Bluegate Fields (20 page)

Land took a deep breath. “So both boys are either lying or mistaken?”

“Since it is not the truth, that is the obvious conclusion,” Jerome replied.

Charlotte felt sympathy with him at last. He was being treated as if he were stupid, and although it was far from in his interest, it was understandable that he should want to retaliate. She would have stung under that patronage. But if only he would ease the sour look a little, or behave as if he sought mercy.

“Have you ever met a prostitute named Albie Frobisher?”

Jerome’s chin came up.

“I have never, to my knowledge, met a prostitute by any name at all.”

“Have you ever been to Bluegate Fields?”

“No, there is nothing in that area that I should wish to see, and fortunately I have no business that requires me to go there, and most certainly no pleasure!”

“Albert Frobisher swears that you were a customer of his. Can you think of any reason why he should do so, if it is not true?”

“My education has been classical, sir—I have no knowledge whatever as to the mind or motives of prostitutes, male or female.”

There was a titter of unsympathetic laughter around the court, but it died almost instantly.

“And Abigail Winters?” Giles still struggled. “She says that you took Arthur Waybourne to her establishment.”

“Possibly someone did,” Jerome agreed, a trace of venom showing through his voice, although he did not seek Waybourne’s face among the crowd. “But it was not I.”

“Why should anyone do that?”

Jerome’s eyebrows shot up.

“Are you asking me, sir? One might equally ask why I should have taken him myself. Whatever purpose you imagine was good enough for me, surely that would serve for someone else as easily? In fact, there are more—perhaps purely for his education? A young gentleman”—he gave the word a curious accent—“must learn his pleasures somewhere, and it is most assuredly not among his own class! And on a tutor’s salary, with a wife to keep, even if my taste or my ethics permitted my patronizing such a place, my purse would not!”

It was a telling point, and to her surprise Charlotte found herself glowing warm with satisfaction. Let them answer that! Where would Jerome have found the money?

But when it was Land’s turn he was quick.

“Did Arthur Waybourne have an allowance, Mr. Jerome?” he inquired smoothly.

Jerome’s face showed only the barest movement, but the point was not lost on him.

“Yes, sir, he said so.”

“Have you cause to doubt it?”

“No—he appeared to have money to spend.”

“Then he could have paid for his own prostitute, could he not?”

Jerome’s full mouth curled down fractionally with sour humor.

“I don’t know, sir, you will have to ask Sir Anstey what the allowance amounted to, and then discover—if you do not already know—what is the rate of a prostitute.”

The back of Land’s neck, where Charlotte could see it above his collar, flushed a dull red.

But it was suicidal. The court may not have had any love for Land, but Jerome had alienated himself entirely. He continued to be a prig, and at the same time he did not clear himself of the most obscene charge of a crime against one who may have been overprivileged and unlikable, but was still—in memory, at least—a child. To the black-coated jury, Arthur Waybourne had been young and desperately vulnerable.

The summing up for the prosecution reminded them of all this. Arthur was painted as fair, unblemished until Jerome contaminated him, poised on the verge of a long and profitable life. He had been perverted, betrayed, and finally murdered. Society owed it to his memory, to destroy from their midst the bestiality that had perpetrated these appalling acts. It was almost an act of self-cleansing!

There was only one verdict possible. After all, if Maurice Jerome had not killed him, who had? Well may they ask! And the answer was evident—no one! Not even Jerome himself had been able to suggest another answer.

It all fitted. There were no outstanding pieces, nothing that teased the mind or was left unexplained.

Did they ask themselves why Jerome had seduced the boy, used him, and then murdered him? Why not simply carry on with his base practice?

There were several possible answers.

Perhaps Jerome had grown tired of him, just as he had of Albie Frobisher. His appetite demanded constantly new material. Arthur was not easily discarded now that he was so debauched. He had not been bought, like Albie; he could not simply be dropped.

Could that be why Jerome had taken him to Abigail Winters? To try to stimulate in him more normal hungers?

But his own work had been too well done; the boy was debased forever—he wanted nothing from women.

