sick. Suddenly the smell of kedgeree drifting from the silver serving dish on the breakfast-room sideboard was nauseating.
“Would you like brandy in the library, sir?” Stride offered.
“Yes, please.” Bless the man. Balantyne had never appreciated him fully before. “Yes, I would.” He started gratefully toward the library.
“What would you like me to tell Her Ladyship, sir?”
Balantyne stopped. He would like to have protected her from knowing at all. It was ugly; she should not have to learn about such things.
“Tell her there has been another murder.” Reality would be forced upon her anyway; he could not shield her from that. But better she become acquainted with it by the decent words of someone like Stride, rather than the anonymous sensationalism of the newspaper or someone’s unthinking tattle. “You had better tell her it was Sir Bertram Astley, but do not say where he was found.”
“Quite so, sir. Unfortunately, Sir Bertram’s death will become common knowledge quite soon,” Stride said.
“Yes.” Balantyne could think of nothing more to say. “Yes. Thank you, Stride.” He went into the library and found the brandy already there, on a salver beside the newspaper. He poured himself a stiff tot and then sat down to read.
The corpse of Sir Bertram Astley had been found on the doorstep of a house of dubious repute in the Devil’s Acre. How idiotically they phrased it! The cause of death was a deep stab wound in the back, but he had also been slashed across the groin and the pit of the stomach. They did not mention the more private organs, but the implication was obvious, inexplicably the more grotesque for its omission. Apparently the murderer had intended to mutilate him as he had the previous victims, but had been frightened away before he could do more than vent his insane hatred in a single violent sweep of the knife. Inspector Thomas Pitt was in charge of this case, as he was of the two others.
Balantyne put down the paper and finished the brandy in a single, burning gulp.
5
P ITT HAD BEEN CALLED for in the pre-dawn darkness by a white-faced sergeant in a hansom cab. The man fumbled with his hat and clung to it with numb fingers as he tried to convey the urgency of his message without articulating the horror he had seen.-
Pitt understood. There had been another murder. Only a very grave discovery would bring the sergeant to his door at such an hour.
“It’s mortal cold outside, sir,” the sergeant offered, intending to be helpful.
“Thank you.” Pitt put on his jacket and then a voluminous coat that made him look as if a stiff wind might fill him out like a sail. He accepted a muffler from the sergeant’s outstretched hand, wound it around his neck, jammed on his hat, squashing his hair over his ears, and opened the front door. It was, as the sergeant had said, mortal cold.
They sat together in the hansom while it jolted over the uneven cobbles toward the Devil’s Acre.
“Well?” Pitt asked.
The sergeant shook his head. “Bad one,” he said sadly. “Sir Bertram Astley. Cut about—but not—well, not actually in pieces, as you might say.”
“Not mutilated like the others?”
“No—rather looked like our maniac was interrupted. Bit o’ late business, maybe.” He shook his head again. “I dunno!”
Pitt was confused. “Bit of late business—what do you mean?”
“Some’d say as that’s the worst part, sir. I dunno ’oo’s goin’ to tell ’is family! ’E was found in the doorway of a brothel—for male persons only.”
“Oh, God!” Pitt suddenly knew why the sergeant felt so awkward, why it was all so difficult to put into words. How do you tell people like the Astleys that the scion of their house has been murdered and indecently wounded in the doorway of a male brothel? Now he understood the reason for the pity in the sergeant’s face, the unnecessary warning that it was cold outside.
But before all that he must see the corpse, and the place
“Would you like brandy in the library, sir?” Stride offered.
“Yes, please.” Bless the man. Balantyne had never appreciated him fully before. “Yes, I would.” He started gratefully toward the library.
“What would you like me to tell Her Ladyship, sir?”
Balantyne stopped. He would like to have protected her from knowing at all. It was ugly; she should not have to learn about such things.
“Tell her there has been another murder.” Reality would be forced upon her anyway; he could not shield her from that. But better she become acquainted with it by the decent words of someone like Stride, rather than the anonymous sensationalism of the newspaper or someone’s unthinking tattle. “You had better tell her it was Sir Bertram Astley, but do not say where he was found.”
“Quite so, sir. Unfortunately, Sir Bertram’s death will become common knowledge quite soon,” Stride said.
“Yes.” Balantyne could think of nothing more to say. “Yes. Thank you, Stride.” He went into the library and found the brandy already there, on a salver beside the newspaper. He poured himself a stiff tot and then sat down to read.
The corpse of Sir Bertram Astley had been found on the doorstep of a house of dubious repute in the Devil’s Acre. How idiotically they phrased it! The cause of death was a deep stab wound in the back, but he had also been slashed across the groin and the pit of the stomach. They did not mention the more private organs, but the implication was obvious, inexplicably the more grotesque for its omission. Apparently the murderer had intended to mutilate him as he had the previous victims, but had been frightened away before he could do more than vent his insane hatred in a single violent sweep of the knife. Inspector Thomas Pitt was in charge of this case, as he was of the two others.
Balantyne put down the paper and finished the brandy in a single, burning gulp.
5
P ITT HAD BEEN CALLED for in the pre-dawn darkness by a white-faced sergeant in a hansom cab. The man fumbled with his hat and clung to it with numb fingers as he tried to convey the urgency of his message without articulating the horror he had seen.-
Pitt understood. There had been another murder. Only a very grave discovery would bring the sergeant to his door at such an hour.
“It’s mortal cold outside, sir,” the sergeant offered, intending to be helpful.
“Thank you.” Pitt put on his jacket and then a voluminous coat that made him look as if a stiff wind might fill him out like a sail. He accepted a muffler from the sergeant’s outstretched hand, wound it around his neck, jammed on his hat, squashing his hair over his ears, and opened the front door. It was, as the sergeant had said, mortal cold.
They sat together in the hansom while it jolted over the uneven cobbles toward the Devil’s Acre.
“Well?” Pitt asked.
The sergeant shook his head. “Bad one,” he said sadly. “Sir Bertram Astley. Cut about—but not—well, not actually in pieces, as you might say.”
“Not mutilated like the others?”
“No—rather looked like our maniac was interrupted. Bit o’ late business, maybe.” He shook his head again. “I dunno!”
Pitt was confused. “Bit of late business—what do you mean?”
“Some’d say as that’s the worst part, sir. I dunno ’oo’s goin’ to tell ’is family! ’E was found in the doorway of a brothel—for male persons only.”
“Oh, God!” Pitt suddenly knew why the sergeant felt so awkward, why it was all so difficult to put into words. How do you tell people like the Astleys that the scion of their house has been murdered and indecently wounded in the doorway of a male brothel? Now he understood the reason for the pity in the sergeant’s face, the unnecessary warning that it was cold outside.
But before all that he must see the corpse, and the place
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