“Perhaps that’s just as well, sir. I could never have made the suitable judgments as to whom we should protect and whom we should allow to be killed. I was under the misapprehension that we were to prevent crime or to arrest criminals whenever possible, and that the social standing or the moral habits of the victim and the offender were quite irrelevant—that we should seek to enforce the law—something about ‘without malice, fear, or favor.’ ”
A hot tide rose again in Athelstan’s face.
“Are you accusing me of favor, Pitt? Are you saying that I am corrupt?”
“No, sir. You said it,” Pitt replied. He had nothing to lose now. Everything that Athelstan could give or take had already gone. He had used all his power.
Athelstan swallowed. “You misunderstood!” he said with tight fury, but softly, suddenly startled into control again. “Sometimes I think you are deliberately stupid! I said nothing of the sort. All I meant was that people like Albie Frobisher are bound to come to a bad end, and there is nothing we can do about it, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought you said that there was nothing we ought to do.”
“Nonsense!” Athelstan waved his hands as if to obliterate the idea. “I never said anything of the kind. Of course we must try! It is just that it is hopeless. We cannot waste good police time on something that has no chance of success! That is only common sense. You will never make a good administrator, Pitt, if you do not understand how best to use the limited forces at your disposal! Let it be a lesson to you.”
“I am hardly likely to make an administrator of any sort, since I have no job,” Pitt pointed out. Now the coldness of reality was setting in. Through the shock he began to glimpse the wasteland of unhappiness beyond. Ridiculously, childishly, there was a constricting ache in his throat. In that moment he hated Athelstan so much he wanted to hit him, to beat him until he bled. Then he would go out of the station where everyone knew him, and walk in the gray, hiding rain until he could control the desire to weep. Except that, of course, it would all come back again when he saw Charlotte, and he would make a weak, undignified fool of himself.
“Well!” Athelstan sniffed irritably. “Well—I’m not a vindictive man—I’m prepared to overlook this breach if you’ll behave yourself more circumspectly in the future. You may consider yourself still employed in the police force.” He glanced at Pitt’s face, then held up his hand. “No! I insist, don’t argue with me! I am aware that you are overimpulsive, but I am prepared to allow you a certain latitude. You have put in some excellent work in the past, and you have earned a little leniency for the occasional mistake. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind. And do not mention Arthur Waybourne or anything whatsoever connected with that case—however tenuously!” He waved his hand again. “Do you hear me?”
Pitt blinked. He had an odd feeling that Athelstan was as relieved as he was. His face was still scarlet and his eyes peered back anxiously.
“Do you hear me?” he repeated, his voice louder.
“Yes, sir,” Pitt answered, straightening up again to some semblance of attention. “Yes, sir.”
“Good! Now go away and get on with whatever you are doing! Get out!”
Pitt obeyed, then stood outside on the matting on the landing feeling suddenly sick.
Meanwhile, Charlotte and Emily were pursuing their crusade with enthusiasm. The more they learned, from Carlisle and other sources, the more serious their cause became—and the deeper and more troubled their anger. They developed a certain sense of responsibility because fate—or God—had spared them from such suffering themselves.
In the course of their work, Charlotte and Emily visited Callantha Swynford a third time, and it was then that Charlotte at last found herself alone with Titus. Emily was in the withdrawing room discussing some new area of knowledge with Callantha, while Charlotte had retired to the morning room to make copies of a list to be conveyed to other ladies who had become involved in their cause. She was sitting at the small rolltop desk, writing as neatly as she could, when she looked up and saw a rather pleasant-faced youth with golden freckles like Callantha’s.
“Good afternoon,” she said conversationally. “You must be Titus.” For a moment she had not recognized him; he looked more composed here in his own house than he had in the witness box. His body had lost the graveness and reluctance it had expressed then.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied formally. “Are you one of Mama’s friends?”
