Bluegate Fields

Bluegate Fields by Anne Perry

Scanned by Aristotle

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Inspector Pitt shivered a little and stared unhappily while Ser geant Froggatt lifted the manhole cover and exposed the open ing beneath. Iron rungs led downward into a hollow chasm of stone that echoed the distant slither and drip of water. Did Pitt imagine the scutter of clawed feet?

A breath of damp air drifted up, and immediately he tastec the sourness below. He sensed the labyrinth of tunnels anc steps, the myriad layers, and even more tunnels of slimy bricks that stretched out under the whole of London and carried awaj the waste and the unwanted, the lost.

"Down 'ere, sir," Froggatt said dolefully. "That's where they found 'im. Odd, I calls it-very odd."

"Very," Pitt agreed, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. Though it was only early September, he felt cold. The streets of Bluegate Fields were dank and smelled of poverty and human filth. It had once been a prosperous area, with high, elegant houses, the homes of merchants. Now it was one of the most dangerous of all the portside slums in England, and Pitl was about to descend into its sewers to examine a corpse thai had been washed up against the great sluice gates that closed ofl the Thames' tides.

"Right!" Froggatt stood aside, determined not to go first into the gaping hole with its wet, dark caverns.

Pitt stepped resignedly backward over the edge, grasped hold of the rungs, and began his careful descent. As the gloom closed in on him, the coursing water below sounded louder. He could smell the stale, entombed old water.

Froggatt was also climbing down, his feet a rung or two beyond Pitt's hands.

Standing on the wet stones at the bottom, Pitt hunched his coat higher onto his shoulders and turned to look for the sewer cleaner who had reported the discovery; he was there, part of the shadows-the same colors, the same damp, blurred lines. He was a little sharp-nosed man. His trousers, cobbled together from several other pairs, were held up by rope. He carried a long pole with a hook on the end, and around his waist was a large sacking bag. He was used to the darkness, the incessantly dripping walls, the smell, and the distant scurrying of rats. Perhaps he had already seen so many signs of the tragic, the primitive, and the obscene in human life that nothing shocked him anymore. There was nothing in his face now but a natural wariness of the police and a certain sense of his own importance because the sewers were his domain.

"You come for the body, then?" He craned upward to stare at Pitt's height. "Rum thing, that. Can't 'ave bin 'ere long, or the rats'd 'ave got it. Not bitten, it ain't. Now who'd want to do a thing like that, I ask yer?" Apparently, it was a rhetorical question, because he did not wait for an answer but turned and scurried along the great tunnel. He reminded Pitt of a busy little rodent, his feet clattering along the wet bricks. Froggatt followed behind them, his bowler hat jammed fiercely on his head, his galoshes squelching noisily.

Around the corner they came quite suddenly upon the great river sluice gates, shut against the rising tide.

"There!" the sewerman announced proprietarily, pointing to the white body that lay on its side as modestly as could be managed. It was completely naked on the dark stones at the side of the channel.

Pitt was startled. No one had told him the body was without the ordinary decency of clothes-or that it was so young. The skin was flawless, no more than a fine down on the cheeks. The stomach was lean, the shoulders slight. Pitt knelt down, momentarily forgetting the slimy bricks.

"Lantern, Froggatt," he demanded. "Bring it over here, man! Hold it still!'' It was unfair to be angry with Froggatt, but

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death-especially useless, pathetic death-always affected him this way.

Pitt turned the body over gently. The boy could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old, his features still soft. His hair, though wet and streaked with filth, must have been fair and wavy, a little longer than most. By twenty he might have been handsome, when his face had had time to mature. Now he was pallid, a little swollen with water, and his pale eyes were open.

But the dirt was only superficial; underneath he was well-cared for. There was none of the ingrained grayness of those who do not wash, whose clothes stay on from one month to another. He was slender, but it was only the lissomeness of youth, not the wasting of starvation.

Pitt reached for one of the hands and examined it. Its softness was not due only to the flaccidity of death. The skin had no calluses, no blisters, no lines of grime such as the skin of a'cobbler, a ragpicker, or a crossing sweeper would have. His nails were clean and well clipped.

Surely he did not come from the seething, grinding poverty of Bluegate Fields? But why no clothes?

Pitt looked up at the sewer cleaner.

"Are the currents strong enough down here to rip off a man's clothes?" he asked. "If he were struggling-drowning?"

"Doubt it." The cleaner shook his head. "Mebbe in the winter-lot o' rains. But not now. Any'ow, not boots-never boots. 'E can't 'ave bin down 'ere long, or rats'd 'ave bin at "im. Seen a sweeper's lad eaten to the bone, I 'ave, wot slipped and drowned a couple o' year ago."

"How long?"

He gave it some thought, allowing Pitt to savor the full delicacy of his expertise before he committed himself.

"Hours," he said at last. "Depends where 'e fell in. Not more than hours, though. Current won't take off boots. Boots stay on."

Pitt should have thought of that.

"Did you find any clothes?" he asked, although he was not sure he could expect an honest reply. Each sewerman had his own stretch of channel, jealously guarded. It was not

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so much a job as a franchise. The reward lay in the pickings, garnered under the gratings: coins, sometimes a gold sovereign or two, the occasional piece of jewelry. Even clothes found a good market. There were women who spent sixteen or eighteen hours a day sitting in sweatshops unpicking and resewing old clothes.

Froggatt hopefully swung the lantern out over the water, but it revealed nothing but the dark, oily, unbroken surface. If the depths held anything, it was sunken out of sight.

"No," the sewerman answered indignantly. "I ain't found nuffink at all or I would 'ave said. An' I searches the place reg'lar."

"No boys working for you?" Pitt pressed.

"No, this is mine. Nobody else comes 'ere-and I ain't found nuffink."

Pitt stared at him, uncertain whether he dared believe him. Would the man's avarice outmatch his natural fear of the police if he withheld something? As well-cared-for a body as this might have been dressed in clothes that would fetch a fair price.

"I swear! God's oath!" the sewerman protested, self-righteousness mixed with the beginnings of fear.

"Take his name," Pitt ordered Froggatt tersely. "If we find you've lied, I'll charge you with theft and obstructing the police in the investigation of a death. Understand me?"

"Name?" Froggatt repeated with rising sharpness.

"Ebenezer Chubb."

"Is that with two *b's?" Froggatt fished for his pencil and wrote carefully, balancing the lamp on the ledge.

"Yes, it is. But I swears-"

"All right." Pitt was satisfied. "Now you'd better help us get this poor creature up and outside to the mortuary wagon. I suppose he drowned-he certainly looks like it. I don't see any marks of anything else, not even a bruise. But we'd better be sure."

"Wonder who 'e was?" Froggatt said dispassionately. His beat was in Bluegate Fields, and he was used to death. Every week he came across children dead of starvation, piled in alleys or doorways. Or he found the old, dead of disease, the cold, or

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alcohol poisoning. "Suppose we'll never know now." He wrinkled his face. "But I'm damned if I can think 'ow 'e came to be down 'ere stark as a babe!" He gave the sewerman a sour look. "But I've got your name, my lad-and I'll know where to find you again-if as I should want to!"

When Pitt went home that evening to his warm house, with its neat window boxes and scrubbed step, he did not mention the matter. He had met his wife, Charlotte, when he had called at her parents' extremely comfortable, respectable home to investigate the Cater Street murders five years ago, in 1881. He fell in love with her then, never believing a lady of such a house would consider him as more than a painful adjunct to the tragedy, something to be borne with as much dignity as possible.

Incredibly, she had learned to love him as well. And although her parents hardly found the match fortunate, they could not refuse a marriage desired by a daughter so willful and disastrously outspoken as Charlotte. The alternative to marriage was to remain at home in genteel idleness with her mother or to engage in charitable works.

Since then, she had taken an interest in several of his cases- often to her own considerable peril. Even when she had been expecting Jemima, it had not deterred her from joining her sister Emily in meddling in the affair in Callander Square. Now their second child, Daniel, was only a few months old, and even with the full-time help of the maid, Gracie, she had plenty to occupy her. There was no purpose in distressing Charlotte with the story of the dead youth found in the sewers below Bluegate Fields.

When he came in, she was in the kitchen bending over the table with the flat iron in her hand. He thought again how handsome she was-the strength in her face, the high cheekbones, and the richness of her hair.

She smiled at him, and there was the comfort of friendship in her glance. He felt her warmth, as if in some secret way she knew not what he thought but what he felt inside, as if she would understand anything he said, whether his words

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were fluent or not, easy or awkward. It was a sense of coming home.

He forgot the boy and the sluice gates, the smell of the water. Instead, the quiet certainties washed over him, driving out the cold. He kissed Charlotte, then looked around at all the safe, familiar things: the scrubbed table, white with wear, the vase of late daisies, Jemima's playpen in the comer, the clean linen waiting to be mended, a small pile of colored bricks he had painted as a toy-Jemima's favorite.

Charlotte and he would eat and then sit by the old stove and talk of all kinds of things: memories of past pleasures or pains, new ideas struggling to find words, small incidents of the day.

But by noon the next day, the body under Bluegate Fields was forced back to his mind sharply and unpleasantly. He was sitting in his untidy office looking at the papers on his desk, trying to decipher his own notes, when a constable rapped on the door and, without waiting for an answer, came straight in.

"Police surgeon to see you, sir. Says it's important." Ignoring any acknowledgment, he opened the door wider and ushered in a neat, solid man with a fine gray beard and a marvelous head of curling gray hair.

, "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."

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"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

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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"- Cuder 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 Cuder's eyes.

