Bluegate Fields (24 page)

“Yes, I do know,” Pitt said. “But one of their fathers might have helped.”

For an instant Jerome’s eyes widened; something flashed across them that could have been hope. Then his face darkened again.

“Arthur was drowned. Why not just say it was an accident? Easier, infinitely more respectable. It doesn’t make any sense to put him down a sewer. Your wife is very imaginative, Mr. Pitt, but not very realistic. She has a lurid picture of the Anstey Waybournes of the world. If she had met a few, she would realize they do not panic and act in such an hysterical fashion.”

Pitt was stung. Charlotte’s breeding had never been more utterly irrelevant, and yet he found himself replying with all the resentment of the ambitious middle classes and the values he despised.

“She is perfectly well acquainted with them.” His voice was acid. “Her family is of considerable means. Her sister is the Lady Ashworth. She is perhaps better aware than either you or I of the sort of thing that panics the socially élite—like discovering that your son is a carrier of venereal disease and is homosexual. Perhaps you do not know last year’s amendment to the law? Homosexuality is a criminal offense now, and punishable by imprisonment.”

Jerome turned sideways, his face against the light so Pitt could not read his expression.

“In fact,” Pitt went on a little recklessly, “perhaps Waybourne discovered Arthur’s practices and killed him himself. One’s eldest son and heir, a syphilitic pervert! Better dead—far better dead. Don’t tell me you don’t know the upper classes well enough to believe that, Mr. Jerome?”

“Oh, I believe it.” Jerome let out his breath very slowly. “I believe it, Mr. Pitt. But not you, or your wife, or an angel of God will prove it! And the law won’t try! I’m a far better suspect. Nobody’ll miss me, nobody’ll mind. This answer suits everyone who matters. You’ve less chance of changing their minds than you have of becoming Prime Minister.” His mouth suddenly twisted with harsh mockery. “Not, of course, that I seriously imagined you meant to try! I can’t think why you came. You’ll only have more nightmares now—and for longer!”

Pitt stood up. “Possibly,” he said. “But for your sake, not mine. I didn’t try you, and I didn’t twist or hide any of the evidence. If”—he hesitated, then repeated the word— “if there is a miscarriage of justice, it is in spite of me, not because of me. And I don’t give a damn whether you believe that or not.” He banged his clenched fist on the door. “Jailer! Let me out!”

The door opened and he walked into the dank, gray passage without looking back. He was angry, confused, and, as far as he could imagine, completely helpless.

C
HARLOTTE, TOO, WAS UNABLE
to dismiss the matter from her mind. She could not have given anyone reason for believing that Jerome was innocent; in fact, she was not sure that she believed it herself. But the law did not require you to prove yourself innocent; it was sufficient that there should be some reasonable doubt.

And she was sorry for Eugenie, even though a large part of her still could not really like the woman. Her presence was an irritant; she epitomized everything that Charlotte was not. But she could be quite wrong about her; maybe Eugenie was sincere. Perhaps she really was a gentle and patient woman who wished to obey, a woman to whom loyalty was the highest virtue. Perhaps she genuinely cared for her husband.

And if it was true that her husband was innocent, it must follow that the person who had killed Arthur Waybourne would remain free after having committed, in Charlotte’s estimation, an even graver crime—because it was slower and there had been time to understand and to change—that of allowing Jerome to be convicted and hanged in his place! That was as close to unpardonable as any sanely committed human act could be. The thought of it made her so angry she found herself clenching her teeth till they hurt.

And hanging was so final. What if Jerome was innocent and they found out too late?

Whatever Pitt was going to do, whatever he
could
do—and it might not be much—she must at least try herself. And now that Emily was back, and Great-Aunt Vespasia, they would help, too.

Gracie would have to look after Jemima and Daniel again. Only three weeks: no time for letters, calling cards, and social niceties. She would put on a morning dress and take an omnibus, and then a hansom cab to Paragon Walk and visit Emily. Ideas whirled around in her head: possibilities, unanswered questions, things the police could not do and probably would not even think of.

She shouted for Gracie, startling the girl to running, her feet clattering along the corridor. She flew into the parlor and arrived breathless to find Charlotte standing in the middle of the floor, perfectly composed.