“Yes, I am. My name is Charlotte Pitt. We are working together to try to stop some very evil things that are going on. I expect you know about it.” It was partly intended to compliment him, make him feel adult and not excluded from knowledge, but also she recalled how she and Emily had frequently listened at the door to their mother’s tea parties and afternoon callers. Sarah had considered herself too dignified for such a pursuit. Not that they had often heard anything nearly as startling or titillating to the adolescent imagination as the fight against child prostitution.
Titus was looking at her with frankness tinged with a degree of uncertainty. He did not want to admit ignorance; after all, she was a woman, and he was quite old enough to begin feeling like a man. Childhood with its nursery humiliations was rapidly being discarded.
“Oh, yes,” he said with a lift of his chin. Then curiosity gained the upper hand. This was a chance too good to waste. “At least I know part of it. Of course, I have had my own studies to attend to as well, you know.”
“Of course,” she agreed, laying down her pen. Hope surged up inside her. It was still not too late—if Titus were to alter his evidence. She must not let him see her excitement.
She swallowed, and spoke quite casually. “One has only so much time, and one must spend it wisely.”
Titus pulled up a small padded chair and sat down.
“What are you writing?” He had been well brought up and his manners were excellent. He made it sound like friendly interest, even very faintly patronizing, rather than anything as vulgar as curiosity.
She had had every intention of telling him anyway—his curiosity was a pale and infant thing compared with hers. She glanced down at the paper as if she had almost forgotten it.
“Oh, this? A list of wages that people get paid for picking apart old clothes so that other people can stitch them up again into new ones.”
“Whatever for? Who wants clothes made up out of other people’s old ones?”
“People who are too poor to buy proper new ones,” she answered, offering him the list she was copying from.
He took it and looked at it.
“That’s not very much money.” He eyed the columns of pence. “It doesn’t seem like a very good job.”
“It isn’t,” she agreed. “People can’t live on it and they often do other things as well.”
“I’d do something else all the time, if I were poor.” He handed it back to her. By poor, he meant someone who had to work at all, and she understood that. To him, money was there—one did not have to acquire it.
“Oh, some people do,” she said quite casually. “That is what we are trying to stop.”
She had to wait several moments of silence before he asked the question she had hoped for.
“Why are you trying to do that, Mrs. Pitt? It doesn’t seem fair to me. Why should people have to unpick old domes for pennies if they could earn more money doing something else?”
“I don’t want them to pick rags.” She used the term quite familiarly now. “At least not for that sort of money. But I don’t want them to be prostitutes either, most particularly not if they are still children.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “Especially boys.”
The pride of man in him did not want to admit ignorance. He was in the company of a woman, and one whom he considered very handsome. It was important to him that he impress her.
She sensed his dilemma and pushed him into an emotional corner.
“I expect when it is put like that, you would agree?” she ask
ed, meeting his very candid eyes. What fine, dark lashes he had!
“I’m not sure,” he hedged, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “Why especially boys? Perhaps you would give the your reasons?”
She admired his evasion. He had managed to ask her without sounding as if he did not know, which she now was almost sure was so. She must be careful not to lead him, to put words into his mouth. It took her longer than she had expected to frame just the right answer.
“Well, I think you would agree that all prostitution is unpleasant?” she began carefully, watching him.
“Yes.” He followed her lead; the reply she expected was plain enough.
“But an adult has more experience of the world in general, and therefore has more understanding of what such a course will involve,” she continued.
Again the answer suggested itself.
“Yes.” He nodded very slightly.
“Children can much more easily be forced into doing things they either do not wish or else of which they cannot foresee the full consequences.” She smiled very faintly so she would not sound quite so pompous.
“Of course.” He was still young enough to feel echoes of the bitterness of authority, governesses who gave orders and expected early bedtimes, all vegetables eaten—and rice pudding—no matter how much one disliked them.
She wanted to be gentle with him, to let him keep his new, adult dignity, but she could not afford it. She hated having to shred it from him like precious clothes, leaving him naked.
