Bluegate Fields

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this icy calm was his way of controlling the inner terror. And who could claim to do it better, with more dignity?

There was no point in skirting the subject.

"Did you ever, at any time, have an indecent physical relationship with any of your pupils?"

Jerome's nostrils flared very slightly-the thought was distasteful.

"No, sir, I did not."

"Can you imagine why Godfrey Waybourne should lie about such a thing?"

"No, I cannot. His imagination is warped-how or why I do not know."

The additional comment did not further his cause. Any man asked such a question would deny it, yet the curling lip, the suggestion that somehow someone else was to blame engendered less sympathy than simple confusion would have done.

Giles tried again. "And Titus Swynford? Could he have misunderstood some gesture, or some remark?"

"Possibly-although what gesture or remark, I cannot think. I teach academic subjects, things of culture and of the brain. I am not accountable for the moral atmosphere in the house. What they may have learned in other areas was not my responsibility. Gentlemen of a certain class, at that age, have money and opportunity to discover the ways of the world for themselves. I should think a rather fevered adolescent imagination, coupled with a little looking through keyholes, has conjured such stories. And people occasionally indulge in lewd conversation without realizing how much youths hear-and understand. I can offer no better explanation. It is otherwise to me both incomprehensible and disgusting!"

Land took a deep breath. "So both boys are either lying or mistaken?"

"Since it is not the truth, that is the obvious conclusion," Jerome replied.

Charlotte felt sympathy with him at last. He was being treated as if he were stupid, and although it was far from in his interest, it was understandable that he should want to retaliate. She would have stung under that patronage. But if only he

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would ease the sour look a little, or behave as if he sought mercy.

"Have you ever met a prostitute named Albie Frobisher?"

Jerome's chin came up.

"I have never, to my knowledge, met a prostitute by any name at all."

"Have you ever been to Bluegate Fields?"

"No, there is nothing in that area that I should wish to see, and fortunately I have no business that requires me to go there, and most certainly no pleasure!"

"Albert Frobisher swears that you were a customer of his. Can you think of any reason why he should do so, if it is not true?"

"My education has been classical, sir-I have no knowledge whatever as to the mind or motives of prostitutes, male or female."

There was a titter of unsympathetic laughter around the court, but it died almost instantly.

"And Abigail Winters?" Giles still struggled. "She says that you took Arthur Wayboume to her establishment."

"Possibly someone did," Jerome agreed, a trace of venom showing through his voice, although he did not seek Way-bourne's face among the crowd. "But it was not I."

"Why should anyone do that?"

Jerome's eyebrows shot up.

"Are you asking me, sir? One might equally ask why I should have taken him myself. Whatever purpose you imagine was good enough for me, surely that would serve for someone else as easily? In fact, there are more-perhaps purely for his education? A young gentleman"-he gave the word a curious accent-"must learn his pleasures somewhere, and it is most assuredly not among his own class! And on a tutor's salary, with a wife to keep, even if my taste or my ethics permitted my patronizing such a place, my purse would not!"

It was a telling point, and to her surprise Charlotte found herself glowing warm with satisfaction. Let them answer that! Where would Jerome have found the money?

But when it was Land's turn he was quick. 139

"Did Arthur Waybourne have an allowance, Mr. Jerome?" he inquired smoothly.

Jerome's face showed only the barest movement, but the point was not lost on him.

"Yes, sir, he said so."

"Have you cause to doubt it?"

"No-he appeared to have money to spend."

"Then he could have paid for his own prostitute, could he not?"

Jerome's full mouth curled down fractionally with sour humor.

"I don't know, sir, you will have to ask Sir Anstey what the allowance amounted to, and then discover-if you do not already know-what is the rate of a prostitute."

The back of Land's neck, where Charlotte could see it above his collar, flushed a dull red.

But it was suicidal. The court may not have had any love for Land, but Jerome had alienated himself entirely. He continued to be a prig, and at the same time he did not clear himself of the most obscene charge of a crime against one who may have been overprivileged and unlikable, but was still-in memory, at least-a child. To the black-coated jury, Arthur Waybourne had been young and desperately vulnerable.

The summing up for the prosecution reminded them of all this. Arthur was painted as fair, unblemished until Jerome contaminated him, poised on the verge of a long and profitable life. He had been perverted, betrayed, and finally murdered. Society owed it to his memory, to destroy from their midst the bestiality that had perpetrated these appalling acts. It was almost an act of self-cleansing!

There was only one verdict possible. After all, if Maurice Jerome had not killed him, who had? Well may they ask! And the answer was evident-no one! Not even Jerome himself had been able to suggest another answer.

It all fitted. There were no outstanding pieces, nothing that teased the mind or was left unexplained.

Did they ask themselves why Jerome had seduced the boy, used him, and then murdered him? Why not simply carry on with his base practice?

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There were several possible answers.

Perhaps Jerome had grown tired of him, just as he had of Albie Frobisher. His appetite demanded constantly new material. Arthur was not easily discarded now that he was so debauched. He had not been bought, like Albie; he could not simply be dropped.

Could that be why Jerome had taken him to Abigail Winters? To try to stimulate in him more normal hungers?

But his own work had been too well done; the boy was debased forever-he wanted nothing from women.

He had become a nuisance. His love now bored Jerome; he was weary of it. He hungered for younger, more innocent flesh-like Godfrey or like Titus Swynford. They had heard the evidence of that for themsleves. And Arthur was growing importunate, his persistence an embarrassment. Perhaps in his distress, in his desperate realization of his own perversion-yes his damnation!-that was not too strong a word-he had eve/i become a threat!

And so he had to be killed! And his naked body disposed of in a place where, but for a monumental stroke of ill-fortune and some excellent police work, it would never have been identified.

Gentlemen, have you ever faced a clearer case-or a more tragic and despicable one? There can be but one verdict- guilty! And there can be but one sentence!

The jury were out for less than half an hour. They filed back stone-faced. Jerome stood, white and stiff.

The judge asked the foreman of the jury and the answer was what had long since been decided by the silent voice of the courtroom.

"Guilty, my lord."

The judge reached for the black cap and placed it on his head. In his thick, ripe voice he pronounced sentence.

"Maurice Jerome, a jury of your peers has found you guilty of the murder of Arthur William Waybourne. The sentence of this court .is that you be returned to the place from whence you came, and in not less than three weeks from now you shall be taken to the place of execution, and there you shall be hanged

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by the neck until you are dead. May the Lord have mercy upon your soul."

Charlotte walked out into icy November winds that cut through her as if they had been knives. But her flesh was numb, already too preoccupied with shock and suffering to be aware of further pain.

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The trial should have been the end of the case for Pitt. He had found all the evidence he could, and had sworn to its truth in court without fear or favor. The jury had found Maurice Jerome guilty.

He had never expected to feel satisfaction. It was the tragedy of an unhappy man with a gift beyond his opportunity to use. The flaws in Jerome's character had robbed him of the chance to climb in academic fields where others of less offensive nature might have succeeded. He would never have been an equal-that was denied from birth. He had ability, not genius. With a smile, a little flattery now and then, he might have gained a very enviable place. If he could have taught his pupils to like him, to trust him, he might have influenced great houses.

