Bluegate Fields (8 page)

Waybourne half rose from his chair.

“Of course not! Do you think if I—” He sank down again and covered his face with his hands. “I suppose I could have made a ghastly mistake.” He sat without moving for several seconds, then suddenly looked up at Pitt. “I had no idea! He had the most excellent references, you know?”

“And he may be worthy of them,” Pitt said a little sharply. “Do you know something to his discredit you have not told me?”

Waybourne remained perfectly still for so long that Pitt was about to prompt him, when at last he replied.

“I don’t know anything—at least not on the surface of my mind. Such an idea never occurred to me—why should it? What decent man entertains suspicions like that? But knowing what I do now”—he took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh—“I may remember things and understand them differently. You must allow me a little time. All this has been a very profound shock.” There was finality in his voice. Pitt was dismissed; it was only a matter of whether he was delicate enough not to require that it be put into words.

There was nothing left to insist on. There was justice in Waybourne’s request for time to consider, to weigh memories in the light of understanding. Shock drove out clarity of thought, blurred the edges, distorted recall. He was not unusual; he needed time, and sleep, before he committed himself.

“Thank you,” Pitt answered formally. “If you should think of anything relevant, I’m sure you will let us know. Good day, sir.”

Waybourne, lost in his dark reflections, did not bother to reply, but continued to frown, staring at a spot on the carpet by Pitt’s feet.

Pitt went home at the end of the day with a feeling not of satisfaction but of conclusion. The end was in sight; there would be no surprises, nothing more to discover but the pain-ridden details to dovetail into one another and complete the pattern. Jerome, a sad, unsatisfied man, cramped into a livelihood that stifled his talents and curbed his pride, had fallen in love with a boy who promised to be all the things Jerome himself might have been. Then, when all that envy and hunger had spilled over into physical passion, what? Perhaps a sudden revulsion, a fear—and Arthur had turned on him, threatening exposure? Searing shame for Jerome, all his private weakness torn apart, laughed at. And then dismissal without hope of ever finding another position—ruin. And doubtless the loss of the wife, who was—what? What was she to him?

Or had Arthur been more sophisticated than that? Was he capable of blackmail, even if it consisted of only the gentle, permanent pressure of his knowledge and its power? The slow smiles, the little cuts of the tongue.

From what Pitt had learned of Arthur Waybourne, he was neither so ingenious nor so enamored of integrity that the thought could not have occurred to him. He seemed to have been a youth determined to wade into adulthood with all its excitements as soon as chance allowed. Perhaps that was not uncommon. For most adolescents, childhood hung on like old clothes, when new and glamorous ones, more flattering ones, were waiting.

Charlotte met him as soon as he walked in the door.

“I heard from Emily today, and you’ll never believe—” She saw his face. “Oh. What is it?”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Do I look so grim?”

“Don’t evade me, Thomas!” she said sharply. “Yes, you do. And what has happened? Is it something to do with that boy who was drowned? It is, isn’t it?”

He took off his coat and Charlotte put it on the peg for him. She remained in the middle of the hallway, determined on an explanation.

“It appears as if it was the tutor,” he replied. “It’s all very sad and grubby. Somehow I can’t be outraged with any pleasure anymore when it stops being anonymous and I can attach a face to it and a life before it. I wish I could find it incomprehensible—it would be so much damnably easier!”

She knew he was referring to the emotions, not the crime. He had no need to explain. She turned in silence, just offering him her hand, and led the way into the warm kitchen—its blacked stove open, with live embers behind the bars, its wooden table scrubbed white, gleaming pans, blue-ringed china set out on the dresser, ironing waiting over the rails to be taken upstairs. Somehow it seemed to him to be the heart of the house, the living core that only slept but was never empty—unlike the parlor or bedrooms when there was no one in them. It was more than just the fire; it was something to do with the smell of the room, the love and the work, the echo of voices that laughed and talked there.

Had Jerome ever had a kitchen like this that was his own to sit in for as long as he wanted, where he could put things into perspective?

He eased comfortably into one of the wooden chairs, and Charlotte put the kettle on the hob.