“Perhaps you do not argue that it is worse for boys than for girls?” she inquired.
He flushed, his eyes puzzled. “What? What is worse? Ignorance? Girls are weaker, of course—”
“No—prostitution—selling their bodies to men for the most familiar acts.”
He looked confused. “But girls are ... ” The color deepened painfully as he realized how acutely personal a subject they were touching.
She said nothing, but picked up the pen and paper again so he could have an excuse to avoid her eyes.
“I mean girls—” He tried again: “Nobody does that sort of thing with boys. You’re making fun of me, Mrs. Pitt!” His face was scarlet now. “If you are talking about the sort of thing that men and women do, then it’s just stupid to talk about men and other men—I mean boys! That’s impossible!” He stood up rather abruptly. “You are laughing at me and treating me as if I’m a baby—and I think that is very unfair of you—and most impolite!”
She stood up, too, bitterly sorry to have humiliated him, but there had been no other way.
“No, I’m not, Titus—believe me,” she said urgently. “I swear I am not. There are some men who are strange and different from most. They have those sorts of feelings toward boys, instead of women.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“I swear it’s true! There is even a law against it! That is what Mr. Jerome was accused of—did you not know that?”
He stood still, eyes wide, uncertain.
“He was accused of murdering Arthur,” he said, blinking. “He’s going to be hanged—I know.”
“Yes, I know, too. But that is why he is supposed to have murdered him, because he had that kind of relationship with him. Did you not know that?”
Slowly he shook his head.
“But I thought he attempted to do the same thing with you.” She tried to look just as confused, even though the knowledge was hardening in her mind every moment. “And your cousin Godfrey.”
He stared at her, thoughts racing through his mind so visibly she could almost have read them aloud: confusion, doubt, a spark of comprehension.
“You mean that was what Papa meant—when he asked me—” The color rushed back to his face again, then drained away, leaving him so white the freckles stood out like dark stains. “Mrs. Pitt—is—is that why they are going to hang Mr. Jerome?”
Suddenly he was totally a child again, appalled and overwhelmed. She disregarded his dignity entirely and put both arms around him, holding him tightly. He was smaller than he looked in his smart jacket, his body thinner.
He stood perfectly still for several moments, stiff. Then slowly his arms came up and held on to her, and he relaxed.
She could not lie to him and tell him it was not.
“Partly,” she replied gently. “And partly what other people said as well.”
“What Godfrey said?” His voice was very quiet.
“Didn’t Godfrey understand what the questions meant either?”
“No, not really. Papa just asked us if Mr. Jerome had ever touched us.” He took a deep breath. He might be clinging to her like a child, but she was still a woman, and decencies must be kept; he did not even know how to break them anyway. “On certain parts of the body.” He found the words inadequate, but all he could say. “Well, he did. I didn’t think there was anything wrong in it at the time. It sort of happened quickly, like an accident. Papa told me it was terribly wrong, and something else was meant by it—but I didn’t really know what—and he didn’t say! I didn’t understand about anything like—like that! It sounds horrible—and pretty silly.” He sniffed hard and pulled away.
She let him go immediately.
He sniffed again and blinked; suddenly his dignity had returned.
“If I’ve told lies in court, will I go to prison, Mrs. Pitt?” He stood very straight, as though he expected the constables with manacles to come through the door any moment.
“You haven’t told lies,” she answered soberly. “You said what you believed to be the truth, and it was misunderstood because people already had an idea in their minds and they made what you said fit into that idea, even though it was not what you meant.”
“Shall I have to tell them?” His lip quivered very slightly and he bit it to control himself.
She allowed him the time.
“But Mr. Jerome has already been sentenced and they will hang him soon. Shall I go to hell?”
“Did you mean him to hang for something he did not do?”
“No, of course not!” He was horrified.
“Then you will not go to hell.”
He shut his eyes. “I think I would rather tell them anyway.” He refused to look at her.
“I think that is very brave of you,” she said with absolute sincerity. “I think that is a very manly thing to do.”
