Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 05]

by Bluegate Fields

  She took a deep breath and continued. “Then, of course, when it was found, and all the ugliness comes out, someone has to be blamed. The father knows Arthur was perverted, but maybe he does not know who first introduced him to such practices, and does not wish to believe it was simply his own nature. If the other two boys—frightened of the truth, of saying that Arthur took them to prostitutes—say that it was Jerome, whom they do not like, it is easy enough to believe them, in which case then Jerome is morally to blame for Arthur’s death—let him take the literal blame as well. He deserves to be hanged—so let him be! And by now the two boys can hardly go back on what they have said! How could they dare? The police and the courts have all been lied to, and believed it. Nothing to do but let it go on.”

  He sat and thought about it and the minutes ticked by. There was no sound but the clock and the faint hiss of the fire. It was possible—quite possible—and extremely ugly. And there was nothing of any substance to disprove any of it. Why had it not occurred to him before—to any of them? Was it just that it was more comfortable to blame Jerome? They would risk no disturbing reactions by charging him, no threat to any of their careers, even if by mischance they had not, at the last, been able to prove it.

  Surely they were better men than that? And they were too honest, were they not, simply to have settled on Jerome because he was pompous and irritating?

  He tried to recall every meeting he had had with Waybourne. How had the man seemed? Was there anything in him at all, any shadow of deceit, of extra grief or unexplained fear?

  He could remember nothing. The man was confused, shocked because he had lost a son in appalling circumstances: He was afraid of scandal that would further injure his family. Wouldn’t any man be? Surely it was only natural, only decent.

  And young Godfrey? He had seemed open, as far as his shock and fear would allow him to be. Or was his singular guilelessness only the mask of childhood, the clear skin and wide eyes of a practiced liar who felt no shame, and therefore no guilt?

  Titus Swynford? He had liked Titus, and unless he was very much mistaken, the boy was grieved by the whole course of events—a natural grief, an innocent grief. Was Pitt losing his judgment, falling into the trap of the obvious and the convenient?

  It was a distressing thought. But was it true?

  He found it hard to accept that Titus and Godfrey were so devious—or, frankly, that they were clever enough to have deceived him so thoroughly. He was used to sifting lies from truth; it was his job, his profession, and he was good at it. Of course he made mistakes—but seldom was he so totally blinded as not even to suspect!

  Charlotte was looking at him. “You don’t think that’s the answer, do you?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “No—it doesn’t feel right.”

  “And do you feel right about Jerome?”

  He looked at her. He had forgotten lately how much her face pleased him, the line of her cheek, the slight upward wing of her brow.

  “No,” he said simply. “No, I don’t think so.”

  She picked up the sewing again. The thread slipped out of the needle and she put the end in her mouth to moisten it, then carefully rethreaded it.

  “Then I suppose you’ll have to go back and start again,” she said, looking at the needle. “There’s still three weeks’ time left.”

  The following morning, Pitt found a pile of new cases on his desk. Most of them were comparatively minor: thefts, embezzlement, and a possible arson. He detailed them to various other officers, one of the privileges of his rank that he made the most of; then he sent for Gillivray.

  Gillivray came in cheerfully, his face glowing, shoulders square. He closed the door behind him and sat down before being asked, which annoyed Pitt quite out of proportion.

  “Something interesting?” Gillivray inquired eagerly. “Another murder?”

  “No.” Pitt was sour. He had disliked the whole case, and he disliked even more having to open it up again, but it was the only way to get rid of the crowding uncertainties in his mind, the vague possibilities that intruded every time his concentration lapsed. “The same one,” he said.

  Gillivray was perplexed. “The same one? Arthur Waybourne? You mean someone else was involved? Can we do that? The jury found its verdict. That closes the case, doesn’t it?”

  “It may be closed,” Pitt said, keeping his temper with difficulty. He realized Gillivray annoyed him so much because he seemed invulnerable to the things that hurt Pitt. He was smiling and clean, and he walked through other people’s tragedies and emotional dirt without being scathed by them at all.

  “It may be closed for the court,” Pitt said, starting, “but I think there are still things we ought to know, for justice’s sake.”

  Gillivray looked dubious. The courts were sufficient for him. His job was to detect crime and to enforce the law, not to sit in judgment. Each arm of the machinery had its proper function: the police to detect and apprehend; the barristers to prosecute or to defend; the judge to preside and see that the procedures of the law were followed; the jury to decide truth and fact. And in due course, if necessary, the warders to guard, and the executioner to end life rapidly and efficiently. For any one arm to usurp the function of another was to put the whole principle in jeopardy. This was what a civilized society was about, each person knowing his function and place. A good man fulfilled his obligation to the limit of his ability and, with good fortune, rose to a better place.

  “Justice is not our business,” Gillivray said at last. “We’ve done our job and the courts have done theirs. We shouldn’t interfere. That would be the same as saying that we don’t believe in them.”

  Pitt looked at him. He was earnest, very composed. There was a good deal of truth in what he said, but it altered nothing. They had been clumsy, and it was going to be painful to try to rectify it. But that did not alter the necessity.