“The tutor,” she repeated. “That was quick.” She got down two cups and the china teapot with the flowers on it. “And convenient.”

He was stung. Did she imagine he was trimming the case to suit his comfort or his career?

“I said it appears as if it was,” he retorted sharply. “It’s far from proven! But you said yourself that it was unlikely to have been a stranger. Who would be more likely than a lonely, inhibited man, forced by circumstances to be always more than a servant and less than an equal, neither in one world nor the other? He saw the boy every day, worked with him. He was constantly and subtly patronized, one minute encouraged for his knowledge, his skills, and the next rebuffed because of his social status, set aside as soon as school was out.”

“You make that sound awful.” She poured milk from the cooler at the back door into a jug and set it on the table. “Sarah and Emily and I had a governess, and she wasn’t treated like that at all. I think she was perfectly happy.”

“Would you have changed places with her?” he asked.

She thought for only a moment; then her face shadowed very slightly.

“No. But then a governess is never married. A tutor can be married because he doesn’t have to look after his own children. Didn’t you say this tutor was married?”

“Yes, but he has no children.”

“Then why do you think he’s lonely or dissatisfied? Maybe he likes teaching. Lots of people do. It’s better than being a clerk or a shopboy.”

He thought. Why had he supposed Jerome was lonely or dissatisfied? It was an impression, no more—and yet it was deep. He had felt a resentment around him, a hunger to have more, to
be
more.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Something about the man; but it’s no more than informed suspicion so far.”

She took the kettle off the hob and made the tea, sending steam up in a sweet-smelling cloud.

“You know, most crimes are not very mysterious,” he went on, still a little defensively. “The most obvious person is usually the one responsible.”

“I know.” She did not look at him. “I know that, Thomas.”

Two days later, any doubts he had were dismissed when a constable met him with the message that Sir Anstey Waybourne’s footman had called, and Pitt was required at the house because a most serious turn of events had taken place; new and extremely disturbing evidence was to hand.

Pitt had no choice but to go immediately. It was raining, and he buttoned up his coat, tied his scarf tighter, and pushed his hat down on his head. It took only moments to find a hansom and clatter over the wet stones to the Waybourne house.

A serene-faced parlormaid let him in. Whatever had happened, it seemed she was unaware of it. She showed him straight into the library, where Waybourne was standing in front of the fire, clasping and unclasping his hands. His head jerked up and he faced Pitt even before the maid had closed the door.

“Good!” he said quickly. “Now perhaps we can get this whole dreadful business over with and bury the tragedy where it belongs. My God, it’s appalling!”

The door closed with a faint snap and they were alone. The maid’s footsteps clicked away on the parquet floor outside.

“What is the new evidence, sir?” Pitt asked guardedly. He was still sensitive to Charlotte’s implication of convenience, and it would have to be more than suspicion or malice before he regarded it with any credence.

Waybourne did not sit down or offer Pitt a seat.

“I have learned something most shocking, quite—” His face creased with distress, and again Pitt was suddenly caught by a sense of pity that surprised and disconcerted him. “Quite dreadful!” Waybourne finished. He stared at the Turkish carpet, a rich red and blue. Pitt had once recovered one like it in a robbery case, and so knew its worth.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you would tell me what it is?”

Waybourne found the words difficult; he searched for them awkwardly.

“My younger son, Godfrey, has come to me with a most distressing confession.” He clenched his knuckles. “I cannot blame the boy for not having told me before. He was ... confused. He is only thirteen. Quite naturally, he did not understand the meaning, the implication.” Finally he looked up, though only for a moment. He seemed to desire Pitt’s understanding, or at least his comprehension.

Pitt nodded but said nothing. He wanted to hear whatever it was in Waybourne’s own words, without prompting.

Waybourne went on slowly. “Godfrey has told me that Jerome has, on more than one occasion, been overly familiar with him.” He swallowed. “That he has abused the boy’s trust, quite natural trust, and—and fondled him in an unnatural fashion.” He shut his eyes and his face twisted with emotion. “God! It’s revolting! That man—” He breathed in and out, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry. I find this—extremely distasteful. Of course Godfrey did not understand the nature behind these acts at the time. He was disturbed by them, but it was only when I questioned him that he realized he must tell me. I did not let him know what had happened to his brother, only that he should not be afraid to tell me the truth, that I should not be angry with him. He has committed no sin whatsoever—poor child!”

