Bluegate Fields (2 page)

“Cutler,” he announced himself smartly. “You’re Pitt? Been looking at your corpse from Bluegate Fields sewers. Miserable business.”

Pitt put down his notes and stared at him.

“Indeed.” He forced himself to be civil. “Extremely unfortunate. I suppose he drowned? I saw no marks of any kind of violence. Or did he die naturally?” He did not believe that. For one thing, where were the clothes? What was he doing down there at all? “I suppose you haven’t any idea who he was? No one claimed him?”

Cutler pulled a face. “Hardly. We don’t put them up for public exhibition.”

“But he drowned?” Pitt insisted. “He wasn’t strangled or poisoned or suffocated?”

“No, no.” Cutler pulled himself out a chair and sat down as though preparing for a long stay. “He drowned.”

“Thank you.” Pitt meant it as a dismissal. Surely there was nothing more to be said. Perhaps they would find out who he was, perhaps not. It depended on whether his parents or guardians reported him missing and set up any inquiries before it was too late to identify the corpse. “Good of you to come so soon,” he added as an afterthought.

Cutler did not move. “He didn’t drown in the sewer, you know,” he announced.

“What?” Pitt sat upright, a chill running through him.

“Didn’t drown in the sewer,” Cutler repeated. “Water in his lungs is as clean as my bath! In fact, it could have come out of my bath—even got a little soap in it!”

“What on earth do you mean?”

There was a wry, sad expression on Cutler’s face.

“Just what I say, Inspector. The boy drowned in bathwater. How he got into the sewer, I haven’t the faintest idea. Fortunately that’s not my task to discover. But I should be very surprised indeed if he had ever been in Bluegate Fields in his life.”

Pitt absorbed the information slowly. Bathwater! Not someone from the slums. He had half known that much from the clean, firm flesh of the body—it should not have been any surprise.

“Accident?” It was only a formal question. There had been no mark of violence, no bruises on the throat or on the shoulders or arms.

“I think not,” Cutler answered gravely.

“Because of where he was found?” Pitt shook his head, dismissing the thought. “That doesn’t prove murder, only the disposal of the body—which is an offense, of course, but not nearly as serious.”

“Bruises.” Cutler raised his eyebrows a little.

Pitt frowned. “I saw none.”

“On the heels. Quite hard. If you came upon a man in his bath, it would be far easier to drown him by grasping hold of his heels and pulling them upward, thereby forcing his head under the water, than it would be to try forcing his shoulders down, leaving his arms free to struggle with you.”

Pitt imagined it against his will. Cutler was right. It would be an easy, quick movement. A few moments’ hold and it would be all over.

“You think he was murdered?” he said slowly.

“He was a strong youth, apparently in excellent health”— Cutler hesitated, and a shadow of distress flickered across his face— “but for one thing, which I shall come to. There were no marks of injury except for those on his heels, and he was certainly not concussed by any fall. Why should he drown?”

“You said except for one thing. What was it? Could he have fainted?”

“Not from this. He was in the very early stages of syphilis—just a few lesions.”

Pitt stared at him. “Syphilis? But he was of good background, you said—and not more than fifteen or sixteen!” he protested.

“I know. And there’s more than that.”

“What more?”

Cutler’s face looked suddenly old and sad. He rubbed his hand across his head as if it hurt. “He had been homosexually used,” he answered quietly.

“Are you sure?” Still Pitt struggled, unreasonably. His sense knew better, but his emotions rebelled.

Irritation flashed in Cutler’s eyes.

“Of course I’m sure. Do you think it’s the sort of thing I’d say on speculation?”

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said. It was stupid—the boy was dead now anyway. Perhaps that was why Pitt was so upset by Cutler’s information. “How long?” he asked.

“Not long, about eight or ten hours when I saw him, as far as I can tell.”

“Sometime the night before we found him,” Pitt remarked. “I suppose that was obvious. I imagine you’ve no idea who he was?”

“Upper middle class,” Cutler said, as if thinking aloud. “Probably privately educated—a little ink on one of his fingers. Well fed—shouldn’t think he’d gone hungry a day in his life or done a day’s hard work with his hands. The odd sports, probably cricket or something of that kind. Last meal was expensive—pheasant and wine and a sherry trifle. No, very definitely not Bluegate Fields.”