  “The courts judge according to what they know,” he answered. “There are things they should have known, that they did not because we neglected to find them out.”

  Gillivray was indignant. He was being implicated in dereliction of duty, and not only him, but the entire police force above him, even the lawyers for the defense, who ought to have noticed any omission of worth.

  “We didn’t explore the possibility that Jerome was telling the truth,” Pitt began, before Gillivray interrupted him.

  “Telling the truth?” Gillivray exploded, his eyes bright and furious. “With respect, Mr. Pitt—that’s ridiculous! We caught him in lie after lie! Godfrey Waybourne said he interfered with him, Titus Swynford said the same. Abigail Winters identified him! Albie Frobisher identified him! And Albie alone has to be damning. Only a perverted man goes to a male prostitute. That’s a crime in itself! What else could you want, short of an eyewitness? It isn’t even as if there was another suspect!”

  Pitt sat back in his chair, and let himself slide down till he was resting on the base of his spine. He put his hands into his pockets and touched a ball of string he carried, a lump of sealing wax, a pocketknife, two marbles he had picked up in the street, and a shilling.

  “What if the boys were lying?” he suggested. “And the relationship was among themselves, the three of them, and had nothing to do with Jerome?”

  “Three of them?” Gillivray was startled. “All—” He did not like to use the word, and would have preferred some genteelism that avoided the literal. “All perverted?”

  “Why not? Perhaps Arthur was the only one whose nature it was, and he forced the others to go along.”

  “Then where did Arthur get the disease?” Gillivray hit on the weak point with satisfaction. “Not from two innocent young boys he drove into such a relationship by force! They certainly didn’t have it!”

  “Don’t they?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

  Gillivray opened his mouth; then realization flooded his face, and he closed it again.

  “We don’t—do we!” Pitt challenged
. “Don’t you think we should find out? He may have passed it on to them, however innocent they are.”

  “But where did he get it?” Gillivray still held to his objection. “The relationship can’t have involved only the three of them. There must have been someone else!”

  “Quite,” Pitt conceded. “But if Arthur was perverted, perhaps he went to Albie Frobisher and contracted it there. We didn’t test Albie either, did we?”

  Gillivray was flushed. There was no need of admission; he saw the neglect immediately. He despised Albie. He should have been aware of the possibility and put it to the proof without being told. It would have been easy enough. And certainly Albie would have been in no position to protest.

  “But Albie identified Jerome,” he said, going back to more positive ground. “So Jerome must have been there. And he didn’t recognize the picture of Arthur. I showed him one, naturally.”

  “Does he have to be telling the truth?” Pitt inquired with an affectation of innocence. “Would you take his word in anything else?”

  Gillivray shook his head as if brushing away flies—something irritating but of no consequence. “Why should he lie?”

  “People seldom want to admit to an acquaintance with a murder victim. I don’t think that needs any explanation.”

  “But what about Jerome?” Gillivray’s face was earnest. “He identified Jerome!”

  “How did he recognize him? How do you know?”

  “Because I showed him photographs, of course!”

  “And can you be sure, absolutely sure, that you didn’t say or do anything at all, even by an expression on your face—a lift in your voice, maybe—to indicate which picture you wanted him to choose?”

  “Of course I’m sure!” Gillivray said instantly. Then he hesitated; he did not knowingly lie to himself, still less to others. “I don’t think so.”

  “But you believed it was Jerome?”

  “Yes, of course I did.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t somehow betray that—in tone or look? Albie’s very quick—he’d have seen it. He’s used to picking up the nuance, the unspoken word. He earns his living by pleasing people.”

  Gillivray was offended by the comparison, but he saw the purpose of it.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t think so.”

  “But you could have?” Pitt pressed.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But we didn’t test Albie for disease!”

  “No!” Gillivray flicked his hand to dispel the irritant again. “Why should we have? Arthur had the disease, and Arthur never had any relationship with Albie! It was Jerome who had the relationship with Albie, and Jerome was clean! If Albie had it, then presumably Jerome would have it too!” That was an excellent piece of reasoning, and Gillivray was pleased with it. He sat back in the chair again, his body relaxing.

  “That is presuming that everyone is telling the truth except Jerome,” Pitt pointed out. “But if Jerome is telling the truth, and someone else is lying, then it would be quite different. And, by the same line of logic you just put forward, since Arthur had it, then Jerome should have it also—shouldn’t he? And we didn’t think of that either, did we?”

  Gillivray stared. “He didn’t have it!”

  “Precisely! Why not?”

  “I don’t know! Perhaps it just doesn’t show yet!” He shook his head. “Perhaps he hasn’t molested Arthur since he got it from the woman. How do I know? But if Jerome is telling the truth, then that means everyone else is lying, and that’s preposterous. Why should they? And anyway, even if the relationship included Albie and all three boys, that still doesn’t answer who killed Arthur, or why. And that’s all that matters to us. We are back to Jerome just the same. You’ve told me yourself not to torture the facts to fit them into an unlikely theory—just take them as they are and see what they say.” He looked satisfied, as if he had scored some minor victory.

  “Quite,” Pit agreed. “But all the facts. That’s the point—all of them, not just most of them. And in this case we haven’t taken the trouble to discover all the facts. We should have tested Albie and the other boys as well.”

