To be direct seemed the only avenue. He tried to make himself sound frank, to hide his instinctive dislike.
“Did Sir Anstey tell you the cause of Arthur’s death?” he asked, leaning forward in an unconscious attempt to do physically what he could not do emotionally.
Jerome sat back at the same moment, viewing Pitt with a frown.
“I believe he was attacked in the street,” he replied. “I haven’t heard more than that.” His nostrils flared delicately. “Are the details important, Inspector?”
“Yes, Mr. Jerome, they are very important indeed. Arthur Waybourne was drowned.” He watched closely: Was the incrudulity feigned, a little too much?
“Drowned?” Jerome regarded him as if he had made an attempt at humor that was repellent. Then comprehension flashed across his face. “You mean in the river?”
“No, Mr. Jerome, in a bath.”
Jerome spread out his manicured hands. His eyes were bleak.
“If this sort of idiocy is part of your method of interrogation, Inspector, I find it unnecessary and most unpleasant.”
Pitt could not disbelieve him. Such a dry, sour man could not be so consummate an actor, or he would have shown humor, learned charm to make his own path easier.
“No,” Pitt answered him. “I mean it quite literally. Arthur Waybourne was drowned in bathwater, and his naked body put down a manhole into the sewers.”
Jerome stared at him. “In God’s name! What’s happening? Why—I mean—who? How could—for heaven’s sake, man, it’s preposterous!”
“Yes, Mr. Jerome—and very ugly,” Pitt said quietly. “And there is worse than that. He was homosexually used sometime before he was killed.”
Jerome’s face was absolutely still, as if he either did not understand or could not believe it as any kind of reality.
Pitt waited. Was the silence caution, a consideration what to say? Or was it genuine shock, the emotion any decent man would feel? He watched every flicker—and still he had no idea.
“Sir Anstey did not tell me that,” Jerome said at last. “It is perfectly dreadful. I suppose there is no question?”
“No.” Pitt allowed himself the shadow of a smile. “Do you think Sir Anstey would concede it if there were?”
Jerome took his point, but the irony passed him by.
“No—no, of course not. Poor man. As if death were not enough.” He looked up quickly, hostile again. “I trust you are going to treat the matter with discretion?”
“As far as possible,” Pitt said. “I would prefer to get all the answers I can from within the household.”
“If you are suggesting that I have any idea who might have had such a relationship with Arthur, you are quite mistaken.” Jerome bristled with offense. “If I had had even the least suspicion of such a thing, I should have done something about it!”
“Would you?” Pitt said quickly. “Upon suspicion—and without proof? What would you have done, Mr. Jerome?”
Jerome saw the trap instantly. A flicker of self-mockery moved in his face, and then vanished.
“You are quite right, Mr. Pitt. I should have done nothing. However, disappointing as it is, I had no suspicion at all. Whatever occurred, it was quite beyond my knowledge. I can tell you all the boys of similar age that Arthur spent time with. Although I don’t envy you trying to discover which of them it was—if indeed it was any of his friends and not just some acquaintance. Personally, I think you are probably mistaken in supposing it to have any connection with his death. Why should anyone indulging in such a—a relationship commit murder? If you are suggesting some sort of an affair, with passion and jealousy or anything of the sort, I would remind you that Arthur Waybourne was barely sixteen.”
This was something that had troubled Pitt. Why should anyone have killed Arthur? Had Arthur threatened to disclose the relationship? Was he an unwilling partner, and the strain had become too great? That seemed the more likely answer. If it was someone who knew him, robbery would be pointless. Anything he would carry would be far too trivial for a boy of that social circle to covet so violently—a few coins, probably not even a watch or a ring.
And would another youth, even in panic, have the physical strength to murder, or afterward have the coolheadedness to dispose of the body so skillfully? And it was skillful: for all but mischance, it would never have been identified. An older man was a far more probable suspect: a man with more weight, more inured to his appetite, and better able to deal with the results of satisfying it—perhaps a man who had even foreseen this very danger arising one day.
Would such a man be fool enough, fragile enough, to become infatuated with a youth of sixteen? It was possible. Or perhaps it was a man who had only just discovered his own weakness, maybe through constant companionship, a proximity forced upon him by circumstances? He might still have the cunning to hide the body in the labyrinth of the sewers, trusting that by the time it was found it would be past connecting with the disappearance of Arthur Waybourne.
He looked up at Jerome. That careful face might hide anything. He was trained by a lifetime of masking his feelings so that they never offended, and his opinions so that they never clashed with those of his social superiors—even when he was perhaps better informed, or just quicker-witted. Was it possible?
Jerome was waiting, overtly patient. He had scant respect for Pitt, and he was enjoying the luxury of affording to show it.
“I think you would be better advised to leave the matter alone.” Jerome sat back and crossed his legs, folding his hands fingertip to fingertip. “It was probably a single instance of excess, certainly repellent.” His face was marked momentarily by a shadow of disgust; could the man really be an actor of such subtlety, such polish? “But not to be repeated,” he went on. “If you persist in trying to discover who it was, apart from the fact that you will almost certainly fail, you will bring a great deal of distress, not least to yourself.”