But his pride denied him of it; his resentment of privilege burned through his every action. He seemed never to appreciate what he had, concentrating instead on what he had not. That surely was the true tragedy-because it was unnecessary.

And the sexual flaw? Was it of the body or the mind? Had nature denied him the usual satisfaction of a man, or was it fear in him that drove him from women? No, surely Eugenie would have known-poor creature. In eleven years, how could she not? Surely no woman could be so desperately ignorant of nature and its demands?

Was it something much uglier than that, a need to subjugate in the most intimate and physical manner the boys he taught, the youths who held the privileges he could not?

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Pitt sat in the parlor and stared into the flames. For some reason, Charlotte had lit the fire in here tonight, instead of preparing dinner to be eaten in the kitchen, as they often did. He was glad of it. Perhaps she also felt like spending an evening by the warm open hearth, sitting in the best chairs, and all the lamps lit and sparkling, revealing the gleam and nap of the velvet curtains. They were an extravagance, but she had wanted them so much it had been worth the cheap mutton stews and the herrings they had eaten for nearly two months!

He smiled, remembering, then looked across at her. She was watching him, her eyes, steady on his face, almost black in the shadows from the lamp behind her.

"I saw Eugenie after the trial," she said almost casually. "I took her home and stayed with her for nearly two hours."

He was surprised, then realized he should not have been. That was what she had gone to the trial for-to offer Eugenie some fragment of comfort or at least companionship.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Shocked," she said slowly. "As if she could not understand how it had happened, how anyone could believe it of him."

He sighed, it was natural. Who ever does believe such a thing of a husband or a wife?

"Did he do it?" she asked solemnly.

It was the question he had been avoiding ever since he walked out of the courtroom. He did not want to talk about it now, but he knew she would insist until he gave her an answer.

"I imagine so," he said wearily. "But I am not part of the jury, so what I think doesn't matter. I gave them all the evidence I had."

She was not so easily put off. He noticed the sewing was idle in her lap. She had the thimble on her finger and had threaded the needle, but she had not put it through the cloth.

"That's not an answer," she said, frowning at him. "Do you believe he did it?"

He took a deep breath and let it out silently.

"I can't think of anyone else." 144

She was onto it immediately. "That means you don't believe it!"

"It doesn't!" She was being unfair, illogical. "It means just what I said, Charlotte. I cannot think of any other explanation, therefore I have to accept that it was Jerome. It makes excellent sense, and there is nothing whatsoever against it-no awkward facts that have to be faced, nothing unexplained, nothing to indicate anyone else. It's a pity about Eugenie, and I understand the way she feels. I'm as sorry as you are! Criminals sometimes have nice families- innocent and likable, and they suffer like hell! But that doesn't stop Jerome from being guilty. You can't fight it and you won't help by trying. You certainly can't help Eugenie Jerome by encouraging her to believe there is some hope. There isn't! Now accept it, and leave it alone!"

"I've been thinking," she replied, exactly as if he had not spoken.

"Charlotte!"

She took no notice of him.

"I've been thinking," she repeated. "If Jerome is innocent, then someone else must be guilty."

"Obviously," he said crossly. He did not want to think about it anymore. It was not a good case, and he wanted to forget it. It was finished. "And there isn't anyone else implicated at all," he added in exasperation. "No one else had any reason."

"They might have!"

"Charlotte-"

"They might have!" she insisted. "Let's imagine Jerome is innocent and that he is telling the truth! What do we know for a fact?"

He smiled sourly at the "we." But there was no purpose in trying any longer to evade talking about it. He could see she was going to follow it to the bitter end.

"That Arthur Waybourne was homosexually used," he answered. "That he had syphilis, and that he was drowned in bathwater, almost certainly by having his heels jerked up so his head went under the water and he couldn't get up again. And his body was put down a manhole into the sewers. It is almost impossible that he drowned by accident, and completely impos-

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sible that he put his own body into the sewer." He had answered her question and it told them nothing new. He looked at her, waiting for acceptance in her face.

It was not there. She was thinking.

"Then Arthur had a relationship with someone, or with several people," she said slowly.

"Charlotte! You're making the boy seem like-like a-" He struggled for a word that would not be too coarse or too extreme.

"Why not?" She raised her eyebrows and stared at him. "Why should we assume that Arthur was nice? Lots of people who get murdered have brought it upon themselves, one way or another. Why not Arthur Waybourne? We've been supposing he was an innocent victim. Well, perhaps he wasn't."

"He was sixteen!" His voice rose in protest.

"So?" She opened her eyes wide. "There's no reason why he couldn't have been spiteful or greedy, or thoroughly cunning, just because he's young. You don't know children very well, do you? Children can be horrible."

Pitt thought of all the child thieves he knew who were everything she had just said. And he could so easily understand why and how they were. But Arthur Waybourne? Surely he had only to ask for what he wanted and it was given him? There was no need-no cause.

She smiled at him with an oblique, unhappy satisfaction.

"You made me lopk at the poor, and it was good for me." She still held the needle poised. ' 'Perhaps I ought to show you a little of another world-the inside of it-for your education!" she said quietly. "Society children can be unhappy too, and unpleasant. It's relative. It's only a matter of wanting something you can't have, or seeing someone else with something and thinking you should have it. The feeling is much the same, whether it' s for a piece of bread or a diamond brooch-or someone to love. All sorts of people cheat and steal, or even kill, if they care enough. In fact"-she took a deep breath-"in fact, maybe people who are used to getting their own way are quicker to defy the law than those who often have to go without."

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"All right," he conceded a little reluctantly. "Suppose Arthur Wayboume was thoroughly selfish and unpleasant-what then? Surely he wasn't so unpleasant that someone killed him for it? That might get rid of half the aristocracy!"

"There's no need to be sarcastic!" she said, her eyes glinting. She poked the needle into the cloth, but did not pull it through. "He may well have been just that! Suppose-" She scowled, concentrating on the idea, tightening it into words. "Suppose Jerome was telling the truth? He never went to Albie Frobisher's, and he was never overfamiliar with any of the boys-not Arthur, not Godfrey, and not Titus."

"All right, we have only Godfrey and Titus's word for it," he argued. "But there was no doubt about Arthur. The police surgeon was positive about it. It couldn't be a mistake. And why should the other boys lie? It doesn't make sense! Charlotte, however much you don't like it, you are standing reason on its head to get away from Jerome! Everything points to him."

"You are interrupting." She put the sewing things on the table beside her and pushed them away. "Of course Arthur had a relationship-probably with Albie Frobisher-why not? Maybe that's where he got his disease. Did anyone test Albie?"

She knew instantly that she had struck home; it was in her face, a mixture of triumph and pity. Pitt felt a cold tide rush up inside him. No one had thought to test Albie. And since Arthur Waybourne was dead, murdered, Albie would naturally be loath to admit having known him! He would be the first suspect; if Albie could have been guilty, it would have suited everyone. None of them had even thought to test him for venereal disease. How stupid! How incredibly, incompetently stupid!

But what about Albie's identification of Jerome? He had picked out the likeness immediately.

