Thomas Pitt Bluegate Fields

"Nonsense! I was at a musical recital."

"But no one saw you there."

"I go to musical recitals to listen to the music, Inspector, not to make idiotic conversation with people I barely know, and interrupt their pleasure by requiring them to mouth equal inanities back to me!" Jerome surveyed Pitt with contempt as one who listened to nothing better than public-house songs.

"Are there no intervals in your recitals?" Pitt asked with exactly the same chill. He had to look a little downward at Jerome from his superior height. "That's uncommon, surely?"

"Are you fond of classical music, Inspector?" Jerome's voice was sharp with sarcastic disbelief. Perhaps it was a form of self-defense. He was attacking Pitt, his intelligence, his competence, his judgment. It was not hard to understand; part of Pitt, detached, could even sympathize. A greater part of him was stung raw by the patronage.

"I am fond of the pianoforte when it is well played," he replied with open-eyed candor. "And I like a violin, on occasions."

For an instant there was communication between them, a little surprise; then Jerome turned away.

"So you spoke to no one?" Pitt returned to the pursuit, the ugliness of the present.

"No one," Jerome answered.

"Not even to comment on the performance?" He could believe it. Who would, after listening to beautiful music, want to

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turn to a man like Jerome? He would sour the magic, the pleasure. His was a mind without softness or laughter, without the patina of romance. Why did he like music at all? Was it purely a pleasure of the senses, the sound and the symmetry answered in the brain?

Pitt went out, and the cell door clanged behind him; the bolt shot home and the jailer pulled out the key.

A constable was dispatched to collect Jerome's necessary belongings. Gillivray and Pitt spent the rest of the day seeking additional evidence.

"I've already spoken to Mrs. Jerome," Gillivray said with a cheerfulness Pitt could have kicked him for. "She doesn't know what time he came in. She had a headache and doesn't like classical music very much, especially chamber music, which apparently was what this was. There was a program published beforehand, and Jerome had one. She decided to stay at home. She fell asleep and didn't waken until morning."

"So Mr. Athelstan told me," Pitt said acidly. "Perhaps next time you have such a piece of information you will do me the courtesy of sharing it with me as well?" Immediately he regretted allowing his anger to become so obvious. He should not have let Gillivray see it. He could at least have kept himself that dignity.

Gillivray smiled, and his apology was no more than the minimum of good manners.

They spent six hours and achieved nothing, neither proof nor disproof.

Pitt went home late, tired and cold. It was beginning to rain and scurries of wind sent an old newspaper rattling along the gutter. It was a day he was glad to leave behind, to close out with the door, leaving the space of the evening to talk of something else. He hoped Charlotte would not even mention the case.

He stepped into the hall, took his coat off, and hung it up, then noticed the parlor door open and the lamps lit. Surely Emily was not here at this time in the evening? He did not want to have to be polite, still less to satisfy Emily's inveterate curiosity. He was tempted to keep on walking to the kitchen. He hesi-

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tated for a moment, wondering if he could get away with it, when Charlotte pulled the door wide open and it was too late.

"Oh, Thomas, you're home," she said unnecessarily, perhaps for the benefit of Emily, or whoever it was. "You have a visitor.''

He was startled. "I have?"

"Yes." She stepped back a little. "Mrs. Jerome."

The cold spread right through him. The familiarity of his home was invaded by futile and predictable tragedy. It was too late to avoid it. The sooner he faced her, explained the evidence as decently as he could to a woman, and made her understand he could do nothing, then the sooner he could forget it and sink into his own evening, into the safe, permanent things that mattered to him: Charlotte, the details of her day, the children.

He stepped into the room.

She was small, slender, and dressed in plain browns. Her fair hair was soft about her face and her eyes were wide, making her skin look even paler, almost translucent, as though he could see the blood beneath. She had obviously been weeping.

This was one of the worst parts of crime: the victims for whom the horror was only beginning. For Eugenie Jerome, there would be the journey back to her parents' house to live-if she was fortunate. If not, she would have to take whatever job she could find, as a seamstress, a worker in a sweatshop, a ragpicker; she might even end up at the workhouse or, out of desperation, in the streets. But all of that she would not yet even have imagined. She was probably still grappling with the guilt itself, still hanging on to the belief that things were the same, that it was all a mistake-a reversible mistake.

"Mr. Pitt?" She stepped forward, her voice shaky. He was the police-for her, the ultimate power.

He wished there was something he could say that would ease the truth. All he wanted was to get rid of her and forget the case-at least until he was forced to go back to it tomorrow.

"Mrs. Jerome." He began with the only thing he could think of: "We had to arrest him, but he is perfectly well and not hurt in any way. You will be permitted to visit him-if you wish."

"He didn't kill that boy." The tears shone in her eyes and she blinked without moving her gaze from his. "I know-I

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know he is not always very easy"-she took a deep breath, steeling herself for the betrayal-"not very easy to like, but he is not an evil man. He would never abuse a trust. He has far too much pride for that!"

Pitt could believe it. The man he thought he had seen beneath that mannered exterior would take a perverse satisfaction in his moral superiority in honoring a trust of those he despised, those who, for entirely different reasons, despised him equally-if they gave him any thought at all.

"Mrs. Jerome-" How could he explain the extraordinary passions that can suddenly arise and swamp all reason, all the carefully made plans for behavior? How could he explain the feelings that could drive an otherwise sane man to compulsive, wide-eyed self-destruction? She would be confused, and unbearably hurt. Surely the woman had more than enough to bear already? "Mrs. Jerome," he tried again, "a charge has been made against your husband. We must hold him under arrest until it has been investigated. Sometimes people do things in the heat of the moment that are quite outside their usual character."

She moved closer to him and he caught a waft of lavender, faint and a little sweet. She had an old-fashioned brooch in the lace at her neck. She was very young, very gentle. God damn Jerome for his cold-blooded, bitter loneliness, for his perversion, for ever having married this woman in the first place, only to tear her life apart!

"Mrs. Jerome-"

"Mr. Pitt, my husband is not an impulsive man. I have been married to him for eleven years and I have never known him to act without giving the matter consideration, weighing whether it would be fortunate or unfortunate."

That also Pitt found only too easy to accept. Jerome was not a . man to laugh aloud, dance on the pavement, or sing a snatch of song. His was a careful face; the only spontaneity in it was of the mind. He possessed a sour appreciation for humor, but never impulse. He did not even speak without judging first what effect it would have, how it would profit or harm him. What extraordinary passions must this boy have tapped to break the dam of years in a torrent that ended in murder?

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If Jerome were guilty . . .

How could so careful, so self-preserving a man have risked a clumsy fondling of young Godfrey for the few instants of slight gratification it might have afforded him? Was it a facade beginning to crack-a first breach of the wall that was soon going to explode in passion and murder?

He looked at Mrs. Jerome. She was close to Charlotte's age, and yet she looked so much younger, so much more vulnerable, with her slender body and delicate face. She needed someone to protect her.

"Have you parents near to you?" he asked suddenly. "Someone with whom you can stay?"

"Oh, no!" Her face puckered with consternation and she screwed up her handkerchief, absently letting her reticule slide down her skirt to the floor. Charlotte bent and picked it up for her. "Thank you, Mrs. Pitt, you are so kind." She took it back and clutched it. "No, Mr. Pitt, I couldn't possibly do that. My place is at home, where I can be of as much support to Maurice as I am able. People must see that I do not for a single moment believe this dreadful thing that has been said about him. It is completely untrue, and I only beg that for justice's sake you will do everything you can to prove it so. You will, won't you?"

«'!_••

"Please, Mr. Pitt? You will not allow the truth to be buried in such a web of lies that poor Maurice is-" Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away with a sob to rest in Charlotte's arms. She wept like a child, lost in her own desperation, unconscious of anyone else's thoughts or judgments.

Charlotte slowly patted her, her eyes meeting Pitt's helplessly. He could not read what she thought. There was anger, but was it at him, at circumstances, at Mrs. Jerome for intruding and disturbing them with her distress, or at their inability to do anything for her?

"I'll do my best, Mrs. Jerome," he said. "I can only find out the truth-I can't alter it." How abrasively cruel that sounded, and how sanctimonious!

"Oh, thank you," she said between sobs and gasps for

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breath. "I was sure you would-but I am so grateful." She clung to Charlotte's hands like a child. "So very grateful."

The more Pitt thought about it, the less did he find it within what he had observed of Jerome's character that he should be so impulsive and so inept as to pursue Godfrey while simultaneously conducting an affair with his elder brother. If the man was so driven by his appetite that he had lost all ordinary sense, surely others would have noticed it-many others?

He spent a miserable evening, refusing to talk about it with Charlotte. The next day, he sent Gillivray on what he sincerely believed would be a fool's errand, searching for a room rented by Jerome or Arthur Way bourne. Jji the meantime, he took himself back to the Waybournes' house to interview Godfrey again.

He was received with extreme disfavor.

"We have already been through this exceedingly painful matter in every detail!" Waybourne said sharply. "I refuse to discuss it any further! Hasn't there been enough-enough obscenity?"

"It would be an obscenity, Sir Anstey, if a man were hanged for a crime we believe he committed but are too afraid of our own distaste to make sure!" Pitt replied very quietly. "It's a crime of irresponsibility I am not prepared to commit. Are you?"

"You are damned impertinent, sir!" Wayboume snapped. "It is not my duty to see that justice is done. That is what people like you are paid for! You attend to your job, and remember who you are in my house."

"Yes, sir," Pitt said stiffly. "Now may I see Master Godfrey, please?"

Wayboume hesitated, his eyes hot, pink-rimmed, looking Pitt up and down. For several moments both men were silent.

"If you must," he said at last. "But I shall remain here, I warn you."

"I must," Pitt insisted.

They stood in mutual discomfort, avoiding each other's eyes, while Godfrey was sent for. Pitt was aware that his anger was born of confusion within himself, of a growing fear that he

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would never prove Jerome's guilt and thereby wipe away the memory of Eugenie's face, a face that reflected her conviction of the world as she knew it, and of the man whose life she shared in that world.

Wayboume's hostility was even easier to read. His family had already been mutilated-he was now defending it against any unnecessary turning of the knife in the wounds. Had it been his family, Pitt would have done the same.

Godfrey came in. Then, when he saw Pitt, his face colored and his body suddenly became awkward.

Pitt felt a stab of guilt.

"Yes, sir?" Godfrey stood with his back to his father, close, as if he were a wall, something against which he could retreat.

Pitt ignored the fact that he had not been invited, and sat down in the leather-covered armchair. His position made him look up slightly at the boy, instead of obliging Godfrey to crane up at him.

"Godfrey, we don't know Mr. Jerome-very well," he began, in what he hoped was a conversational tone. "It is important that we learn everything we can. He was your tutor for nearly four years. You must know him well."

"Yes, sir-but I never knew he was doing anything wrong." The boy's clear eyes were defiant. His narrow shoulders were high and Pitt could imagine the muscles hunched underneath the flannel of his jacket.

"Of course not," Waybourne said quickly, putting his hand on the boy's arm. "No one imagines you knew about it, boy."

Pitt restrained himself. He must learn, fact by fact, small impressions that built a believable picture of a man who had lost years of cold control in a sudden insane hunger-insane because it defied reality, because it could never have achieved anything but the most transient, ephemeral of pleasures while destroying everything else he valued.

Slowly, Pitt asked questions about their studies, about Jerome's manner, the subjects he taught well and those that appeared to bore him. He questioned whether the tutor's discipline was good, his temper, his enthusiasms. Waybourne grew more and more impatient, almost contemptuous of Pitt, as

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if he were being foolish, evading the real issue in a plethora of trivialities. But Godfrey became more confident in his answers.

A picture emerged so close to the man Pitt had imagined that it gave him no comfort at all. There was nothing new to grasp, no new perspective to try on all the fragments he already possessed. Jerome was a good teacher, a disciplinarian with little humor. And what humor he had was far too dry, too measured . through years of self-control, to be understandable to a thirteen-year-old bom and bred in privilege. Ambition that to Jerome was unachievable was to Godfrey an expected part of the adult life he was being groomed for. He was unaware of any injustice in the relationship with his tutor. They belonged to different levels of society, and would always do so. That Jerome might resent him had never occurred to the boy. Jerome was a schoolmaster; that was not the same thing as possessing the qualities of leadership, the courage of decision, the innate knowledge and acceptance of duty-or the burden, the loneliness of responsibility.

The irony was that perhaps Jerome's very bitterness was partly born of a whisper at the back of his brain that reminded him of the gulf between them-not only because of birth but because he was too small of vision-too self-obsessed, too aware of his own position-to command. A gentleman is a gentleman because he lives unself-consciously. He is too secure to take offense, too certain of his finances to account for shillings.

All this went through Pitt's mind as he watched the boy's solemn, rather smug face. He was at ease now-Pitt was ineffectual, not to be feared after all. It was time to come to the point.

"Did Mr. Jerome show any consistent favoritism toward your brother?" he asked quite lightly.

"No, sir," Godfrey answered. Then confusion spread on his face as he realized what had half dawned on him through the haze of grief-hints of something that was unknown but abominably shameful, that the imagination hardly dared conjure up, and yet could not help but try. "Well, sir, not that I realized at the time. He was pretty-sort of-well, he spent a lot of time with Titus Swynford, too, when he took lessons with us. He did quite often, you know. His own tutor wasn't any good at Latin and Mr. Jerome was very good indeed. And he knew Greek,

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too. And Mr. Hollins-that's Titus's tutor-was always getting colds in the head. We called him 'Sniffles.' " He gave a juicy, realistic imitation.

Way bourne's face twitched with disapproval of mentioning to a person of Pitt's social inferiority such details of frivolous and rather childish malice.

"And was he also overfamiliar with Titus?" Pitt inquired, ignoring Waybourne.

Godfrey's face tightened. "Yes, sir. Titus told me that he was."

"Oh? When did he tell you?"

Godfrey stared back at him without blinking.

"Yesterday evening, sir. I told him that Mr. Jerome had been arrested by the police because he had done something terrible to Arthur. I told him what I told you, about what Mr. Jerome did to me. And Titus said he'd done it to him, too."