“Damnation,” Pitt said under his breath. “Someone must miss him! We’ll have to find out who he was before we can bury him. You’ll have to do the best you can to make him fit to be seen.” He had been through it all before: the white-faced, stomach-clenched parents coming, ravaged by hope and fear, to stare at the dead face; then the sweat before they found the courage to look, followed by the nausea, the relief, or the despair—the end of hope, or back again into unknowing, waiting for the next time.

“Thank you,” he said formally to Cutler. “I’ll tell you as soon as we know anything.”

Cutler stood up and took his departure silently, also aware of everything that lay ahead.

It would take time, Pitt thought, and he must have help. If it was murder—and he could not ignore the probability—then he must treat it as such. He must go to Chief Superintendent Dudley Athelstan and ask for men to find this boy’s identity while he was still recognizable.

“I suppose all this is necessary?” Athelstan leaned back in his padded chair and looked at Pitt with open skepticism. He did not like Pitt. The man had ideas above himself, just because his wife’s sister had married some sort of title! He always had an air about him as if he had no respect for position. And this whole business of a corpse in the sewer was most unsavory—not the sort of thing Athelstan wished to know about. It was considerably beneath the dignity he had risen to—and far below what he still intended to achieve with time and judicious behavior.

“Yes, sir,” Pitt said tartly. “We can’t afford to ignore it. He may be the victim of kidnapping and almost certainly of murder. The police surgeon says he is of good family, probably educated, and his last meal was of pheasant and sherry trifle. Hardly a workingman’s dinner!”

“All right!” Athelstan snapped. “Then you’d better take what men you need and find out who he is! And for heaven’s sake try to be tactful! Don’t offend anyone. Take Gillivray—at least he knows how to behave himself with quality people.”

Quality people! Yes, Gillivray would be Athelstan’s choice to be sure of soothing the outraged sensibilities of the “quality” obliged to face the distasteful necessity of receiving the police.

To begin, there was the perfectly ordinary task of checking with every police station in the city for reports of youths missing from home or educational establishments who fitted the description of the dead boy. It was both tedious and distressing. Time after time they found frightened people, heard stories of unresolved tragedy.

Harcourt Gillivray was not a companion Pitt would have chosen. He was young, with yellow hair and a smooth face that smiled easily—too easily. His clothes were smart; his jacket was buttoned high, the collar stiff—not comfortable and somewhat crooked, like Pitt’s. And he seemed always able to keep his feet dry, while Pitt forever found himself with his boots in a puddle.

It was three days before they came to the gray stone Georgian home of Sir Anstey and Lady Waybourne. By now Gillivray had become used to Pitt’s refusal to use the tradesman’s entrance. It pleased his own sense of social standing, and he was quite ready to accept Pitt’s reasoning that on such a delicate mission it would be tactless to allow the entire servants’ hall to be aware of their purpose.

The butler suffered them to come in with a look of pained resignation. Better to have the police in the morning room where they could not be seen than on the front step for the entire street to know about.

“Sir Anstey will see you in half an hour, Mr.— er—Mr. Pitt. If you care to wait here—” He turned and opened the door to leave.

“It is a matter of some urgency,” Pitt said with an edge to his voice. He saw Gillivray wince. Butlers should be accorded the same dignity as the masters they represented, and most were acutely aware of it. “It is not something that can wait,” Pitt continued. “The sooner and the more discreetly it can be dealt with, the less painful it will be.”

The butler hesitated, weighing what Pitt had said. The word “discreetly” tipped the balance.

“Yes, sir. I shall inform Sir Anstey of your presence.”

Even so, it was a full twenty minutes before Anstey Waybourne appeared, closing the door behind him. His eyebrows were raised inquiringly, showing faint distaste. He had pale skin and full, fair side-whiskers. As soon as Pitt saw him, he knew who the dead boy had been.

“Sir Anstey.” Pitt’s voice dropped; all his irritation at the man’s patronage vanished. “I believe you reported your son Arthur as missing from home?”

Waybourne made a small deprecatory gesture.

“My wife, Mr.—er.” He waved aside the necessity for recalling a name for a mere policeman. They were anonymous, like servants. “I’m sure there is no need for you to concern yourself. Arthur is sixteen. I have no doubt he is up to some prank. My wife is overprotective—women tend to be, you know. Part of their nature. Don’t know how to let a boy grow up. Want to keep him a baby forever.”