But then what had Gillivray said when he first found Albie? Had he shown him pictures then, perhaps led him into identifying Jerome? It could so easily be done: just a little judicious suggestion, a slight turn of the phrase. "It was this man, wasn't

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it?" In his eagerness, Gillivray might not even have been aware of it himself.

Charlotte's face was puckered, a flush that could have been embarrassment on her cheeks.

"You didn't, did you." It was barely a question, more an acknowledgment of the truth. There was no blame in her voice, but that did nothing to assuage the void of guilt inside him.

"No."

"Or the other boys-Godfrey and Titus?"

The thought was appalling. He could imagine Waybourne's face if he asked for that-or Swynford's. He sat upright.

"Oh, God, no! You don't think Arthur took them-?" He could envision Athelstan's reaction to such an unspeakable suggestion.

She went on implacably. "Maybe it wasn't Jerome who molested the other boys-maybe it was Arthur. If he had a taste for it, perhaps he used them."

It was not impossible, not at all. In fact, it was not even very improbable, given the original premise that Arthur was as much sinning as sinned against.

"And who killed him?" he asked. "Would Albie care about one customer more or less? He must have had hundreds of people come and go in his four years in business."

"The two boys," she answered straightaway. "Just because Arthur had a liking for it doesn't mean they did. Perhaps he could dominate them one at a time, but when they each learned that the other was being similarly used, maybe they got together and got rid of him."

"Where? In a brothel somewhere? Isn't that a little sophisticated for-"

"At home!" she said quickly. "Why not? Why go anywhere else?"

"Then how did they get rid of the body without family or servants seeing? How did they get it to a manhole connected with the Bluegate sewers? They live miles from Bluegate Fields."

But she was not confused. "I daresay one of their fathers did that for them-or perhaps even both, although I doubt it. Proba-

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bly the father in whose house it happened. Personally, I rather favor Sir Anstey Waybourne."

"Hide his own son's murder?"

"Once Arthur was dead, there was nothing he could do to bring him back," she said reasonably. "If he didn't hide it, he would lose his second son as well, and be left with no one! Not to mention a scandal so unspeakable the family wouldn't live it down in a hundred years!" She leaned forward. "Thomas you don't seem to realize that in spite of not being able to do up their own boot buttons or boil an egg, the higher levels of society are devastatingly practical when it comes to matters of survival in the world they understand! They have servants to do the normal things, so they don't bother to do them themselves. But when it comes to social cunning, they are equal to the Borgias any day!"

"I think you've got a lurid imagination," he answered very soberly. "I think I should take a closer look at what you are reading lately."

"I'm not a pantry maid!" she said with considerable acidity, the temper rising in her face. "I shall read what I please! And it doesn't take a lot of imagination to see three young boys playing around at a rather dangerous game of discovering appetites, and being drawn into perversion by an older boy they trust-and then finding it degrading and disgusting, but being too frightened to deny him. Then joining forces together, and one day, perhaps meaning to give him a good fright, they end up going too far and killing him instead."

Her voice gathered conviction as she pictured it. "Then of course they are terrified by what has happened, and appeal to the father of one of them, and he sees that the boy is dead and that it is murder. Perhaps it could have been hushed up, explained as an accident, but perhaps not. Under pressure, the ugly truth would come out that Arthur was perverted and diseased. Since nothing could be done now to help him, better to look to the living and dispose of the body where it will never be found."

She took a deep breath and continued. "Then, of course, when it was found, and all the ugliness comes out, someone has to be blamed. The father knows Arthur was perverted, but

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maybe he does not know who first introduced him to such practices, and does not wish to believe it was simply his own nature. If the other two boys-frightened of the truth, of saying that Arthur took them to prostitutes-say that it was Jerome, whom they do not like, it is easy enough to believe them, in which case then Jerome is morally to blame for Arthur's death-let him take the literal blame as well. He deserves to be hanged-so let him be! And by now the two boys can hardly go back on what they have said! How could they dare? The police and the courts have all been lied to, and believed it. Nothing to do but let it go on."

He sat and thought about it and the minutes ticked by. There was no sound but the clock and the faint hiss of the fire. It was possible-quite possible-and extremely ugly. And there was nothing of any substance to disprove any of it. Why had it not occurred to him before-to any of them? Was it just that it was more comfortable to blame Jerome? They would risk no disturbing reactions by charging him, no threat to any of their careers, even if by mischance they had not, at the last, been able to prove it.

Surely they were better men than that? And they were too honest, were they not, simply to have settled on Jerome because he was pompous and irritating?

He tried to recall every meeting he had had with Wayboume. How had the man seemed? Was there anything in him at all, any shadow of deceit, of extra grief or unexplained fear?

He could remember nothing. The man was confused, shocked because he had lost a son in appalling circumstances: He was afraid of scandal that would further injure his family. Wouldn't any man be? Surely it was only natural, only decent.

And young Godfrey? He had seemed open, as far as his shock and fear would allow him to be. Or was his singular guilelessness only the mask of childhood, the clear skin and wide eyes of a practiced liar who felt no shame, and therefore no guilt?

Titus Swynford? He had liked Titus, and unless he was very much mistaken, the boy was grieved by the whole course of events-a natural grief, an innocent grief. Was Pitt losing his

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judgment, falling into the trap of the obvious and the convenient?

It was a distressing thought. But was it true?

He found it hand to accept that Titus and Godfrey were so devious-or, frankly, that they were clever enough to have deceived him so thoroughly. He was used to sifting lies from truth; it was his job, his profession, and he was good at it. Of course he made mistakes-but seldom was he so totally blinded as not even to suspect!

Charlotte wa^ looking at him. "You don't think that's the answer, do you?" she said.

"I don't know," he admitted. "No-it doesn't feel right."

"And do you feel right about Jerome?"

He looked at her. He had forgotten lately how much her face pleased him, the line of her cheek, the slight upward wing of her brow.

"No," he said simply. "No, I don't think so."

She picked up the sewing again. The thread slipped out of the needle and she put the end in her mouth to moisten it, then carefully rethreaded it.

"Then I suppose you'll have to go back and start again," she said, looking at the needle. "There's still three weeks' time left."

The following morning, Pitt found a pile of new cases on his desk. Most of them were comparatively minor: thefts, embezzlement, and a possible arson. He detailed them to various other officers, one of the privileges of his rank that he made the most of; then he sent for Gillivray.

Gillivray came in cheerfully, his face glowing, shoulders square. He closed the door behind him and sat down before being asked, which annoyed Pitt quite out of proportion.

"Something interesting?" Gillivray inquired eagerly. "Another murder?"

' 'No.'' Pitt was sour. He had disliked the whole case, and he disliked even more having to open it up again, but it was the only way to get rid of the crowding uncertainties in his mind, the vague possibilities that intruded every time his concentration lapsed. "The same one," he said.

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Gillivray was perplexed. "The same one? Arthur Way-bourne? You mean someone' else was involved? Can we do that? The jury found its verdict. That closes the case, doesn't it?"

"It may be closed," Pitt said, keeping his temper with difficulty. He realized Gillivray annoyed him so much because he seemed invulnerable to the things that hurt Pitt. He was smiling and clean, and he walked through other people's tragedies and emotional dirt without being scathed by them at all.