Pitt felt no surprise, only a gray sense of inevitability. Jerome's weakness had shown itself after all. It had not been the secret thing, erupting without warning, that had struck Pitt as so unlikely. Perhaps surrender to it had been sudden, but once he had recognized it and allowed the hunger to release itself in action, then it had been uncontrollable. It could only have been a matter of time until some adult had seen it and understood it for what it was.

What a tragic mischance that the violence-the murder-had arisen so quickly. If even one of those boys had spoken to a parent, the greater tragedy could have been avoided-for Arthur, for Jerome himself, for Eugenie.

"Thank you." Pitt sighed and looked up at Waybourne. "I would appreciate it, sir, if you would give me Mr. Swynford's address so that I can call on him and verify this with Titus himself. You will understand that secondhand testimony, no matter from whom, is not sufficient."

Waybourne took a breath as if to argue, then accepted the futility of it.

"If you insist," he said grudgingly.

Titus Swynford was a cheerful boy, a little older than Godfrey. He was broader, with a freckled, less handsome face, but he

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possessed a natural ease that Pitt found attractive. Pitt was not permitted to see his young sister Fanny. And since he could put forward no argument to justify insisting, he saw only the boy, in the presence of his father.

Mortimer Swynford was calm. Had Pitt been less aware of society's rules, he might have imagined his courtesy to be friendliness.

"Of course," he consented, in his rich voice. His manicured hands rested on the back of the tapestried antimacassar. His clothes were immaculate. His tailor had cut his jacket so skillfully it all but disguised the thickening of his body, the considerable swell of his stomach under his waistcoat, the heaviness of his thighs. It was a vanity that Pitt could sympathize with, even admire. He had no such physical defects to mask, but he would dearly like to have possessed even a fraction of the polish, the ease of manner with which Swynford stood waiting, watching him.

"I'm sure you won't press the matter any further than is absolutely necessary," he went on. "But you must have enough to stand up in court-we all understand that. Titus-" He gestured toward his son with an embracing sweep. "Titus, answer Inspector Pitt's questions quite frankly. Don't hide anything. It is not a time for false modesty or any misplaced sense of loyalty. Nobody cares for a telltale, but there are times when a man is witness to a crime that cannot be permitted to continue, or to go unpunished. Then it is his duty to speak the truth, without fear or favor! Is that not so, Mr. Pitt?"

"Quite so," Pitt agreed with less enthusiasm than he should have felt. The sentiment was perfect. Was it only Swynford's aplomb, his supreme mastery of the situation, that made the words sound unnatural? He did not look like a man who either feared or favored anyone. Indeed, his money and his heritage had placed him in a situation where, with a little judgment, he could avoid the need for pleasing others. As long as he obeyed the usual social rules of his class, he could remain exceedingly comfortable.

Titus was waiting.

"You were occasionally tutored by Mr. Jerome?" Pitt rushed in, aware of the silence.

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"Yes, sir," Titus agreed. "Both Fanny and I were. Fanny's rather clever at Latin, although I can't see what good it will do her.''

"And what will you do with it?" Pitt inquired.

Titus's face split with a broad grin.

"I say, you're rather odd, aren't you? Nothing at all, of course! But we aren't allowed to admit that. It's supposed to be fearfully good discipline-at least that's what Mr. Jerome said. I think that's the only reason he put up with Fanny, because she was better at it than any of the rest of us. It would make you sick, wouldn't it? I mean, girls being better at class, especially a thing like Latin? Mr. Jerome says that Latin is fearfully logical, and girls aren't supposed to have any logic."

"Quite sick," Pitt agreed, keeping a sober face with difficulty. "I gather Mr. Jerome was not very keen on teaching Fanny?"

"Not terribly. He preferred us boys." His eyes darkened suddenly, and his skin flushed red under his freckles. "That's what you're here about, isn't it? What happened to Arthur, and the fact that Mr. Jerome kept touching us?"

There was no point in denying it; apparently, Swynford had already been very frank.

"Yes. Did Mr. Jerome touch you?"

Titus pulled a face to express a succession of feelings.

'' Yes." He shrugged. " But I never thought about it till Godfrey explained to me what it meant. If I'd known, sir, that it was going to end up with poor Arthur dead, I'd have said something sooner." His face shadowed; his gray-green eyes were hot with guilt.

Pitt felt a surge of sympathy. Titus was quite intelligent enough to know that his silence could have cost a life.

"Of course." Pitt put out his hand without thinking and clasped the boy's arm. "Naturally you would-but there was no way you could know. Nobody wishes to think so ill of someone, unless there is no possible doubt. You cannot go around accusing somebody on a suspicion. Had you been wrong, you could have done Mr. Jerome a fatal injustice."

"As it is, it's Arthur who's dead." Titus was not so easily comforted. "If I'd said something, I might have saved him."

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Pitt felt compelled to be bolder and risk a deeper wound. "Did you know it was wrong?" he asked. He let go the boy's arm and sat back again.

"No, sir!" Titus colored, the blood rushing up again under his skin. "To be honest, sir, I still don't really know exactly. I don't know whether I wish to know-it sounds rather dirty."

"It is." Pitt was soiled himself, by all his knowledge, in the face of this child who would probably never know a fraction of the weakness and misery Pitt had been forced to see. "It is," he repeated. "I'd leave it well alone."

"Yes, sir. But do you-do you think I could have saved Arthur if I'd known?"

Pitt hesitated. Titus did not deserve a lie.

"Perhaps-but quite possibly not. Maybe no one would have believed you anyway. Don't forget, Arthur could have spoken himself-if he'd wished to!"

Titus's face showed incomprehension.

"Why didn't he, sir? Didn't he understand? But that doesn't make any sense!"

"No-it doesn't, does it?" Pitt agreed. "I'd like to know the answer to that myself.''

"No doubt frightened." Swynford spoke for the first time since Pitt had begun questioning Titus. "Poor boy probably felt guilty-too ashamed to tell his father. I daresay that wretched man threatened him. He would, don't you think, Inspector? Just thank God it's all over now. He can do no more harm."

It was far from the truth, but this time Pitt did not argue. He could only guess what the trial would bring. There was no need to distress them now, no need to tell them the sad and ugly things that would be exposed. Titus, at least, need never know.

"Thank you." Pitt stood up, and his coat fell in creases where he had been sitting on it. ' 'Thank you, Titus. Thank you, Mr. Swynford. I don't think we shall have to trouble you again until the trial."

Swynford took a deep breath, but he knew better than to waste energy arguing now. He inclined his head in acknowledgment and pulled the bell for the footman to show Pitt out.

The door opened and a girl of about fourteen ran in, saw Pitt, and stopped with an instant of embarrassment. She then imme-

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diately composed herself, stood quite upright, and looked at him with level gray eyes-a little coolly, as if it were he who had committed the social gaffe, and not she.

"I beg your pardon, Papa," she said, with a little hitch of her shoulders under her lace-edged pinafore. "I didn't know you had a visitor." She had sized up Pitt already and knew he was not "company." Her father's social equals did not wear mufflers; they wore silk scarves, and they left them with whoever opened the door, along with their hats and sticks.

"Hello, Fanny," Swynford replied with a slight smile. "Have you come down to inspect the policeman?"

"Certainly not!" She lifted her chin and returned her gaze to Pitt, regarding him from head to toe. "I came to say that Uncle Esmond is here, and he promised me that when I am old enough to 'come out' he will give me a necklace with pearls in it for my seventeenth birthday, so I may wear it when I am presented at court. Do you suppose it will be to the Queen herself, or only the Princess of Wales? Do you imagine the Queen will still be alive then? She's fearfully old already, you know!"

"I have no idea," Swynford answered with raised eyebrows, meeting Pitt's glance with amusement. "Perhaps you could begin with the Princess of Wales, and progress from there-if the Queen survives long enough for you, that is?"

"You're laughing at me!" she said with a note of warning. "Uncle Esmond dined with the Prince of Wales last week-he just said so!"

"Then I've no doubt it's true."

"Of course it's true!" Esmond Vanderley appeared in the doorway behind Fanny. "I would never dare lie to anyone as perceptive or as unversed in the social arts as Fanny. My dear child." He put his arm on Fanny's shoulder. "You really must leam to be less direct, or you will be a social disaster. Never let people know that you know they have lied! That is a cardinal rule. Well-bred people never lie-they occasionally misremem-ber, and only the ill-mannered are gross enough to remark it. Isn't that so, Mortimer?"

"My dear fellow, you are the expert in society-how could I dispute what you say? If you wish to succeed, Fanny, listen to your mother's cousin Esmond." His words were perhaps a

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little tart, but, looking at his face, Pitt could see only goodwill. He also noted the relationship with a lift of interest: so Swyn-ford, Vanderley, and the Waybournes were cousins.

Vanderley looked over the girl's head at Pitt.

"Inspector," he said with a return to seriousness. "Still chasing up that wretched business about young Arthur?"

"Yes, sir, I'm afraid there is a lot more we need to know yet."

"Oh?" Vanderley's face showed slight surprise. "For example?"

Swynford made a slight movement with his arm. "You may leave us now, thank you, Titus, Fanny! If your Latin requires improvement, then you had best be about studying it."

"Yes, sir." Titus excused himself to Vanderley, then a little self-consciously to Pitt, aware it was a socially unmapped area. Did he behave as if Pitt were a tradesman, and take his departure as a gentleman would? He decided on the latter, and collecting his sister's hand, much to her annoyance because her curiosity was overwhelming, he escorted her out.

When the door was closed, Vanderley repeated his question.

"Well, we have no idea where the crime took place," Pitt began, hoping that with their knowledge of the family they might have some idea. A new thought occurred to him. "Did the Waybournes ever possess any other property that might have been used? A country house? Or did Sir Anstey and Lady Wayboume ever travel and leave the boys behind with Jerome?"

Vanderley considered for a moment, his face solemn, brows drawn down.

"I seem to remember them all going to the country in the spring. . . . They do have a place, of course. And Anstey and Benita came back to town for a while and left the boys up there. Jerome must have been there-he does go with them, naturally. Can't ignore the boys' education. Poor Arthur was quite bright, you know. Even considered going up to Oxford. Can't think what for-no need _to work. Rather enjoyed the classics. Think he was meaning to read Greek as well. Jerome was a good scholar, you know. Damn shame the fellow was a homosexual-damn shame." He said it with a sigh, and his

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eyes looked into some distance Pitt could not see. His face was sad, but without anger or the harsh contempt Pitt would have expected.

"Worse than that." Swynford shook his head, his wide mouth somewhat curled, as if the sourness of it were in the room with them. "More than a damn shame. Anstey said he was riddled with disease. Gave it to Arthur-poor beggar!"

"Disease?" Vanderley's face paled a little. "Oh, God! That's awful. I suppose you are sure?"

"Syphilis," Swynford clarified.

Vanderley stepped backward and sat down in one of the big chairs, putting the heels of his hands over his eyes as if to hide both his distress and the vision that leaped to his mind.

"How bloody wretched! What-what a ghastly mess." He sat silent for a few more moments, then jerked up and stared at Pitt, his eyes as gray as Fanny's. "What are you doing about it?" He hesitated, fished frantically for words. "God in heaven, man-if all this is true, it could have gone anywhere- to anyone!"

"We are trying to find out everything about the man that we can," Pitt answered, knowing it was not enough, not nearly enough. "We know he was overfamiliar with other children, other boys, but we can't find out yet where he conducted the intimacies of this relationship with Arthur-or where Arthur was killed."

"What the hell does that matter?" Vanderley exploded. He shot to his feet, his clean, chisel-boned face flushed, his muscles tight. "You know he did it, don't you? For pity's sake, man, if he was that far demented in his obsession he could have hired rooms anywhere! You can't be naive enough not to know that-in your business!"

' 'I do know it, sir.'' Pitt tried to keep his own voice from rising, from betraying his revulsion or his growing sense of helplessness. "But I'd still feel we had a better case if we could find it-and someone who has seen Jerome there-perhaps the landlord, someone who took money-anything more definite. You see, so far all we can prove is that Jerome interfered with Godfrey Wayboume and with Titus."

"What do you want?" Swynford demanded. "He's hardly

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likely to have seduced the boy with witnesses! He's perverted, criminal, and spreading that filthy disease God knows where! But he's not foolish-he's never lost sight of the smaller sanities, like tidying up after himself!"

Vanderley ran his fingers through his hair. Suddenly he was calm again, in control.

"No-he's right, Mortimer. He needs to know more than that. There are tens of thousands of rooms around London. He'll never find it, unless he's lucky. But there may be something he can find, somebody-somebody who knew Jerome. I don't suppose poor Arthur was the only one." He looked down and his face was heavy, his voice suddenly even quieter. "I mean-the man was in bondage to a weakness."

"Yes, of course," Swynford said. "But that's the police's job, thank God; not ours. We don't need to concern ourselves with whatever else he needs-or why." He turned to Pitt. "You've talked to my son-I would have thought that was enough, but if it isn't, then you must pursue whatever else you want-in the streets, or wherever. I don't know what else you think there is."

"There must be something more." Pitt felt confused, almost foolish. He knew so much-and so little: explanations that fitted-a growing desperation he could understand, a loneliness, a sense of having been cheated. Would it be enough to hang a man, to hang Maurice Jerome for the murder of Arthur Waybourne? "Yes, sir," he said aloud. "Yes-we'll go and look, everywhere we can."

"Good." Swynford nodded. "Good. Well, get on with it! Good day, Inspector."

"Good day, sir." Pitt walked to the door and opened it silently. He went out into the hall to collect his hat and coat from the footman.

Charlotte had sent an urgent letter to Dominic to ask him to hasten his efforts for a meeting with Esmond Vanderley. She had little idea what she expected to learn, but it was more important than ever that she try.

Today, at last, she had received a reply that there was an afternoon party of sorts to which, if she wished, Dominic would

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escort her, although he doubted she would find any enjoyment in it whatsoever; and did she possess anything she cared to wear for the occasion, because it was fashionable and a little risque¹? He would call by in his carriage at four o'clock, in case she chose to go.