"Of course I'm sure. Do you diink 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 die night before we found him," Pitt remarked. "I suppose dial 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 widi his hands. The odd sports, probably cricket or something of that kind. Last meal was

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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 Gilliv-

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ray-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 Wayboume. By now Gillivary 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

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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 Way-boume 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?"

Wayboume 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. Gillivry 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

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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."

Way bourne'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."

Way bourne'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 fash-ionabJe 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.

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"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.

Gillivray was too startled to react for an instant, but the morgue attendant had seen it more times than he could recall. It was the worst part of his job. He had a chair ready, and as Wayboume's knees buckled he eased him into it as if it were all one natural movement-not a collapse but a seating.

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Pitt covered the face.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said quietly. "You identify this as the body of your son Arthur Waybourne?"

Waybourne tried to speak but at first his voice would not come. The attendant gave him a glass of water and he took a sip of it.

"Yes," he said at last. "Yes, that is my son Arthur." He grasped the glass and drank some more of it slowly. "Would you be so good as to tell me where he was discovered and how he died?"

"Of course. He was drowned."

"Drowned?" Obviously, Waybourne was startled. Perhaps he had never seen a drowned face before and did not recognize the puffy flesh, marble white.

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"Drowned? How? In the river?"

"No, sir, in a bath."

"You mean he-he fell? He hit his head or something? What a ridiculous accident! That's the sort of thing that happens to old men!" Already the denial had begun, as if its ridiculousness could somehow make it untrue.

Pitt took a breath and let it out slowly. Evasion was not possible.

"No, sir. It seems he was murdered. His body was not found in a bath-not even in a house. I'm sorry-it was found in the sewers below Bluegate Fields, up against the sluice gates to the Thames. But for a particularly diligent sewer cleaner, we might not have found him at all."

"Oh, hardly!" Gillivray protested. "Of course he would have been found!." He wanted to contradict Pitt, prove him wrong in something, as if it could even now in some way disprove everything. "He could not have disappeared. That's nonsense. Even in the river-" He hesitated, then decided the subject was too unpleasant and abandoned it.

"Rats," Pitt said simply. "Twenty-four hours more in the sewer and he would not have been recognizable. A week, and there would have been nothing but bones. I'm sorry, Sir Anstey, but your son was murdered."

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Waybourne bridled visably, his eyes glittering in the white face.

"That's preposterous!" His voice was high now, even shrill. "Who on earth would have any reason to murder my son? He was sixteen! Quite innocent of anything at all. We lead a perfectly proper and orderly life.'' He swallowed convulsively and regained a fraction of his control. "You have mixed too much among the criminal element and the lower classes, Inspector," he said. "There is no one whatsoever who would wish Arthur any harm. There was no reason."

Pitt felt his stomach tighten. This was going to be the most painful of all: the facts Wayboume would find intolerable, beyond acceptance.

"I'm sorry." He seemed to be beginning every sentence

with an apology. "I'm sorry, sir, but your son was suffering

from the early stages of venereal disease-and he had been

homosexually used." ^!

Waybourne stared at him, scarlet blood suffusing his skin.

"That's obscene!" he shouted, starting from the chair as if to stand up, but his legs buckled. "How dare you say such a thing! I'll have you dismissed! Who is your superior?"

"It's not my diagnosis, sir. It is what the police surgeon says."

"Then he is a mischievous incompetent! I'll see he never practices again! It's monstrous! Obviously, Arthur was kidnapped, poor boy, and murdered by his captors. If-" He swallowed. "If he was abused before he was killed, then you must charge his murderers with that also. And see to it that they are hanged! But as for the other"-he made a sharp slicing motion with his hand in the air-"that is-that is quite impossible. I demand that our own family physician examine the-the body and refute this slander!''

"By all means," Pitt agreed. "But he will find the same facts, and they are capable of only one diagnosis-the same as the police pathologist."

Wayboume gulped and caught his breath awkwardly. His voice, when it came, was tight, scraping.

"He will not! I am not without influence, Mr. Pitt. I shall see

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that this monstrous wrong is not done to my poor son or to the rest of his family. Good day to you." He stood a little unsteadily, then turned and walked out of the room, up the steps, and into the daylight.

Pitt ran his hand through his hair, leaving it on end.

"Poor man," he said softly, to himself rather than to Gillivray. "He's going to make it so much harder for himself."

"Are you sure it really is-?" Gillivray said anxiously.

"Don't be so stupid!" Pitt sank down with his head in his hands. "Of course I'm damned well sure!"

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1 here was not time for the decencies of mourning to be ob

served. People's memories were short; details passed from

mind. Pitt was obliged to return to the Waybourne family the

next morning and begin the inquiries that could not wait upon

grief or the recapturing of composure. '

The house was silent. All the blinds were partway down, and there was black crepe on the front dodr. Straw was spread on the road outside to reduce the sound of carriage wheels passing. Gillivray had come in the soberest of garb, and stayed, grim-faced, two steps behind Pitt. He reminded Pitt irritatingly of an undertaker's assistant, full of professional sorrow.

The butler opened the door and ushered them in immediately, not allowing them time to stand on the doorstep. The hall was somber in the half-light of the drawn blinds. In the morning room, the gas lamps were lit and a small fire burned in the grate. On the low, round table in the center of the room were white flowers in a formal arrangement: chrysanthemums and thick, soft-fleshed lilies. It all smelled fainly of wax and polish and old sweet flowers, just a little stale.

Anstey Wayboume came in almost immediately. He looked pale and tired, his face set. He had already prepared what he intended to say and did not bother with courtesies.

"Good morning," he began stiffly. Then, without waiting for a response, he contined: "I assume you have certain questions it is necessary for you to ask. I shall do my best, of course, to give you the small amount of information I possess. I have given the matter some considerable thought, naturally." He

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clasped his hands together and looked at the lilies on the table. "I have come to the conclusion that my son was quite certainly attacked by strangers, perhaps purely from the base motives of robbery. Or I admit it is marginally possible that abduction was intended, although we have received no indication that it was so-no demand for any kind of ransom." He glanced at Pitt, and then away again. "Of course it may be that there was not time-some preposterous accident occurred, and Arthur died. Obviously, they then panicked." He took a deep breath. "And the results we are all painfully aware of.''

Pitt opened his mouth, but Wayboume waved his hand to silence him.

"No, please! Allow me to continue. There is very little we can tell you, but no doubt you wish to know about my son's last day alive, although I cannot see of what use it will be to you.

"Breakfast was perfectly as normal. We were all present. Arthur spent the morning, as is customary, with his younger brother Godfrey, studying under the tutelage of Mr. Jerome, whom I employ for that purpose. Luncheon was quite unremarkable. Arthur was his usual self. Neither his manner nor his conversation was in any way out of the ordinary, and he made no mention of any persons unknown to us, or any plans for unusual activity." Waybourne did not move in all the time he spoke, but stood in exactly the same spot on the rich Aubusson carpet.

"In the afternoon, Godfrey resumed his studies with Mr. Jerome. Arthur read for an hour or two-his classics, I believe-a little Latin. Then he went out with the son of a family friend, a boy of excellent background and well known to us. I have spoken to him myself, and he is also unaware of anything unusual in Arthur's behavior. They parted at approximately five in the afternoon, as near as Titus can remember, but Arthur did not say where he was going, except that it was to dine with a friend.'' Waybourne looked up at last and met Pitt's eyes. ' 'I'm afraid that is all we can tell you."

Pitt realized that there was already a wall raised against investigation. Anstey Waybourne had decided what had occurred: a chance attack that might have happened to anyone, a

18

tragic but insoluble mystery. To pursue a resolution would not bring back the dead, and would only cause additional and unnecessary distress to those already bereaved.

Pitt could sympathize with him. He had lost a son, and in extraordinarily painful circumstances. But murder could not be concealed, for all its anguish.

"Yes, sir," he said quietly. "I would like to see the tutor, Mr. Jerome, if I may, and your son Godfrey."

Waybourne's eyebrows rose. "Indeed? You may see Jerome, of course, if you wish. Although I cannot see what purpose it will serve. I have told you all that he knows. But I'm afraid it is quite out of the question that you should speak with Godfrey. He has already lost his brother. I will not have him subjected to questioning-especially as it is completely unnecessary."

It was not the time to argue. At the moment, they were all just names to Pitt, people without faces or characters, without connections except the obvious ones of blood; all the emotions involved were not yet even guessed.

"I would still like to speak to Mr. Jerome," Pitt repeated. "He may recall something that would be of use. We must explore every possibility."

"I cannot see the purpose of it." Wayboume's nose flared a little, perhaps with irritation, perhaps from the deadening smell of lilies. "If Arthur was set upon by thieves, Jerome is hardly likely to know anything that might help."

"Probably not, sir.'' Pitt hesitated, then said what he had to. "But there is always the possibility that his death had something to do with his-medical condition." What an obscene euphemism. Yet he found himself using it, painfully aware of Wayboume, the shock saturating the house, generations of rigid self-discipline, imprisoned feelings.

Waybourne's face froze. "That has not been established, sir! My own family physician will no doubt find your police surgeon is utterly mistaken. I daresay he has to do with a quite different class of person, and has found what he is accustomed to. I am sure that when he is aware of who Arthur was, he will revise his conclusions."

Pitt avoided the argument. It was not yet necessary; perhaps

19

it never would be if the "family physician" had both skill and courage. It would be better for him to tell Way bourne the truth, to explain that it could be kept private to some degree but could not be denied.

He changed the subject. "What was the name of this young friend-Titus, sir?"

Waybourne let out his breath slowly, as if a pain had eased.

"Titus Swynford," he replied. "His father, Mortimer Swynford, is one of our oldest acquaintances. Excellent family. But I have already ascertained everything that Titus knows. He cannot add to it."