"It may be closed for the court," Pitt said, starting, "but I think there are still things we ought to know, for justice's sake.''

Gillivray looked dubious. The courts were sufficient for him. His job was to detect crime and to enforce the law, not to sit in judgment. Each arm of the machinery had its proper function: the police to detect and apprehend; the barristers to prosecute or to defend; the judge to preside and see that the procedures of the law were followed; the jury to decide truth and fact. And in due course, if necessary, the warders to guard, and the executioner to end life rapidly and efficiently. For any one arm to usurp the function of another was to put the whole principle in jeopardy. This was what a civilized society was about, each person knowing his function and place. A good man fulfilled his obligation to the limit of his ability and, with good fortune, rose to a better place.

"Justice is not our business," Gillivray said at last. "We've done our job and the courts have done theirs. We shouldn't interfere. That would be the same as saying that we don't believe in them."

Pitt looked at him. He was earnest, very composed. There was a good deal of truth in what he said, but it altered nothing. They had been clumsy, and it was going to be painful to try to rectify it. But that did not alter the necessity.

"The courts judge according to what they know," he answered. "There are things they should have known, that they did not because we neglected to find them out."

Gillivray was indignant. He was being implicated in dereliction of duty, and not only him, but the entire police force above

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him, even the lawyers for the defense, who ought to have noticed any omission of worth.

"We didn't explore the possibility that Jerome was telling the truth," Pitt began, before Gillivray interrupted him.

"Telling the truth?" Gillivray exploded, his eyes bright and furious. "With respect, Mr. Pitt-that's ridiculous! We caught him in lie after lie! Godfrey Way bourne said he interfered with him, Titus Swynford said the same. Abigail Winters identified him! Albie Frobisher identified him! And Albie alone has to be damning. Only a perverted man goes to a male prostitute. That's a crime in itself! What else could you want, short of an eyewitness? It isn't even as if there was another suspect!"

Pitt sat back in his chair, and let himself slide down till he was resting on the base of his spine. He put his hands into his pockets and touched a ball of string he carried, a lump of sealing wax, a pocketknife, two marbles he had picked up in the street, and a shilling.

"What if the boys were lying?" he suggested. "And the relationship was among themselves, the three of them, and had nothing to do with Jerome?"

"Three of them?" Gillivray was startled. "All-" He did not like to use the word, and would have preferred some genteelism that avoided the literal. "All perverted?"

"Why not? Perhaps Arthur was the only one whose nature it was, and he forced the others to go along."

"Then where did Arthur get the disease?" Gillivray hit on the weak point with satisfaction. "Not from two innocent young boys he drove into such a relationship by force! They certainly didn't have it!"

"Don't they?" Pitt raised his eyebrows. "How do you know?"

Gillivray opened his mouth; then realization flooded his face, and he closed it again.

"We don't-do we!" Pitt challenged. "Don't you think we should find out? He may have passed it on to them, however innocent they are."

"But where did he get it?" Gillivray still held to his objection. "The relationship can't have involved only the three of them. There must have been someone else!"

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"Quite," Pitt conceded. "But if Arthur was perverted, perhaps he went to Albie Frobisher and contracted it there. We didn't test Albie either, did we?"

Gillivray was flushed. There was no need of admission; he saw the neglect immediately. He despised Albie. He should have been aware of the possibility and put it to the proof without being told. It would have been easy enough. And certainly Albie would have been in no position to protest.

"But Albie identified Jerome," he said, going back to more positive ground. "So Jerome must have been there. And he didn't recognize the picture of Arthur. I showed him one, naturally."

' 'Does he have to be telling the truth?" Pitt inquired with an affectation of innocence. "Would you take his word in anything else?"

Gillivray shook his head as if brushing away flies- something irritating but of no consequence. ' 'Why should he lie?"

"People seldom want to admit to an acquaintance with a murder victim. I don't think that needs any explanation."

"But what about Jerome?" Gillivray's face was earnest. "He identified Jerome!"

"How did he recognize him? How do you know?"

"Because I showed him photographs, of course!"

"And can you be sure, absolutely sure, that you didn't say or do anything at all, even by an expression on your face-a lift in your voice, maybe-to indicate which picture you wanted him to choose?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Gillivray said instantly. Then he hesitated; he did not knowingly lie to himself, still less to others. "I don't think so."

"But you believed it was Jerome?"

"Yes, of course I did."

"Are you sure you didn't somehow betray that-in tone or look? Albie's very quick-he'd have seen it. He's used to picking up the nuance, the unspoken word. He earns his living by pleasing people."

Gillivray was offended by the comparison, but he saw the purpose of it.

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"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't think so."

"But you could have?" Pitt pressed.

"I don't think so."

"But we didn't test Albie for disease!"

"No!" Gillivray flicked his hand to dispel the irritant again. "Why should we have? Arthur had the disease, and Arthur never had any relationship with Albie! It was Jerome who had the relationship with Albie, and Jerome was clean! If Albie had it, then presumably Jerome would have it too!" That was an excellent piece of reasoning, and Gillivray was pleased with it. He sat back in the chair again, his body relaxing.

"That is presuming that everyone is telling the truth except Jerome," Pitt pointed out. "But if Jerome is telling the truth, and someone else is lying, then it would be quite different. And, by the same line of logic you just put forward, since Arthur had it, then Jerome should have it also-shouldn't he? And we didn't think of that either, did we?"

Gillivray stared. "He didn't have it!"

"Precisely! Why not?"

"I don't know! Perhaps it just doesn't show yet!" He shook his head. "Perhaps he hasn't molested Arthur since he got it from the woman. How do I know. But if Jerome is telling the truth, then that means everyone else is lying, and that's preposterous. Why should they? And anyway, even if the relationship included Albie and all three boys, that still doesn't answer who killed Arthur, or why. And that's all that matters to us. We are back to Jerome just the same. You've told me yourself not to torture the facts to fit them into an unlikely theory-just take them as they are and see what they say." He looked satisfied, as if he had scored some minor victory.

' 'Quite,'' Pit agreed. ' 'But all the facts. That's the point-all of them, not just most of them. And in this case we haven't taken the trouble to discover all the facts. We should have tested Albie and the other boys as well."

"You can't!" Gillivray was incredulous. "You can't possibly mean to go to the Waybournes now and ask to test their younger son for syphilis? They'd throw you out-and probably protest to the Commissioner as well, if not all the way to Parliament!"

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"Maybe. But that doesn't alter the fact that we should."

Gillivray snorted and stood up. "Well, I think you're wasting your time-sir. Jerome is guilty and will be hanged. You know, with respect, sir-sometimes I think you allow your concern for justice, and what you imagine to be equality, to override common sense. People are not all equal. They never have been, and they never will be-morally, socially, physically, or-"

"I know that!" Pitt interrupted. "I have no delusions about equality, brought about by man or nature. But I don't believe in privilege before the law-that's quite a different thing. Jerome doesn't deserve to be hanged for something he didn't do, whatever we think of him personally. And if you prefer to look at it from the other side, we don't deserve to hang him if he's innocent, and let the guilty man go free. At least I don't! If you're the kind of man who can walk away from that, then you should be in another job, not the police."

