Bluegate Fields (7 page)

Pitt had no argument; he had already thought the same things himself. Added to which, by all accounts so far, neither Arthur nor his brother had been in the habit of visiting the stables. Carriages were brought to the front door and there was no occasion for them to go to the mews except from personal interest. And that, apparently, had not existed.

“No,” Pitt agreed tersely, cleaning his feet against the iron boot-scraper at the back door. “Now we’d better try the rest of the staff to see what they can tell us.”

“Oh, come on!” Gillivray protested. “Boys like that don’t spend their spare time—or their affection—in the servants’ hall!”

“Clean your boots,” Pitt ordered. “Anyway, it was you who wanted to check on the grooms,” he added spitefully. “Just ask them. The butler or the valet may know where the boys went visiting, other houses they stayed at. Families go away for weekends or longer, you know. Strange things happen at country houses on occasion.”

Gillivray scraped his boots obediently, taking off some straw and, to his surprise, manure. He wrinkled his nose.

“Spent many weekends in the country, have you, Inspector?” he asked, permitting a faint touch of sarcasm into his voice.

“More than I can count,” Pitt replied with a very small smile. “I grew up on a country estate. The gentlemen’s gentlemen could tell a few tales, if they were plied with a little of the butler’s best port.”

Gillivray was caught between distaste and curiosity. It was a world he had never entered, but had watched avidly from the first time he glimpsed its color and ease, and the grace with which it hid its frailties.

“I hardly think the butler will give me the keys to his cellar for that purpose,” he said with a touch of envy. It smarted that Pitt, of all people, should have seen inside such a society, even if only from the vantage of an outdoor servant’s son. The mere knowledge was something Gillivray did not have.

“We won’t do any good raking it all over,” Gillivray repeated.

Pitt did not bother to argue anymore. Gillivray was obliged to obey. And, to be honest, Pitt did not believe there was any purpose in it either, except to satisfy Waybourne—and perhaps Athelstan.

“I’ll see the tutor.” He opened the back door and went into the scullery. The kitchenmaid, a girl of about fourteen, dressed in gray stuff and a calico apron, was scrubbing pots. She looked up, her hands dripping soap, her face full of curiosity.

“You get on with your work, Rosie,” the cook ordered, scowling at the intruders. “And what’ll you be wanting now?” she demanded of Pitt. “I’ve no time to be getting you anything to eat, or cups of tea either! I’ve never seen the like of it. Police indeed! I’ve luncheon to get for the family, and dinner to think of, I’ll have you know. And Rosie’s much too busy to be bothering with the likes of you!”

Pitt looked at the table and at a glance he could see the ingredients for pigeon pie, five types of vegetables, some sort of whitefish, a fruit pudding, trifle, sherbet, and a bowl full of eggs that could have been for anything—perhaps a cake or a soufflé.

The downstairs maid was polishing glasses. The light caught on the cut designs, sending prisms of color into the mirror behind her.

“Thank you,” Pitt said dryly. “Mr. Gillivray will talk to the butler, and I am going through to speak to Mr. Jerome.”

The cook snorted, dusting flour from her hands.

“Well, you’ll not do it in my kitchen,” she snapped. “You’d best go and see Mr. Welsh in his pantry, if you must. Where you see Mr. Jerome is nothing to do with me.” She bent to her pastry again, sleeves rolled up, hands strong and thick, powerful enough to wring a turkey’s neck.

Pitt walked past her, along the passage and through the baize door into the hallway. The footman showed him to the morning room, and five minutes later, Jerome came in.

“Good morning, Inspector,” he said with a faintly supercilious half smile. “I really cannot add anything to what I have already told you. But if you insist, I am prepared to repeat it.”

Pitt could not feel any liking for the man, in spite of an empathy for his situation; but it was an intellectual understanding, an ability to imagine how Jerome felt—the scraping of the emotions with every small reminder of dependence, of inferiority. Facing him in the flesh—seeing his bright, guarded eyes, the pursed mouth, the precise collar and tie, hearing the edge to his voice—Pitt still disliked him.

