’ miles from ’ere. I got a sister as obliges for a lady up that way. Not a lot o’ money, but very respectable, if you know what I mean.”
Pitt knew precisely what he meant. There was a large class of people who would prefer to eat bread and gravy, and sit in a cold house, rather than be seen to lack for the world’s goods, especially for servants. To eat frugally could, by stretching the imagination, be a matter of taste. One might even pretend not to feel the cold, but to be without servants could only mean the depth of poverty. Had Ernest Pomeroy escaped a sad sham of life for a few hectic hours of indulging his starved nature, only to the here in these filthy and equally deceiving streets?
“Yes, I know what you mean,” he replied. “We’ll have to get someone to identify him. Better not the wife-if we can find someone else. Maybe there’s a brother, or-” He looked down at the face again. Ernest Pomeroy was probably nearer fifty than forty. “Or a son.”
“We’ll see to it, sir,” the sergeant said. “Wouldn’t want to do that to any woman, even though as she’d only ’ave to see ’is face. Still-all the same. You goin’ to see the wife, sir?”
“Yes.” It was inevitable. It must be done, and again it must be Pitt. “Yes … give me that address, will you?” Seabrook Walk looked fiat and gray in the thin light of morning. Somehow the rain did not make it clean, merely wet.
Pitt found the number he was looking for and walked up to the door. As always, there was no point in hesitating; there was nothing that would make it hurt less, and there might be something to learn. Somewhere there must be something that linked these men: a common acquaintance, an appetite, a place or a time, some reason they had been hated so passionately. Whatever the cost, he must find it. Time would not wait for him. The murderer would not wait.