"Mr. Pitt, that is quite uncalled for! You are being unjust. I didn't say anything like that. I think it's blinding your judgment-that's what I said, and that's what I mean! I think you lean over so far to be fair that you are in grave danger of falling over backwards." He squared his shoulders. "That's what you're doing this time. Well, if you want to go to Mr. Athelstan and ask for a warrant to test Godfrey Waybourne for venereal disese-go ahead. But I'm not coming with you. I don't believe in it, and I shall say so if Mr. Athelstan asks me! The case is closed." And he stood up and walked to the door, turning when he reached it. "Is that all you wanted me for?"

"Yes." Pitt stayed in his seat, sliding even farther down till his knees bent and touched the bottom of the desk drawer. ' 'I suppose you'd better go and look at that arson-see if it really is. More probably some fool with a-leaking lamp."

"Yes, sir." Gillivray opened the door and went out, closing it after him with a snap. Pitt sat for quarter of an hour arguing himself out of it and back in again before he finally accepted the inevitable and went up the stairs to Athelstan's office. He knocked and waited.

"Come!" Athelstan said cheerfully. 156

Pitt opened it and went in. Athelstan's face fell as soon as he saw him.

"Pitt? What is it now? Can't you handle it yourself, man? I'm extremely busy. Got to see a member of Parliament in an hour, most important matter."

"No, sir, I can't. I shall need some sort of authority."

"For what? If you want to search something, go ahead and search it! You ought to know how to go about your business by now! Heaven knows you've been at it long enough."

"No, I don't want to search anything-not a house," Pitt replied. He was cold inside. He knew Athelstan would be furious, caught in a trap of necessity, and he would blame Pitt for it. And that would be fair. Pitt was the one who should have thought of it at the right time. Not, of course, that it would have been allowed then either.

"Well, what do you want?" Athelstan said irritably, his face creased into a frown. "For heaven's sake, explain yourself! Don't just stand there like a fool, moving from one foot to the other!"

Pitt could feel his skin flush hot, and it seemed suddenly as if the room were getting smaller and if he moved at all he would knock against something with his elbows or his feet.

"We should have tested Albert Frobisher to see if he had syphilis," he began.

Athelstan's head jerked up, his face dark with suspicion.

"Why? Who cares if he has? Perverted men who patronize that sort of place deserve all they get! We're not the keepers of the public morals, Pitt-or of public health. None of our business. Homosexuality is a crime, and so it should be, but we haven't the men to prosecute it. Need to catch them at it if we're going to take it to court." He snorted with distaste. "If you haven't got enough to do, I'll find you something more. London's teeming with crime. Go out any door and follow your nose, you'll find thieves and blackguards all over the place." He bent down again over the letters in front of him, dismissing Pitt by implication.

Pitt stood motionless on the bright carpet.

"And Godfrey Waybourne and Titus Swynford also, sir."

For a second there was silence; then Athelstan raised his eyes 157

very slowly. His face was purple; veins appeared that Pitt had never noticed before, plum-colored, on his nose.

"What did you say?" he demanded, sounding every word distinctly, as though he were talking to someone slow-witted.

Pitt took a deep breath. "I want to make sure that no other people have been infected by the disease," he said rephrasing it more tactfully. "Not only Frobisher, but the other two boys."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Athelstan's voice rose, a note of hysteria creeping into it. "Where on earth would boys like that contract such a disease? We're talking about decent families, Pitt-not something out of your bloody rookeries. Absolutely not! The very idea is an insult!"

"Arthur Waybourne had it," Pitt pointed out quietly.

"Of course he did!" Athelstan's face was suffusing with blood. "That perverted animal Jerome took him to a damned prostitute! We've proved that! The whole damnable affair is closed! Now get on with your job-get out and leave me to do some work myself!"

"Sir,'' Pitt persisted. ' 'If Arthur had it-and he did-how do we know he didn't give it to his brother, or his friend? Boys of that age are full of curiosity."

Athelstan stared at him. "Possibly," he said coldly. "But no doubt their fathers are better acquainted with their aberrations than we are, and it is most certainly their business! There is no conceivable way, Pitt, in which it is yours!"

"It would put rather a different light on Arthur Waybourne, sir!"

"I have no desire to put any light on him whatever!" Athelstan snapped. "The case is closed!"

"But if Arthur had relationships with the other two boys, it would open up all kinds of possibilities!" Pitt pressed, taking a step forward to lean over the desk.

Athelstan sat as faraway as he could, resting against the back of his chair.

"The private-habits-of the gentry are no business of ours, Pitt. You will leave them alone!" He spat out the words. "Do you understand me? I don't care if every one of them got into

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bed with every other one-it doesn't alter the fact that Maurice Jerome murdered Arthur Waybourne. That is all that matters to us. We have done our duty and what happens now is their own concern-not yours and not mine!"

"But what if Arthur had relationships with the other boys?" Pitt clenched his fist on the desk, feeling the nails dig into his flesh. "Maybe it had nothing to do with Jerome."

"Rubbish! Absolute nonsense! Of course it was Jerome- there's evidence! And don't tell me we haven't proved where he did it. He could have hired a room anywhere. We'll never find it and no one expects us to. He is homosexual! He had every reason to kill the boy. If it came out, the best he could hope would be to be thrown onto the street without a job or a good reputation. He'd be ruined."

"But who says he is homosexual?" Pitt demanded, his voice rising as loudly as Athelstan's.

Athelstan's eyes were wide. There was a bead of sweat on his lip-and another.

"Both boys," he said with a catch in his voice. He cleared his throat. "Both boys," he repeated, "and Albert Frobisher. That's three witnesses. Good God, man, how many do you want? Do you imagine the creature went about exhibiting his perversion?"

"Both boys?" Pitt said again. "And what if they were involved themselves, wouldn't that be just the lie they would tell? And Albie Frobisher-would you take the word of a seventeen-year-old male prostitute against that of a respectable scholastic tutor at any other time? Would you?"

"No!" Athelstan was on his feet now, his face only a hand-span from Pitt's, his knuckles white, arms shaking. "Yes!" he contradicted himself. "Yes-if it fits with all the other evidence. And it does! He identified him from photographs-that proves Jerome was there."

"Can we be sure?" Pitt urged. "Can we be sure we didn't put the idea into his mind, prompt him? Did we suggest the answer we wanted by the way we asked the questions?"

"No, of course we didn't!" Athelstan's voice dropped a little. He was regaining control of himself. "Gillivray is a professional." He took a deep breath. "Really, Pitt, you are al-

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lowing your resentment to warp you. I said Gillivray was treading on your heels, and now you're trying to discredit him. It's not worthy of you." He sat down again, straightening his jacket and stretching his neck to ease his collar.