Pitt felt a stab of pity. Assurance was so fragile. He was about to shatter this man’s security, the world in which he thought he was untouchable by the sordid realities Pitt represented.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said even more quietly. “But we have found a dead boy whom we believe may be your son.” There was no point in spinning it out, trying to come to it slowly. It was no kinder, just longer.

“Dead? Whatever do you mean?” He was still trying to dismiss the idea, to repudiate it.

“Drowned, sir,” Pitt repeated, aware of Gillivray’s disapproval. Gillivray would like to skirt around it, to come at it obliquely, which seemed to Pitt like crushing someone slowly. “He is a fair-haired boy of about sixteen years, five-feet-nine-inches tall—of good family, to judge by his appearance. Unfortunately he has no identification on him, so we do not know who he is. It is necessary for someone to come and look at the body. If you prefer not to do it yourself—if it turns out not to be your son, we could accept the word of—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Waybourne said. “I’m sure it is not Arthur. But I shall come and tell you so myself. One does not send a servant on such a task. Where is it?”

“In the morgue, sir. Bishop’s Lane, in Bluegate Fields.”

Waybourne’s face dropped—it was inconceivable.

“Bluegate Fields!”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid that is where he was found.”

“Then it cannot possibly be my son.”

“I hope not, sir. But whoever he is, he would appear to be a gentleman.”

Waybourne’s eyebrows rose.

“In Bluegate Fields?” he said sarcastically.

Pitt did not argue anymore. “Would you prefer to come in a hansom, sir, or in your own carriage?”

“In my own carriage, thank you. I do not care for public conveyances. I shall meet you there in thirty minutes.”

Pitt and Gillivray excused themselves and found a hansom to take them to the morgue, since Waybourne was obviously not willing to have them accompany him.

The drive was not long. They were quickly out of the fashionable squares and into the narrow, grimy streets of the port-side, enveloped by the smell of the river, the drift of fog in their throats. Bishop’s Lane was anonymous; gray men came and went about their business.

The morgue was grim: less effort made to be clean than in a hospital—less reason. There was no humanity here except one brown-faced little man with faintly Eastern eyes and curiously light hair. His manner was suitably subdued.

“Yes, sir,” he said to Gillivray, who led the way in. “I know the boy you mean. The gentleman to see it has not arrived yet.”

There was nothing to do but wait for Waybourne. It turned out to be not thirty minutes but very nearly an hour. If Waybourne was aware of the time elapsed, he gave no sign. His face was still irritated, as though he had been called out on an unnecessary duty, required only because someone had made a foolish error.

“Well?” He came in briskly, ignoring the morgue attendant and Gillivray. He faced Pitt with raised eyebrows, hitching the shoulders of his coat into better position. The room was cold. “What is it you want me to see?”

Gillivray shifted his feet uncomfortably. He had not seen the corpse, nor did he know where it had been found. Oddly, he had not inquired. He regarded the whole task as something he was seconded to because of his superior manners, a task to be fulfilled and forgotten as soon as possible. He preferred the investigation of robbery, particularly robbery from the wealthy and the lesser aristocracy. The quiet, discreet association with such people when he was assisting was a rather pleasing way to advance his career.

Pitt knew what was to come—the inescapable pain, the struggle to explain away the horror, the denial right up to the last, inevitable moment.

“This way, sir. I warn you.” He suddenly regarded Waybourne levelly, as an equal, perhaps even condescendingly; he knew death, he had felt the grief, the anger. But at least he could control his stomach through sheer habit. “I’m afraid it is not pleasant.”

“Get on with it, man,” Waybourne snapped. “I have not all day to spend on this. And I presume when I have satisfied you it is not my son, then you will have other people to consult?”

Pitt led the way into the bare white room where the corpse was laid out on a table, and gently removed the covering sheet from the face. There was no point in showing the rest of the body with its great autopsy wounds.

He knew what was coming; the features were too alike: the fair wavy hair, the long soft nose, the full lips.

There was a faint sound from Waybourne. Every vestige of blood vanished from his face. He swayed a little, as though the room were afloat and had shifted under his feet.