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Authors: Anne Perry
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“Is that what you’re here about, Max’s murder?”
So he was not going to pretend to be stupid. That was a relief. Pitt was not in the frame of mind to play games with him. “Yes. I’m not interested in your other affairs. But Max took a lot of your business, and maybe some of your women as well—and don’t waste time in denying it.”
Ambrose shrugged and turned away. “It’s a chancy trade. You do better one year, worse another—depends on your girls. Max was doing well now—his girls would have left in time. High-class women always do. Either they get bored, or settle their debts, or they marry someone and get out of it altogether. He wouldn’t have lasted.”
Perhaps Ambrose had talked himself into believing this, but personally Pitt thought Max would have been well able to replace any women that left.
Ambrose must have sensed his doubts. He turned back and stared at Pitt defiantly. “Ever wondered—Inspector”—his voice was very delicately sarcastic, as if the title were ill-deserved—“ever wondered just how Max got the quality of women he did? Women like his don’t take to whoring in the Devil’s Acre, you know, just for a little diversion! There’s plenty of whoring to be had in their own circle, if that’s all they want. Surprises you, that, does it?” He looked into Pitt’s eyes and saw that it did not. His face hardened.
“If you want to find out who murdered Max and then castrated him, look among the husbands or lovers of some of the highborn women he’s brought in here! Believe me, if I simply wanted a business rival removed, I should stick a knife into him, by all means, and then throw him into the river—or put him in one of the rat holes deep inside the Acre. I wouldn’t cut him about and then leave him where he’d be found by you lot! No, Inspector”—again he hesitated fractionally, making the title an insult—“look at some man he cuckolded, or whose wife or daughter he’s seduced into whoredom.”
Pitt led him further. “And how would he seduce a wellborn woman into whoredom?” he asked with a trace of doubt. “For that matter, where would he even meet one?”
“He used to be a footman somewhere. He probably knew other ‘menservants.’” Ambrose used the word to convey all his hatred and contempt for Max and his class in general. “Probably blackmail. That’s where your murderer is, believe me!”
“Perhaps,” Pitt conceded with an affectation of far more reluctance than he felt. Much as he disliked Ambrose, what he said made excellent sense. “Then what about Dr. Hubert Pinchin?”
Ambrose threw up his hands theatrically. “God knows! Perhaps he was the one who did the blackmailing. Maybe he used his medical practice to find these women, or to discover their secrets. Maybe they were partners. How should I know? Do you want me to do your entire job for you?”
Pitt smiled and saw a trace of irritation on Ambrose’s face; he had meant to offend, not amuse.
“I’m always glad of a little expert help,” Pitt replied softly. “I’ve worked on a few murders, one sort and another. Arson, burglary—know a lot about fine art—but keeping a whorehouse is outside my experience.”
Ambrose drew a sharp breath to retort, but he did not find the words before Pitt had turned and left the elegant room of pale décor and Ambrose himself standing in his silk robe in the middle of it.
Pitt went out into the rainy, gray-walled street. He felt a glow of satisfaction for at least having been thoroughly rude.
And there was also a strong possibility that Ambrose was right.
4
L ADY A UGUSTA BALANTYNE was not looking forward to the morning. She had decided that she could no longer put off visiting her daughter Christina to discuss her behavior in the frankest terms. Christina and Alan Ross would be at the family dinner party this evening, but what Augusta had to say required uninterrupted privacy. As in the past when dealing with Christina’s indiscretions,
So he was not going to pretend to be stupid. That was a relief. Pitt was not in the frame of mind to play games with him. “Yes. I’m not interested in your other affairs. But Max took a lot of your business, and maybe some of your women as well—and don’t waste time in denying it.”
Ambrose shrugged and turned away. “It’s a chancy trade. You do better one year, worse another—depends on your girls. Max was doing well now—his girls would have left in time. High-class women always do. Either they get bored, or settle their debts, or they marry someone and get out of it altogether. He wouldn’t have lasted.”
Perhaps Ambrose had talked himself into believing this, but personally Pitt thought Max would have been well able to replace any women that left.
Ambrose must have sensed his doubts. He turned back and stared at Pitt defiantly. “Ever wondered—Inspector”—his voice was very delicately sarcastic, as if the title were ill-deserved—“ever wondered just how Max got the quality of women he did? Women like his don’t take to whoring in the Devil’s Acre, you know, just for a little diversion! There’s plenty of whoring to be had in their own circle, if that’s all they want. Surprises you, that, does it?” He looked into Pitt’s eyes and saw that it did not. His face hardened.
“If you want to find out who murdered Max and then castrated him, look among the husbands or lovers of some of the highborn women he’s brought in here! Believe me, if I simply wanted a business rival removed, I should stick a knife into him, by all means, and then throw him into the river—or put him in one of the rat holes deep inside the Acre. I wouldn’t cut him about and then leave him where he’d be found by you lot! No, Inspector”—again he hesitated fractionally, making the title an insult—“look at some man he cuckolded, or whose wife or daughter he’s seduced into whoredom.”
Pitt led him further. “And how would he seduce a wellborn woman into whoredom?” he asked with a trace of doubt. “For that matter, where would he even meet one?”
“He used to be a footman somewhere. He probably knew other ‘menservants.’” Ambrose used the word to convey all his hatred and contempt for Max and his class in general. “Probably blackmail. That’s where your murderer is, believe me!”
“Perhaps,” Pitt conceded with an affectation of far more reluctance than he felt. Much as he disliked Ambrose, what he said made excellent sense. “Then what about Dr. Hubert Pinchin?”
Ambrose threw up his hands theatrically. “God knows! Perhaps he was the one who did the blackmailing. Maybe he used his medical practice to find these women, or to discover their secrets. Maybe they were partners. How should I know? Do you want me to do your entire job for you?”
Pitt smiled and saw a trace of irritation on Ambrose’s face; he had meant to offend, not amuse.
“I’m always glad of a little expert help,” Pitt replied softly. “I’ve worked on a few murders, one sort and another. Arson, burglary—know a lot about fine art—but keeping a whorehouse is outside my experience.”
Ambrose drew a sharp breath to retort, but he did not find the words before Pitt had turned and left the elegant room of pale décor and Ambrose himself standing in his silk robe in the middle of it.
Pitt went out into the rainy, gray-walled street. He felt a glow of satisfaction for at least having been thoroughly rude.
And there was also a strong possibility that Ambrose was right.
4
L ADY A UGUSTA BALANTYNE was not looking forward to the morning. She had decided that she could no longer put off visiting her daughter Christina to discuss her behavior in the frankest terms. Christina and Alan Ross would be at the family dinner party this evening, but what Augusta had to say required uninterrupted privacy. As in the past when dealing with Christina’s indiscretions,
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