"Jerome is guilty," Athelstan said. "He has been found guilty by the courts, and he will be hanged." He cleared his throat again. "Don't stand over me like that, Pitt-it's insolent! And the health of Godfrey Waybourne is his father's affair- similarly Titus Swynford. As far as the prostitute is concerned, he's lucky we didn't prosecute him for his filthy trade. He'll probably die of some disease or other in the end anyway. If he hasn't got it now, he soon will have! Now I warn you, Pitt, this matter is closed. If you insist on pursuing it any further, you will be jeopardizing your own career. Do you understand me? These people have suffered enough tragedy in their lives. You will now pursue the job you are paid for-and leave them alone. Have I made myself clear?"

"But, sir-"

"I forbid it! You do not have permission to harass the Way-bournes any further, Pitt! The case is closed-finished! Jerome is guilty and that is the end of it. I don't want you to mention it again-to me or to anyone else. Gillivray is an excellent officer and his conduct is not open to question. I am perfectly satisfied he did everything necessary to determine the truth, and that he did determine it! I don't know how to make it any plainer to you. Now get on with your job-if you want to keep it." He stared at Pitt in challenge.

Suddenly it had become a test between them whose will would prevail, and Athelstan could not afford to let it be Pitt's. Pitt was dangerous because he was unpredictable; he did not give respect where he ought to, and when his sympathies were engaged, his good sense, even his self-preservation, went out the window. He was a most uncomfortable person to have about; at the first available opportunity, Athelstan decided, he would promote him to someone else's area. Unless, of course, Pitt were to press on in this wretched business of the Way-bourne case, in which event he could be reduced to walking the beat again and Athelstan would be as easily rid of him.

Pitt stood still as the seconds ticked by. The room was so si-160

lent 'he imagined he could hear the workings of the gold watch hanging from Athelstan's waistcoat on the thick, gold link chain.

To Athelstan, Pitt was a disturbing person because he did not understand him. Pitt had married above himself, and that was offensive as well as incomprehensible. What did a wellborn woman like Charlotte want with an untidy, erratic, and imaginative paradox like Pitt? A woman with any dignity would have stuck to her own class!

Gillivray, on the other hand, was quite different; he was easy to understand. He was an only son with three sisters. He was ambitious, but he accepted that one must climb the ladder rung by rung, everything in order, each advance earned. There was comfort, even beauty, in observing order. There was safety in it for everyone, and that was what the law was for-preserving the safety of society. Yes, Gillivray was an eminently sane young man, and very pleasing to have around. He would go far. In fact, Athelstan had once even remarked that he would not mind if one of his own daughters were to marry a young man of such a type. He had already proved he knew how to conduct himself with both diligence and discretion. He did not go out of the way to antagonize people, or allow his own feelings to show, as Pitt so often did. And he was extremely personable, dressed like a gentleman, neat and without ostentation-not a veritable scarecrow like Pitt!

All this passed through Athelstan's mind as he stared at Pitt, and most of it was plain in his eyes. Pitt knew him well. He ran the department satisfactorily. He seldom wasted time pursuing pointless cases; he sent his men into the witness box well prepared-it was a rare day they were made to look foolish. And no charge of corruption had been leveled against any man in his division for over a decade.

Pitt sighed and stood back at last. Athelstan was probably right. Jerome was almost certainly guilty. Charlotte was bending the facts to suppose otherwise. While it was conceivable that it could have been the two boys, it was not remotely likely; and quite honestly, he did not believe they had been lying to him. There was an innate sense of truth about them, and he could feel it, just as he could usually tell a liar. Charlotte was

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letting her emotions rule her head. That was unusual for her, but it was a feminine characteristic, and she was a woman! Pity was no bad thing, but it should not be allowed to distort the truth till it became disproportionate.

He resented Athelstan's use of force to prevent him from going back to Way bourne, but he was probably right in principle. Nothing would be served by it but to prolong the pain. Eugenie Jerome was going to suffer; it was time he accepted it and stopped trying to evade it, like some child that expects a happy ending to every story. False hope was cruel. He would have to have a long talk with Charlotte, make her see the harm she was doing by rigging up a preposterous theory like this. Jerome was a tragic man, tragic and dangerous. Pity him, by all means, but do not try to make other people pay even more dearly than they already have for his sickness.

"Yes, sir," he said aloud. "No doubt Sir Anstey will have his own physician make such checks as are advisable, without our saying anything."

Athelstan blinked. It was not the answer he had expected.

"No doubt," he agreed awkwardly. "Although I hardly think-well-that-be that as it may, it's none of our affair. Family problem-man has a right to his privacy-part of being a gentleman, the respecting of other men's privacy. Glad you understand that!'' His eyes still held the last trace of uncertainty. It was a question.

"Yes, sir," Pitt repeated. "And, as you say, there's not much point in checking someone like Albie Frobisher-if he hasn't got it today, he could have by tomorrow."

Athelstan's face wrinkled in distaste.

"Quite. Now I'm sure you have something else to get on with? You'd better be about it, and leave me to deal with my appointment. I have a great many things to do. Lord Ernest Beaufort has been robbed. His town house. Bad thing to happen. I'd like to get it solved as soon as possible. Promised him I'd see to it myself. Can you spare me Gillivray? He's just the type to handle this.''

"Yes, sir. Certainly I can," Pitt said with satisfaction sharply colored with spite. In the unlikely event they would ever find the thieves, the goods would be long gone by then,

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dispersed into a warren of silversmiths, pawnshops, and scrap dealers. Gillivray was too young to know them, too conspicuously clean to pass unremarked in the rookeries-as Pitt could, if he chose. The word would spread before Gillivray, with his pink face and white collar, as loudly as if he carried a bell around his neck. Pitt was ashamed of his satisfaction, but it did not stop the feeling or its warmth.

He walked out of Athelstan's office and back to his own. Passing Gillivray in the hallway, he sent him, face glowing in anticipation, up to Athelstan.

He went into his own office and sat down, staring at the statements and reports. Then, half an hour later, he threw all of them into a wire basket marked "in," snatched his coat from the stand, jammed his hat on his head, and strode out the door.

He caught the first hansom that passed, and clambered in shouting at the driver, "Newgate!"

"Newgate, sir?" the cabbie said with a slight lift of surprise.

"Yes! Get on with it. Newgate Prison," Pitt said. "Hurry!"

"Ain't no 'urry there," the cabbie said dryly. "They ain't goin' nowhere. Less o' course they goin' ter be 'ung! And nobody due to be 'ung yet-not for near on three weeks. Always knows when there's an 'angin'. Guess there'll be farsands out fer vis 'un. I've seen 'em an 'undred farsand thick in years past, I *ave."

"Get on with it!" Pitt snapped. The thought of a hundred thousand people milling around, pressing close to see a man hanged, was revolting. He knew it was true; it was even regarded as something of a sport by a certain set. Someone owning a room with a view over the front of Newgate could rent it out for twenty-five guineas for a good hanging. People would picnic with champagne and delicacies.

What is there in death, he wondered, that is so fascinating-in someone else's agony that is acceptable as public entertainment? Some sort of catharsis of all one's own fears-a kind of propitiation to fate against the violence that hangs over even the safest lives? But the idea of taking pleasure in it made him sick.

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It was raining gently when the cabbie dropped him outside the great rusticated front of Newgate Prison.

He identified himself to the turnkey at the gate, and was let in.