Her mind whirled. Of course she chose to go! But what gown had she that would not disgrace him? Fashionable and risque! Emily was still out of town, and so could not be borrowed from, even had there been time. She raced upstairs and pulled open her wardrobe to see what it presented. At first it was hopeless. Her own clothes were all, at best, last year's styles, or the year before. At worst, they were plain sensible-and one could hardly say less for a gown than that! Whoever wished to seem sensible, of all things?

There was the lavender of Great-Aunt Vespasia's that she had been given for a funeral. With black shawl and hat it had been half mourning, and suitable. She pulled it out and looked at it. It was definitely magnificent and very formal-a duchess's gown, and an elderly duchess at that! But if she were to cut off the high neck and make it daringly low, take out the sleeves below the shoulder drape, it would look far more modern-in fact a little avante-garde!

Brilliant! Emily would be proud of her! She seized the nail scissors from the dresser and began before she could reconsider. If she were to stop and think what she was doing, she would lose her nerve.

It was completed in time. She coiled her hair high (if only Grade were a lady's maid!), bit her lips and pinched her cheeks to give herself a little more color, and splashed on some lavender water. When Dominic arrived, she sailed out, head high, teeth clenched, looking neither to right nor left, and certainly not at Dominic to see what he thought of her.

In the carriage, he opened his mouth to comment, then smiled faintly, a little confused, and closed it again.

Charlotte prayed that she was not making a complete fool of herself.

The party was like nothing she had ever attended before. It was not in one room but in a series of rooms, all lavishly decorated in styles she considered a trifle obtrusive, with vague sug-

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gestions of the last courts of France in one and of the sultans of the Turkish Empire in another; a third seemed Oriental, with red lacquer and silk-embroidered screens. It was rather overwhelming and a little vulgar; she began to have serious misgivings about the wisdom of having come.

But if she had been concerned about her dress, that at least was needless; some of the fashions were so outrageous that she felt quite mildly dressed by comparison. Indeed, her gown was low over the bosom and a little brief around the shoulders, but it did not look in any danger of sliding off altogether and producing a catastrophe. And, glancing around, that was more than she could say for some! Grandmama would have had apoplexy if she could have seen these ladies' attire! As Charlotte stood watching them, keeping one hand on Dominic's arm lest he leave her alone, their behavior was so brazen it would not have passed in the circles she was accustomed to before her marriage.

But Emily had always said high society made its own rules.

"Do you want to leave?" Dominic whispered hopefully.

"Certainly not!" she replied without giving herself time to consider, in case she accepted. "I wish to meet Esmond Van-derley."

"Why?"

"I told you-there has been a crime."

"I know that!" he said sharply. "And they have arrested the tutor. What on earth do you hope to achieve by talking to Van-derley?"

It was a very reasonable question and he did have a certain right to ask.

"Thomas is not really satisfied that he is guilty," she whispered back. "There is a great deal we do not know."

"Then why did he arrest him?"

"He was commanded to!"

"Charlotte-"

At this point, deciding that valor was the better part of discretion, she let go of his arm and swept forward to join in the party.

She discovered immediately that the conversation was glittering and wildly brittle, full of bons mots and bright laughter,

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glances with intimate meaning. At another time, she might have felt excluded, but today she was here just to observe. The few people who spoke to her she answered without effort to be entertaining, half her mind absorbed with watching everyone else.

The women were all expensively dressed, and seemed full of self-assurance. They moved easily from group to group, and flirted with a skill that Charlotte both envied and deplored. She could no more have achieved it than grown wings to fly. Even the plainest ones seemed peculiarly gifted in this particular skill, exhibiting wit and a certain panache.

The men were every bit as fashionable: coats exquisitely cut, cravats gorgeous, hair exaggeratedly long and with waves many a woman would have been proud of. For once, Dominic seemed unremarkable. His chiseled features were discreet, his clothes sober by comparison-and she discovered she greatly preferred them.

One lean young man with beautiful hands and a passionately sensitive face stood alone at a table, his dark gray eyes on the pianist gently rippling a Chopin nocturne on the grand piano. She wondered for a moment if he felt as misplaced here as she did. There was an unhappiness in his face, a sense of underlying grief that he sought to distract, and failed. Could he be Esmond Vanderley?

She turned to find Dominic. "Who is he?" she whispered.

"Lord Frederick Turner," he replied, his face shadowing with an emotion she did not understand. It was a mixture of dislike and something else, indefinable. "I don't see Vanderley, yet." He took her firmly by the elbow and pushed her forward. "Let us go through the next room. He may be there." Short of pulling herself free by force, she had no choice but to move as he directed.

A few people drifted up and spoke with Dominic, and he introduced Charlotte as his sister-in-law Miss Ellison. The conversation was trivial and bright; she gave it little of her attention. A striking woman with very black hair addressed them and skillfully led Dominic off, grasping his arm in an easy, intimate gesture, and Charlotte found herself suddenly alone.

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A violinist was playing something that seemed to have neither beginning nor end. Within moments, she was approached by a Byronically handsome man with bold eyes, full of candid humor.

"The music is inexpressibly tedious, is it not?" he remarked conversationally. "I cannot imagine why they bother!"

"Perhaps to give those who desire it some easy subject with which to open a conversation?" she suggested coolly. She had not been introduced, and he was taking something of a liberty.

It seemed to amuse him, and he regarded her quite openly, looking at her shoulders and throat with admiration. She was furious to realize from the heat she felt in her skin that she was blushing. It was the very last thing she wished!

"You have not been here before," he observed.

"You must come very regularly to know that." She allowed considerable acid into her tone. "I am surprised, if you find it so uninteresting."

"Only the music." He shook his head a little. "And I am an optimist. I come in permanent hope of some delightful adventure. Who could have foretold that I should meet you here?"

"You have not met me!" She tried to freeze him with an icy glance, but he was impervious; in fact, it appeared to entertain him the more. "You have scraped an acquaintance, which I do not intend to continue!'' she added.

He laughed aloud, a pleasant sound of true enjoyment.

"You know, my dear, you are quite individual! I believe I shall have a delicious evening with you, and you will find I am neither ungenerous nor overly demanding."

Suddenly it all became abominably clear to her-this was a place of assignation! Many of these women were courtesans, and this appalling man had taken her for one of them! Her face flamed with confusion for her own obtuseness, and rage with herself because at least half of her was flattered! It was mortifying!

"I do not care in the slightest what you are!" she said with a choking breath. She added, quite unfairly, "And I shall have most unpleasant words with my brother-in-law for bringing me to this place. His sense of humor is in the poorest possible taste!" With a flounce of her skirts, she swept away from him,

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leaving him surprised but delighted, with an excellent story to recount to his friends.

"Serves you right," Dominic said with some satisfaction when she found him. He half turned and moved his hand toward a man of casually elegant appearance, dressed in the height of fashion but managing to make it all seem uncontrived. His bones were good, his wavy, fair hair not especially long. "May I present Mr. Esmond Vanderley, my sister-in-law Miss Ellison!"

Charlotte was ill-prepared for it; her wits were still scattered from the last encounter.

"How do you do, Mr. Vandeiiey," she said with far less composure than she had intended. "Dominic has spoken of you. I am delighted to make your acquaintance."

"He was less kind to me," Vanderley answered with an easy smile. "He has kept you a total secret, which I consider perhaps wise, but most selfish of him."

Now that she was faced with him, how on earth could she bring up the subject of Arthur Waybourne or anything to do with Jerome? The whole idea of meeting Vanderley in this place had been ridiculous. Emily would have managed it with far more aplomb-how thoughtless of her to be absent just when she was needed! She should have been here in London to hunt murderers, not galloping about in the Leicestershire mud after some wretched fox!

She lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them with a frank smile, a little shy. "Perhaps he thought with your recent bereavement you would find being bothered with new acquaintances tiresome. We have had such an experience in our own family, and know that it can take one in most unexpected ways."

She hoped the smile, the sense of sympathy, extended to her eyes, and that he understood it as such. Dear heaven! She could not bear to be misunderstood again! She plunged on, "One moment one wishes only to be left alone; the next, one desires more than anything else to be among as many people as possible, none of whom have the faintest idea of your affairs." She was proud of that-it was an embroidery of truth worthy of Emily at her best.

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Vanderley looked startled.

"Good gracious! How perceptive of you, Miss Ellison. I had no idea you were even aware of it. Dominic apparently was not. Did you read it in the newspapers?"

"Oh, no!" she lied instantly. She had not yet forgotten that ladies of good society would not do such a thing. Reading the newspaper overheated the blood; it was considered bad for the health to excite the mind too much, not to mention bad for the morals. The pages of social events might be read, perhaps, but certainly not murders! A far better answer occurred to her. "I have a friend who also has had dealings with Mr. Jerome."

"Oh, God, yes!" he said wearily. "Poor devil!"

Charlotte was confused. Could he possibly mean Jerome? Surely whatever sympathy he felt could only be for Arthur Wayboume.

"Tragic," she agreed, lowering her voice suitably. "And so very young. The destruction of innocence is always terrible." It sounded sententious, but she was concerned with drawing him out and perhaps learning something, not with creating a good impression upon him herself.

His wide mouth twisted very slightly.

"Would you consider me very discourteous to disagree with you, Miss Ellison? I find total innocence the most unutterable bore, and it is inevitably lost at one point or another, unless one abdicates from life altogether and withdraws to a convent. I daresay even there the same eternal jealousies and malice still intrude. The thing to desire is that innocence should be replaced with humor and a little style. Fortunately, Arthur possessed both of those." He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Jerome, on the other hand, has neither. And of course Arthur was charming, whereas Jerome is a complete ass, poor sod. He has neither lightness of touch nor even the most basic sense of social survival."

Dominic glared at him, but obviously could find no satisfactory words to answer such frankness.

"Oh." Vanderley smiled at Charlotte with candid charm. "I beg your pardon. My language is inexcusable. I have only just learned that the wretched man also forced his attentions upon my younger nephew and a cousin's boy. Arthur was dreadful

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enough, but that he should have involved himself with Godfrey and Titus I still find staggering. Put my appalling manners down to shock, if you will be so generous?"

"Of course," she said quickly, not out of courtesy but because she truly meant it. "He must be a totally depraved man, and to discover that he has been teaching one's family for years is enough to horrify anybody out of all thought of polite conversation. It was clumsy of me to have mentioned it at all." She hoped he would not take her at her word and let the subject fall. Was she being too discreet? "Let us hope that the whole matter will be proved beyond question, and the man hanged," she added, watching his face closely.

The long eyelids lowered in a movement that seemed to reflect pain and a need for privacy. Perhaps she should not have spoken of hanging. It was the last thing she wished herself-for Jerome, or anyone else.

"What I mean," she hastened on, "is that the trial should be brief, and there be no question left in anyone's conscience that he is guilty!"

Vanderley regarded her with a flash of honesty that was oddly out of place in this room of games and masquerades. His eyes were very clear.

"A clean kill, Miss Ellison? Yes, Ihope so, too. Far better to bury all the squalid little details. Who needs to strip naked the pain? We use the excuse of the love for truth to inquire into a labyrinth of things that are none of our affair. Arthur is dead anyway. Let the wretched tutor be convicted without all his lesser sins paraded for a prurient public to feed its self-righteousness on."

She felt suddenly guilty, a raging hypocrite. She was trying to do precisely what he condemned and by silence she was agreeing with: the turning over of every private weakness in an endless search for truth. Did she really believe Jerome was innocent, or was she merely being inquisitive, like the rest?

She shut her eyes for a moment. That was immaterial! Thomas did not believe it-at least he had desperate doubts. Prurient or not, Jerome deserved an honest hearing!

"If he is guilty?" she said quietly.

"You think he is not?" Vanderley was looking at her nar-91

rowly now, unhappiness in his eyes. Perhaps he feared another sordid and drawn-out ordeal for his family.

She had trapped herself; the moment of candor was over.

"Oh-I have no idea!" She opened her eyes wide. "I hope the police do not often make mistakes."

Dominic had had enough.

"I should think it very unlikely," he said with some asperity. "Either way, it is a most unpleasant subject, Charlotte. I am sure you will be pleased to hear that Alicia Fitzroy-Hammond married that extraordinary American-what was his name? Virgil Smith! And she is to have a child. She has retired somewhat from public functions already. You do remember them, don't you?"

Charlotte was delighted. Alicia had had such a miserable time when her first husband died, just before the murders in Resurrection Row.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she said sincerely. "Do you think she would recall me if I wrote to her?"

Dominic made a face. "I cannot conceive of her forgetting!'' he said dryly. "The circumstances were hardly commonplace! One is not littered with corpses every week!"

A woman in hot pink buttonholed Vanderley and led him away. He glanced over his shoulder at them once, reluctantly, but his habitual good manners overcame his desire to avoid the new involvement, and he went gracefully.

"I hope you are satisfied now?" Dominic said waspishly. "Because if you are not, you are going to leave here unhappy. I refuse to stay any longer!"

She thought of arguing, as a matter of principle. But in truth, she was just as pleased to retreat as he was.

"Yes, thank you, Dominic," she said demurely. "You have been very patient."

He gave her a suspicious look, but decided not to question what seemed to be a compliment, and to accept his good fortune. They walked out into the autumn evening, each with a considerable sense of relief, for their separate reasons, and took the carriage home again. Charlotte had a profound desire to change out of this extraordinary gown before any necessity

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arose to explain it to Pitt-a feat that would be virtually impossible!

And Dominic had little wish for such a confrontation either, much as his regard had developed for Pitt-or perhaps because of it. He was beginning to grow suspicious that Pitt had not countenanced a meeting with Vanderley at all!

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Several days passed in fruitless search for any further evidence. Landladies and landlords were questioned, but there were too many to make anything but a cursory attempt, in the hope that for a little reward someone would come forward. 'Three did. The first was a brothelkeeper from Whitechapel, rubbing his hands, eyes gleaming in anticipation of a little future leniency from the police in recompense for his assistance. Gillivray's delight was short-lived when the man proved unable to describe either Jerome or Arthur Wayboume with any accuracy. Pitt had never expected that he would, and was therefore left with a sense of superiority to soothe his irritation.