"All the same, sir, we'll speak to him," Pitt insisted.

"I shall ask his father if he will give you permission," Waybourne said coldly, "although I cannot see that it will serve any purpose, either. Titus neither saw nor heard anything of relevance. Arthur did not tell him where he intended to go, nor with whom. But even if he had, he was obviously set upon by ruffians in the street, so the information would be of little use."

"Oh, it might help, sir." Pitt told a half lie. "It might tell us in what area he was, and different hooligans frequent different streets. We might even find a witness, if we know where to look."

Indecision contorted Waybourne's face. He wanted the whole matter buried as quickly and decently as possible, hidden with good heavy earth and flowers. There would be proper memories draped with black crepe, a coffin with brass handles, a discreet and sorrowful eulogy. Everyone would return home with hushed voices to observe an accepted time of mourning. Then would follow the slow return to life.

But Waybourne could not afford the inexplicable behavior of not appearing to help the police search for his son's murderer. He struggled mentally and failed to find words to frame what he felt so that it sounded honorable, something he could accept himself as doing.

Pitt understood. He could almost have found the words for him, because he had seen it before; there was nothing unusual or hard to understand in wanting to bury pain, to keep

20

the extremity of death and the shame of disease private matters.

"I suppose you had better speak to Jerome," Way bourne said at last. It was a compromise. "I'll ask Mr. Swynford if he will permit you to see Titus." He reached for the bell and pulled it. The butler appeared as if he had been at the door.

"Yes, sir?" he inquired.

"Send Mr. Jerome to me." Waybourne did not look at him.

Nothing was said in the morning room until there was a knock on the door. At Wayboume's word, the door opened and a dark man in his early forties walked in and closed it behind him. He had good features, if his nose was a little pinched. His mouth was full-lipped, but pursed with a certain carefulness. It was not a spontaneous face, not a face that laughed, except after consideration, when it believed laughter advisable-the thing to do.

Pitt looked at him only from habit; he did not expect the tutor to be important. Maybe, Pitt reflected, if he had worked teaching the sons of a man like Anstey Waybourne, imparting his knowledge yet knowing they were growing up only to inherit possessions without labor and to govern easily, by right of birth, he would be like Jerome. If Pitt had spent his life as always more than a servant but less than his own man, dependent on boys of thirteen and sixteen, perhaps his face would be just as careful, just as pinched.

"Come in, Jerome," Waybourne said absently. "These men are from the police. Er-Pitt-Inspector Pitt, and Mr.- er-Gilbert. They wish to ask you a few questions about Arthur. Pointless, as far as I can see, but you had better oblige them."

"Yes, sir." Jerome stood still, not quite to attention. He looked at Pitt with the slight condescension of one who knows that at last he addresses someone beyond argument his social inferior.

"I have already told Sir Anstey all I know," Jerome said with a slight lift of his eyebrows. "Naturally, if there were anything, I should have said so."

21

" "Of course," Pitt agreed. "But it is possible you may know something without being aware of its relevance. I wonder, sir," he looked at Waybourne, "if you would be good enough to ask Mr. Swynford for his permission to speak with his son?"

Wayboume hesitated, torn between the desire to stay and make sure nothing was said that was distasteful or careless, and the foolishness of allowing his anxiety to be observed. He gave Jerome a cold, warning look, then went to the door.

When it was closed behind him, Pitt turned to the tutor. There was really very little to ask him, but now that he was here, it was better to go through the formalities.

"Mr. Jerome," he began gravely. "Sir Anstey has already said that you observed nothing unusual about Mr. Arthur's behavior on the day he died."

"That is correct," Jerome said with overt patience. "Although there could hardly be expected to have been, unless one believes in clairvoyance"-he smiled faintly, as though at a lesser breed from whom foolishness was to be expected- "which I do not. The poor boy cannot have known what was to happen to him."

Pitt felt an instinctive dislike for the man. It was unreasonable, but he imagined Jerome and he would have no belief or emotion in common, not even their perceptions of the same event.

"But he might have known with whom he intended to have dinner?" Pitt pointed out. "I presume it would be someone he was already acquainted with. We should be able to discover who it was."

Jerome's eyes were dark, a little rounder than average.

"I fail to see how that will help," he answered. "He cannot have reached the appointment. If he did, then the person would no doubt have come forward and expressed his condolences at least. But what purpose would it serve?"

"We would learn where he was," -Pitt pointed out. "It would narrow the area. Witnesses might be found."

Jerome did not see any hope in that.

"Possibly. I suppose you know your business. But I'm afraid I have no idea with whom he intended to spend the evening. I

22

presume, in view of the fact that the person has not come forward, that it was not a prearranged appointment, but something on the spur of the moment. And boys of that age do not confide their social engagements to their tutors, Inspector.'' There was a faint touch of irony in his voice-something less than self-pity, but more sour than humor.

"Perhaps you could give me a list of his friends that you are aware of?" Pitt suggested. "We can eliminate them quite easily. I would rather not press Sir Anstey at the moment."

"Of course." Jerome turned to the small leather-topped

writing table by the wall and pulled out a drawer. He took

paper and began to make notes, but his face expressed his

disbelief. He thought Pitt was doing something quite useless

because he could think of nothing else, a man clutching at

straws to appear efficient. He had written half a dozen lines

when Waybourne came back. He glanced at Pitt, then im

mediately at Jerome. •

"What is that?" he demanded, hand outstretched toward the paper.

Jerome's face stiffened. "Names of various friends of Mr. Arthur's, sir, with whom he might have intended to dine. The inspector wishes it.''

Waybourne sniffed. "Indeed?" He looked icily at Pitt. "I trust you will endeavor to be discreet, Inspector. I should not care for my friends to be embarrassed. Do I make myself clear?"

Pitt had to force himself to remember the circumstances in order to curb his rising temper.

But Gillivray stepped in before he could answer.

"Of course, Sir Anstey," he said smoothly. "We are aware of the delicacy of the matter. All we shall ask is whether the gentlemen in question was expecting Mr. Arthur for dinner, or for any other engagement that evening. I'm sure they will understand it is important that we make every effort to discover where this appalling event took place. Most probably it was just as you say, a chance attack that might have happened to any well-dressed young gentleman who appeared to have valuables on him. But we must do what little we can to ascertain that this was so."

23

Waybourne's face softened with something like appreciation.

"Thank you. I cannot think it will make the slightest difference, but of course you are right. You will not discover who did this-this thing. However, I quite see that you..are obliged to try." He turned to the tutor. ' 'Thank you, Jerome. That will be all."

Jerome excused himself and left, closing the door behind' him.

Waybourne looked from Gillivray back to Pitt, his expression changing. He could not understand the essence of Gilliv-ray's social delicacy, or of Pitt's brief, sharp compassion that leaped the gulf of every other difference between them; to him, the men represented the distinction between discretion and vulgarity.

"I believe that is all I can do to be of assistance to you, Inspector," he said coldly. "I have spoken to Mr. Mortimer Swynford, and if you still feel it necessary, you may speak to Titus." He ran his hand through his thick, fair hair in a tired gesture.

"When will it be possible to speak to Lady Waybourne, sir?" Pitt asked.

"It will not be possible. There is nothing she can tell you that would be of any use. Naturally, I have asked her, and she did not know where Arthur planned to spend his evening. I do not intend to subject her to the ordeal of being questioned by the police." His face closed, hard and final, the skin tight.

Pitt drew a deep breath and sighed. He felt Gillivray stiffen beside him and could almost taste his embarrassment, his revulsion for what Pitt was going to say. He half expected to be touched, to feel a hand on his arm to restrain him.

"I'm sorry, Sir Anstey, but there is also the matter of your son's illness and his relationships," he said gently. "We cannot ignore the possibility that they were connected to his death. And the relationship is in itself a crime-"

"I am aware of that, sir!" Wayboume looked at Pitt as if he himself had participated in the act merely by mentioning it. "Lady Wayboume will not speak with you. She is a woman of decency. She would not even know what you were talking

24

about. Women of gentle birth have never heard of such- obscenities."

Pitt knew that, but pity overruled his resentment.

"Of course not. I was intending only to ask her about your son's friends, those who knew him well."

"I have already told you everything you can possibly find of

use, Inspector Pitt," Waybourne said. "I have no intention

whatsoever of prosecuting whoever"-he swallowed-

"whoever abused my son. It's over. Arthur is dead. No raking

over of personal'' -he took a deep breath and steadied himself,

his hand gripping the carved back of one of the chairs-

"depravities of-of some unknown man is going to help. Let

the dead at least lie in peace, man. And let those of us who have

to go on living mourn our son in decency. Now please pursue

your business elsewhere. Good day to you." He turned his

back and stood, his body stiff and square-shouldered, facing

the fire and the picture over the mantelshelf. '

There was nothing for Pitt or Gillivray to do but leave. They accepted their hats from the footman in the hall and went out the front door into the sharp September wind and the bustle of the street.

Gillivray held up the list of friends written by Jerome.

"Do you really want this, sir?" he said doubtfully. "We can hardly go around asking these people much more than if they saw the boy that evening. If they knew of anything"-his face wrinkled slightly in distaste, reflecting just such an expression as Waybourne himself might have assumed-"indecent, they are not going to admit it. We can hardly press them. And, quite honestly, Sir Anstey is right-he was attacked by footpads or hooligans. Extremely unpleasant, especially when it happens to a good family. But the best thing we can do is let it lie for a while, then discreetly write it off as insoluble."

Pitt turned on him, his anger at last safe to unloose.

"Unpleasant?" he shouted furiously. "Did you say 'unpleasant,' Mr. Gillivray? The boy was abused, diseased, and then murdered! What does it have to be before you consider it downright vile? I should be interested to know!"