It was a fair warning, and Pitt was already aware of how the whole social caste would close its ranks against such an inquiry. To defend themselves they would defend each other—at any expense. After all, one moment of youthful vice was not worth exposing the follies or pains of a dozen families. Memories in society were long. Any youth marred by the stain might never marry within his own class, even if nothing was ever proved.
And perhaps Arthur had not been so very innocent. After all, he had contracted syphilis. Maybe his education had included women of the streets, an initiation into the other side of appetite.
“I know that,” Pitt said quietly. “But I cannot overlook murder!”
“Then you would do better to concentrate on that and leave the other to be forgotten,” Jerome expounded as if it were advice Pitt had sought from him.
Pitt felt his skin tighten in anger. He changed the subject, returning to facts: Arthur’s daily routine, his habits, his friends, his studies, his likes and dislikes—every clue to character he could think of. But he found himself weighing the answers as much for what they said of Jerome as of Arthur.
It was over two hours later when he stood facing Waybourne in his library.
“You were an uncommonly long time with Jerome,” Waybourne said critically. “I cannot imagine what he can have had to say to you of such value.”
“He spent a great deal of time with your son. He must have known him well,” Pitt began.
Waybourne’s face was red. “What did he tell you?” He swallowed. “What did he say?”
“He had no knowledge of any impropriety,” Pitt answered him, then wondered why he had given in so easily. It was a momentary thing—a flash of sensitivity, more instinct than thought; he had no warmth for the man.
Waybourne’s face relaxed. Then incredulity flashed across his eyes, and something else.
“Good God! You don’t really suspect him of—of—”
“Is there any reason why I should?”
Waybourne half rose from his chair.
“Of course not! Do you think if I—�
�� He sank down again and covered his face with his hands. “I suppose I could have made a ghastly mistake.” He sat without moving for several seconds, then suddenly looked up at Pitt. “I had no idea! He had the most excellent references, you know?”
“And he may be worthy of them,” Pitt said a little sharply. “Do you know something to his discredit you have not told me?”
Waybourne remained perfectly still for so long that Pitt was about to prompt him, when at last he replied.
“I don’t know anything—at least not on the surface of my mind. Such an idea never occurred to me—why should it? What decent man entertains suspicions like that? But knowing what I do now”—he took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh—“I may remember things and understand them differently. You must allow me a little time. All this has been a very profound shock.” There was finality in his voice. Pitt was dismissed; it was only a matter of whether he was delicate enough not to require that it be put into words.
There was nothing left to insist on. There was justice in Waybourne’s request for time to consider, to weigh memories in the light of understanding. Shock drove out clarity of thought, blurred the edges, distorted recall. He was not unusual; he needed time, and sleep, before he committed himself.
“Thank you,” Pitt answered formally. “If you should think of anything relevant, I’m sure you will let us know. Good day, sir.”
Waybourne, lost in his dark reflections, did not bother to reply, but continued to frown, staring at a spot on the carpet by Pitt’s feet.
Pitt went home at the end of the day with a feeling not of satisfaction but of conclusion. The end was in sight; there would be no surprises, nothing more to discover but the pain-ridden details to dovetail into one another and complete the pattern. Jerome, a sad, unsatisfied man, cramped into a livelihood that stifled his talents and curbed his pride, had fallen in love with a boy who promised to be all the things Jerome himself might have been. Then, when all that envy and hunger had spilled over into physical passion, what? Perhaps a sudden revulsion, a fear—and Arthur had turned on him, threatening exposure? Searing shame for Jerome, all his private weakness torn apart, laughed at. And then dismissal without hope of ever finding another position—ruin. And doubtless the loss of the wife, who was—what? What was she to him?
Or had Arthur been more sophisticated than that? Was he capable of blackmail, even if it consisted of only the gentle, permanent pressure of his knowledge and its power? The slow smiles, the little cuts of the tongue.
From what Pitt had learned of Arthur Waybourne, he was neither so ingenious nor so enamored of integrity that the thought could not have occurred to him. He seemed to have been a youth determined to wade into adulthood with all its excitements as soon as chance allowed. Perhaps that was not uncommon. For most adolescents, childhood hung on like old clothes, when new and glamorous ones, more flattering ones, were waiting.
Charlotte met him as soon as he walked in the door.
“I heard from Emily today, and you’ll never believe—” She saw his face. “Oh. What is it?”
He smiled in spite of himself. “Do I look so grim?”
“Don’t evade me, Thomas!” she said sharply. “Yes, you do. And what has happened? Is it something to do with that boy who was drowned? It is, isn’t it?”
He took off his coat and Charlotte put it on the peg for him. She remained in the middle of the hallway, determined on an explanation.
“It appears as if it was the tutor,” he replied. “It’s all very sad and grubby. Somehow I can’t be outraged with any pleasure anymore when it stops being anonymous and I can attach a face to it and a life before it. I wish I could find it incomprehensible—it would be so much damnably easier!”