The second was a nervous little woman who let rooms in Seven Dials. Very respectable, she insisted-only let to gentlemen of the best moral character! She feared her good nature and innocence of the viler aspects of human nature had suffered her to be deceived in a most tragic manner. She moved her muff from one hand to the other, and beseeched Pitt to be assured of her total ignorance of the true purpose for which her house had been used; and was it not simply quite dreadful what the world was coming to these days?

Pitt agreed with her that it was, but probably no worse than always. She roundly disagreed with him on that-it had never been like that in her mother's day, or that good woman, may her soul rest in peace, would have warned her not to let rooms to strangers.

However, she not only identified Jerome from a photograph shown her, but also three other people who were photographed

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for the purpose of just such identity quests-all of them policemen. By the time she got to the picture of Arthur-obtained from Waybourne-she was so confused she was quite sure the whole of London was seething with all manner of sin, and would be consumed like Sodom and Gomorrah before Christmas.

"Why do people do it?" Gillivray demanded furiously. "It's a waste of police time-don't they realize that? It ought to be punished!"

"Don't be ridiculous." Pitt lost his patience. "She's lonely and frightened-"

"Then she shouldn't let rooms to people she doesn't know!" Gillivray retorted waspishly.

"It's probably her only living." Pitt was getting genuinely angry now. It would do Gillivray good to walk the beat for a while, somewhere like Bluegate Fields, Seven Dials, or the Devil's Acre. Let him see the beggars piled in the doorways and smell the bodies and the stale streets. Let him taste the dirt in the air, the grime from chimneys, the perpetual damp. Let him hear the rats squealing as they nosed in the refuse, and see the flat eyes of children who knew they would live and die there, probably die before they were as old as Gillivray was now.

A woman who owned a little property had safety, a roof over her head, and, if she let out rooms, food and clothing as well. By Seven Dials standards, she was rich.

' 'Then she ought to be used to it,'' Gillivray replied, oblivious of Pitt's thoughts.

"I daresay she is." Pitt dug himself deeper into his feelings, glad to have the excuse to let go of the bridle he kept on them most of the time. "That hardly stops it hurting! She's probably used to being hungry, and used to being cold, and used to being scared half the time she's conscious at all. And probably she deceives herself as to what her rooms are used for and dreams that she's better than she is: wiser, kinder, prettier, and more important-like the rest of humanity! Maybe all she wanted was for us to lend her a little fame for a day or two, give her something to talk about over the teacups-or the gin-so she convinced herself Jerome rented one of her rooms. What do

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you suggest we do-prosecute her because she was mistaken?" He let all his dislike for Gillivray and his comfortable assumptions thicken his voice with scorn. "Apart from anything else, that would hardly be conducive to having other people come forward to help us-now, would it?"

Gillivray looked at him, his face full of hurt.

"I think you are being quite unreasonable, sir," he said stiffly. "I can see that for myself. It does not alter the fact that she wasted our time!"

And so did the third claimant, who came to the police station saying he had let rooms to Jerome. He was a rotund personage with rippling jowls and thick white hair. He kept a public house in the Mile End Road, and said that a gentleman answering the murderer's description to a tee had rented rooms from him on numerous occasions, rooms immediately above his saloon bar. He had seemed perfectly respectable at the time, soberly dressed and well spoken, and had been visited while there by a young gentleman of good breeding.

But he also failed to identify Jerome among a group of photographs presented to him, and when he was questioned closely by Pitt, his answers became vaguer and vaguer, until finally he retreated altogether and said he thought after all that he had been mistaken. When he considered the matter more carefully, Pitt helped to bring back to mind that the gentleman in question had a North Country accent, had been a little on the portly side, and was definitely bald over the major portion of his head.

"Damn!" Gillivray swore as soon as he was out of the room. "Now he really was wasting time! Just after a little cheap notoriety for his wretched house! What sort of people want to go drinking in a place where a murder's been committed anyway?"

"Most sorts," Pitt said with disgust. "If he spreads it around, he'll probably double his custom."

"Then we ought to prosecute him!"

"What for? The worst we could do is give him a fright-and waste a great deal more time, not only ours but the court'sjis well. He'd get off-and become a folk hero! He'd be carried

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down the Mile End Road shoulder high, and his pub would be crammed to the doors! He'd be able to sell tickets!"

Gillivray slammed his notebook down on the table, speechless because he did not wish to be vulgar and use the only words that sprang to his mind.

Pitt smiled to himself, and allowed Gillivray to see it.

The investigation continued. It was now October and the streets were hard and bright, full of the edge of autumn. Cold winds penetrated coats, and the first frost made the pavements slippery under one's boots. They had traced Jerome's career back through his previous employers, all of whom had found him of excellent scholastic ability. If admitting to no great personal liking for him, all felt definite satisfaction with his work. None of them had had the least notion that his personal life was anything but of the most regular-even, one might almost say, prim. Certainly he appeared to be a man of little imagination and no humor at all, except of the most perverse, which they failed to understand. As they had said: not likable, but of the utmost propriety-to the point of being a prig-and socially an unutterable bore.

On October 5, Gillivray came into Pitt's office without knocking, his cheeks flushed either with success or by the sharpening wind outside.

"Well?" Pitt asked irritably. Gillivray might have ambition, and might consider himself a cut above the average policeman, as indeed he was, but that did not give him the right to walk in without the courtesy of asking.

"I've found it!" Gillivray said triumphantly, his face glowing, eyes alight. "I've got it at last!"

Pitt felt his pulse quicken in spite of himself. It was not entirely pleasure, which was unexplainable. What else should he feel?

"The rooms?" he asked calmly, then swallowed hard. "You've found the rooms where Arthur Waybourne was drowned? Are you sure this time? Could you prove it in a court?"

"No, no!" Gillivray waved his arms expansively. "Not the rooms. Far better than that, I've found a prostitute who swears

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to a relationship with Jerome! I've got times, places, dates, everything-and perfect identification!"

Pitt let out his breath with disgust. This was useless-and a sordid contradiction he did not want to know. He saw Eugenie Jerome's face in his mind, and wished Gillivray had not been so zealous, so self-righteously successful. Damn Maurice Jerome! And damn Gillivray. And Eugenie, for being so innocent!

"Brilliant," he said sarcastically. "And totally pointless. We are trying to prove that Jerome assaulted young boys, not that he bought the services of street women!"

"But you don't understand!" Gillivray leaned forward over the desk, his face, shining with victory, only a foot from Pitt's. "The prostitute is a young boy! His name is Albie Frobisher, and he's seventeen-just a year older than Arthur Wayboume.. He swears he's known Jerome for four years, and been used by him all that time! That's all we need! He even says Arthur Way-bourne took his place-Jerome admitted as much. That's why Jerome was never suspected before-he never bothered anyone else! He paid for his relationship-until he became infatuated with Arthur. Then, when he seduced Arthur, he stopped seeing Albie Frobisher-no need! It explains everything, don't you see? It all fits into place!"

"What about Godfrey-and Titus Swynford?" Why was Pitt arguing? As Gillivray said, it all fell into place; it even answered the question of why Jerome had never been suspected before, why he had been able to control himself so completely that his appearance was perfect-until Godfrey. "Well?" he repeated. "What about Godfrey?"

"I don't know!" Gillivray was confused fora moment. Then comprehension flashed into his eyes, and Pitt knew exactly what he was thinking. He believed Pitt was envious because it was Gillivray who had found the essential link, and not Pitt himself. "Perhaps once he'd seduced someone he resented paying for it?" he suggested. "Or maybe Albie's prices had gone up. Maybe he was short of money? Or, most likely, he'd developed a taste for a higher class of youth-a touch of quality. Perhaps he preferred seducing virgins to the rather shop-soiled skills of a prostitute?"

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Pitt looked at Gillivray's smooth, clean face and hated it. What he said might well be true, but his satisfaction in it, the ease with which the words came out between his perfect teeth, was disgusting. He was talking of obscenity, of intimate human degradation, with no more pain or difficulty than if they had been items on a bill of fare. Shall we have the beef or the duck tonight? Or the pie?

"You seem to have thought of every aspect of it," he said with a curl of his lip, at once bracketing Gillivray with Jerome in intent-in nature of thought, if not in act. "I should have dwelt on its possibilities longer, then maybe I would have thought of these things for myself."

Gillivray's face flamed as sharp red as the blood rose, but he could think of no reply that did not involve language that would only confirm Pitt's charge.

"Well, I suppose you have an address for this prostitute?" Pitt went on. "Have you told Mr. Athelstan yet?"

Gillivray's face lightened instantly, satisfaction returning like a tide.

"Yes, sir, it was unavoidable. I met him as I was coming in, and he asked me what progress we had made." He allowed himself to smile. "He was delighted."

Pitt could imagine it without even looking at the pleasure in Gillivray's eyes. He made an immense effort to hide his own feelings.

"Yes," he said. "He would be. Where is this Albie Fro-bisher?"

Gillivray handed him a slip of paper and he took it and read it. It was a rooming house of known reputation-in Bluegate Fields. How appropriate, how very suitable.

The following day, late in the afternoon, Pitt finally found Albie Frobisher at home and alone. It was a seedy house up an alley off one of the wider streets, its brick front grimy, its wood door and window frames peeling and spongy with rot from the wet river air.

Inside there was a hempen mat for a distance of about three yards, to absorb the mud from boots, and then a well-worn carpet of brilliant red, giving the hallway a sudden warmth, an il-

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lusion of having entered a cleaner, richer world, an illusion of promises behind the closed doors, or up the dim stairs to the gaslit higher floors.

Pitt walked up quickly. In spite of all the times he had been inside brothels, bawdy houses, gin mills, and workhouses, it made him unusually uncomfortable to be visiting a house of male prostitution, especially one that employed children. It was the most degrading of all human abuses, and that anyone, even another customer, should imagine for an instant that he had come for that purpose made his face flush hot and his mind revolt.

He took the last stairs two at a time and knocked sharply on the door of room 14. He was already shifting his weight and turning his shoulder toward the door in preparation to force it if it was not opened. The thought of standing here on the landing begging for admittance sent the sweat trickling down his chest.

But it was unnecessary. The door opened a crack almost immediately, and a light, soft voice spoke.

"Who is it?"

"Pitt, from the police. You spoke to Sergeant Gillivray yesterday."

The door swung wide without hesitation and Pin stepped inside. Instinctively he looked around, first of all to make sure they were alone. He did not expect violence from a protector, or the procurer himself, but it was always possible.

The room was ornate, with fringed covers and cushions in crimson and purple, and gas lamps with faceted pendants of glass. The bed was enormous, and there was a bronze male nude on the marble-topped side table. The plush curtains were closed, and the air smelled stale and sweet, as though perfume had been used to mask the smells of bodies and human exertion.

The feeling of nausea Pitt experienced lasted only for an instant; then it was overtaken by a suffocating pity.

Albie Frobisher himself was smaller than Arthur Way-bourne had been-perhaps as tall, although it was hard,to tell, since Pitt had never seen Arthur alive-but far lighter. Albie's bones were as fragile as a girl's, his skin white, face

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beardless. He had probably grown up on such scraps of food as he could beg or steal, until he had been old enough to be sold or to find his way into the care of a procurer. By then chronic malnutrition had doubtless already taken its toll. He would always be undersized. He might become soft in old age-although the chances of his living to reach it were negligible-but he would never be rounded, plump. And he was probably worth far more in his profession if he kept this frail, almost childlike look. There was an illusion of virginity about him-physically, at least-but his face, when Pitt regarded it more carefully, was as weary and as bleached of innocence as the face of any woman who had plied her trade in the streets for a lifetime. The world held no surprises for Albie, and no hope except of survival.

"Sit down," Pitt said, closing the door behind him. He balanced himself unhappily on the red plush seat as if he were the host, yet it was Albie who made him nervous.

Albie obeyed without moving his eyes from Pitt's face.

"What do you want?" he asked. His voice was curiously pleasing, softer, better educated than his surroundings suggested. Probably he had clients from a better class of person and had picked up their tricks of speech. It was an unpleasant thought, but it made sense. Men of Bluegate Fields had no money for this kind of indulgence. Had Jerome unintentionally schooled this child as well? If not Jerome, then others like him: men whose tastes could only be satisfied in the privacy of rooms like this, with people for whom they had no other feelings, shared no other side of their lives.

"What do you want?" Albie repeated, his old woman's eyes tired in his beardless face. With a shiver of revulsion, Pitt realized what he was thinking. He straightened up in the chair and sat back as if he were at ease, although he felt furiously uncomfortable. He knew his face was hot, but perhaps the lights were too dim for Albie to see it.

"To ask you about one of your customers," he answered. "You told Sergeant Gillivray yesterday. I want you to repeat it to me today. A man's life might depend on it-we have to be sure."

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Albie's face stiffened but there was too little color in the skin to see, in this yellow gaslight, if he paled even more.

"What about him?"

"You know the man I mean?"

"Yes. Jerome, the tutor."

"That's right. Describe him for me." He would have to allow some leniency. Customers to places like these often did not wish to be seen closely. They preferred the lights dim, and came in heavily muffled even in summer. It would be cool enough down in these darnk, riverside streets any night. It would not be remarked. "Well?"

"Fairly tall." Albie did not seem hesitant or confused. "On the lean side, dark hair that was always short and neat, mustache. Sort of pinched face, sharp nose, pursed-up mouth as if he smelled something bad, brown eyes. I can't describe his body because he always liked the lights off before that part, but he felt strong, and sort of bony-"

Pitt's stomach lurched, his imagination was too vivid. This boy had been thirteen when it started!

"Thank you," he stopped Albie. It was Jerome, exactly; he could not have phrased it better himself. He took half a dozen photographs out of his pocket, including one of Jerome, and passed them over one by one. "Any one of these?"

Albie looked at them each until he came to the right one. He hesitated only for a moment.

"That one," he said with certainty. "That's him. I've never seen any of the others."

Pitt took it back. It was a picture taken in the police cells, stiff and unwilling, but it was a clear likeness.

"Thank you. Did he ever bring anyone else with him when he came?"

"No." Albie smiled very slightly, a wan ghost of expression full of self-knowledge. "People don't, when they come to places like this. With women they might-I don't know many women. But they come here alone, especially the gentry, and they're mostly the ones who can afford it. Others with that sort of taste exercise it with whoever they can find with the same inclination. Usually the higher they are, the quieter they come, the lower their hats and the tighter their collars to their chins.