He had become a nuisance. His love now bored Jerome; he was weary of it. He hungered for younger, more innocent flesh—like Godfrey or like Titus Swynford. They had heard the evidence of that for themselves. And Arthur was growing importunate, his persistence an embarrassment. Perhaps in his distress, in his desperate realization of his own perversion—yes, his damnation!—that was not too strong a word—he had even become a threat!

And so he had to be killed! And his naked body disposed of in a place where, but for a monumental stroke of ill-fortune and some excellent police work, it would never have been identified.

Gentlemen, have you ever faced a clearer case—or a more tragic and despicable one? There can be but one verdict—guilty! And there can be but one sentence!

The jury were out for less than half an hour. They filed back stone-faced. Jerome stood, white and stiff.

The judge asked the foreman of the jury and the answer was what had long since been decided by the silent voice of the courtroom.

“Guilty, my lord.”

The judge reached for the black cap and placed it on his head. In his thick, ripe voice he pronounced sentence.

“Maurice Jerome, a jury of your peers has found you guilty of the murder of Arthur William Waybourne. The sentence of this court is that you be returned to the place from whence you came, and in not less than three weeks from now you shall be taken to the place of execution, and there you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead. May the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”

Charlotte walked out into icy November winds that cut through her as if they had been knives. But her flesh was numb, already too preoccupied with shock and suffering to be aware of further pain.

T
HE TRIAL SHOULD
have been the end of the case for Pitt. He had found all the evidence he could, and had sworn to its truth in court without fear or favor. The jury had found Maurice Jerome guilty.

He had never expected to feel satisfaction. It was the tragedy of an unhappy man with a gift beyond his opportunity to use. The flaws in Jerome’s character had robbed him of the chance to climb in academic fields where others of less offensive nature might have succeeded. He would never have been an equal—that was denied from birth. He had ability, not genius. With a smile, a little flattery now and then, he might have gained a very enviable place. If he could have taught his pupils to like him, to trust him, he might have influenced great houses.

But his pride denied him of it; his resentment of privilege burned through his every action. He seemed never to appreciate what he had, concentrating instead on what he had not. That surely was the true tragedy—because it was unnecessary.

And the sexual flaw? Was it of the body or the mind? Had nature denied him the usual satisfaction of a man, or was it fear in him that drove him from women? No, surely Eugenie would have known—poor creature. In eleven years, how could she not? Surely no woman could be so desperately ignorant of nature and its demands?

Was it something much uglier than that, a need to subjugate in the most intimate and physical manner the boys he taught, the youths who held the privileges he could not?

Pitt sat in the parlor and stared into the flames. For some reason, Charlotte had lit the fire in here tonight, instead of preparing dinner to be eaten in the kitchen, as they often did. He was glad of it. Perhaps she also felt like spending an evening by the warm open hearth, sitting in the best chairs, and all the lamps lit and sparkling, revealing the gleam and nap of the velvet curtains. They were an extravagance, but she had wanted them so much it had been worth the cheap mutton stews and the herrings they had eaten for nearly two months!

He smiled, remembering, then looked across at her. She was watching him, her eyes, steady on his face, almost black in the shadows from the lamp behind her.

“I saw Eugenie after the trial,” she said almost casually. “I took her home and stayed with her for nearly two hours.”

He was surprised, then realized he should not have been. That was what she had gone to the trial for—to offer Eugenie some fragment of comfort or at least companionship.

“How is she?” he asked.

“Shocked,” she said slowly. “As if she could not understand how it had happened, how anyone could believe it of him.”

He sighed; it was natural. Who ever does believe such a thing of a husband or a wife?

“Did he do it?” she asked solemnly.

It was the question he had been avoiding ever since he walked out of the courtroom. He did not want to talk about it now, but he knew she would insist until he gave her an answer.

“I imagine so,” he said wearily. “But I am not part of the jury, so what I think doesn’t matter. I gave them all the evidence I had.”

She was not so easily put off. He noticed the sewing was idle in her lap. She had the thimble on her finger and had threaded the needle, but she had not put it through the cloth.

“That’s not an answer,” she said, frowning at him. “Do you believe he did it?”