"Who did you say?"

"Maurice Jerome," Pitt repeated.

"Coin" to be 'anged," the turnkey said unnecessarily.

"Yes." Pitt followed him into the gray bowels of the place; their feet echoed hollowly on the stone. "I know."

"Knows something, does "e?" the turnkey went on, leading the way to the offices where they would have to obtain permission. Jerome was a man under sentence of death; he could not be visited at will.

"Maybe." Pitt did not want to lie.

"Mostly when you got 'em this far, I likes to see you rozzers leave them poor sods alone," the turnkey remarked, and spat. "But I can't stand a man wot kills children. Uncalled for, that is. Man's one thing-and there's a lot of women as can ask for it. But children's different-unnatural, that is."

"Arthur Way bourne was sixteen," Pitt found himself arguing. "That's not exactly a child. They've hanged people less than sixteen.''

"Oh, yeah!" the turnkey said. "When they'd earned it, like. And we've 'ad 'em in the 'ouses o* correction for a spell, for being a public nuisance. And more than one in for spinnin' 'is top in the marketplace. Set a lot o' people a mess o' trouble. 'Ad 'em in the 'Steel'-down Coldbath Fields."

He was referring to one of the worst jails in London, the Bastille, where men's health and spirits could be broken in a matter of months on the treadmill or the crank, or the shot drill, passing iron cannonballs endlessly from one to the other along a line till their arms were exhausted, backs strained, muscles cracking. Picking oakum until the fingers bled was easy by comparison. Pitt made no reply to the turnkey-there were no words that would suffice. The Bastille had been like that for years, and it was better than it had been in the past; at least the stocks and the pillories were gone, for any difference that made.

He explained to the chief warder that he wanted to see Jerome on police business, because there were still a few ques-

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lions that should be asked for the sake .of the health of innocent parties.

The warder was sufficiently aware of the case not to need more detailed explanation. He was familiar with disease, and there was no perversion known to man or beast he had not encountered.

"As you wish," he agreed. "Although you'll be lucky if you get anything out of him. He's going to be hanged in three weeks, whatever happens to the rest of us, so he's got nothing to gain or lose either way."

"He has a wife," Pitt replied, although he had no idea if it made any difference to Jerome. Anyway, he was answering the warder out of the necessity for appearance. He had come to see Jerome from a compulsion within himself, a need to try one more time to satisfy his own mind that Jerome was guilty.

Outside the office, another turnkey led him along the gray vaulted corridors toward the death cells. The smell of the place closed over him, creeping into his head and throat. He was assaulted by staleness, a dirt that carbolic never washed away; by a sense that everyone was always tired, and yet could not rest. Did men with the knowledge of certain death-at a given hour, a given minute-lie awake terrified lest sleep rob them of a single instant of the life left? Did they relive the past-all the good things? Or repent, full of guilt, beg forgiveness of a suddenly remembered God? Or weep-or revile?

The turnkey stopped. " 'Ere we are," he said with a little snort. "Give me a shout when you've finished."

' 'Thank you.'' Pitt heard his voice answer as if it were someone else's. Almost automatically, his feet took him through the open door and into the dark cell. The door shut behind him with a sound of iron on iron.

Jerome was sitting on a straw mattress in the corner. He did not immediately look around. The key turned, leaving Pitt locked inside. At last Jerome appeared to register that it was not an ordinary check. He raised his head and saw Pitt; his eyes showed surprise, but nothing strong enough to be called emotion. He was oddly the same-the stiffness, the sense of aloofness as if the past few weeks were something he had merely read about.

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Pitt, dreading a change for the worse in him, had been prepared for all kinds of embarrassment. And now that it was not there, he was even more disconcerted. Jerome was impossible to like, but Pitt was forced into a certain admiration for his total self-control.

How very odd that such a man, seemingly untouched by such appalling circumstances, by physical deprivation, public shame, and the certain knowledge of one of the worst of human deaths only weeks away-how extraordinary that such a man should have been carried away by appetite and panic to his own destruction. So extraordinary that Pitt found himself opening his mouth to apologize for the squalid cell, the humiliation, as if he were responsible, and not Jerome himself.

It was ridiculous! It was the evidence. If Jerome felt nothing, or showed nothing, then it was because he was perverted, deranged in mind and body. One should not expect him to behave like a normal man-he was not normal. Remember Arthur Waybourne in the Bluegate sewers, remember that young, abused body, and get on with what you came for!

"Jerome," he began, taking a step forward. What was he going to ask now that he was here? It was his only chance; he must find out everything he wanted to know, everything that Charlotte had so unpleasantly conjured up. He could not ask Waybourne or the two boys; it must all come from this solitary interview, here in the gray light that filtered through the grating across the high window.

"Yes?" Jerome inquired coldly. "What more can you possibly want of me, Mr. Pitt? If it is ease of conscience, I cannot give it to you. I did not kill Arthur Waybourne, nor did I ever touch him in the obscene manner you have charged me with. Whether you sleep at night or lie awake is your own problem. I can do nothing to help you, and I would not if I could!"

Pitt responded without thought. "You blame me for your situation?"

Jerome's nostrils flared; it was afl expression at once of resignation and great distaste.

"I suppose you are doing your job within your limitations. You are so used to dealing with filth that you see it everywhere.

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Perhaps that is the fault of society at large. We must have police."

"I discovered Arthur Waybourne's body," Pitt answered, curiously unangered by the charge. He could understand it. Jerome would want to hurt someone, and there was no one else. "That's all I testified to. I questioned the Waybourne family, and I checked the two prostitutes. But I didn't find them, and I certainly didn't put words in their mouths."

Jerome looked at him carefully, his brown eyes covering Pitt's features as if the secret lay within them.

"You didn't discover the truth," he said at last. "Maybe that was asking too much. Maybe you're a victim as much as I am. Only, you are free to walk away and repeat your mistakes. I'm the one who will pay."

"You didn't kill Arthur?" Pitt put it forward as a proposition.

"I did not."

"Then who did? And why?"

Jerome stared at his feet. Pitt moved to sit on the straw beside him.

"He was an unpleasant boy," Jerome said after a few moments. "I've been wondering who did kill him. I've no idea. If I had, I would have offered it to you to investigate!"

"My wife has a theory." Pitt began.

"Indeed." Jerome's voice was flat, contemptuous.

"Don't be so bloody patronizing!" Pitt snapped. Suddenly his anger at the whole affair, the system, the monumental and stupid tragedy exploded in offense for the slight to Charlotte. His voice was loud and harsh. "It's more than you have-damn you!"

Jerome turned to look at him, his eyebrows high.

"You mean she doesn't think I did it?" He was still disbelieving, his face cold, eyes showing no emotion except surprise.

"She thinks that perhaps Arthur was the perverted one," Pitt said more coolly. "And that he drew the younger boys into his practices. They complied to begin with, and then when each learned the other was also involved, they banded together and killed him."