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There's more than one wears false whiskers till he gets inside, and always wants the lamps so low he's fallen over the furniture before now." His face was cold with scorn. In his opinion, a man should at least have the courage of his sins. "The more I accommodate them, the worse they hate me for it," he went on harshly, suddenly finding anger because he was despised and knew it, for all their begging and added money. Sometimes, when he had had a good week and he did not need the funds, he turned someone away for the sheer luxury of humiliating him, of stripping naked his need and exposing it. Next time, and perhaps even for a month or two, the man remembered to say please and thank you, and did not drop the guineas quite so offhandedly on the table.

It was not necessary to put his thoughts into words for Pitt. Similar ideas had been running through Pitt's imagination: the two bodies locked together in passionate intimacy, the physical need of the man and Albie's need to survive-^each despising the other, and in their hearts hating! Albie, because he was used like a public convenience in which you relieve yourself and then leave for the next man; the other, whatever dim figure it was, because Albie had seen his dependence-his naked soul- and he could not forgive that. Each was master and slave, and each knew it.

Pitt felt a sudden pity and anger-pity for the men, because they were imprisoned in themselves, but anger for Albie, because he had been made into what he was not by nature but by man, and for money. He had been taken as child and set into this mold. He would almost certainly die in it, probably within a few years.

Why couldn't Jerome have stayed with Albie, or someone like him? What was it Jerome felt for Arthur Waybourne that Albie had not been able to satisfy? He would probably never know.

"Is that all?" Albie asked patiently. His mind was already somewhere else.

"Yes, thank you." Pitt stood up. "Don't go away, or we'll be obliged to look for you and keep you safe in jail so we have you for the trial."

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Albie looked uncomfortable. "I gave Sergeant Gillivray a statement. He wrote it all down."

"I know. But we'll need you all the same. Don't make things harder for yourself-just be here."

Albie sighed. "All right. Where have I got to go, anyway? I have clients here. I couldn't afford to start all over again somewhere else."

"Yes," Pitt said. "If I thought you would go, I'd arrest you now." He walked to the door and opened it.

"You don't want to do that." Albie smiled with wan humor. "I've too many other clients who wouldn't like it if I was arrested. Who knows what I might say-if I was questioned too hard? You're not free either, Mr. Pitt. All sorts of people need me-people far more important than you are."

Pitt did not grudge him his brief moment of power.

"I know," he said quietly. "But I wouldn't remind them of it, Albie-not if you want to stay safe." He went out and closed the door, leaving Albie sitting on the bed, his arms wrapped around his body as he stared at the prisms on the gaslight.

When Pitt got back to his office, Cutler, the police surgeon, was waiting for him, his face wrinkled in puzzlement. Taking his hat off and flinging it at the stand, Pitt closed the office door. The hat missed and fell on the floor. He pulled his muffler undone and threw it as well. It hung over the antler like a dead snake.

"What is it?" he asked, undoing his coat.

"This man of yours," Cutler replied, scratching his cheek. "Jerome, the one who is supposed to have killed your body from the Bluegate Fields sewer-"

"What about him?"

"He infected the boy with syphilis?"

"Yes-why?"

"He didn't, you know! He doesn't have it. Clean as a whistle. Given him every test I know of-twice. Difficult disease, I know. Goes dormant-can stay like that for years. But whoever gave it to that boy was infectious within the last few months- even weeks-and this man is as clean as I am! I'd swear to that

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in court-and I'll have to. Defense will ask me-and if they don't, I'll damn well tell them!"

Pitt sat down and shook off his coat, leaving it sprawled over the back of his chair.

"No possibility of a mistake?"

"I told you-I did it twice, and had my assistant check me. .The man has not got syphilis or any other venereal disease. Done all the tests on him there are."

Pitt looked at him. He had a strong face but it was not overbearing. There were lines of humor around the mouth and eyes. Pitt found himself wishing he had time to know him better.

"Have you told Athelstan?"

"No." This time there was a smile. "I will if you like. I thought you might prefer to do that yourself."

Pitt stood up and reached out his hand for the written report. His coat slid to the floor in a heap but he did not notice it.

"Yes," he said, without knowing why. "Yes, I would. Thank you.'' He went to the door, and the doctor left to go back up to his work.

Upstairs in his polished and gleaming room, Athelstan was leaning back in his chair contemplating the ceiling when he gave Pitt permission to come in.

"Well?" he said with satisfaction. "Good job young Gilliv-ray did turning up the prostitute, eh? Watch him-he'll go a long way. Wouldn't be surprised if I have to promote him in a year or two. Treading on your tail, Pitt!"

"Possibly," Pitt said without pleasure. "The police surgeon has just given me his report on Jerome."

"Police surgeon?" Athelstan frowned. "What for? Fellow's not ill, is he?"

"No, sir, he's in excellent health-not a blemish, apart from a little dyspepsia." Pitt felt satisfaction welling up inside him. He looked straight at Athelstan, meeting his eyes. "Perfect health," he repeated.

"God dammit, man!" Athelstan sat upright sharply. "Who cares if he has indigestion or not! The man perverted, contami-

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nated, and then murdered a decent boy, a good boy! I don't give a fig if he's doubled up in agony!"

"No, sir, he's in excellent health," Pitt repeated. "The doctor gave him every test he knows of, and then did it again to make sure."

"Pitt, you're wasting my time! As long as he's kept alive and fit for trial, and then hanging, his health is of no interest to me whatsoever. Get on with your job!"

Pitt leaned forward a little, keeping the smile from his face with an effort.

"Sir," he said carefully. "He doesn't have syphilis-not a trace!"

Athelstan stared at him; it was a second or two before the meaning of the statement dawned on him.

"Not got syphilis?" he repeated; blinking.

"That's right. He's clean as a whistle. Hasn't got it now- never has had."

"What are you talking about? He must have it! He gave it to Arthur Waybourne!"

"No, sir, he can't have. He doesn't have it," Pitt repeated.

"That's absurd!" Athelstan exclaimed. "If he didn't give it to Arthur Wayboume, then who did?"

"I don't know, sir. That's a very interesting question."

Athelstan swore viciously, then colored with anger because Pitt had seen him lose control of himself and sink to obscenity.

"Well, get out and do something!" he shouted. "Don't leave everything to young Gillivray! Find out who did give it to that wretched boy! Someone did-find him! Don't stand there like a fool!"

Pitt smiled sourly, his pleasure sharply diluted with the knowledge of what lay ahead.

"Yes, sir. I'll do what I can."

"Good! Get on with it then! And close the door behind you- it's damn cold out there in the passage!"

The end of the day brought the worst experience of all. He arrived home late, to find Eugenie Jerome waiting in the parlor

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again. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa with Charlotte, who was pale-faced and, for once, obviously uncertain what to do or say. She stood up the moment she heard Pitt at the door, and rushed to greet him-or perhaps to warn him.

As Pitt entered the room, Eugenie stood up, her body tense, her face composed with an effort that was painful.

"Oh, Mr. Pitt, it is so kind of you to see me!"

He had no choice; he would like to have avoided her. That knowledge made him feel guilty. He could see nothing in his mind's eye but Albie Frobisher-what a ridiculous name that was for a prostitute!-sitting in the gaslight in his disgusting room. He felt obscurely guilty for that, too, although it was nothing to do with him. Perhaps the guilt was because he knew about it, and had done nothing to fight it, to wipe it out forever.

"Good evening, Mrs. Jerome," he said gently. "What can I

do for you?" ,

Her eyes filled with tears, and she had to struggle for several seconds to master herself before she could speak distinctly.

"Mr. Pitt, there is no way that I can prove that my husband was at home with me all the night that poor child was killed, because I was asleep and I cannot truly say I know where he was-except that I have never known Maurice to lie about anything, and I believe him." She pulled a little face as she recognized her own naivete'. "Not that I suppose people would expect me to say anything else-"

"That's not so, Mrs. Jerome," Charlotte interrupted. "If you believe he was guilty, you might feel betrayed and wish to see him punished. Many women would!"

Eugenie turned around, her face aghast.

"What a dreadful thought! Oh, how terrible! I do not for even an instant believe it to be true. Certainly Maurice is not an easy man, and there are those who dislike him, I know. He holds very definite opinions, and they are not shared by everyone. But he is not evil. He has no-no appetites of the vile nature they are accusing him of. Of that I am perfectly sure. It is just not the sort of person he is."

Pitt hid his feelings. She was remarkably innocent for a 107

woman married eleven years. Did she really imagine that Jerome would have permitted her to learn of it if he had?

And yet it surprised him also. Jerome seemed too-too ambitious, too rational to fill the picture that was emerging of him as an emotional, sensual man. Which proved what? Only that people were far more complex, more surprising than it was so easy to suppose.

There was no point in hurting her the more by arguing. If it was better for her to go on believing in his innocence, cherishing the good in what she had had, then why insist on trying to shatter it?

"I can only uncover evidence, Mrs. Jerome," he said weakly. "It is not in my power to interpret it, or to hide it again."

"But there must be evidence to prove him innocent!" she protested. "I know he is! Somewhere there must be a way to show that! After all, someone did kill that boy, didn't they?"

"Oh, yes, he was murdered."

"Then find who really did it! Please, Mr. Pitt! If not for the sake of my husband, then for the sake of your own conscience-for justice. I know it was not Maurice, so it must be somebody else." She stopped for a moment, and a more forceful argument came to her mind. ' 'After all if he is left to go free, he may abuse some other child in the same manner, may he not?"

"Yes, I suppose so. But what can I look for, Mrs. Jerome? What other evidence do you think there could be?"

"I don't know. But you are far cleverer at that sort of thing. It is your job. Mrs. Pitt has told me about some of the marvelous cases you have solved in the past, when it seemed quite hopeless. I'm sure if anyone in London can find the truth, it is you."

It was monstrous, but there was nothing he could say. After she had gone, he turned on Charlotte furiously.

"What in God's name have you been telling her?" he demanded, his voice rising to a shout. "I can't do anything about it! The man's guilty! You have no right to encourage her to believe-it's grossly irresponsible-and cruel. Do you know

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who I saw today?" He had not planned to tell her anything about it. Now he was smarting raw, and he did not want to be alone in his pain. He lashed out with all the clarity of new memory. "I saw a prostitute, a boy who was probably sold into homosexual brothels when he was thirteen years old. He sat there on a bed in a room that looked like a cheap copy of a West End whorehouse-all red plush and gilt-backed chairs, and gas lamps dim in the middle of the day. He was seventeen, but his eyes looked as old as Sodom. He'll probably be dead before he's thirty."

Charlotte stood silent for so long that Pitt began to regret having said what he had. It was unfair; she could not have known what had happened. She was sorry for Eugenie Jerome, and he could hardly blame her for that. So was he-painfully so.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you that."

"Why?" she demanded, moving suddenly. "Isn't it true?" Her eyes were wide and angry, her face white.

"Yes, of course it's true, but I shouldn't have told you."

Now her anger, fierce and scalding, was directed at him.

"Why not? Do you think I need to be protected, politely deceived like some child? You used not to treat me so condescendingly! I remember when I lived in Cater Street, you forced me to leam something of the rookeries, whether I would or not-"

"That was different! That was starvation. It was poverty you knew nothing of. This is perversion."

"And I ought to know about people starving to death in the alleys, but not about children being bought to be used by the perverted and the sick? Is that what you're saying?"

"Charlotte-you can't do anything about it."

"I can try!"

"You can't possibly make any difference!" He was exasperated. The day had been long and wretched, and he was in no mood for high-flown moral rhetoric. There were thousands of children involved, maybe tens of thousands; there was nothing any one person could do. She was indulging in a flight of imagination to salve conscience, and nothing more. "You've simply no idea of the enormity of it." He waved his hands.

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"Don't you dare talk down at me like that!" She caught up the cushion from the sofa and flung it at him as hard as she could. It missed, flew past him, and knocked a vase of flowers from the sideboard onto the floor, spilling water on the carpet but fortunately not breaking the vase.

"Damnation!" she said loudly. "You clumsy creature! You could have at least have caught it! Now look what you've done! I'll have to clean all that up!"

It was grossly unjust of her, but it was not worth arguing about. She picked up her skirts and swept out to the kitchen, then returned with the dustpan and brush, a cloth, and a jug of fresh water. She silently tidied up, refilled the vase with water from the jug, set the flowers back in, and replaced them on the sideboard.

"Thomas!"

"Yes?" He was deliberately cool, but ready to accept an apology with dignity, even magnanimity.

"I think you may be wrong. That man may not be guilty."

He was stunned. "You what?"

"I think he might not be guilty of killing Arthur Way-boume," she repeated. "Oh, I know Eugenie looks as if she couldn't count up to ten without some man helping her, and she goes dewy-eyed at the sound of a masculine voice, but she puts it all on-it's an act. She's as sharp underneath as I am. She knows he's humorless and ftill of resentment, and that hardly anybody likes him. I'm not even sure if she likes him very much herself. But she does know him! He has no passion, he's as cold as a cod, and he didn't particularly like Arthur Way-bourne. But he knew that working in the Waybourne house was a good position. Actually, the one he preferred was Godfrey. He said Arthur was a nasty boy, sly and conceited."

"How do you know that?" he asked. His curiosity was roused, even though he thought she was being unfair to Eugenie. Funny how even the nicest women, the most levelheaded, could give way to feminine spite.

"Because Eugenie said so, of course!" she said impatiently. "And she might be able to play you like a threepenny violin, but she doesn't pull the wool over my eyes for a moment-she has too much wit to try! And don't look at me like that!" She

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glared at him. "Just because I don't melt into tears in front of you and tell you you're the only man in London who is clever enough to solve a case! That doesn't mean I don't care. I care very much indeed. And I think its all frighteningly convenient for everyone else that it's Jerome. So much tidier-don't you think? Now you can leave all the important people alone to get on with their lives without having to answer a lot of very personal and embarrassing questions, or have the police in their houses for the neighbors to gawp at and speculate about."