  “You can’t!” Gillivray was incredulous. “You can’t possibly mean to go to the Waybournes now and ask to test their younger son for syphilis? They’d throw you out—and probably protest to the Commissioner as well, if not all the way to Parliament!”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t alter the fact that we should.”

  Gillivray snorted and stood up. “Well, I think you’re wasting your time—sir. Jerome is guilty and will be hanged. You know, with respect, sir—sometimes I think you allow your concern for justice, and what you imagine to be equality, to override common sense. People are not all equal. They never have been, and they never will be—morally, socially, physically, or—”

  “I know that!” Pitt interrupted. “I have no delusions about equality, brought about by man or nature. But I don’t believe in privilege before the law—that’s quite a different thing. Jerome doesn’t deserve to be hanged for something he didn’t do, whatever we think of him personally. And if you prefer to look at it from the other side, we don’t deserve to hang him if he’s innocent, and let the guilty man go free. At least I don’t! If you’re the kind of man who can walk away from that, then you should be in another job, not the police.”

  “Mr. Pitt, that is quite uncalled for! You are being unjust. I didn’t say anything like that. I think it’s blinding your judgment—that’s what I said, and that’s what I mean! I think you lean over so far to be fair that you are in grave danger of falling over backwards.” He squared his shoulders. “That’s what you’re doing this time. Well, if you want to go to Mr. Athelstan and ask for a warrant to test Godfrey Waybourne for venereal disease—go ahead. But I’m not coming with you. I don’t believe in it, and I shall say so if Mr. Athelstan asks me! The case is closed.” And he stood up and walked to the door, turning when he reached it. “Is that all you wanted me for?”

  “Yes.” Pitt stayed in his seat, sliding even farther down till his knees bent and touched the bottom of the desk drawer. “I suppose you’d better go and look at that arson—see if it really is. More probably some fool with a leaking lamp.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gillivray opened the door and went out, closing it after him with a snap. Pitt sat for quarter of an hour arguing himself out of it and back in again before he finally accepted the inevitable and went up the stairs to Athelstan’s office. He knocked and waited.

  “Come!” Athelstan said cheerfully.

  Pitt opened it and went in. Athelstan’s face fell as soon as he saw him.

  “Pitt? What is it now? Can’t you handle it yourself, man? I’m extremely busy. Got to see a member of Parliament in an hour, most important matter.”

  “No, sir, I can’t. I shall need some sort of authority.”

  “For what? If you want to search something, go ahead and search it! You ought to know how to go about your business by now! Heaven knows you’ve been at it long enough.”

  “No, I don’t want to search anything—not a house,” Pitt replied. He was cold inside. He knew Athelstan would be furious, caught in a trap of necessity, and he would blame Pitt for it. And that would be fair. Pitt was the one who should have thought of it at the right time. Not, of course, that it would have been allowed then either.

  “Well, what do you want?” Athelstan said irritably, his face creased into a frown. “For heaven’s sake, explain yourself! Don’t just stand there like a fool, moving from one foot to the other!”

  Pitt could feel his skin flush hot, and it seemed suddenly as if the room were getting smaller and if he moved at all he would knock against something with his elbows or his feet.

  “We should have tested Albert Frobisher to see if he had syphilis,” he began.

  Athelstan’s head jerked up, his face dark with suspicion.

  “Why? Who cares if he has? Perverted men who patronize that sort of place deserve all they get! We’r
e not the keepers of the public morals, Pitt—or of public health. None of our business. Homosexuality is a crime, and so it should be, but we haven’t the men to prosecute it. Need to catch them at it if we’re going to take it to court.” He snorted with distaste. “If you haven’t got enough to do, I’ll find you something more. London’s teeming with crime. Go out any door and follow your nose, you’ll find thieves and blackguards all over the place.” He bent down again over the letters in front of him, dismissing Pitt by implication.

  Pitt stood motionless on the bright carpet.

  “And Godfrey Waybourne and Titus Swynford also, sir.”

  For a second there was silence; then Athelstan raised his eyes very slowly. His face was purple; veins appeared that Pitt had never noticed before, plum-colored, on his nose.

  “What did you say?” he demanded, sounding every word distinctly, as though he were talking to someone slow-witted.

  Pitt took a deep breath. “I want to make sure that no other people have been infected by the disease,” he said, rephrasing it more tactfully. “Not only Frobisher, but the other two boys.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Athelstan’s voice rose, a note of hysteria creeping into it. “Where on earth would boys like that contract such a disease? We’re talking about decent families, Pitt—not something out of your bloody rookeries. Absolutely not! The very idea is an insult!”

  “Arthur Waybourne had it,” Pitt pointed out quietly.

  “Of course he did!” Athelstan’s face was suffusing with blood. “That perverted animal Jerome took him to a damned prostitute! We’ve proved that! The whole damnable affair is closed! Now get on with your job—get out and leave me to do some work myself!”

  “Sir,” Pitt persisted. “If Arthur had it—and he did—how do we know he didn’t give it to his brother, or his friend? Boys of that age are full of curiosity.”