“Oh! Ma’am!” Gracie’s face fell in confusion. “I thought as you was hurt terrible, or something. Whatever’s ’appened?”

“Injustice!” Charlotte said, with a sweep of her arm. Melodrama would be far more effective than reasonable explanations. “We must do something before it is too late.” She included Gracie in the “we” to make her an instant party to it, and to secure her wholehearted cooperation. A great deal of it would be necessary in the next three weeks.

Gracie shivered with excitement and let out her breath in a little squeak. “Oh, ma’am!”

“Yes,” Charlotte said firmly. She must move to the details while enthusiasm was hot. “You remember Mrs. Jerome who came here? Yes, of course you do! Good. Well, her husband has been sent to prison for something I don’t think he did”— she didn’t want to cloud the issue with questions of reasonable doubt—“and he will be hanged if we do not discover the truth!”

“Ooh, ma’am!” Gracie was appalled. Mrs. Jerome was a real person, and just like a heroine should be: sweet and pretty, and obviously terribly in need of rescuing. “Ooh, ma’am. Are we going to help her then?”

“Yes, we are. The master will be doing what he can, of course—but that may not be enough. People keep secrets very close, and a man’s life may depend on this—in fact, several people’s lives. We shall need a lot of others to help, too. I am going to see Lady Ashworth, and while I am away I want you to look after Daniel and Miss Jemima.” She fixed Gracie with a gaze that almost hypnotized her, so intense was Gracie’s concentration. “Gracie, I do not want you to tell anyone else where I am, or why I have gone there. I am merely out visiting, do you understand? If the master should ask you, I have gone calling upon my family. That is the truth and you have no need to fear saying it.”

“Oh, no, ma’am!” Gracie breathed out. “You’re just gone calling! I won’t say a word! It’s secret with me. But do be careful, ma’am! Them murderers and the like can be terrible dangerous! What on earth should we all do if anything ’appened to you!”

Charlotte kept a perfectly sober face.

“I shall be very careful, Gracie, I promise you,” she answered. “And I shall take care not to be alone with anyone in the least questionable. I am only going to inquire a little, see if I can learn rather more about a few people.”

“Ooh—I shan’t say a thing, ma’am. I’ll look after everything ’ere, I swear. Don’t you worry one bit.”

“Thank you, Gracie.” Charlotte smiled as charmingly as she could, then swept out and left Gracie, mouth agape from fearful thoughts, standing in the middle of the parlor.

Emily’s maid received her with surprise well concealed by years of training. There was nothing more than a slight lift of her eyebrows beneath the starched cap. The black dress and lace-trimmed apron were immaculate. Charlotte wished for a fleeting moment she could afford to dress Gracie that way, but it would be terribly impractical. Gracie had more to do than answer the door, even if anyone called. She had to scrub floors, sweep and beat carpets, clean out the grates and black them, wash dishes.

Parlormaids were part of another life, one Charlotte only regretted in silly, light-headed moments when she first walked into houses like this, before she remembered all the things about that life that were boring, the suffocating rituals she had not been able to keep with any skill when she herself was part of it.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” the maid said smoothly. “Her Ladyship is not receiving yet. If you will sit in the morning room, the fire is lit, and I will ask if you may join Her Ladyship for breakfast, if you care to?”

“Thank you.” Charlotte tilted her chin a little to show she was perfectly at ease, whatever the hour or its inconvenience. She had not broken convention; she was superior to it, and therefore not bound by such restrictions. The maid must understand that. “Will you please tell Her Ladyship it is a matter of the utmost urgency—a scandalous matter in which I need her assistance to prevent a great injustice from being enacted.” That should bring Emily even if she was in bed!

The maid’s eyes opened wide and bright. That gem of information would certainly find its way back to the servants’ hall; and everyone who had the courage to listen at keyholes would most certainly do so, and relay with relish everything gleaned. Perhaps she had overdone it? They might be plagued with unnecessary messages all morning, and superfluous offers of tea.

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said a little breathlessly. “I shall inform Her Ladyship immediately!” She left, closing the door behind her very quietly. Then her heels clicked at so fast a pace along the passage she must have sent her skirts flying.

She reappeared in about four minutes.

“If you would care to join Her Ladyship in the breakfast room, ma’am?” She left no allowance for refusal, even if one had been contemplated.