"That's uncalled for, Mr. Pitt," Gillivray said stiffly, repugnance in his face rather than offense. "Discussing tragedy only

25

makes it worse for people, harder for them to bear, and it is not part of our duty to add to their distress-which, God knows, must be bad enough!"

"Our duty, Mr. Gillivray, is to find out who murdered that boy and then put his naked body down a manhole into the sewers to be eaten by the rats and left as anonymous, untraceable bones. Unfortunately for them, it was washed up to the sluice gates and a sharp-eyed sewerman, on the lookout for a bargain, found him too soon."

Gillivray looked shaken, the pink color gone from his skin.

"Well-I-I hardly think it is necessary to put it quite like that."

"How would you put it?" Pitt demanded, swinging around to face him. "A little gentlemanly fun, an unfortunate accident? Least said the better?" They crossed the road and a passing hansom flung mud at them.

"No, of course not!" Gillivray's color flooded back. "It is an unspeakable tragedy, and a crime of the worst kind. But I honestly do not believe there is the slightest chance whatever that we shall discover who is responsible, and therefore it is better we should spare the feelings of the family as much as we can. That is all I meant! As Sir Anstey said, he is not going to prosecute whoever-well-that's a different matter. And one that we have no call in!" He bent and brushed the mud off his trousers irritably.

Pitt ignored him.

By the end of the day, they had separately called on the few names on Jerome's list. None had admitted expecting or seeing Arthur Waybourne that evening, or having had any idea as to his plans. On returning to the police station a little after five o'clock, Pitt found a message awaiting him that Athelstan wished to see him.

"Yes, sir?" he inquired, closing the heavy, polished door behind him. Athelstan was sitting behind his desk, with a fine leather set of inkwells, powder, knife, and seals beside his right hand.

"This Waybourne business." Athelstan looked up. A 26

shadow of annoyance crossed his face, "Well, sit down, man! Don't stand there flapping about like a scarecrow." He surveyed Pitt with distaste. "Can't you do something about that coat? I suppose you can't afford a tailor, but for heaven's sake get your wife to press it. You are married, aren't you?"

He knew perfectly well that Pitt was married. Indeed, he was aware that Pitt's wife was of rather better family than Athelstan himself, but it was something he chose to forget whenever possible.

"Yes, sir," Pitt said patiently. Not even the Prince of Wales's tailor could have made Pitt look tidy. There was a natural awkwardness about him. He moved without the languor of a gentleman; he was far too enthusaistic.

"Well, sit down!" Athelstan snapped. He disliked having to look up, especially at someone who was taller than he was, even when standing. "Have you discovered anything?" •

Pitt sat obediently, crossing his legs.

"No, sir, not yet."

Athelstan eyed him with disfavor.

"Never imagined you would. Most unsavory affair, but a sign of the times. City's coming to a sad state when gentlemen's sons can't take a walk in the evening without being set upon by thugs."

"Not thugs, sir," Pitt said precisely. "Thugs strangle from behind, with scarves. This boy was-"

"Don't be a fool!" Athelstan said furiously. "I am not talking of the religious nature of the assailants! I am talking of the moral decline of the city and the fact that we have been unable to do anything about it. I feel badly. It is the job of the police to protect people like the Waybournes-and everyone else, of course." He slapped his hand on the burgundy leather surface of his desk. "But if we cannot discover even the area in which the crime was committed, I don't see what we can do, except save the family a great deal of public notice which can only make their bereavement the harder to bear.''

Pitt knew immediately that Gillivray had already reported to Athelstan. He felt his body tighten with anger, the muscles cord across his back.

27

"Syphilis may be contracted in one night, sir," he said distinctly, sounding each word with the diction he had learned with the son of the estate on which he had grown up. "But the symptoms do not appear instantly, like a bruise. Arthur Way-boume was used by someone long before he was killed."

The skin on Athelstan's face was beaded with sweat; his mustache hid his lip, but his brow gleamed wet in the gaslight. He did not look at Pitt. There were several moments of silence while he struggled with himself.

"Indeed," he said at last. "There is much that is ugly, very ugly. But what gentlemen, and the sons of gentlemen, do in their bedrooms is fortunately beyond the scope of the police- unless, of course, they request our intervention. Sir Anstey has not. I deplore it as much as you do." His eyes flickered up and met Pitt's with a flash of genuine communication, then slid away again. "It is abominable, repugnant to every decent human being."

He picked up the paper knife and fiddled With it, watching the light on the blade. "But it is only his death we are concerned with, and that would seem to be insoluble. Still, I appreciate that we must appear to try. Quite obviously the boy did not come to be where he was by accident." He clenched his hand until his knuckles showed white through the red skin. He looked up sharply. "But for God's sake, Pitt-use a little discretion! You've moved in society before with investigations. You ought to know how to behave! Be sensitive to their grief, and their horrible shock in learning the other-facts. I don't know why you felt it necessary to tell them! Couldn't it have been decently buried with the boy?" He shook his head. "No-I suppose not. Had to tell the father, poor man. He has a right to know-might have wanted to prosecute someone. Might have known something already-or guessed. You won't find anything now, you know. Could have been washed to Bluegate Fields from anywhere this side of the city. Still-we have to make it seem as if we've done all we can, if only for the mother's sake. Wretched business-most unpleasant crime I've ever had to deal with.

"All right, you'd better get on with it! Do what you can." 28

He waved his hand to indicate that Pitt could leave. "Let me know in a day or two. Good night."

Pitt stood up. There was nothing else to say, no argument that was worth making.

"Good night, sir." He went out of the polished office and closed the door behind him.

When Pitt arrived home, he was tired and cold. Indecision was no more than a shadow at the back of his mind, disturbing his certainty, spoiling the solidity of his will. It was his job to resolve mysteries, to find offenders and hand them over to the law for trial. But he had seen the damage that the resolution of all secrets could bring; every person should have the right to a certain degree of privacy, a chance to forget or to overcome. Crime must be paid for, but not all sins or mistakes need be made public and explained for everyone to examine and remember. And sometimes victims were punished doubly, orice by the offense itself, and then a second and more enduring time when others heard of it, pored over it, and imagined every intimate detail.

Could that be so with Arthur Waybourne? Was there any point now in exposing his weakness or his tragedy?

And if answers were dangerous, half answers were worse. The other half was built by the imagination; even the innocent were involved and could never disprove what was not real to begin with. Surely that was a greater wrong than the original crime, because it was not committed in the heat of emotion or by instinct, but deliberately, and without fear or danger to oneself. There was almost an element of voyeurism, a self-righteousness in it that sickened him.

Were Gillivray and Athelstan right? Was there no chance of finding the person who had murdered Arthur? If it had nothing to do with his private weaknesses, his sins, or sickness, then the investigation would only publicize the pain of a lot of men and women who were probably no more to blame than most people, for one omission or another.

At first he said nothing about it to Charlotte. In fact, he said very little at all, eating his meal in near silence in the parlor,

29

which was soft in the evening gaslight. He was unaware of his withdrawal until Charlotte put it into words.

"What is the decision?" she asked, as she laid down her knife and fork and folded her napkin.

He looked up, surprised.

"Decision? About what?"

Her mouth tightened in a tiny smile. "Whatever it is that has been tormenting you all evening. I've watched it wavering back and forth across your face ever since you came in."

He relaxed with a little sigh.

"I'm sorry. Yes, I suppose I have been. But it's an unpleasant case. I'd rather not discuss it with you."

She stood, picked up the plates, and stacked them on the sideboard. Grade worked all day, but she was permitted to leave the dinner dishes until the following morning.

Pitt went to sit by the fire. He eased into the fat, padded chair with relief.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said briskly, coming to sit opposite him. "I've already been involved with all sorts of murders. - My stomach is as strong as yours."

He did not bother to argue. She had never even imagined most of the things he had seen in the rookery slums: filth and misery beyond the imagination of any sane person.

"Well?" she came back and sat down, looking at him expectantly.

He hesitated. He wanted her opinion, but he could not tell her the dilemma without the details. If the disease or the homosexuality was omitted, there would be no problem. Eventually he gave in to his need and told her.

"Oh," she said when he finished. She sat without saying anything more for so long that he was afraid he had distressed her too deeply, perhaps confused or disgusted her.

He leaned forward and took her hand.

"Charlotte?"

She looked up. There was pain in her eyes, but it was the pain of pity, not confusion or withdrawal. He felt an overwhelming surge of relief, a desire to hold on to her, feel her in his arms. He wanted even just to touch her hair, to pull out its neat coils and thread his fingers through its softness. But it seemed inap-

30

propriate; she was thinking of a dead boy, hardly more than a child, and of the tragic compulsions that had driven someone to use him, and then destroy him.

"Charlotte?" he said again.

Her face was screwed up with doubt as she met his eyes.

"Why should ruffians put him down into the sewers?" she said slowly. "In a place like Bluegate Fields, what would it matter if he were found? Don't you find bodies there anyway? I mean-wouldn't ruffians have hit him over the head, or stabbed him? Kidnappers might drown him! But there's no point in kidnapping someone if you don't know who he is-because whom do you ask for a ransom?"

He stared at her. He knew what her answer was going to be long before she framed it in words herself.

"It had to be someone who knew him, Thomas. For it to have been strangers doesn't make any sense! They'd have robbed him and left him there in the street, or in an alley. Maybe-" She frowned; she did not believe it herself. "Maybe it has nothing to do with whoever used him-but don't you think it has? People don't just suddenly stop having 'relationships.' " She used a delicate word, but they both knew what she meant. "Not where there isn't love. Whoever it is, he'll find someone else now this boy is dead-won't he?"