He took a deep breath and let it out silently.

“I can’t think of anyone else.”

She was on to it immediately. “That means you don’t believe it!”

“It doesn’t!” She was being unfair, illogical. “It means just what I said, Charlotte. I cannot think of any other explanation, therefore I have to accept that it was Jerome. It makes excellent sense, and there is nothing whatsoever against it—no awkward facts that have to be faced, nothing unexplained, nothing to indicate anyone else. It’s a pity about Eugenie, and I understand the way she feels. I’m as sorry as you are! Criminals sometimes have nice families—innocent and likable, and they suffer like hell! But that doesn’t stop Jerome from being guilty. You can’t fight it and you won’t help by trying. You certainly can’t help Eugenie Jerome by encouraging her to believe there is some hope. There isn’t! Now accept, and leave it alone!”

“I’ve been thinking,” she replied, exactly as if he had not spoken.

“Charlotte!”

She took no notice of him.

“I’ve been thinking,” she repeated. “If Jerome is innocent, then someone else must be guilty.”

“Obviously,” he said crossly. He did not want to think about it anymore. It was not a good case, and he wanted to forget it. It was finished. “And there isn’t anyone else implicated at all,” he added in exasperation. “No one else had any reason.”

“They might have!”

“Charlotte—”

“They might have!” she insisted. “Let’s imagine Jerome is innocent and that he is telling the truth! What do we know for a fact?”

He smiled sourly at the “we.” But there was no purpose in trying any longer to evade talking about it. He could see she was going to follow it to the bitter end.

“That Arthur Waybourne was homosexually used,” he answered. “That he had syphilis, and that he was drowned in bathwater, almost certainly by having his heels jerked up so his head went under the water and he couldn’t get up again. And his body was put down a manhole into the sewers. It is almost impossible that he drowned by accident, and completely impossible that he put his own body into the sewer.” He had answered her question and it told them nothing new. He looked at her, waiting for acceptance in her face.

It was not there. She was thinking.

“Then Arthur had a relationship with someone, or with several people,” she said slowly.

“Charlotte! You’re making the boy seem like—like a—” He struggled for a word that would not be too coarse or too extreme.

“Why not?” She raised her eyebrows and stared at him. “Why should we assume that Arthur was nice? Lots of people who get murdered have brought it upon themselves, one way or another. Why not Arthur Waybourne? We’ve been supposing he was an innocent victim. Well, perhaps he wasn’t.”

“He was sixteen!” His voice rose in protest.

“So?” She opened her eyes wide. “There’s no reason why he couldn’t have been spiteful or greedy, or thoroughly cunning, just because he’s young. You don’t know children very well, do you? Children can be horrible.”

Pitt thought of all the child thieves he knew who were everything she had just said. And he could so easily understand why and how they were. But Arthur Waybourne? Surely he had only to ask for what he wanted and it was given him? There was no need—no cause.

She smiled at him with an oblique, unhappy satisfaction.

“You made me look at the poor, and it was good for me.” She still held the needle poised. “Perhaps I ought to show you a little of another world—the inside of it—for your education!” she said quietly. “Society children can be unhappy too, and unpleasant. It’s relative. It’s only a matter of wanting something you can’t have, or seeing someone else with something and thinking you should have it. The feeling is much the same, whether it’s for a piece of bread or a diamond brooch—or someone to love. All sorts of people cheat and steal, or even kill, if they care enough. In fact”—she took a deep breath—“in fact, maybe people who are used to getting their own way are quicker to defy the law than those who often have to go without.”

“All right,” he conceded a little reluctantly. “Suppose Arthur Waybourne was thoroughly selfish and unpleasant—what then? Surely he wasn’t so unpleasant that someone killed him for it? That might get rid of half the aristocracy!”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic!” she said, her eyes glinting. She poked the needle into the cloth, but did not pull it through. “He may well have been just that! Suppose—” She scowled, concentrating on the idea, tightening it into words. “Suppose Jerome was telling the truth? He never went to Albie Frobisher’s, and he was never overfamiliar with any of the boys—not Arthur, not Godfrey, and not Titus.”