“Thank you,” Charlotte accepted and walked past her; it was nice to have doors held for one. She knew where the breakfast room was, and did not need to be shown.

Emily was sitting at the table, her fair hair already exquisitely dressed for the day; she wore a morning gown of water-green taffeta that made her look delicate and expensive. Charlotte was instantly conscious of her own drabness; she felt like a damp winter leaf next to a flower in bloom. The excitement drained out of her and she sat down heavily in the chair opposite Emily. Visions of a hot, perfumed bath floated across her mind, then a flattering maid to dress her in brilliant, soft-falling silks, like butterflies.

“Well?” Emily demanded, crashing through her thoughts with reality. “What is it? What has happened? Don’t just sit there keeping me in suspense! I haven’t heard a decent scandal in months. All I get is endless love affairs that were perfectly predictable to anyone with eyes to see! And who cares about other people’s love affairs anyway? They only do it because they can’t think of anything more interesting. No one really minds—I mean no one feels anything scorching! It’s all a very silly game—Charlotte!” She banged her cup down with a porcelain tinkle, lucky not to chip it. “For goodness’ sake, what’s wrong?”

Charlotte recalled herself. Butterflies lived only a day or two anyway.

“Murder,” she said bluntly.

Emily was immediately sober, sitting perfectly upright.

“Tea?” she invited, then reached for the silver bell on the table. “Who has been murdered? Anyone we know?”

The maid appeared instantly. She had obviously been on the other side of the door waiting. Emily gave her a sour look.

“Bring fresh tea, please, Gwenneth, and toast for Mrs. Pitt.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t need toast,” Charlotte replied, thinking of getting into the butterfly silks.

“Have it anyway—off you go, Gwenneth—we don’t want it at lunchtime!” Emily waited until the door was closed. “Who’s been murdered?” she repeated. “And how? And why?”

“A boy called Arthur Waybourne,” Charlotte answered quite bluntly. “He was drowned in the bath—and I’m not sure why—exactly.”

Emily screwed up her face impatiently.

“What do you mean ‘exactly’? Do you mean ‘approximately,’ then? You aren’t making a lot of sense, Charlotte. Who would want to kill a child? He’s not an unknown baby that might embarrass someone, because you just told me his name.”

“He was not a baby at all. He was sixteen.”

“Sixteen! Are you trying to be irritating, Charlotte? He probably drowned quite accidentally. Does Thomas think it was murder, or are you just doing this by yourself?” Emily sat back, a shadow of disappointment in her eyes.

The whole dark, miserable story was suddenly very real again.

“It’s very unlikely he drowned by accident,” Charlotte replied, looking across the table spread with fine bone china, fruit preserves in jars, and a scatter of crumbs. “And he certainly did not put his own body down a manhole into the sewers!”

Emily caught her breath and choked.

“Down the sewers!” she cried, coughing and banging her chest. “Did you say sewers?”

“Quite. He also had been homosexually abused, and had caught a most unpleasant disease.”

“How disgusting!” Emily took a deep breath and a sip of lukewarm tea. “What sort of a person was he? I presume he came from the city somewhere, one of those areas—”

“On the contrary,” Charlotte interrupted. “He was the eldest son of a gentleman of—”

At that point, the door opened and the parlormaid came in with fresh tea and a rack of toast. There was utter silence while she set them on the table, paused for a moment or two in case the conversation continued, then met Emily’s frozen glance and left with a swing of skirts.

“What?” Emily demanded. “What did you say?”

“He was the eldest son of a family of distinction,” Charlotte repeated clearly. “Sir Anstey and Lady Waybourne, of Exeter Street.”

Emily stared, ignoring the teapot, and the fragrant steam rising gently in front of her.

“That’s preposterous!” she exploded. “How in heaven’s name could that happen?”

“He and his brother had a tutor,” Charlotte said, beginning to tell the parts of the story that mattered. “May I have the tea? A man called Maurice Jerome, really rather an unpleasant man, very cold and very prim. He’s clever and he resents being patronized by richer people with fewer brains. Thank you.” She took the tea; the cup was very light and painted with flowers in blue and gold. “The younger son, the one still alive, has said that Jerome made improper advances to him. And so has the son of a friend.”