"Charlotte!" Indignation welled up inside him. She was being wildly unfair. Jerome was guilty; everything pointed to it, and nothing whatsoever pointed to anyone else. She was sorry for Eugenie and she was upset over the boy prostitute; she was letting her emotions run all over the place. It was his fault; he should not have told her about Albie. It was stupid and self-indulgent of him. Worse than that, he had known it was stupid all the time, even as he heard his own voice saying the words.

Charlotte stood still, waiting, staring at him.

He took a deep breath. "Charlotte, you do not know all the evidence. If you did, then you would know that there is enough to convict Maurice Jerome, and there is none at all-do you hear me?-none at all to indicate anyone else knew anything, or had any guilt or complicity in any part of it. I cannot help Mrs. Jerome. I cannot alter or hide the facts. I cannot suppress witnesses. I cannot and will not try to get them to alter their evidence. That is the end of the matter! I do not wish to discuss the subject any further. Where is my dinner, please? I am tired and cold, and I have had a long and extremely unpleasant day. I wish to be served my dinner, and to eat it in peace!"

Unblinking, she stared at him while she absorbed what he had said. He stared straight back at her. She took a deep breath and let it out.

"Yes, Thomas," she answered. "It is in the kitchen." She switched her skirts sharply and turned and led the way out and down the hallway.

He followed with a very slight smile that he did not intend her to see. A little Eugenie Jerome would not hurt her at all!

ill

Just short of a week later, Gillivray came up with his second stroke of brilliance. Admittedly-and he was obliged to concede it-he made the discovery following an idea Pitt had given him and insisted he pursue. All the same, he contrived to tell Athelstan before he reported to Pitt himself. This was achieved by the simple stratagem of delaying his return to the police station with the news until he knew Pitt would be out on another errand.

Pitt came back, wet to the knees from the rain, and with water dripping off the edge of his hat and soaking his collar and scarf. He took off his hat and scarf with numb fingers and flung them in a heap over the hatstand.

"Well?" he demanded as Gillivray stood up from the chair opposite. "What have you got?" He knew from Gillivray's smug face that he had something, and he was too tired to spin it out.

"The source of the disease," Gillivray replied. He disliked using the name of it and avoided it whenever he could; the word seemed to embarrass him.

"Syphilis?" Pitt asked deliberately.

Gillivray's nose wrinkled in distaste, and he colored faintly .up his well-shaven cheeks.

"Yes. It's a prostitute-a woman called Abigail Winters.."

"Not such an innocent after all, our young Arthur," Pitt observed with a satisfaction he would not have cared to explain. "And what makes you think she is the source?"

' 'I showed her a picture of Arthur-the photograph we obtained from his father. She recognized it, and confessed she knew him."

"Did she indeed? And why do you say 'confessed'? Did she seduce him, deceive him in some way?"

"No, sir." Gillivray flushed with annoyance. "She's a whore. She couldn't ever find herself in his society."

"So he took himself to hers?"

"No! Jerome took him. I proved that!"

"Jerome took him?" Pitt was startled. "Whatever for? Surely the last thing he would want would be for Arthur to develop a taste for women? That doesn't mak-e any sense!"

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"Well, whether it makes sense or not-he did!" Gillivray snapped back with satisfaction. "Seems he was a voyeur as well. He liked to sit there and watch. You know, I wish I could hang that man myself! I don't usually go to watch a hanging, but this is one I won't miss!"

There was nothing for Pitt to say. Of course he would have to check the statement, see the woman himself; but there was too much now to argue against. It was surely proved beyond any but the most illusory and unrealistic of doubts.

He reached out and took the name and address from Gillivray's hand. It was the last piece necessary before trial.

"If it amuses you," he said harshly. "Can't say I ever enjoyed seeing a man hanged, myself. Any man. But you do whatever gives you pleasure!"

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1 he trial of Maurice Jerome began on the second Monday in November. Charlotte had never before been in a courtroom. Her interest in Pitt's cases had been intense in the past; indeed, on several occasions she had actively and often dangerously engaged herself in discovering the criminal. But it had always come to an end for her with the arrest; once there was no mystery left, she had considered the matter finished. To know the outcome had been sufficient-she did not wish to see it.

This time, however, she felt a strong need to attend as a gesture of support to Eugenie in what was surely one of the worst ordeals a woman could face-whatever the verdict. Even now, she was not sure what she expected the verdict to be. Usually she had entire confidence in Pitt, but in this case she had sensed an unhappiness in him that was deeper than his usual distress for the tragedy of crime. There was a sense of dissatisfaction, an air of something unfinished-answers he needed to have, and did not.

And yet if it was not Jerome, then who? There was no one else even implicated. All the evidence pointed to Jerome; why should everyone lie? It made no sense, but still the doubts were there.

She had, in her mind, formed something of a picture of Jerome, a little blurred, a little fuzzy in the details. She had to remind herself it was built on what Eugenie had told her, and Eugenie was prejudiced, to say the least. And, of course, on what Pitt had said; perhaps that was prejudiced too? Pitt had been touched by Eugenie as soon as he had seen her. She was so

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vulnerable; his pity was reflected in his face, his desire to protect her from the truths he knew. Charlotte had watched it in him, and felt angry with Eugenie for being so childlike, so innocent, and so very, very feminine.

But that was not important now. What was Maurice Jerome like? She had gathered that he was a man of little emotion. He displayed neither superficial emotions nor the emotions that smolder beneath an ordinary face, surfacing only in privacy in moments of unbearable passion. Jerome was cold; his appetites were less sensual than intellectual. He possessed a desire for knowledge and the status and power it afforded, for the social distinctions of manner, speech, and dress. He felt proud of his diligence and of possessing skills that others did not. He was proud, too, in an obscure way, of the satisfying totality of such branches of mental discipline as Latin grammar and mathematics.

Was that all merely a superb mask for ungovernable physical hungers beneath? Or was he precisely what he seemed: a chilly, rather incomplete man, too innately self-absorbed for passion of any sort?

Whatever the truth, Eugenie could only suffer from it. The least Charlotte could do was to be there, so that the crowd of inquisitive, accusing faces would contain at least one that was neither, that was a friend whose glance she could meet and know she was not alone.

Charlotte had put out a clean shirt for Pitt, and a fresh cravat, and she sponged and pressed his best coat. She did not tell him that she intended to go as well. She kissed him goodbye at quarter past eight, straightening his collar one last time. Then, as soon as the door closed, she whirled around and ran back to the kitchen to instruct Gracie in meticulous detail on the duties of caring for the house and the children for every day that the trial should last. Gracie assured Charlotte that she would perform every task to the letter, and be equal to any occasion that could arise.

Charlotte accepted this and thanked her gravely, then went to her room, changed into the only black dress she possessed, and put on a very beautiful, extravagant black hat that was a cast-off from Emily. Emily had worn it at some

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duchess's funeral, and then, on hearing of the woman's excessive parsimony, had taken such a dislike to her that she got rid of the hat immediately and bought another, even more expensive and stylish.

This one had a broad, rakish brim, plenty of veiling, and quite marvelous feathers. It was wildly flattering, accenting the bones of Charlotte's face and her wide gray eyes, and was as glamorous as only a touch of mystery could be.

She did not know if one was supposed to wear black to a trial. Decent society did not attend trials! But after all it was for murder, and that necessarily had to do with death. Anyway, there was no one she could ask, at this late date. They'd probably say she should not attend at all, and make it difficult for her by pointing out to Pitt all the excellent reasons why she should not. Or they'd say that only women of scandalous character, like the old women who knitted at the foot of the guillotine in the French Revolution, attended such things.

It was cold, and she was glad she had saved enough from the housekeeping money to pay for fare in a hansom cab both ways, every day of the week, should it be necessary.

She was very early; hardly anyone else was there-only court officials dressed in black, looking a little dusty like summer crows, and two women with brooms and dusters. It was bleaker than she had imagined. Her footsteps echoed on the wide floors as she followed directions to the appropriate room and took her seat on the bare wooden rows.

She stared around, trying to people the room in her mind. The rails around the witness box and the dock were dark now, worn by the hands of generations of prisoners, of men and women who had come here to give evidence, nervous, trying to hide private and ugly truths, telling tales about others, evading with lies and half lies. Every human sin and intimacy had been exposed here; lives had been shattered, deaths pronounced. But no one had ever done the simple things here-eaten or slept, or laughed with a friend. She saw only the anonymous look of a public place.

Already there were others coming in, with bright, sneering faces. Hearing snatches of conversation, she instantly hated

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them. They had come to leer, to pry, to indulge their imaginations with what they could not possibly know. They would come to their own verdicts, regardless of the evidence. She wanted Eugenie to know there was at least one person who would keep pure friendship, whatever was said.

And that was odd, because her feelings for Eugenie were still very confused. Charlotte was irritated by her saccharine femininity; not only did it scrape Charlotte raw, but it was a perpetuation of all that was most infuriating in men's assumptions about women. She had been aware of such attitudes ever since the time her father had taken a newspaper from her, and told her it was unsuitable for a lady to be interested in such things, and insisted she return to her painting and embroidery. The condescension of men to female frailty and general silliness made her temper boil. And Eugenie pandered to it by pretending to be exactly what they expected. Perhaps she had learned to act that way as a form of self-protection, as a way of getting what she wanted? That was a partial excuse, but it was still the coward's way out.

And the worst thing about it all was that it worked-it worked even with Pitt! He melted like a complete fool! She had watched it happen in her own parlor! Eugenie, in her own simpering, self-deprecating, flattering way, was socially quite as clever as Emily! If she had started from as good a family and had been as pretty as Emily, perhaps she too might have married a title.

What about Pitt? The thought sent a chill throughout her body. Would Pitt have preferred someone a little softer, a little subtler at playing games; someone who would remain at least partly a mystery to him, demanding nothing of his emotions but patience? Would he have been happier with someone who left him at heart utterly alone, who never really hurt him because she was never close enough, who never questioned his values or destroyed his self-esteem by being right when he was wrong and letting him know it?

Surely to suspect Pitt of wanting such a woman was the most supreme insult of all. It assumed he was an emotional child, unable to stand the truth. But we are all children at times, and we all need dreams-even foolish ones.

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Perhaps she would be wiser if she bit her tongue a little more often, let truth-or her understanding of the truth-wait its time. There was kindness to consider-as well as devotion to honesty.

The court was now full. In fact, when she turned around there were people being refused entrance. Curious faces crowded at the doorways, hoping for a glimpse of the prisoner, the man who had murdered an aristocrat's son and stuffed his naked body down a manhole to the sewers!

The proceedings began. The clerk, somber in old black, wearing a gold pince-nez on a ribbon around his neck, called for attention in the matter of the Crown versus Maurice Jerome. The judge, his face like a ripe plum beneath his heavy, horsehair wig, puffed out his cheeks and sighed. He looked as if he had dined too well the evening before. Charlotte could imagine him in a velvet jacket, with crumbs on his waistcoat, wiping away the last remnants of the Stilton and upending the port wine. The fire would be climbing the chimney and the butler standing by to light his cigar.

Before the end of the week, he would probably put on the black three-cornered cap and sentence Maurice Jerome to be hanged by the neck until he was dead.

She shivered and turned to look for the first time at the man standing in the dock. She was startled-unpleasantly so. She realized what a precise mental picture she had built of him, not so much of his features, but of the sense of him, the feeling she would have on seeing his face.

And the picture vanished. He was larger than her pity had allowed; his eyes were cleverer. If there was fear in him, it was masked by his contempt for everyone around him. There were ways in which he was superior-he could speak Latin and considerable Greek; he had read about the arts and the cultures of ancient peoples, and this rabble below him had not. They were here to indulge a vulgar curiosity; he was here by force, and he would endure it because he had no choice. But he would not descend to be part of the emotional tide. He despised the vulgarity, and in his slightly flared nostrils, his pursed mouth that destroyed any lines of softness or sensitivity, in the slight movement of his shoulders that prevented him from touch-

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ing the constables at either side, he silently made it understood.

Charlotte had begun with sympathy for him, thinking she could understand, at least in part, how he could have come to such a depth of passion and despair-if he was guilty. And surely he was deserving of every compassion and effort at justice if he was innocent?

And yet looking at him, real and alive, only yards away, she could not like him. The warmth faded and she was left with discomfort. She must begin all over again with her feelings, build them for an entirely different person from the one her mind had created.

The trial had begun. The sewer cleaner was the first witness. He was small, narrow as a boy, and he blinked, unaccustomed to the light. The counsel for the prosecution was a Mr. Bartholomew Land. He dealt with the man quickly and straightforwardly, drawing from him the very simple story of his work and his discovery of the corpse, the body surprisingly unmarked by injury or attacks by rats-and the fact that, remarkably, it had kept none of its clothes, not even boots. Of course he had called the police immediately, and certain!? not, me lud, he had removed nothing whatsoever-he was not a thief! The suggestion was an insult.

Counsel for the defense, Mr. Cameron Giles, found nothing to contest, and the witness was duly excused.

The next witness was Pitt. Charlotte bent a little to hide her face as he passed within a yard of her. She was amused and felt a small quake of uncertainty when, even at a time like this, he glanced for a moment at her hat. It was beautiful! Though of course he did not know it was she who was wearing it! Did he often notice other women with that quick flash of appreciation? She drove the idea from her mind. Eugenie had worn a hat.

Pitt took the witness stand and swore to his name and occupation. Though she had pressed his jacket before he left the house, it sat slightly lopsided already, his cravat was crooked, and, as usual, he had run his fingers through his hair, leaving it on end. It was a waste of time even trying! Heaven only knew

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what he had in his pockets to make them hang like that! Stones, by the look of it!

"You examined the body?" Land asked.

"Yes, sir."

"And there was no identification on it whatsoever? How did you then leam who he was?"

Pitt outlined the process, the elimination of one possibility after another. He made it sound very routine, a matter of common sense anyone might have followed.

"Indeed." Land nodded. "And in due course Sir Anstey Waybourne identified his son?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you do then, Mr. Pitt?"

Pitt's face was blank. Only Charlotte knew that it was misery that took away his normal expression, the consuming interest that was usually there. To anyone else he might simply have appeared cold.