He sat back wearily. He had been deceiving himself because it would be easier, would avoid the unpleasantness and the pain.

"I expect so," he admitted. "Yes, I suppose he will. I can't take the chance. You're right," he sighed. "Damn."

Charlotte could not put the boy's death out of her mind. She did not speak of it again that evening to Pitt; he was already full of the knowledge of it and wanted to bar it from his thoughts, to have some hours to restore his emotions and revitalize.

But through the night she woke often. As she lay staring at the ceiling, Pitt silent beside her in the sleep of exhaustion, her mind compelled her to think over and over what sort of tragedy had finally ended in this dreadful manner.

Of course she did not know the Wayboumes-they were hardly within her social circle-but her sister Emily might. Em-

31

ily had married into the aristocracy and moved in high society now.

Then she remembered that Emily was away in the country, in Leicestershire, visiting a cousin of George's. They were to go hunting, or something of the sort. She could picture Emily in immaculate riding habit as she sat perched on her sidesaddle, heart in her throat, wondering whether she could take the fences without falling off and making a fool of herself, yet determined not to admit defeat. There would be an enormous hunt breakfast: two hundred people or more, the master in glorious pink, hounds milling around the horses' feet, chatter, shouts to order, the smell of frost-not, of course, that Charlotte had ever been to a hunt! But she had heard from those who had.

And neither could she turn to Great-Aunt Vespasia-she had gone to Paris for the month. She would have been ideal; she had known absolutely everyone that mattered over the last fifty years.

But then, according to Pitt, Waybourne was only a baronet, a very minor title-it could even have been bought in trade. Her own father was a banker and man of affairs; her mother might know Lady Waybourne. It was at least worth trying. If she could meet the Way bournes socially, when they were not guarding themselves against the vulgarity and intrusion of the police, she might learn something that would be of use to Pitt.

Naturally, they would be in mourning now, but there were always sisters or cousins, or even close friends-people who would, as a matter of course, know of relationships that would never be discussed with persons of the lower orders, such as professional investigators.

Accordingly, without mentioning it to Pitt, she took an omnibus just before lunch the following day and called on her mother at her home in Rutland Place.

"Charlotte, my dear!" Her mother was delighted to see her; it seemed she had completely forgiven her for that miserable affair over the Frenchman. There was nothing but warmth in Caroline's face now. "Do stay for luncheon-Grandmama will be down in half an hour, and we shall have lunch. I am expecting Dominic any moment." She hesitated, searching Charlotte's

32

eyes for any shadow of the old enchantment when she had been so in love with the husband of her eldest sister, Sarah, when Sarah was still alive. But she found nothing; indeed, Charlotte's feelings for Dominic had long since faded into simple affection.

The anxiety disappeared. "It will be an excellent party. How are you, my dear? How are Jemima and Daniel?"

For some time they discussed family affairs. Charlotte could hardly launch instantly into inquiries her mother would be bound to disapprove of. She had always found Charlotte's meddling in Pitt's affairs both alarming and in the poorest possible taste.

There was a thump on the door. The maid opened it, and Grandmama swept in, wearing dourest black, her hair screwed up in a style\that had been fashionable thirty years before, when society, in her opinion, had reached its zenith-it had been on the decline ever since. Her face was sharp with irritation. She eyed Charlotte up and down silently, then whacked the chair nearest to her with her stick to make sure it was precisely where she supposed, and sat down in it heavily.

"Didn't know you were coming, child!" she observed. "Have you no manners to inform people? Don't suppose you have a calling card either, eh? When I was young, a lady did not drop in to a person's house without due notice, as if she were a piece of unsolicited postage! No one has any manners these days. And I take it you will be getting one of these contraptions with strings and bells, and the good Lord knows what else? Telephones! Talking to people on electric wires, indeed!" She sniffed loudly. "Since dear Prince Albert died, all moral sensibility has declined. It is the Prince of Wales's fault-the scandals one hears are enough to make one faint! What about Mrs. Langtry? No better than she should be, I'll be bound!" She squinted at Charlotte, her eyes bright and angry.

Charlotte ignored the matter of the Prince of Wales and returned to the question of the telephone.

"No, Grandmama, they are very expensive-and, for me, quite unnecessary.''

"Quite unnecessary for anyone!" Grandmama snorted. "Lot of nonsense! What's wrong with a perfectly good let-

33

ter?" She swiveled a little to glare at Charlotte face to face. "Though you always wrote a shocking hand! Emily was the only one of you who could handle a pen like a lady. Don't know what you were thinking of, Caroline! I brought up my daughter to know all the arts a lady should, the proper things-embroidery, painting, singing and playing the pianoforte pleasingly-the sort of occupations proper for a lady. None of this meddling in other people's affairs, politics and such. Never heard such nonsense! That's men's business, and not good for the health or the welfare of women. I've told you that before, Caroline."

Grandmama was Charlotte's father's mother, and never tired of telling her daughter-in-law things should be done to conform with standards as they used to be in her own youth, when things were conducted properly.

Mercifully they were saved any further pursuance of the subject by Dominic's arrival. He was as elegant as always but now the grace of his movement, the way his dark hair grew to his quick smile stirred no pain in Charlotte at all. She felt only the pleasure of seeing a friend.

He greeted them all charmingly, even Grandmama, and as always she dissembled in front of him. She examined him for something to criticize and failed to find anything. She was not sure whether she was pleased or disappointed. It was not desirable that young men, however attractive, should be too satisfied with themselves. It did them no good at all. She looked at him again, more carefully.

"Is your barber indisposed?" she said at last.

Dominic's black eyebrows rose a little.

"You consider my hair ill-cut, Grandmama?" He still gave her the courtesy title, even though his membership of the family was far more distant since Sarah's death and his move from the house in Cater Street to his own lodgings.

"I had not realized it had been cut at all!" she replied, screwing up her face. "At least not recently! Have you considered joining the army?"

"No, never," he said, affecting surprise. "Are their barbers good?"

34

She snorted with infinite contempt and turned to Caroline.

"I'm ready for luncheon. How long am I obliged to wait? Are we expecting yet another guest I have not been told of?"

Caroline opened her mouth to argue, then resigned herself to the futility of it.

"Immediately, Mother-in-law," she said, standing up and reaching for the bell. "I will have it served now."

Charlotte did not find an opportunity to raise the name of the Waybournes until after soup had been served and eaten, the plates removed, and the fish set on the table.

"Waybourne?" Grandmama balanced an enormous portion on her fork, her eyes like black prunes. "Waybourne?" The fish overbalanced and fell on her plate into a pile of sauce. She scooped it up again and put it into her mouth, her cheeks bulging.

"I don't think so." Caroline shook her head. "Who was Lady Waybourne before she was married, do you know?'"

Charlotte had to admit that she had no idea.

Grandmama swallowed with a gulp and coughed violently.

"That's the trouble with the world these days!" she snapped when she caught her breath. "Nobody knows who anyone is any more! Society has gone to the dogs!" She took another huge mouthful of fish and glared at each of them in turn.

"Why do you ask?" Caroline inquired innocently. "Are you considering whether to pursue an aquaintance?"

Dominic appeared lost in his own thoughts.

"Are they people you have met?" Caroline continued.

Grandmama swallowed. "Hardly!" she said with considerable acid. "If they are people we might be aquainted with, then they would not move in Charlotte's circle. I told her that when she insisted on running off and marrying that extraordinary creature from the Bow Street runners, or whatever they call them these days! I don't know what you were thinking of, Caroline, to allow such a thing! If one of my daughters had ever entertained such an idea, I'd have locked her in her bedroom until she came out of it!" She spoke as if it were some kind of fit.

Dominic covered his face with his napkin to hide his smile, but it still showed in his eyes as he looked up quickly at Charlotte.

35

"A lot of things were done in your day that are impractical now," Caroline said crossly. "Times change, Mama-in-law."

Grandmama banged her fork on her empty plate and her eyebrows rose almost to her hair.

"The bedroom door still has a lock on it, has it not?" she demanded.

"Vanderley," Dominic said suddenly.

Grandmama swung around to face him. "What did you say?"

"Vanderley," he repeated. "Benita Waybourne was Vanderley before she married. I remember because I know Esmond Vanderley."

Charlotte instantly forgot about Grandmama and her insults, and looked at him with excitement.

"Do you? Could you possibly find a way to introduce me- discreetly, of course? Please?"

He looked a bit startled. "If you wish-but whatever for? I don't think you would like him. He is fashionable, and quite amusing-but I think you would find him very light."

"All young men are light-minded these days!" Grandmama said morosely. "No one knows their duty anymore."

Charlotte ignored her. She had already thought of her excuse. It was a complete lie, but desperate situations occasionally call for a little invention.

"It is for a friend,'' she said, looking at no one in particular. "A certain young person I know-a romantic affair. I would rather not divulge the details. They are"-she hesitated delicately-"most personal."

"Indeed!" Grandmama scowled. "I hope it is nothing sordid."

"Not in the least." Charlotte jerked her head up and faced her, finding suddenly that it gave her great pleasure to lie to the old lady. "She is of good family but slight resources, and she wishes to better herself. I'm sure you would sympathize with that, Grandmama."

Grandmama gave her a suspicious look, but did not argue. Instead she glanced across at Caroline.

"We are all finished! Why don't you ring the bell and have them dish the next course? I presume we are to have a next

36

course? I don't want to sit here all afternoon! We may have callers. Do you wish them to find us still at luncheon?"

Resignedly, Caroline reached out and rang the bell.