“Thank you,” he said, forcing himself to be patient. He wanted to let Jerome know that they were both there under compulsion: Pitt of duty, Jerome because Waybourne required it. But that would have been to give way to himself, and would defeat his objective. He sat down to indicate that he intended to take some time.

Jerome sat also, arranging his coat and trousers with care. Opposite Pitt, who spread out like dumped laundry, Jerome was meticulous. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“How long have you taught Arthur and Godfrey Waybourne?” Pitt began.

“Three years and ten months,” Jerome replied.

“Then Arthur would have been twelve and Godfrey nine?” Pitt calculated.

“Bravo.” Jerome’s voice went down at the end in weary sarcasm.

Pitt restrained his inclination to retaliate.

“Then you must know both boys well. You have observed them through most important years, the change from child to youth,” he said instead.

“Naturally.”

There was still no interest in Jerome’s face, no anticipation of what was to come. Had Waybourne told him anything of the details of Arthur’s death or merely of the death itself? Pitt watched him more closely, waiting for surprise in the round eyes, disgust—or any kind of fear.

“You are aware of their friends, even if you do not know them personally?” he continued.

“To a limited extent.” This time Jerome was more guarded, not willing to commit himself where he could not foresee.

There was no delicate way of approaching the subject. If Jerome had observed any strange personal habits in either of his charges, he could hardly afford to admit it now. And a wise tutor who wished to retain his position made it his business not to see the less attractive attributes of his employers or their friends. Pitt understood before he asked. Anything must be framed in such a way that Jerome could pretend only now to understand the meaning of what he had seen.

To be direct seemed the only avenue. He tried to make himself sound frank, to hide his instinctive dislike.

“Did Sir Anstey tell you the cause of Arthur’s death?” he asked, leaning forward in an unconscious attempt to do physically what he could not do emotionally.

Jerome sat back at the same moment, viewing Pitt with a frown.

“I believe he was attacked in the street,” he replied. “I haven’t heard more than that.” His nostrils flared delicately. “Are the details important, Inspector?”

“Yes, Mr. Jerome, they are very important indeed. Arthur Waybourne was drowned.” He watched closely: Was the incrudulity feigned, a little too much?

“Drowned?” Jerome regarded him as if he had made an attempt at humor that was repellent. Then comprehension flashed across his face. “You mean in the river?”

“No, Mr. Jerome, in a bath.”

Jerome spread out his manicured hands. His eyes were bleak.

“If this sort of idiocy is part of your method of interrogation, Inspector, I find it unnecessary and most unpleasant.”

Pitt could not disbelieve him. Such a dry, sour man could not be so consummate an actor, or he would have shown humor, learned charm to make his own path easier.

“No,” Pitt answered him. “I mean it quite literally. Arthur Waybourne was drowned in bathwater, and his naked body put down a manhole into the sewers.”

Jerome stared at him. “In God’s name! What’s happening? Why—I mean—who? How could—for heaven’s sake, man, it’s preposterous!”

“Yes, Mr. Jerome—and very ugly,” Pitt said quietly. “And there is worse than that. He was homosexually used sometime before he was killed.”

Jerome’s face was absolutely still, as if he either did not understand or could not believe it as any kind of reality.

Pitt waited. Was the silence caution, a consideration what to say? Or was it genuine shock, the emotion any decent man would feel? He watched every flicker—and still he had no idea.

“Sir Anstey did not tell me that,” Jerome said at last. “It is perfectly dreadful. I suppose there is no question?”

“No.” Pitt allowed himself the shadow of a smile. “Do you think Sir Anstey would concede it if there were?”

Jerome took his point, but the irony passed him by.

“No—no, of course not. Poor man. As if death were not enough.” He looked up quickly, hostile again. “I trust you are going to treat the matter with discretion?”

“As far as possible,” Pitt said. “I would prefer to get all the answers I can from within the household.”

“If you are suggesting that I have any idea who might have had such a relationship with Arthur, you are quite mistaken.” Jerome bristled with offense. “If I had had even the least suspicion of such a thing, I should have done something about it!”

“Would you?” Pitt said quickly. “Upon suspicion—and without proof? What would you have done, Mr. Jerome?”