"Because of information given me by the police surgeon"-he was far too used to giving evidence to repeat hearsay-"I began to make investigations into Arthur Wayboume's personal relationships."

"And what did you learn?"

Everything was being dragged out of him; he volunteered nothing.

"I learned of no close relationships outside his own household that fitted the description we were looking for." What a careful answer, all in words that gave nothing away. He had not even implied there was any sort of sexuality involved. He could have been talking of finance, or even some trade or other.

Land's eyebrows shot up and his voice showed surprise.

"No relationships, Mr. Pitt! Are you sure?"

Pitt's mouth curled down. "I think you will have to ask Sergeant Gillivray for the information you are fishing for," he said with thinly concealed acidity.

Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, even behind her veiling. So he was going to make Gillivray tell all about Albie

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Frobisher and the woman prostitute with the disease. Gillivray would love that. He would be a celebrity.

Why? Gillivray would make it all so much more florid, so full of detail and certainty. Or was it that Pitt simply did not want to be part of it and this was his way of escaping-at least from saying the words himself, as if that made some difference? Left to Gillivray, they would be the more damning.

She looked up. He was terribly alone there in that wood-railed box; there was nothing she could do to help. He did not even know she was here, understanding his fear because some part of him was still not entirely satisfied of Jerome's guilt.

What had Arthur Waybourne really been like? He was young, well-born, and a victim of murder. No one would dare to speak ill of him now, to dig up the mean or grubby truths. Maurice Jerome, with his cynical face, probably knew that, too.

She looked across at Pitt.

He was going on with his evidence, Land drawing it out of him a piece at a time.

Giles had nothing to ask. He was too skilled to try to shake him, and would not give him the opportunity to reinforce what he had already said.

Then it was the police surgeon's turn. He was calm, quite certain of his facts and impervious to the power or solemnity of the court. Neither the judge's flowing size and rippling wig nor Land's thundering voice made any impression on him. Under the pomposity of the court were only human bodies. And he had seen bodies naked, had taken them apart when they were dead. He was only too aware of their frailty, their common indignities and needs.

Charlotte tried to imagine members of the court in white dust sheets, without the centuries of dignity their robes lent them, and suddenly it all seemed faintly ridiculous. She wondered if the judge was hot under that great wig; did it itch?

Perhaps the white dust sheets would be just as delusionary as the gowns and robes?

The surgeon was talking. He had a good face, strong without arrogance. He told the truth, sparing nothing. But he stated it as fact, without emotion or judgment. Arthur Wayboume had

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been homosexually used. A ripple of disgust spread through the room. Everyone doubtless already knew, but it was a pleasure, a kind of catharsis to be able to express the feeling and wallow in it. After all, that was what they had come for!

Arthur Waybourne had recently contracted syphilis. Another wave of revulsion-this time also a shudder of surprise and fear. This was disease; it was contagious. TJiere were things about it one knew, and decent people stood in no peril. But there was always mystery with disease, and they were close enough to it for a thrill of apprehension, the cold brush of real danger. It was a disease for which there was no cure.

Then came the surprise. Giles stood up.

"You say, Dr. Cutler, that Arthur Waybourne had recently contracted syphilis?"

"Yes, that is so."

"Unquestionably?"

"Unquestionably."

"You could not have made a mistake? It could not be some other disease with similar symptoms?"

"No, it could not."

"From whom did he contract this disease?"

"I have no way of knowing, sir. Except, of course, that it must have been someone who suffered from the disease."

"Precisely. That would not tell you who it was-but it would tell you undoubtedly who it was not!"

"Of course."

There was a shifting in the seats. The judge leaned forward.

"So much would appear to be obvious, Mr. Giles, even to the veriest imbecile. If you have a point, please come to it, sir!"

"Yes, my lord. Dr. Cutler, have you examined the prisoner with the purpose of determining whether he has or has ever had syphilis?"

"Yes, sir."

"And has he that disease?"

"No, sir, he has not. Nor has he any other communicable disease. He is in good health, as good as a man may be under such stress."

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There was silence. The judge screwed up his face and stared at the doctor with dislike.

"Do I understand you to say, sir, that the prisoner did not pass on this disease to the victim, Arthur Waybourne?" he asked icily.

"That is correct, my lord. It would have been impossible."

"Then who did? How did he get it? Did he inherit it?"

"No, my lord, it was in the early stages, such as is found when it has been sexually transmitted. Congenital syphilis would betray entirely different symptoms."

The judge sighed heavily and leaned back, a look of long-suffering on his face.

"I see. And of course you cannot say from whom he did contract it!" He blew his nose. "Very well, Mr. Giles, you appear to have made your point. Pray continue."

"That is all, my lord. Thank you, Dr. Cutler."

Before he could go, however, Land shot to his feet.

"Just a moment, Doctor! Did the police subsequently ask you to verify a diagnosis of another person, who did have syphilis?"

Cutler smiled dryly. "Several."

"One with particular reference to this case?" Land said sharply.

"They did not tell me-it would be hearsay." The doctor seemed to find some pleasure in being obstructively literal.

"Abigail Winters?" Land's temper was rising. His case was flawless and he knew it, but he was being made to look inefficient in front of the court, and he resented it.

"Yes, I did examine Abigail Winters, and she does have syphilis," Cutler conceded.

" Communicable?''

"Certainly."

"And what is Abigail Winters's profession-or trade, if you prefer?"

"I have no idea."

"Don't be naive, Dr. Cutler! You know as well as I do what her trade is!"

Cutler's wide mouth showed only the slightest of smiles.

"I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, sir." 123

There was a twitter around the court and Land's face flushed dull red. Even from behind him, Charlotte could see the color stain his neck. She was glad her veil hid her own expression. This was neither the place nor the time to be amused.

Land opened his mouth and closed it again.

"You are excused!" he said furiously. "I call Sergeant Harcourt Gillivray."

Gillivray took the stand and swore to his name and office. He looked freshly scrubbed and neat without losing the air of hav-. ing attained the effect without labor. He could have passed for a gentleman, except for a slight unease in his hands and just a small, betraying air of self-importance. A true gentleman would not have worried about how others saw him; he would have known there was no need-and he would not have cared anyway.

Gillivray confirmed Pitt's evidence. Land then went on to question him about discovering Albie Frobisher, stopping short, of course, of Albie's evidence, which would have been hearsay from Gillivray. And Albie would be called in due course to give it himself-far more tellingly.

Charlotte sat cold; it was all so logical, it fitted so well. Thank heaven at least Eugenie was outside. As a witness, she was not permitted in until after she had testified.

Gillivray told how he had then pursued his investigations. He did not mention Pitt's hand in them, or that he had been following Pitt's orders, Pitt's intuition of where he should look. He stood very straight. He told them how he had found Abigail Winters and learned that she had a disease that on examination proved to be syphilis.

He left the stand pink-cheeked with pride, two hundred pairs of eyes watching his straight back and elegant shoulders as he returned to his seat.

Charlotte loathed him, because he was satisfied; to him this was an achievement, not a tragedy. He should have hurt! He should have felt pain and bewilderment welling up inside him.

The judge adjourned them for luncheon, and Charlotte huddled out with the crowd, hoping that Pitt would not see her. She wondered now if perhaps the vanity that had led her to wear the black hat was going to be her undoing.

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Actually, it did not happen until she was returning-a little early, to be sure of claiming her seat again.

She saw Pitt as soon as she entered the hallway, and stopped. Then, realizing that stopping would only attract further attention, she tilted her chin higher and sailed down toward the courtroom door.

It was inevitable that Pitt should see her. She was dressed entirely in black, and the hat was quite marvelous. He would have looked had they been anywhere.

She considered inclining her head away and decided against it. It would be unnatural and arouse his suspicion.

Even so, it was a moment before he recognized her.

She felt his hand hard on her arm and was obliged to stop. She froze, then she turned to stare at him.

"Charlotte!" He was astonished, his face almost comical. "Charlotte? What on earth are you doing here? You can't help!"

"I wish to be here," she said reasonably, keeping her voice low. "Don't make a scene, or everyone will look at us."

"I don't give a damn if everyone looks at us! Go home. This is no place for you!"

"Eugenie's here-I think there is very good cause for me to remain. She may need a deal of comfort before this is through."

He hesitated. She took his hand off her arm gently,

"Wouldn't you want me to help her if I could?"

He could think of no answer and she knew it. She gave him a dazzling smile and swept into the courtroom.

The first witness in the afternoon was Anstey Waybourne. Suddenly, the room became aware of tragedy. There was no sound from the body of the court except a low mutter of sympathy. People nodded sagely, joining in a sort of mass awareness of death.

He had little of worth to add, just the identification of his son's body, an account of the boy's brief life and its day-to-day details, his studies with Jerome. He was asked by Giles how he had come to employ Jerome, about the excellent references and the fact that no previous employer had had any complaint about him. Jerome's academic qualifications were unquestionable;

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his discipline was exacting but without brutality. Neither Arthur nor Godfrey had especially liked him, but neither, Way-bourne had to admit, had they expressed any but the natural resentment of young people for one in constant authority over them.

Questioned about his own opinion of Jerome, he had little to contribute. The whole matter had shocked him deeply. He had had no conception of what was happening to his sons. He could be of no assistance. The judge, in subdued voice, permitted him to be excused.

Godfrey Way bourne was called. There was an instant hum of anger against Jerome; he was to blame for such a child being required to suffer this ordeal.

Jerome sat motionless, staring straight ahead as if Godfrey had been a stranger and of no interest. Neither did he look at Land when he spoke.

The evidence was brief. Godfrey repeated what he had told Pitt, all in genteel words-almost ambiguous, except to those who already knew what he was talking about.

Even Giles was gentle with him, not requiring him to repeat the painful details.

They finished for the day surprisingly early. Charlotte had had no idea courts closed at what for Pitt was barely more than halfway through the afternoon. She found herself a hansom and rode home. She had been there over two hours and had changed into a more modest dress when Pitt finally came in. She was at the stove with dinner simmering. She waited for the blast, but it did not come.

"Where did you get the hat?" he asked, sitting down in the kitchen chair.

She smiled with relief. She had not been aware of it, but her whole body had been tense, waiting for his anger. It would have hurt her more than she could easily accommodate. She poked the stew and took a little broth in her spoon, blowing on it to taste. She usually failed to put in sufficient salt. She wanted this to be especially good.

"Emily," she replied. "Why?"

"It looks expensive."

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"Is that all?" She turned around to look at him, smiling at last.

He met her eyes without a flicker, reading her perfectly.

"And beautiful," he added, then said beaming, "Quite beautiful! But it would have suited Emily, too. Why did she give it to you?"

"She saw one she liked better," she said truthfully. "Although of course she said it was because she bought it for a funeral and then heard something unpleasant about the deceased."

"So she gave you the hat?"

"You know Emily." She sipped the broth and added enough salt to suit Pitt's sharper tongue.' 'When does Eugenie give evidence?"

"When the defense starts. That may not be tomorrow-more probably the next day. You don't need to go."

"No, I suppose not. But I want to. I don't want just half an opinion."

"My dear, when did you ever have less than a total opinion? Whatever the issue!"

"Then if I'm going to have an opinion," she retorted instantly, "better it be an informed one!"

He had neither energy nor will to argue. If she wanted to go, it was her own decision. In a way there was comfort in sharing the burden of knowing; his aloneness melted away. He could not change anything, but at least he could touch her, and without words, explanations, she would understand exactly what he felt.

The following day, the first witness was Mortimer Swynford. His only purpose was to lay the ground for Titus, by testifying that he had employed Jerome to tutor both his son and his daughter. He had done so very soon after Jerome was engaged by Anstey Way bourne, to whom Swynford was related by marriage; it was Waybourne in fact, who had recommended Jerome to him. No, he had had no idea that Jerome was anything but of the most impeccable moral character. His intellectual record was excellent.

They kept Titus only a matter of minutes. Grave, but more 127

curious than frightened, he stood straight in the stand. Charlotte immediately liked the boy because he gave her the feeling he was saddened by the whole thing, speaking only reluctantly of something he still found distressing and hard to believe.

After the luncheon adjournment, the atmosphere changed entirely. The sympathy, the sober silence, vanished and was replaced with a buzz of whisper, the rustling of clothes in seats as the spectators settled to enjoy a salacious superiority, a little voyeurism without the indignity of crouching at windows or peeping through holes.

Albert Frobisher was called to the stand. He looked small, a strange mixture of the weariness of great age and the vulnerability of a child. He did not surprise Charlotte; her imagination had already built a picture of him that v/as not far from the truth. Yet the reality did somehow shock her. There was something so much sharper about the voice, not just the mind. She sensed a being whose feelings she could not reach, who said things she had not thought of first.

He swore to his name and address.

"What is your occupation, Mr. Frobisher?" Land asked coolly. He needed Albie-indeed Albie was vital to the case- but Land could not keep the contempt out of his voice, the reminder to everyone that there was an unbridgeable gulf between them. He did not wish anyone, even in a moment's absence of mind, to imagine that they had any connection but this necessary one of duty.

Charlotte could understand. She would not have wished to be bracketed with him. Yet she was angry; perhaps it was unfair.

"I am a prostitute," Albie said with cold derision. He understood the niceties, too, and despised them. But at least he would not hide in a hypocrisy of ignorance.

"A prostitute?" Land's voice rose in pretended disbelief. "But you are a man?"

"I'm seventeen," Albie replied. "I began with my first customer when I was thirteen."

' 'I did not ask your age!'' Land was annoyed. He was not interested in child prostitution-that was an entirely different matter, and one he was not concerned with. "Do you sell your

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services to some kind of depraved women whose appetites are so gross they cannot be satisfied with a normal relationship?"

Albie was tired of this playacting. His whole trade was one long charade, a procession of people who pretended to be respectable.

"No, I don't," he said flatly. "I've never touched a woman. I sell myself to men, mostly rich men, toffs, who prefer boys to women and can't get them without paying, so they come to people like me. I thought you knew that-or why did you call me here? What use would I be to you if I didn't, eh?"

Land was furious. He turned to the judge.

"My lord! Will you order the witness to answer the questions and refrain from making impertinent observations that may well slander decent and honorable men, and can only distress the court! There are ladies present!''