When it was time to leave, Charlotte bade her mother and grandmother goodbye. Dominic escorted her out and offered to take her home in a hansom. He knew her circumstances: that otherwise she would have to walk to an omnibus. She gratefully accepted, both for the comfort and because she wished to pursue the matter of a meeting with Esmond Vanderley, who must be, if Dominic was correct, the dead boy's uncle.

Inside the hansom, he looked at her skeptically.

"It's unlike you to interfere in other people's romances, Charlotte. Who is she, that her 'betterment' has engaged your assistance?"

She debated rapidly whether it would be advisable to con

tinue the lie or to tell him the truth. On the whole, the truth was

better-at least it was more consistent. >

"It isn't a romance at all," she confessed. "It is a crime."

"Charlotte!"

"A very serious one!" she said hastily. "And if 1 leam something of the circumstances, I may prevent its happening again. Truly, Dominic, it is something Thomas would never learn in the way we could!"

He looked at her sideways. "We?" he said cautiously.

"We who are placed so as to be socially acquainted with the family!" she explained with a fairly successful attempt at innocence.

"Well, I can't just take you round to Vanderley's rooms and present you," he protested reasonably.

."No, of course not." She smiled. "But I'm sure you could find an occasion, if you tried."

He looked dubious.

"I am still your sister-in-law," she pressed. "It would all be quite proper.''

"Does Thomas know about this?"

"Not yet." She evaded the truth with uncharacteristic skill. "I could hardly tell him before I knew that you were able to help." She did not mention that she had no intention of telling him afterward either.

37

Her ability to deceive was entirely new, and he was not used to it. He took her remarks at face value.

"Then I suppose it is all right. I'll arrange it as soon as I can without being crass."

She reached out her hand and clasped his impulsively, giving him a radiant smile that unnerved him a little.

"Thank you, Dominic. That really is most generous of you! I'm sure if you knew how important it is, you would be happy to help!"

"Humph." He was unprepared to commit himself any further; perhaps he was not entirely wise to trust Charlotte when she was embarked upon an attempt at detection.

When he returned to the Waybournes' home three days later, Pitt had made an effort to find witnesses-anyone who had heard of an attack, a kidnapping, any event in Bluegate Fields that might have relevance to Arthur Waybourne's death. But none of his usual sources of information offered him anything.

He was inclined to believe there was nothing to know. The crime was a domestic one, and not of the streets.

He and Gillivray were received, to their surprise, in the withdrawing room. Not only Anstey Waybourne was present, but two other men. One was lean, in his early forties, with fair, heavily waving hair and regular features. His clothes were excellently cut, but it was the elegance with which he held himself that gave the clothes distinction. The other man was a few years older, thicker of body, but still imposing. His rich side-whiskers were touched with gray, his nose fleshy and strong.

Waybourne was somewhat at a loss to know how to introduce them. One did not treat policemen as social entities, but he obviously needed to inform Pitt who the others were, though apparently they were expecting Pitt. He resolved the problem by nodding toward the older man with a brief indicative gesture.

"Good afternoon, Inspector. Mr. Swynford has been good enough to give his permission, if you still find it necessary, for you to speak to his son." His arm moved slightly to include the younger man. "My brother-in-law Mr. Esmond Vanderley-to comfort my wife, at this extremely difficult time." Perhaps it

38

was intended as an introduction; more likely it was a warning of the family solidarity that was massing against any unwarranted intrusion, any excess of duty that verged on mere curiosity.

"Good afternoon," Pitt replied, then introduced Gillivray.

Waybourhe was a little surprised; it was not the reply he had foreseen, but he accepted it.

"Have you discovered anything further about my son's death?" he inquired. Then, as Pitt glanced at the others, he smiled very bleakly. "You may say whatever you have to tell me in front of these gentlemen. What is it?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but we have found no information at all-"

"I hardly expected you would," Waybourne interrupted him. "But I appreciate it was your duty to try. I'm obliged to you for informing me so promptly."

It was a dismissal, but Pitt could not leave it so easily, so comfortably.

"I'm afraid we do not believe strangers would have tried to hide your son as they did," he went on. "There was no purpose. It would have been simpler to let him lie where he was attacked. It would have aroused less remark, which could only be to their advantage. And street robbers do not drown people- they use a knife or a club."

Waybourne's face darkened. "What are you trying to say, Inspector? It was you who told me my son was drowned. Do you now dispute that?"

"No, sir, I dispute that it was a casual attack."

"I don't know what you mean! If it was premeditated, then obviously someone intended to kidnap him for ransom, but there was some sort of an accident-"

"Possibly." Pitt did not think there had ever been ransom planned. And although he had mentally rehearsed how he would tell Waybourne it was a deliberate murder-neither an accident nor anything as relatively clean as a kidnapping for money-now, faced with Vanderley and Swynford as well as Waybourne, all three watching, listening, the tidy phrases escaped him. "But if it was so designed," he continued, "then we should be able to find out quite a lot if we investigate. They will almost certainly have cultivated his acquaintance, or that of someone close to him."

39

"Your imagination is running away with you, Inspector!" Wayboume said icily. "We do not take up acquaintances as casually as you appear to imagine.'' He glanced at Gillivray, as if he hoped he might have a better understanding of a social circle of finer distinctions, where people did not make such chance friendships. One required to know who people were- indeed, who their parents were.

"Oh." Vanderley's expression changed slightly. "Arthur might have. The young can be very tolerant, you know. Met some odd people myself, from time to time." He smiled a little sourly. "Even the best families can have their problems. Could even have been a prank that went wrong.''

"A prank?" Waybourne's entire body stiffened with outrage. "My son molested in his-his innocence, robbed of-" A muscle jumped in his cheek; he could not bring himself to use the words.

Vanderley flushed. "I was suggesting the intention, Anstey, not the result. I take it from your remark that you believe the two are connected?"

Now it was Waybourne's turn to color with awkwardness,

even anger with himself. .

"No-I-" f

For the first time, Swynford spoke; his voice was rich, full of

confidence. He was used to being listened to without the need i

to seek attention. [

"I'm afraid, Anstey, it does look inevitably as if someone of poor Arthur's acquaintance was perverted in the most appalling fashion. Don't blame yourself-no man of decency would conceive of such an abominable thing. It doesn't enter the mind. But now it has to be faced. As the police say, there doesn't appear to be any other rational explanation."

"What do you suggest I do?" Wayboume demanded sarcastically. "Allow the police to question my friends, to see if any of them seduced and murdered my son?"

"I hardly think you will find him among your friends, Anstey." Swynford was patient. He was dealing with a man in the extremities of grief. Outbursts that at another time would be frowned upon were now quite naturally excused. "I would be-

40

gin by looking a little more closely at some of your employees."

Wayboume's face fell. "Are you suggesting Arthur was- was consorting with the butler or the footman?"

Vanderley looked up. "I remember I used to be great friends with one of the grooms when I was Arthur's age. He could do anything with a horse, rode like a centaur. Lord, how I wanted to do that myself! I was a damned sight more impressed by his talents than any of the dry political skills my father practiced." He made a face. "One is, at sixteen."

A flicker of light shone in Wayboume's eyes. He looked up at Pitt.

"Never thought of that. I suppose you'd better consider the groom, although I've no idea whether he rides. He's a competent driver, but I never knew Arthur had any interest. ..."

Swynford leaned on the back of one of the chairs.

"And of course there's always the tutor-whatever his name is. A good tutor can become a great influence on a boy."

Waybourne frowned. "Jerome? He had excellent references. Not a particularly likable man, but extremely competent. Fine academic record. Keeps good discipline in the schoolroom. Has a wife. Good woman-spotless reputation. I do take certain care, Mortimer!" The criticism was implicit.

"Of course you do. We all do!" Swynford said reasonably, even placatingly. "But then a vice of that sort would hardly be known! And the fact that the wretched man has a wife is no proof of anything. Poor woman!"

"Good God!"

Pitt remembered the tutor's tight, intelligent face reflecting a painful knowledge of his position, of what it would always be, and why. There was nothing wrong with his talent or his diligence; it was just his birth that was wrong. Now, perhaps, the slow growth of sourness had warped his character as well, probably permanently after all these years.

It was time to interrupt. But before Pitt spoke, Gillivray cut in.

"We'll do that, sir. I think there's every chance we shall discover something. You may well have found the answer already."

41

Wayboume let out his breath slowly. The muscle in his face calmed.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose you'd better. Most unpleasant, but if ii cannot be avoided . . ."

"We'll be discreet, sir," Gillivray promised.

Pitt felt irritation wash over him. "We'll investigate everything," he said a little sharply. "Until we have either discovered the truth or exhausted every possibility."

Way bourne looked at him with disapproval, his eyes sharp under the sweeping, fair lashes.

"Indeed! Then you may return tomorrow and begin with the groom and Mr. Jerome. Now I think I have said everything that I have to say to you. I will instruct the appropriate servants for your convenience tomorrow. Good day to you."

"Good day, gentlemen." Pitt accepted dismissal this time. He had much to consider before he spoke to the groom, Jerome, or anyone else. There was already an ugliness in it beyond the tragedy of death itself. Tentacles of the compulsions that had led to the death were beginning to surface, assaulting his senses.

42

I he Waybourne family doctor had asked to see the body and make an examination; he came away silent, shaking his head, his face drawn. Pitt did not know what he said to Waybourne, but there was never any further suggestion of incompetence by the police surgeon, and no other explanation for the symptoms was put forward. In fact, they were not mentioned.

Pitt and Gillivray returned at ten o'clock in the morning; they interviewed the grooms and the footmen, which proved fruitless. Arthur's tastes had been more sophisticated than anything the stables or the mews had to offer. He had liked to be well driven, and admired a handsome rig, but he had never shown the least desire to take the reins himself. Even good bloodstock moved him to no more than a passing appreciation, like good boots or a well-tailored coat.

