He looked at Ross’s face. It would be unpardonable to discuss the subject with him. It was his own private grief, and no matter what Balantyne might guess, he must be silent. He could not bear Ross to know-even for an instant-the thoughts that had come to him.
He wanted to run away, to exist in some fantasy land where he could be with Charlotte, talk with her, see her face, touch her, learn to share a multitude of things.
No doubt Alan Ross would like to be in just such a place, with someone clean and generous. But he understood duty, and so far he had found the courage to fulfill it.
Balantyne sat quite still. His mind fumbled for something to say, anything that would let Ross know that he was not alone; that, far from pity, he felt the most intense admiration for him, and a regard that was perhaps as close to love as one man comes for another. But no words were right; they had all been used too lightly. None of them conveyed the reality of the pain.
The two men sat for a long time, the untouched sherry decanter between them, the logs settling in the hearth. Finally, Balantyne stood up. Christina would doubtless soon be arriving home, and he did not wish to see her.
His goodbyes were trivial, the same things he always said, and Ross gave the same replies. But once, as they shook hands, he had the feeling for a moment that perhaps the unsaid things had been understood after all-at least the good things. And there would be other times, other chances to show a gentleness, to allow Ross to perceive that he cared, not blindly, but because he suffered some of the same loneliness, the same ties to duty that would destroy him if he let them go.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Ross said with a faint smile. “Thank you for calling.”
“Good afternoon, Alan. Pleasure to see you.”
Neither of them mentioned the women. There was no message, no regards.
Balantyne turned and walked away into the sharp winter afternoon. He had not brought the carriage. He preferred the isolation and the exercise, the wind hard on his face, and it would take longer to get home.
10
Charlotte did not tell Pitt that she had been to see General Balantyne again. In fact, she had not specifically told him of any of her visits, although she knew he was aware of them. Since he had been brought back from the hospital, white-faced, his clothes soaked with blood, she had realized he wanted to catch the Devil’s Acre murderer so desperately that he would take clumsy risks. She still went cold at the thought of how nearly the risks had cost him his life. It was something she normally refused to think about-the chance of his being injured, or even killed. To dwell on it was too frightening, and there was nothing she could do to alter it.
She knew he disapproved very strongly of her becoming involved in the case in any way, even so peripherally as visiting the Balantynes. And, to tell the truth, she felt some guilt because she had enjoyed the glamour of wearing Emily’s dresses, of swirling around in great spaces full of lights and music and brilliant colors. It was wonderful to show off-just a little!
She very honestly liked General Balantyne. That was the worst and most thoughtless thing she had done. She had never considered that he might really feel anything deeper for her than a return of her friendship. Naturally, she had wanted him to admire her, to think her beautiful and exciting; she simply had not believed that he would.
But this time she had seen in his face that soft, intensely personal gaze, unwavering and peculiarly naked. She knew it was no longer a social game to be stepped into or out of as the occasion suited.
Of course she could not tell Pitt; it was out of the question. When he came in that night tired and cold, his side so sore he moved stiffly, she brought his supper through to the parlor for him on a tray and waited in silence while he ate.
At last her curiosity and anxiety overcame good sense and, as usual, her tongue won. “Do you know anything yet to connect all the victims?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
He gave her a skeptical look and pushed the tray away. “Thank you, that was very good.”
She waited.
“No!” he said emphatically. “They all had their own business in the Acre, and so far I don’t know anyone who knew them all.”
“All had business?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. He had not told her that before. “Max kept a brothel. But what about the others?”
“Pinchin performed abortions-”
“For Max?” she interrupted eagerly.
“Not so far as I know, but it’s possible.”
“Then maybe some society woman-” She stopped. Apart from the fact that the idea was not a very good one, she had betrayed herself with her interest-and cut off any more information he might have given her. “I’m sorry.”
“Accepted.” His mouth curved in a slow smile. He closed his eyes and slid farther down in his chair.
Charlotte clung to her patience with almost infinite effort. She smoothed her face into a calm expression and counted up to a hundred before she spoke again. “What about Pomeroy? Don’t tell me he was teaching prostitutes how to keep their accounts?”
His smile widened in spite of himself, then suddenly vanished altogether. “No, he was a pederast … poor rotten inadequate bastard!”
Another hundred seconds went by. “Oh,” she said at last.
“And Bertie Astley owned a whole row of tenement houses, sweatshops, and a gin mill,” he added. “Now you know it all, and there is nothing whatsoever you can do.”
She tried to imagine Pomeroy. What kind of man hungered for the immature bodies of children too young to want anything but safety, approval, and comfort? They would ask nothing of him, and display neither hunger nor criticism. Certainly, God knows, they would never laugh at him if he was clumsy or inadequate.
And what of them, dreading every night when some new man would fondle their bodies and become strangely more and more excited, culminating in a final desperate and violently intimate act they would neither understand nor participate in. She shivered in spite of the fire, hunching up as if she were threatened, feeling sick.
“Leave it,” Pitt said quietly from the chair opposite. His eyes were open now and he was looking at her. “Pomeroy’s dead. And you’ll not stop pederasty-”
“I know.”
“Then leave it.”
But Charlotte could not leave it. As soon as Pitt had gone the following morning, she instructed Gracie for the day, then put on her warmest cloak and walked to the public omnibus stop where she took the next bus going in the direction of Paragon Walk.
“Well?” Emily asked as soon as she arrived. “What have you learned?”
She told Emily about Pitt being stabbed. She had not seen her since it happened.
“That’s terrible! Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry! Is he all right? Do you need anything?”
“No, thank you. Oh-” It was an offer too good to decline. “Yes, if you have a bottle of good port.”
“Port?”
“Yes. It is an excellent restorative, especially in this weather.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer brandy?” Emily was feeling expansive, and she liked Pitt.
“No, thank you. Port will do very well. But you can make it two bottles, if you like.”
“Has he discovered anything? Was it the Devil’s Acre slasher? Did he recognize him?”
“He thinks it was just ordinary thieves. But he does know quite a lot now.” She recounted the reasons Pinchin and Pomeroy had had for being in the Acre.
Emily sat silent for several minutes. “Perhaps that explains why Adela Pomeroy looked for lovers in the fast set,” she said at last. “Poor woman. Although whatever her husband was, it hardly warrants indulging in a creature like Max!”
“Are you quite certain Adela Pomeroy looked for lovers in the fast set?” Charlotte asked, then instantly regretted it. She was afraid of the answer. “And even if she did, it doesn’t mean she had anything to do with Max!”