She knew he was referring to the emotions, not the crime. He had no need to explain. She turned in silence, just offering him her hand, and led the way into the warm kitchen—its blacked stove open, with live embers behind the bars, its wooden table scrubbed white, gleaming pans, blue-ringed china set out on the dresser, ironing waiting over the rails to be taken upstairs. Somehow it seemed to him to be the heart of the house, the living core that only slept but was never empty—unlike the parlor or bedrooms when there was no one in them. It was more than just the fire; it was something to do with the smell of the room, the love and the work, the echo of voices that laughed and talked there.
Had Jerome ever had a kitchen like this that was his own to sit in for as long as he wanted, where he could put things into perspective?
He eased comfortably into one of the wooden chairs, and Charlotte put the kettle on the hob.
“The tutor,” she repeated. “That was quick.” She got down two cups and the china teapot with the flowers on it. “And convenient.”
He was stung. Did she imagine he was trimming the case to suit his comfort or his career?
“I said it appears as if it was,” he retorted sharply. “It’s far from proven! But you said yourself that it was unlikely to have been a stranger. Who would be more likely than a lonely, inhibited man, forced by circumstances to be always more than a servant and less than an equal, neither in one world nor the other? He saw the boy every day, worked with him. He was constantly and subtly patronized, one minute encouraged for his knowledge, his skills, and the next rebuffed because of his social status, set aside as soon as school was out.”
“You make that sound awful.” She poured milk from the cooler at the back door into a jug and set it on the table. “Sarah and Emily and I had a governess, and she wasn’t treated like that at all. I think she was perfectly happy.”
“Would you have changed places with her?” he asked.
She thought for only a moment; then her face shadowed very slightly.
“No. But then a governess is never married. A tutor can be married because he doesn’t have to look after his own children. Didn’t you say this tutor was married?”
“Yes, but he has no children.”
“Then why do you think he’s lonely or dissatisfied? Maybe he likes teaching. Lots of people do. It’s better than being a clerk or a shopboy.”
He thought. Why had he supposed Jerome was lonely or dissatisfied? It was an impression, no more—and yet it was deep. He had felt a resentment around him, a hunger to have more, to be more.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Something about the man; but it’s no more than informed suspicion so far.”
She took the kettle off the hob and made the tea, sending steam up in a sweet-smelling cloud.
“You know, most crimes are not very mysterious,” he went on, still a little defensively. “The most obvious person is usually the one responsible.”
“I know.” She did not look at him. “I know that, Thomas.”
Two days later, any doubts he had were dismissed when a constable met him with the message that Sir Anstey Waybourne’s footman had called, and Pitt was required at the house because a most serious turn of events had taken place; new and extremely disturbing evidence was to hand.
Pitt had no choice but to go immediately. It was raining, and he buttoned up his coat, tied his scarf tighter, and pushed his hat down on his head. It took only moments to find a hansom and clatter over the wet stones to the Waybourne house.
A serene-faced parlormaid let him in. Whatever had happened, it seemed she was unaware of it. She showed him straight into the library, where Waybourne was standing in front of the fire, clasping and unclasping his hands. His head jerked up and he faced Pitt even before the maid had closed the door.
“Good!” he said quickly. “Now perhaps we can get this whole dreadful business over with and bury the tragedy where it belongs. My God, it’s appalling!”
The door closed with a faint snap and they were alone. The maid’s footsteps clicked away on the parquet floor outside.
“What is the new evidence, sir?” Pitt asked guardedly. He was still sensitive to Charlotte’s implication of convenience, and it would have to be more than suspicion or malice before he regard
ed it with any credence.
Waybourne did not sit down or offer Pitt a seat.
“I have learned something most shocking, quite—” His face creased with distress, and again Pitt was suddenly caught by a sense of pity that surprised and disconcerted him. “Quite dreadful!” Waybourne finished. He stared at the Turkish carpet, a rich red and blue. Pitt had once recovered one like it in a robbery case, and so knew its worth.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you would tell me what it is?”
Waybourne found the words difficult; he searched for them awkwardly.
“My younger son, Godfrey, has come to me with a most distressing confession.” He clenched his knuckles. “I cannot blame the boy for not having told me before. He was ... confused. He is only thirteen. Quite naturally, he did not understand the meaning, the implication.” Finally he looked up, though only for a moment. He seemed to desire Pitt’s understanding, or at least his comprehension.
Pitt nodded but said nothing. He wanted to hear whatever it was in Waybourne’s own words, without prompting.
Waybourne went on slowly. “Godfrey has told me that Jerome has, on more than one occasion, been overly familiar with him.” He swallowed. “That he has abused the boy’s trust, quite natural trust, and—and fondled him in an unnatural fashion.” He shut his eyes and his face twisted with emotion. “God! It’s revolting! That man—” He breathed in and out, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry. I find this—extremely distasteful. Of course Godfrey did not understand the nature behind these acts at the time. He was disturbed by them, but it was only when I questioned him that he realized he must tell me. I did not let him know what had happened to his brother, only that he should not be afraid to tell me the truth, that I should not be angry with him. He has committed no sin whatsoever—poor child!”
Pitt waited, but apparently Waybourne had said all he wished to. He looked up at Pitt, his eyes challenging, waiting for his response.
“May I speak to him?” Pitt said at last.
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