"This is all a waste of time," Gillivray said, poking his hands in his pockets and stepping up into the areaway. "He probably fell into bad company with some older boy-a single experience-and then he reverted to quite natural relationships. After all; he was sixteen! I daresay he contracted the disease from a street woman or some other miserable initiation. Perhaps someone gave him a little too much to drink-you know how these things can end up. I don't suppose he had the least idea, poor little devil. And we certainly won't do any good pursuing it." He raised his eyebrows and gave Pitt a warning glance. "None of those men," he said, jerking his head back toward the stables, "would dare touch the son of the house! And I don't imagine they'd want to. They'd stick to their own

43

class-more fun and less dangerous. We could probably find out about that from the maids, if it matters. A groom would have to be insane to risk his livelihood. He'd probably never get another place with a decent family anywhere in the country if he was caught! No man in his right mind is going to risk that for a bit of foolery."

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

44

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 souffle.

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.

45

"Good morning, Inspector," he said with a faintly supercilious half smile. "I really cannot add anything to what ] 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 Way bourne 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 Way-boume?" 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.

46

"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 Wayboume 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?

47

Why-I mean-who? How could-for heaven's sake, man, it's

preposterous!" j

"Yes, Mr. Jerome-and very ugly," Pitt said quietly. "And i 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."

⁴ 'If you are suggesting that I have any idea who might have bad 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 jeal-

48

ousy or anything of the sort, I would remind you that Arthur Wayboume 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-wilted. 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

49

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 veiy 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," Way-boume 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.

Wayboume'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 mo-

50

mentary thing-a flash of sensitivity, more instinct than thought; he had no warmth for the man.

Way bourne'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?"

Wayboume 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 most 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 Way-bourne'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.

51

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 Way bourne, 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

52

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.

53

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 Wayboume 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 54

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.

Wayboume 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

55

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; Wayboume 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 56

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."

57

"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?"

"You must tell him," Wayboume said with an effort. "Tell him that Mr. Jerome put his hand on a most private part of your body." His face colored with his own discomfort.

Pitt waited.

"He touched me," Godfrey said reluctantly. "Sort of felt around."

"I see. Did that only happen once?"

"No-not really. I-honestly, sir-I don't understand-"

"That's enough!" Wayboume said harshly. "He's told you-Jerome interfered with him, more than once. I cannot permit you to pursue it any further. You have what you need. Now do your job. For heaven's sake, arrest the man and get him out of my house!"

"Of course, sir, you must dismiss him from your employ, if you think fit," Pitt answered with unhappiness growing inside him. A feeling of certainty was drawing close in a sad, imprisoning circle. "But I have not yet enough evidence to charge him with murder.''

Wayboume's face convulsed, the muscles of his body knotting. Godfrey winced under his hand.

"Good God, man! What more do you want? An eyewitness?"

Pitt tried to keep calm. Why should this man understand police necessities? One son had been murdered, the other distressed by perverted attentions, and the offender was still under his roof. Why should he be reasonable? His emotions were raw. His whole family had been violated in one way after another, robbed and betrayed.

"I'm sorry, sir." He was apologizing for the whole crime: 58

for its nature, its obscenity¹, for his own intrusion into it, for the grief still to come. "I'll be as quick and as discreet as I can. Thank you, Godfrey. Good day, Sir Anstey." He turned and went out of the library into the hall where the parlormaid was waiting, still serene and unknowing, with Pitt's hat in her hand.

Pitt was dissatisfied without reason. There was not yet enough known for grounds to arrest Jerome, but there was too much to justify keeping it from Athelstan any longer. Jerome had said he spent the evening at a musical recital, and had had no idea where Arthur Way bourne had been or intended to be. Perhaps if it was carefully checked, Jerome's time could be accounted for. It was possible an acquaintance had seen him, and if he had returned home with someone-perhaps his wife-it would be impossible to prove beyond a very reasonable doubt that he had then gone out to some unknown place and murdered Arthur Waybourne.

That was a weakness in the case. They had no idea whatsoever where the murder had taken place. There was without question much to do before they had grounds for arrest.

He quickened his step. He could face Athelstan with a report; there was progress, but they were a long way from certainty.

Athelstan was smoking an excellent cigar, and his room was pungent with the smell of it. The furniture gleamed a little in the gaslight, and the brass doorknob was bright, without a fingermark.

"Sit down," Athelstan invited comfortably. "Glad we're getting this thing tidied up. Very nasty, very painful. Well, what did Sir Anstey have to tell you? Deciding factor, he said. What was it, man?"

Pitt was surprised. He had not known that Athelstan was even aware of the call from Waybourne.

"No," he said quickly. "Not that. Indicative, certainly, but not enough for an arrest."

"Well, what was it?" Athelstan said impatiently, leaning forward over the desk. "Don't just sit there, Pitt!"

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Pitt found himself inexplicably reluctant to tell him, to repeat the sad, frail story. It was nothing, and everything-indefinite and at the same time undeniable.

Athelstan's fingers drummed with irritation on the burgundy leather surface.

"The younger brother, Godfrey," Pitt replied wearily. "He says that the tutor Jerome was overfamiliar with him, that he touched him in a homosexual manner." He took a breath and let it out slowly. "More than once. Of course he did not mention it at the time because-"

"Of course, of course." Athelstan dismissed it with a wave of his thick hand. "Probably didn't realize at the time what it meant-only makes sense in the light of his brother's death. Dreadful-poor boy. Take a while to get over it. Well!" He spread his hand flat on the desk, as if closing something, the other hand still held the cigar. "At least we'll be able to tidy it all up now. Go and arrest the fellow. Wretched!" His face curled in distaste and he let out his breath in a little snort through his nose.

"We haven't enough for an arrest," Pitt argued. "He may be able to account for his time the whole night."

"Nonsense," Athelstan said briskly. "Says he was out at a musical event of some sort. Went alone, saw no one, and came back alone after his wife had gone to bed. And he didn't wake her. No account at all! Could have been anywhere."

Pitt stiffened.

"How do you know?" He had not known that much himself, and he had told Athelstan nothing at all.

A slow smile touched the corners of Athelstan's mouth.

"Gillivray," he answered. "Good man, that. He'll go a long way. Has a good manner about him. He makes the whole investigation as civilized as possible and gets on with what really matters-gets to the core of a case."

"Gillivray," Pitt repeated with a tightening at the back of his neck. "You mean Gillivray checked up on where Jerome said he was that night?"

"Didn't tell you?" Athelstan said casually. "Should have done. Bit keen-can't blame him. Felt for the father-very nasty case this." He frowned to show his own sympathy.

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"Still, glad it's over now. You can go and make the arrest. Take Gillivray with you. He deserves to be in at the kill!"

Pitt felt hopelessness and anger boil up inside him. Jerome was probably guilty, but this was not sufficient. There were still too many other possibilities unexplored.

"We haven't got a good enough case," he said sharply. "We don't know where the crime took place! There's no circumstantial evidence, nothing to put Jerome anywhere but where he says he was. Where did this relationship take place-in Jerome's house? Where was his wife? And why, of all things, should Arthur Wayboume be taking a bath in Jerome's house?"

"For heaven's sake, Pitt!" Athelstan interrupted angrily, clenching his hand on the cigar till it bent. "These are details! They can be found out. Perhaps he hired a room somewhere-" „ "With a bath in it?" Pitt said with scorn. "Not many bawdy houses or cheap rooms have a private bath where you can comfortably murder someone!"

"Then it won't be hard to find, will it?" Athelstan snapped. "It's your job to unearth these things. But first you'll arrest Jerome and put him where he can't escape and do any more harm! Or next thing we know he'll be on the Channel steamer and we'll never see him again! Now do your duty, man. Or must I send Gillivray to do it for you?"

There was no point in arguing. Either Pitt did it or someone else would. And, in spite of the case being far from proved, there was justice in what Athelstan said. Other answers were possible, even though Pitt knew in his mind they were unlikely. Jerome had every likely trait; his life and his circumstances were susceptible to the emptiness, the warping. It needed only the physical hunger-and no one could explain whence that might grow or whom it might tempt.

And if Jerome had been driven to murder once, he could, as he felt the police coming closer to him, easily be forced to panic, to run or, far worse, to kill again. •

Pitt stood up. He had nothing to fight Athelstan with, but then, perhaps there was nothing to fight him about either.

"Yes, sir," he acceded quietly. "I'll take Gillivray and go tomorrow morning, as soon as it won't cause a stir.'' He looked

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at Athelstan wryly, but Athelstan saw no humor in Pitt's statement.

"Good," he said, sitting back with satisfaction. "Good man. Be discreet-family's been through a bad time, very bad. Get it over with now. Warn the man on the beat to keep an eye tonight, but I don't suppose he'll run. Not close enough yet,"

"Yes, sir," Pitt said, going to the door. "Yes, sir."

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Pitt set out the following morning with Gillivray, bright and spring-stepped beside him. He hated Gillivray for his demeanor. An arrest for so intimately personal a crime was only the middle of a tragedy, the time when it became public and the wounds were stripped of their privacy. He wanted to say sbme-thing to lacerate Gillivray's comfortable, clean-faced satisfaction, something to make him feel the real, twisting pain in his own belly.

But no words came to mind that were broad enough to encompass the reality, so he strode on in silence, faster and faster with his long, gangling legs, leaving Gillivray to trot inelegantly to keep up. It was a small satisfaction.

The footman let them in with an air of surprise. He had the look of a well-bred person who observes someone else commit a gross breach of taste, but whose own code obliges him to pretend not to have noticed.

"Yes, sir?" he inquired without permitting them inside.

