Death in the Devil's Acre by Anne Perry

as unfamiliar as those of some stranger he had accidentally jostled in the street. The sense of comfort he had felt at the dinner table among the wineglasses vanished like an illusion.
    “I have every choice,” she said cuttingly. “I see to it that I do. Do you imagine that I am incompetent?”
    That was one thought that had never crossed his mind since the day he had first met her, at her coming-out ball. She had been formidably composed even then. Her lack of nervousness, the fact that she neither flirted nor giggled, was among the things that had attracted him. The memory was of too long ago. He tried to recapture the feeling he had had then—the excitement, the sense of anticipation—and it eluded him. Vaguely it hurt. The qualities that had delighted him then were now frightening, like a closed door.
    “Don’t be ridiculous!” He was wounded into a defense of himself, affecting the arrogance that had once sat on him so easily. “I am as well acquainted with Christina as you are.” A lie of majestic proportions. “She is excessively strong-willed. And even you, my dear Augusta, are capable of the occasional error.”
    She was tired; her face hardened, finally shutting him out. She turned and continued her way up the stairs. Her back was straight, but she climbed with an effort.
    “Naturally,” she said. “And so are you, Brandon. I wish you would refrain from discussing at the table such disagreeable subjects as slums and their various unfortunates—especially when we have guests. It is ill-mannered and can only lead to embarrassment. I would have expected you to see that for yourself! A social conscience is a worthy thing, but there are appropriate times and places for exercising it. In view of the fact that that wretched footman once served in this house, I would be obliged if you would refrain from mentioning him again. I do not wish the entire staff sent into hysterics, or the next thing we know, half of them will be giving notice—and it is hard enough to keep good servants these days as it is!” She reached the landing and turned for her bedroom. “Good night, Brandon.”
    There was nothing else for him to do but reply, and to go on along to his own room. He closed the door and stood still. The room felt unfamiliar, though every furnishing, every book and memento had been his for years.
    Balantyne was met the following morning in the hall by Stride, his face white, hands knotted in front of him instead of by his sides as usual. There were no members of the female staff to be seen. For an instant, it flashed across Balantyne’s mind that Augusta was right. All the maids had given notice and fled in the night, afraid that they were employed under the same roof as some creature like Max, and that they might be spirited off to a life of whoredom at any moment.
    Stride was waiting, his eyes bleak.
    “What is it?” Balantyne demanded. “What has happened?”
    “The newspapers, sir—”
    Was that all! Balantyne was furious with relief. “God damn it, man, so they’re late! If they haven’t come in an hour, send someone out for them!” He turned to brush past him and go in to breakfast.
    Stride stood firm. “No, sir. I fear I have not made myself clear. The newspapers are here—it is what they contain, sir. There has been another murder in the Devil’s Acre, sir, this one far worse.”
    Balantyne could not conceive of anything worse than the mutilation of Hubert Pinchin. His mind fumbled in horror, and failed.
    “He was not so badly—” Stride hesitated and swallowed. “So injured, sir.”
    Balantyne was confused, and relieved. “Not so badly? I thought you said worse?”
    Stride’s voice dropped. “It was Sir Bertram Astley, sir. He was found outside a house of pleasure, for male persons only.”
    “For male—? Good God! You mean a homosexual brothel?”
    Stride winced; he was not accustomed to such vulgar frankness. “Yes, sir.”
    “Bertie Astley ...” Balantyne felt a little