Death in the Devil's Acre by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

children died of starvation or disease than ever reached an age of six or seven years, when they might profitably join one of the schools for pickpockets and apprentice thieves.
    Among this warren of alleys and passageways were the sweatshops, the rooms where broken-down lawyers or clerks drafted false affidavits, account books, and receipts, where forgers practiced their art, and where receivers of stolen goods made bargains. And of course there were the gin mills, doss houses and brothels, and the police snouts.
    Over it all loomed the shadow of the great towers of Westminster Abbey, coronation cathedral of kings, the tomb of Edward the Confessor before Norman William ever sailed from France to defeat the Saxon king and take England for himself. And beyond the Abbey was Big Ben, the Palace of Westminster, the Mother of Parliaments since the days of Simon de Montfort six hundred years ago.
    There was no point in Pitt’s hoping to receive answers to questions posed in this teeming rats’ nest. The police were the natural enemy, and the swarming population knew an outsider as a dog knows one, by senses far subtler than mere sight. In the past he had made a few arrests here, but had also let a few slip by. He had friends—or, if not friends, at least those who knew what could be to their advantage.
    Pitt followed gray alleys past youths idle and sullen, watching him with mean eyes. He hunched his shoulders, aping the furtive gait of the long-abused, but he did not look behind him. They would smell fear and be on him like a hunting pack. He walked as if he knew where he was going, as if the narrow passages—sometimes only wide enough to allow two men to pass each other sidewise—were as familiar to him as his home.
    Beams creaked, wood rotted and settled. A dozen rats scattered as he approached, their feet scrabbling on the wet stones. Old men lay in doorways, perhaps in drunken stupor, or maybe they were dead.
    It took Pitt half an hour before he found the man he was looking for, in a dilapidated attic where he did his work. Squeaker Harris, so named for his sharp, high-pitched voice. He was a little man with narrow eyes and a pointed nose—not unlike a rat himself, Pitt thought. All he lacked was the long, hairless tail. He was a scrivener, a forger of letters of recommendation, of papers of attorney.
    “Wotcher want wiv me?” he demanded truculently. “I ain’t done nuffin’, not as yer can prove!”
    “Not trying to, Squeaker,” Pitt replied. “Although I dare say I could if I put my mind to it.”
    “Nah!” Squeaker dismissed the possibility, but there was anxiety in his quick little face. “Nah—never!”
    “We won’t know, will we—if I don’t try?” Pitt pointed out.
    “So wotcher want, then? Yer never came ter Devil’s Acre fer yer ’ealf!”
    “Information of course.” Pitt looked at him with mild contempt. He should have known that; indeed the pretense was a waste of time.
    “I dunno nuffin’ abaht no crimes!” Squeaker warned.
    “Of course not,” Pitt said dryly. “You’re an upright citizen, making a few pence writing letters for those who haven’t the skill for themselves.”
    “Vat’s right—yer got it in one!” Squeaker nodded vigorously.
    “But you know the Devil’s Acre,” Pitt pursued.
    “Course I do—I was bloody born ’ere!”
    “Ever heard of a pimp named Max? And don’t lie to me, Squeaker, or I’ll arrest you for withholding information about a murder, and it’ll be the long drop for you! This is a bad one.”
    “Oh, my Gawd! Yer mean vat poor sod as was—oh, Gawd!” Squeaker paled under the dirt on his face. “Oh, Gawd!” he said again.
    “So?” Pitt prompted. “What do you know about Max?”
    “I dunno ’oo killed ’im, I swear to yer, Mr. Pitt. Some kind o’ maniac! ‘Oo’d do vat ter any man? It ain’t decent.”
    “Of course you don’t know who killed him,” Pitt conceded with a tolerant smile. “Or you’d have told us all about it,