He opened his eyes and gazed at her. “Do you honestly?”
“Yes, I do.”
“They’ll be very angry, won’t they?”
“Probably.”
He lifted his chin a little higher and squared his shoulders. He could have been a French aristocrat about to step into a tumbril.
“Will you accompany me?” he asked formally, making it sound like an invitation to the dinner table.
“Of course.” She left the pen and papers lying on the desk and together they walked back to the withdrawing room.
Mortimer Swynford was standing with his back to the hearth, warming his legs and blocking a good deal of the fire. Emily was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, there you are, Charlotte,” Callantha said quickly. “Titus—come in. I do hope he has not been disturbing you.” She turned to Swynford by the fire. “This is Mrs. Pitt, Lady Ashworth’s sister. Charlotte, my dear, I believe you have not met my husband.”
“How do you do, Mr. Swynford,” Charlotte said coolly. She could not bring herself to like this man. Perhaps it was quite unfair of her, but she associated him with the trial and its misery and now, it seemed, its unjustice.
“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt.” He inclined his head very slightly, but did not move from the fireplace. “Your sister has been called away. She went with a Lady Cumming-Gould, but she left her carriage for you. What are you doing, Titus? Should you not be at your studies?”
“I shall return shortly, Papa.” He took a very deep breath, caught Charlotte’s eye, then breathed out again and faced his father. “Papa, I have something to confess to.”
“Indeed? I hardly think
this is the time, Titus. I am sure Mrs. Pitt does not wish to be embarrassed by our family misdeeds.”
“She already knows. I have told a lie. At least I did not exactly realize it was a lie, because I did not understand about—about what it really is. But because of what I said, which was not true, maybe someone who was innocent will be hanged.”
Swynford’s face darkened and his body grew tight and solid.
“Nobody innocent will be hanged, Titus. I don’t know what you are talking about, and I think it is best you forget it!”
“I can’t, Papa. I said it in court, and Mr. Jerome will be hanged partly because of what I said. I thought that—”
Swynford swung around to face Charlotte, his eyes blazing, his thick neck red.
“Pitt! I should have known! You’re no more Lady Ashworth’s sister than I am! You’re married to that damned policeman—aren’t you? You’ve come insinuating your way into my house, lying to my wife, using false pretenses because you want to rake up a little scandal! You won’t be content until you’ve found something to ruin us all! Now you’ve convinced my son he’s done something wicked, when all the child has testified to is exactly what happened to him! God damn it, woman, isn’t that enough? We’ve already had death and disease in the family, scandal and heartbreak! Why? What do hyenas like you want that you go picking over other people’s griefs? Do you just envy your betters and want to shovel dirt over them? Or was Jerome something to you—your lover, eh?”
“Mortimer!” Callantha was white to the very roots of her hair. “Please!”
“Silence!” he shouted. “You have already been deceived once—and allowed your son to be subjected to this woman’s disgusting curiosity! If you were less foolish, I should blame you for it, but no doubt you were entirely taken in!”
“Mortimer!”
“I have told you to be silent! If you cannot do so, then you had better retire to your room!”
There was no decision to be made; for Titus’s sake and Callantha’s, as well as for her own, Charlotte had to answer him.
“Lady Ashworth is indeed my sister,” she said with icy calm. “If you care to inquire of any of her acquaintances, you will quite easily ascertain it. You might ask Lady Cumming-Gould. She is also a friend of mine. In fact, she is my sister’s aunt by marriage.” She stared at him with freezing anger. “And I came to your house quite openly, because Mrs. Swynford is concerned, as are the rest of us, to try to put some curb on the prostitution of children in the city of London. I am sorry it is a project which does not meet with your approval—but I could not have foreseen that you would be against it any more than Mrs. Swynford could have. No other lady involved has met with opposition from her husband. I do not care to imagine what your reasons might be—and no doubt if I did you could accuse me of slander as well.”
Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 05] Page 28