Charlotte thought that was ridiculous, and would dearly like to have said so. Anyone attending this court-except witnesses, who were outside anyway-had come here precisely because they wanted to hear something shocking! Why else attend a murder trial where you know in advance the victim was abused and contaminated by a veneral disease? The hypocrisy was revolting; her whole body was rigid with anger.

The judge's face was even purpler than it had been.

"You will answer only the questions you are asked!" he said sharply to Albie. "I understand the police have laid no charges against you. Conduct yourself here in a manner to insure that that remains so! Do you understand me? This is not an opportunity for you to advertise your vile trade, or to slander your betters!"

Charlotte thought bitterly that the men who used him, far from being his betters, were considerably inferior. They did not go to Albie out of ignorance or the need to survive. Albie was not innocent, but he could plead some mitigation. They had none but the compulsion of their appetites.

"I shall mention no one who is better than I am, my lord," Albie said with a curl of his lip. "I swear."

The judge gave him a look of sour suspicion, but he had obtained the promise he had asked for. No complaint he could justify came to his mind.

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Charlotte found herself smiling with sharp satisfaction. She would like to have been able to say exactly that.

"So your customers are men?" Land continued. "Just answer yes or no!"

"Yes." Albie omitted the "sir."

"Do you see anyone in this courtroom who has been a customer of yours at any time."

Albie's soft mouth widened into a smile and he began to look slowly, almost lingeringly around the room. His eyes stopped on one smart-suited gentleman after another.

Land saw the danger and his body stiffened in alarm.

"Has the prisoner ever been a customer of yours?" he said loudly. "Look at the prisoner!"

Albie affected surprise and removed his glance from the gallery to the dock.

"Yes."

"Maurice Jerome bought your services as a male prostitute?" Land said triumphantly.

"Yes."

"On one occasion or several?"

"Yes."

"Don't be obtuse!" Land allowed his temper to show at last. "You can be charged with contempt of court, and find yourself in jail if you are obstructive, I promise you!"

'' Several.'' Albie was unruffled. He had a certain power and he meant to taste the full pleasure of it. It would almost certainly not arise again. Life would not be long, and he knew it. Few people's were, in Bluegate Fields, still fewer in his occupation. Today was for the savoring. Land was the one with status and possessions to lose; Albie had nothing anyway-he could afford to live dangerously. He faced Land without a quiver.

"Maurice Jerome came to your rooms on several occasions?" Land waited to make sure the jury had taken the point.

"Yes," Albie repeated.

"And did he have a physical relationship with you, and pay you for it?"

"Yes." His mouth curled in contempt and his eyes flickered 130

over the gallery. "Good God, I don't do it free! You don't imagine I like it, do you?"

"I have no idea as to your tastes, Mr. Frobisher," Land said icily. There was a very small smile on his face. "They are quite beyond my imagination!"

Albie's face was white in the gaslight. He leaned forward a little over the railing.

"They're very simple. I expect they're much the same as yours. I like to eat at least once every day. I like to have clothes that keep me warm, and don't stink. I like to have a dry roof over my head and not have to share it with ten or twenty other people! Those are my tastes-sir!"

. "Silence!" the judge banged his gravel. "You are being impertinent. We are not concerned with your life story or your desires. Mr. Land, if you cannot control your witness, you had better dismiss him. Surely you have elicited the information you require? Mr. Giles, have you anything to ask?"

"No, my lord. Thank you." He had already tried to shake Albie's identification and failed. There was no purpose in showing his failure to the jury.

Dismissed from the stand, Albie walked back along the aisle, passing within a few feet of Charlotte. His moment of protest was over, and he looked small and thin again.

The last witness for the prosecution was Abigail Winters. She was an ordinary-looking girl, a little plump but with fine, clear skin that many a lady would have envied. Her hair was frizzy and her teeth too large, and a little discolored, but she was handsome enough. Charlotte had seen daughters of countesses who had been less favored by nature.

The evidence was short and to the point. She had neither Albie's bitterness nor his vicarious education. She was not ashamed of what she did. She knew gentlemen and judges, even bishops, had patronized her and girls like her, and a barrister without his gown and wig looks much the same as a clerk without his suit. If Abigail had few illusions about people, she had none at all about the rules of society. Those who wished to survive kept the rules.

She answered the questions soberly and directly, adding nothing. Yes, she knew the prisoner in the dock. Yes, he had

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patronized her establishment-not that he wished her services for himself, but for a young gentleman of about sixteen or seventeen years old that he had brought with him. Yes, he had asked her to initiate the young gentleman into the arts of such a relationship while he, the prisoner, sat in the room and watched.

There was a murmur of disgust around the court, a long letting out of breath in self-righteous horror. Then there was total silence, in case the audience should inadvertently miss the next revelation. Charlotte felt sick-for all of them. This should never have happened, and they should not be here willingly listening to it. How on earth was Eugenie going to bear it when she knew-some busybody would be bound to tell her!

Land inquired whether Abigail could describe the young gentleman concerned.

Yes, she could. He was slender, fair-haired, with light blue eyes. He was very good-looking, and spoke with a fine accent. He was definitely a person of good breeding and money. His clothes were excellent.

He showed her a picture of Arthur Waybourne. Was this he?

Yes, it was he, without doubt.

Had she known his name?

Only his Christian name, which was Arthur. The prisoner had addressed him by it on several occasions.

There was nothing Giles could do. Abigail was unshakable, and after a brief attempt he accepted the futility of it and gave up.

That evening, by strict consent, neither Charlotte nor Pitt referred to Jerome or anything to do with the trial. They ate silently, absorbed in thought. Occasionally they smiled knowingly across the table.

After dinner they spoke quite casually of other things: a letter Charlotte had received from Emily, who had returned from Leicestershire, detailing social gossip, someone's outrageous flirtation, a disastrous party, a rival's most unflattering dress-all the pleasant trivia of daily life. She had been to a concert: there was an entertaining new novel-very risque-and Grandmama's health had not improved. But then it never had

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done so since Charlotte could recall. Grandmama enjoyed poor health, and was determined to enjoy it to the last!

On the third day, the defense began its case. There was little enough to say. Jerome could not prove his innocence, or there would have been no prosecution. All he could do was deny, and hope to bring forward enough witnesses to his previously impeccable character that there would be reasonable doubt.

Sitting in her accustomed seat near the aisle, Charlotte felt a wave of pity and hopelessness that was almost physical as Eugenie Jerome walked past her to climb into the witness stand. Just once she lifted her chin and smiled across at her husband. Then quickly, before she had time to see if he smiled back or not, she averted her eyes to take the Bible in her hand for the oath.

Charlotte lifted her veil so Eugenie could see her face and know there was one friend there in that anonymous, inquisitive crowd.

The court heard her in absolute silence. They wavered between contempt for her as an accomplice, the wife of such a monster, and compassion for her as the most innocent and ill-used of his victims. Perhaps it was her narrow shoulders, her plain dress, her white face, her soft voice, the way she kept her eyes a little downcast, then slowly gathered courage and faced her questioner. It could have been any of these things-or none, simply a whimsy of the crowd. But suddenly, like the moment when the tide slackens and turns, Charlotte could feel their mood change and they were with her. They were burning with pity, with hunger to see her avenged. She, too, was a victim.

But there was nothing Eugenie could do. She had been in bed that night and did not know when her husband had come home. Yes, she had planned to go to the concert with him, but that afternoon had developed a severe headache and gone to her room instead. Yes, the tickets had been purchased beforehand and she had fully intended to go. She had to admit, though, she was not fond of classical music; she preferred ballads, something with melody and words.

Had her husband told her what was played that evening? Certainly he had, and that it was excellently performed. Could she

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recall what it was? She could and did. But was it not true that the program had been published, and anyone might know simply by reading one, without having attended the performance?

She had no idea; she did not read such things.

Land assured her that it was so.

She had married Maurice Jerome eleven years ago and he had been a good husband to her, had provided well. He was sober, industrious, and had never given her cause to complain in any way. He had certainly never mistreated her either verbally or physically; he had not forbidden her any friendships or the occasional outing. He had never embarrassed her by flirting with other women, or any manner of unseemly behavior; nor had he been coarse or overdemanding in private. And he had certainly never required of her any conjugal duties that were offensive or other than would be expected of any wife.

But then, as Land pointed out with something close to embarrassment, there was a great deal she did not know. And, being a lady of decent upbringing and gentle disposition, it would never have occurred to her to be jealous of a schoolboy! In fact, she probably had not even known of the existence of such depraved practices.

No, she admitted, white to the lips, she had not. And she did not believe it now. It may be true of some, if Mr. Land said so; but it was not true of her husband. He was a decent man- indeed, highly moral. Even uncouth language offended him, and he never took alcohol. She had never known him to exhibit the least vulgarity.

They permitted her to go, and Charlotte wished she would leave the court. It was hopeless-nothing could save Jerome. It was pathetic, even vaguely revolting, to hope.

Nevertheless it ground on.

Another, less biased witness-a previous employer-was called regarding Jerome's character. He was embarrassed to be there and it was obviously very much against his wish. While he did not want to say anything that might ally him with Jerome in the public mind, he could hardly admit to having been aware of any long-standing flaw in Jerome's character. He had recommended him without reservation; he was now obliged to stand

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by that recommendation or appear a fool. And since he was an investment banker, that he could not possibly afford to do.

He duly swore that while living in his house and tutoring his sons, Jerome had appeared to be of exemplary, character, and certainly he had never behaved improperly toward either of his sons.

And would the witness know if he had, Land inquired courteously.

There was a long hesitation while he weighed the consequences of either answer.

"Yes," he said firmly at last. "Certainly I would. I am naturally concerned with the welfare of my family."

Land did not pursue it. He nodded and sat down, knowing a fruitless course when he saw it.

The only other witness of character was Esmond Vanderley. It was he who had recommended Jerome to Waybourne. Like the previous witness, Vanderley was caught between two poles: appearing to support Jerome and-far worse than merely being a poor judge of character-having been the single individual who had more than any other precipitated the tragedy they were discussing. After all, it was he who had brought Maurice Jerome into the house and thus into Arthur Way-boume's life-and death.

He swore to his name and his relationship with the Way-bourne household.

"Lady Waybourne is your sister, Mr. Vanderley?" Giles repeated.

"Yes."

"And Arthur Way bourne was your nephew?"

"Naturally."

"So you would not lightly or casually recommend a tutor for him, knowing the effect it would have on his personal and academic life?" Giles pressed.

There was only one answer that allowed self-respect.

"Of course," Vanderley said with a slight smile. He leaned elegantly over the rail. "I would make myself unpopular rather quickly if I were to recommend regardless. They come home to roost, you know!"

"Home to roost?" Giles was momentarily confused. 135

"Recommendations, Mr. Giles. People seldom remember the good advice you give them-they always take the credit themselves. But let them take your bad advice and they will instantly recall that it was not their own idea but yours that was to blame. Not only that, but they will make sure everyone else is made aware of it, too.

"May we take it, then, that you did not recommend Maurice Jerome without some considerable inquiry into his qualifications-and his character?"

"You may. His qualifications were excellent. His character was not especially pleasing, but then I was not intending to make a social acquaintance of him. His morality was impeccable, so far as it was discussed at all. One doesn't mention such things, you know, when talking of tutors. Underhousemaids one has to inquire into-or, rather, one has the housekeeper do it. But a tutor one expects to be satisfactory unless stated otherwise. In which case, of course, one doesn't employ him in the first place. Jerome was a little stuffy, if anything-rather a prig. Oh-and a teetotaler. He's the sort that would be."

Vanderly smiled a little tightly.

"Married to a pleasant woman," he went on. "Inquired into her reputation. Spotless."

"No children?" Now Land took over, attempting to shake him. He pressed the point, as if it had some meaning.

"Don't think so. Why?" Vanderley's eyebrows went up innocently.

"Possibly indicative." Land was not prepared to commit himself to something that might mar his case by being considered prejudicial. And of course he might also offend many others, dangerous others. "We are dealing with a man of most peculiar tastes!"

"Nothing peculiar about Mrs. Jerome," Vanderley answered, his eyes still wide. "At least not that I could see. Looked like an average sort of woman to me-quiet, sober, well mannered, pretty enough."

"But no children!"

"For heaven's sake, man, I only met her twice!" Vanderley sounded surprised and a little irritated. "I'm not her doctor! Thousands of people don't have children. Do you expect me to

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be able to account for the domestic lives of everyone else's servants? All I did was inquire as to the man's scholastic abilities and his suitable character. Both appeared to be excellent. What more do you want me to say?"

"Nothing, Mr. Vanderley. You may go." Land sat down, recognizing defeat.

Giles had nothing to put in re-examination, and Vanderley, with a faint sigh, found himself a seat in the body of the court.

Maurice Jerome was the last witness to be called in his own defense. As he walked from the dock to the stand, Charlotte realized with surprise that she had not yet heard him speak. Everything had been said about him; it was all other people's opinions, other people's words, their recollections of events. For the first time, Jerome would be real-a moving, feeling creature, not a two-dimensional picture of a man.

Like all the others, he began with the oath and identification. Giles worked hard to present him in a sympathetic light. It was all he had: the chance somehow to create the feeling in the jury that this man in reality was a far different person from the one the prosecution had drawn; he was ordinary, decent, everyday-like one of themselves-and could not have been guilty of such obscene offenses.

Jerome stared back at him with a cold, pursed face.

Yes, he answered, he had been employed for approximately four years as tutor to Arthur and Godfrey Waybourne. Yes, he taught them in all academic subjects, and on occasion a little sports as well. No, he did not favor one boy above the other; his tone expressed disdain for such unprofessional conduct.

Already Charlotte found him hard to like. She felt, without real reason, that he would have disliked her. She would not have met his standards of how a lady should conduct herself. For a start, she had opinions, and Jerome did not look like a man who found opinions acceptable when they were not his own.

Perhaps that was unfair. She was leaping to conclusions with just the sort of prejudice she condemned in others. The poor man was accused of a crime not only violent but disgusting, and if he was found guilty he would lose his life. He was entitled to less than the best behavior. Jjideed, there must be some courage about him, for he was not screaming out or in hysteria. Maybe