Pitt waited, but apparently Waybourne had said all he wished to. He looked up at Pitt, his eyes challenging, waiting for his response.

“May I speak to him?” Pitt said at last.

Waybourne’s face darkened. “Is that absolutely necessary? Surely now that you know what Jerome’s nature is, you will be able to find all the other information you need without questioning the boy. It is all most unpleasant, and the less said about it to him, the sooner he may forget it and begin to recover from the tragedy of his brother’s death.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but a man’s life may depend on it.” There was no such easy escape for either of them. “I must see Godfrey myself. I shall be as gentle as I can with him, but I cannot accept a secondhand account—even from you.”

Waybourne glared at the floor, weighing in his mind one danger against another; Godfrey’s ordeal against the possibility of the case dragging on, further police investigations. Then he jerked his head up to face Pitt, trying to judge if he could prevail on him by force of character if necessary. He knew it must fail.

“Very well,” he said at last, his anger rasping through his voice. He reached for the bell and pulled it hard. “But I shall not permit you to harass the boy!”

Pitt did not bother to answer. Words were of no comfort now; Waybourne would not be able to believe him. They waited in silence until the footman came. Waybourne told him to fetch Master Godfrey. Some moments later, the door opened and a slender, fair-haired boy stood in the entrance. He was not unlike his brother, but his features were finer; when the softness of childhood was gone, Pitt judged they would be stronger. The bones in the nose were different. He would like to have seen Lady Waybourne, just from curiosity, to complete the family, but he had been told she was still indisposed.

“Close the door, Godfrey,” Waybourne ordered. “This is Inspector Pitt, from the police. I’m afraid he insists that you repeat to him what you have told me about Mr. Jerome.”

The boy obeyed, but his eyes were on Pitt, wary. He walked in and stood in front of his father. Waybourne put his hand on the boy’s arm.

“Tell Mr. Pitt what you told me yesterday evening, Godfrey, about Mr. Jerome touching you. There is no need to be afraid. You have done nothing wrong or shameful.”

“Yes, sir,” Godfrey replied. But he hesitated and seemed unsure how to begin. He appeared to think of several words and discard them all.

“Did Mr. Jerome embarrass you?” Pitt felt a rush of sympathy for the boy. He was being asked to recount to a stranger an experience that was profoundly personal, confusing, and probably repellent. It should have been allowed to remain a secret within his family, a secret to be told or not as he chose, perhaps a little at a time, at whatever moments it came easily. Pitt hated having to extract it this way.

The boy’s face showed surprise; his blue eyes widened into a frank stare.

“Embarrass?” he repeated, considering the word. “No, sir.”

Apparently, Pitt had chosen the wrong word, although it seemed a particularly appropriate one to him.

“He did something that caused you to feel uncomfortable because it was overfamiliar, unusual?” he said, trying again.

The boy’s shoulders lifted and tightened a little.

“Yes,” he said very quietly, and for a second his eyes went up to his father’s face, but for so short a time that there was no communication between them.

“It’s important.” Pitt decided to treat him as an adult. Perhaps candor would be less distressing than an attempt to skirt around the issue, which would make it seem that there was shame or crime attached to it, leaving the boy to seek his own words for something he did not understand.

“I know,” Godfrey replied soberly. “Papa said so.”

“What happened?”

“When Mr. Jerome touched me?”

“Yes.”

“He just put his arm around me. I slipped and fell, and he helped me up.”

Pitt curbed his impatience. For all his confusion perhaps a natural denial, a retreat, the boy must be embarrassed.

“But it was unusual this time?” he encouraged.

“I didn’t understand.” Godfrey’s face puckered. “I didn’t know there was anything wrong—till Papa explained.”

“Of course,” Pitt agreed, watching Waybourne’s hand clench on his son’s shoulder. “How was it different from other times?”