Pitt had already decided he ought to inform Waybourne before actually making the arrest; it would be easier as well as courteous, a gesture that might well repay itself later-they were far from the end. There was high suspicion, justification that necessitated arrest. There was only one reasonable solution, but there were hours of investigation before they could expect proof. There were many things still to be learned, such as where the crime had taken place, and why precisely now? What had precipitated the explosion into violence?

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"It is necessary that we speak to Sir Anstey," Pitt replied, meeting the footman's eyes.

"Indeed, sir?" The man was flat-faced, as expressionless as a china owl. "If you care to come in, I shall inform Sir Anstey of your request. He is at breakfast at the moment, but perhaps he will see you when he is finished." He stepped back and permitted them to pass, closing the door behind him with smooth, silent weight. The house still smelled of mourning, as though there were lilies somewhere just out of sight, and baked meats left over. There was a dimness from half-drawn blinds. Pitt was reminded of the pain of death again, that Waybourne had lost a son, a boy scarcely out of childhood.

' 'Will you please tell Sir Anstey that we are ready to make an arrest," he said. "This morning. And we would prefer to acquaint him fully with the situation beforehand," he added less coldly. "But we cannot afford to wait."

The footman was startled out of his calm at last. Pitt was irritably pleased to see his jaw sag.

"An arrest, sir? In the matter of Mr. Arthur's death, sir?"

"Yes. Will you please tell Sir Anstey?"

"Yes, sir. Of course." He left them to make their own way into the morning room, went smartly toward the dining room doors, and knocked and went in.

Waybourne appeared almost immediately, crumbs in the folds of his waistcoat, a napkin in his hand. He discarded it and the footman picked it up discreetly.

Pittx>pened the morning room door and held it as Wayboume walked in. When they were all inside, Gillivray closed the door and Waybourne began urgently.

"You're going to arrest Jerome? Good. Wretched business, but the sooner it's over the better. I'll send for him." He reached out and yanked at the bellpull. "I don't suppose you need me here. Rather not be. Painful. I'm sure you understand. Obliged you let me know first, of course. You will take him out through the back, won't you? I mean he'll be somewhat-well, er-don't want to make a scene. Quite-" His face colored and there was a blurring of distress over his features, as if at last his imagination had pierced the misery of the crime and felt a brush

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of its invading coldness. "Quite unnecessary," he finished lamely.

Pitt could think of nothing appropriate to say-in fact nothing that was even decent, when he thought about it.

"Thank you," Waybourne fumbled on. "You've been most-considerate, all things-well-taken into account, the-"

Pitt interrupted before he thought. He could not stand the comfortable ignorance.

"It's not over yet, sir. There will be much more evidence to collect, and then of course the trial."

Waybourne turned his back, perhaps in some attempt at momentary privacy.

"Of course." He invested his reply with certainty, as if he had been aware of it all along. "Of course. But at least the man will be out of my house. It is the beginning of the end." There was insistence in his voice, and Pitt did not argue. Perhaps it would be simple. Maybe now that they knew so much of the truth, the rest would follow easily, in a flood, not an extraction forced piece by piece. Jerome might even confess. It was possible the burden had grown so heavy he would be relieved, once there was no hope of escape anymore, just to be able to share it, to abandon the secrecy and its consuming loneliness. For many, that burden was the worst pain of all.

"Yes, sir," Pitt said. "We'll take him away this morning."

"Good-good."

There was a knock on the door, and on Waybourne's command Jerome came in. Gillivray automatically moved closer to the door, in case he should try to get out again.

"Good morning." Jerome's eyebrows rose in surprise. If it was feigned, it was superbly well done. There was no uncertainty in him, no movement of eye or muscle, no twitch, not even a paleness to the skin.

It was Waybourne's face that glistened with sweat. He looked at one of the dozen photographs on the wall as he spoke.

"The police wish to see you, Jerome," he said stiffly. He then turned and left, Gillivray opening the door and closing it behind him.

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"Yes?" Jerome inquired coolly. "I cannot imagine what you want now. I have nothing to add."

Pitt did not know whether to sit or remain standing. It seemed vaguely irreverent to tragedy itself to be comfortable at such a moment.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said quietly. "But we have more evidence now, and I have no choice but to make an arrest." Why did he still refuse to commit himself? He was keeping the man hanging like a fish safe on the hook, not yet feeling the tear in the mouth, not aware of the line and its long, relentless pull.

"Indeed?" Jerome was uninterested. "Congratulations. Is that what you wish me to say?"

Pitt felt as though his skin were scraped every time he met the man, and yet he was still reluctant to arrest him. Perhaps it was the very absence of guilt in him, of any sense of fear or even anticipation.

"No, Mr. Jerome," he replied. He must make the decision. "It is you I have the warrant for." He took a breath and removed the piece of paper from his pocket. "Maurice Jerome, I arrest you for the assault and murder of Arthur William Way-bourne on or about the night of September 11,1886, and I warn you that anything you say will be recorded and may be given in evidence at your trial."

Jerome did not seem to understand; his face was perfectly blank. Gillivray, watching, stood stiffly by the door, his fist loosely knotted as if ready for sudden violence.

Pitt wondered for a ridiculous moment if he should repeat it. He then realized that of course it was not the words themselves that were unclear; it was simply that they had not had time to deliver their meaning. The impact was too immense, too totally inconceivable to be grasped in an instant.

"W-What?" Jerome stammered at last, still too staggered to be aware of real fear. "What did you say?"

"I am arresting you for the murder of Arthur Wayboume," Pitt repeated.

"That's ridiculous!" Jerome was angry, contemptuous of Pitt's stupidity. "You can't possibly believe I killed him! Why on earth should I? It makes no sense." Suddenly, his face was sour. "I imagined you to have more integrity, Inspector. I see I

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was mistaken. You are not stupid-at least not as stupid as this. Therefore, I must assume you to be a man of convenience, an opportunist-or simply a coward!"

Pitt was stung by Jerome's accusations. They were unfair. He was arresting Jerome because there was too much evidence to leave him free. It was a necessary decision; it had nothing to do with self-interest. It would have been irresponsible to allow him to remain free.

"Godfrey Wayboume has said that you have interfered with him on several occasions, in a homosexual manner," he said stiffly. "That is a charge we cannot ignore, or set aside."

Jerome's face was white, slack, as the horror dawned on him and he accepted its reality.

"That's preposterous! It's-it's-" His hands moved up as if to cover his face, then fell away again weakly. "Oh, my God!" He looked around, and Gillivray stepped in front of the door.

Pitt felt the twinge of unease again; could not so superb an actor, so subtle and complete, have smoothed his way through life with a performance of charm? He could have won himself so much more than he now possessed; his influence could have been immense if he had wooed with friendship or a little humor, instead of the wall of pomposity he had consistently shown Pitt.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jerome, but we must take you with us now," Pitt said helplessly. "It would be far better for everyone if you would come without resistance. You'll only make it worse for yourself if you don't."

Jerome's eyebrows rose in amazement and anger.

"Are you threatening me with violence?"

"No, of course not!" Pitt said furiously. It was a ridiculous suggestion, and totally unjust. "I was thinking of your own embarrassment. Do you want to be hauled out struggling and yelling for the scullery maid and the bootboy to gawp at?"

Jerome's face flamed but he found no words to answer. He was in a nightmare that moved too rapidly for him; he was left floundering, still trying to argue the original charge.

Pitt took a step closer.

"I didn't touch him!" Jerome protested. "I never touched 67

either of them! It's a base slander! Let me speak to him-I'll soon sort it out."

"That's not possible," Pitt said firmly.

"But I-" Then he froze, his head jerking up sharply. "I'll see you are reprimanded for this, Inspector. You can have no possible grounds for this charge, and if I were a man of private means, you would not dare do this to me! You are a coward-as I said! A coward of the most contemptible sort!"

Was there truth in that? Was the feeling Pitt had mistaken for compassion for Waybourne and his family really only relief at finding an easy answer?

Walking side by side, they took Jerome along the hallway, through the green baize door, the passage, and the kitchen, then up the area way steps and into the waiting cab. If it was noticed that the police had come in by the front and left by the back, it might just have been attributed to the fact that they had asked first for Sir Anstey himself. And one had more control over the way by which people exited than entered. The cook nodded in approval. It was past time persons like the police were taught their place. And she had never cared for that tutor with his airs and criticisms, acting as if he was a gentleman just because he could read Latin-as if that was any use to a person!

They rode in silence to the police station, where the arrest was formally entered and Jerome was taken to the cells.

"Your clothes and toiletries will be sent for," Pitt said quietly.

"How very civili/ed-you make it sound almost reasonable!" Jerome snapped. "Where am I supposed to have committed this murder? In whose bath, pray, did I drown the wretched boy? Hardly his own-even you could not imagine that! I do not care to ask you why. Your mind will have conjured up enough obscene alternatives to make me sick. But I should like to know where? I should like to know that!"

"So should we, Mr. Jerome," Pitt replied. "The reasons are obvious, as you say. If you would care to talk about it, it might help."

"I should not!"

"Some people do-"

"Some people are no doubt guilty! I find the whole subject 68

disgusting. You will very soon find out your mistake, and then I shall expect reparation. I am not responsible for Arthur Way-bourne's death, or anything else that happened to him. I suggest you look among his own class for that sort of perversion! Or do I expect too much courage of you?"

"I have looked!" Pitt bit back at last, stung beyond control. "And all I have found so far is an allegation from Godfrey Waybourne that you interfered with him! It would seem you have the weakness which would provide the motive, and the opportunity. The means was simply water-anyone has that."

There was fear in Jerome's eyes this time-quick, before reason overrode it, but real enough. The taste of it was unique, unmistakable.