Jerome saw the trap instantly. A flicker of self-mockery moved in his face, and then vanished.

“You are quite right, Mr. Pitt. I should have done nothing. However, disappointing as it is, I had no suspicion at all. Whatever occurred, it was quite beyond my knowledge. I can tell you all the boys of similar age that Arthur spent time with. Although I don’t envy you trying to discover which of them it was—if indeed it was any of his friends and not just some acquaintance. Personally, I think you are probably mistaken in supposing it to have any connection with his death. Why should anyone indulging in such a—a relationship commit murder? If you are suggesting some sort of an affair, with passion and jealousy or anything of the sort, I would remind you that Arthur Waybourne was barely sixteen.”

This was something that had troubled Pitt. Why should anyone have killed Arthur? Had Arthur threatened to disclose the relationship? Was he an unwilling partner, and the strain had become too great? That seemed the more likely answer. If it was someone who knew him, robbery would be pointless. Anything he would carry would be far too trivial for a boy of that social circle to covet so violently—a few coins, probably not even a watch or a ring.

And would another youth, even in panic, have the physical strength to murder, or afterward have the coolheadedness to dispose of the body so skillfully? And it was skillful: for all but mischance, it would never have been identified. An older man was a far more probable suspect: a man with more weight, more inured to his appetite, and better able to deal with the results of satisfying it—perhaps a man who had even foreseen this very danger arising one day.

Would such a man be fool enough, fragile enough, to become infatuated with a youth of sixteen? It was possible. Or perhaps it was a man who had only just discovered his own weakness, maybe through constant companionship, a proximity forced upon him by circumstances? He might still have the cunning to hide the body in the labyrinth of the sewers, trusting that by the time it was found it would be past connecting with the disappearance of Arthur Waybourne.

He looked up at Jerome. That careful face might hide anything. He was trained by a lifetime of masking his feelings so that they never offended, and his opinions so that they never clashed with those of his social superiors—even when he was perhaps better informed, or just quicker-witted. Was it possible?

Jerome was waiting, overtly patient. He had scant respect for Pitt, and he was enjoying the luxury of affording to show it.

“I think you would be better advised to leave the matter alone.” Jerome sat back and crossed his legs, folding his hands fingertip to fingertip. “It was probably a single instance of excess, certainly repellent.” His face was marked momentarily by a shadow of disgust; could the man really be an actor of such subtlety, such polish? “But not to be repeated,” he went on. “If you persist in trying to discover who it was, apart from the fact that you will almost certainly fail, you will bring a great deal of distress, not least to yourself.”

It was a fair warning, and Pitt was already aware of how the whole social caste would close its ranks against such an inquiry. To defend themselves they would defend each other—at any expense. After all, one moment of youthful vice was not worth exposing the follies or pains of a dozen families. Memories in society were long. Any youth marred by the stain might never marry within his own class, even if nothing was ever proved.

And perhaps Arthur had not been so very innocent. After all, he had contracted syphilis. Maybe his education had included women of the streets, an initiation into the other side of appetite.

“I know that,” Pitt said quietly. “But I cannot overlook murder!”

“Then you would do better to concentrate on that and leave the other to be forgotten,” Jerome expounded as if it were advice Pitt had sought from him.

Pitt felt his skin tighten in anger. He changed the subject, returning to facts: Arthur’s daily routine, his habits, his friends, his studies, his likes and dislikes—every clue to character he could think of. But he found himself weighing the answers as much for what they said of Jerome as of Arthur.

It was over two hours later when he stood facing Waybourne in his library.

“You were an uncommonly long time with Jerome,” Waybourne said critically. “I cannot imagine what he can have had to say to you of such value.”

“He spent a great deal of time with your son. He must have known him well,” Pitt began.

Waybourne’s face was red. “What did he tell you?” He swallowed. “What did he say?”

“He had no knowledge of any impropriety,” Pitt answered him, then wondered why he had given in so easily. It was a momentary thing—a flash of sensitivity, more instinct than thought; he had no warmth for the man.

Waybourne’s face relaxed. Then incredulity flashed across his eyes, and something else.

“Good God! You don’t really suspect him of—of—”

“Is there any reason why I should?”