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"A pleasant thought," Jerome said sourly. "But I can hardly see Godfrey and Titus having the presence of mind to carry the body to a manhole and dispose of it so effectively. If it had not been for an overdiligent sewerman, and indolent rats, Arthur would never have been identified, you know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, I believe it." Jerome let out his breath very slowly. "I believe it, Mr. Pitt. But not you, or your wife, or an angel of God will prove it! And the law won't try! I'm a far better sus-

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pect. 'Nobody'll miss me, nobody'll mind. This answer suits everyone who matters. You've less chance of changing their minds than you have of becoming Prime Minister.'' His mouth suddenly twisted with harsh mockery. "Not, of course, that I seriously imagined you meant to try! I can't think why you came. You'll only have more nightmares now-and for longer!"

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

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

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8

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

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

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

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

Whatever Pitt was going to do, whatever he could do-and it might not be much-she must at least try herself. And now that

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Emily was back, and Great-Aunt Vespasia, they would help, too.

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

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

"Oh! Ma'am!" Grade's face fell in confusion. "I thought as you was hurt terrible, or something. Whatever's "appened?"

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

Gracie shivered with excitement and let out her breath in a little squeak. "Oh, ma'am!"

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

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

"Yes, we are. The master will be doing what he can, of course-but that may not be enough. People keep secrets very close, and a man's life may depend on this-in fact, several people's lives. We shall need a lot of others to help, too. I am going to see Lady Ashworth, and while I am away I want you to

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look after Daniel and Miss Jemima." She fixed Grade with a gaze that almost hypnotized her, so intense was Grade's concentration. "Gracie, I do not want you to tell anyone else where I am, or why I have gone there. I am merely out visiting, do you understand? If the master should ask you, I have gone calling upon my family. That is the truth and you have no need to fear saying it."

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

Charlotte kept a perfectly sober face.

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

"Ooh-I shan't say a thing, ma'am. I'll look after everything 'ere, I swear. Don't you worry one bit."

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

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

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

"Good morning, Mrs. Pitt," the maid said smoothly. "Her Ladyship is not receiving yet. If you will sit in the morning

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room, the fire is lit, and I will ask if you may join Her Ladyship for breakfast, if you care to?"

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

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

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

She reappeared in about four minutes.

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

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

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

"Well?" Emily demanded, crashing through her thoughts 173

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

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

"Murder," she said bluntly.

Emily was immediately sober, sitting perfectly upright.

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

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

"Bring fresh tea, please, Gwenneth, and toast for Mrs. Eitt."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't need toast," Charlotte replied, thinking of getting into the butterfly silks.

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

"A boy called Arthur Waybourne," Charlotte answered quite bluntly. "He was drowned in the bath-and I'm not sure why-exactly."

Emily screwed up her face impatiently.

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

"He was not a baby at all. He was sixteen."

"Sixteen! Are you trying to be irritating, Charlotte? He 174

probably drowned quite accidentally. Does Thomas think it was murder, or are you just doing this by yourself?" Emily sat back, a shadow of disappointment in her eyes.

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

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

Emily caught her breath and choked.

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

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

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

"On the contrary," Charlotte interrupted. "He was the eldest son of a gentleman of-"

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

"What?" Emily demanded. "What did you say?"

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

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

"That's preposterous!" she exploded. "How in heaven's name could that happen?"

"He and his brother had a tutor," Charlotte said, beginning to tell the parts of the story that mattered. "May I have the tea? A man called Maurice Jerome, really rather an unpleasant man, very cold and very prim. He's clever and he resents being patronized by richer people with fewer brains. Thank you." She took the tea; the cup was very light and painted with flowers in

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blue and gold. "The younger son, the one still alive, has said that Jerome made improper advances to him. And so has the son of a friend."

"Oh, dear!" Emily looked as though her tea had suddenly turned sour in her mouth. "How sordid. Do you want the toast? The apricot preserve is very good. How very nasty indeed. I really don't understand that sort of thing. In fact, I didn't even know much about it until I overheard one of George's friends say something quite horrible." She pushed the butter across. "So what is the mystery? You said something rather extreme to Gwenneth about great injustice. The scandal is obvious, but unless this wretched man is going to get away with it, where is the injustice? He has been tried and he will be hanged. And so he should be.''

Charlotte avoided the argument of whether anyone should be hanged or not. That would have to wait for another time. She took the butter.

"But it hasn't really been proved that he was guilty!" she said urgently. "There are all sorts of other possibilities that haven't been proved or disproved yet!"

Emily squinted at her suspiciously.

"Such as what? It all seems very plain to me!"

Charlotte reached for the apricot preserve.

"Of course it's plain!" she snapped. "That doesn't mean it's true! Arthur Wayboume may not have been as innocent as everyone is supposing. Perhaps he had a relationship with the other two boys, and they were frightened, or revolted, and they killed him."

"Is there any reason whatsoever to suppose that?" Emily was entirely unconvinced, and Charlotte had the feding she was rapidly losing her attention.

"I haven't told you everything," she said, trying a different angle.

"You haven't told me anything!" Emily said wa'spishly. "Not anything worth thinking about."

"I went to the trial," Charlotte continued. "I heard all the evidence and saw the people."

"You didn't say that!" Emily exclaimed, her cheeks color-176

ing with frustration. She sat very upright in the Chippendale chair. "I've never been to a trial!"

"Of course you haven't," Charlotte agreed with a faint flicker of spite. "Ladies of quality don't!"

Emily's eyes narrowed in a look of warning. This was suddenly far too exciting a subject to give way to sisterly envy.

Charlotte accepted the hint. After all, she wanted Emily's cooperation; indeed, it was what she had come for. Rapidly she told her everything she could remember, describing the courtroom, the sewerman who had found the body, Anstey Way-bourne, the two boys, Esmond Vanderley and the other man who gave evidence on Jerome's previous character, Albie Fro-bisher, and Abigail Winters. She did her best to recount accurately what they had said. She also tried as clearly as she could to explain her own mixture of feelings about Jerome himself, and about Eugenie. She ended by expounding her theories regarding Godfrey, Titus, and Arthur Waybourne.

Emily stared at her for a long time before replying. Her tea was cold; she ignored it.

"I see," she said at last. "At least I see that we don't see-not nearly enough to be sure. I didn't know there were boys who made their living like that. It's appalling-poor creatures. Although I have discovered that there are a great many more revolting things in high society than I ever used to imagine living at home in Cater Street. We were incredibly innocent then. I find some of George's friends quite repellent. In fact, I have asked him why on earth he puts up with them! He simply says he has known them all his life, and when you have grown used to a person, you tend to overlook the unpleasant things they do. They sort of creep into your knowledge one by one, and you don't ever realize just how horrible they are, because you half see the person the way you remember them and don't bother to look at them properly anymore-not as you would someone you have just met. Maybe that's what happened with Jerome. His wife never noticed how big the change was in him." She raised her eyebrows and looked at the table, reached for the bell, then changed her mind.

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"That could just as easily be true of Arthur Waybourne," Charlotte reasoned.

"I suppose nobody was allowed to inquire." Emily screwed up her face thoughtfully. "They couldn't. I mean I can imagine the family's reaction to having the police in the house at all! Death is bad enough."

"Exactly! Thomas can't get any further. The case is closed."

"Naturally. And they will hang the tutor in three weeks."

"Unless we do something."

Emily considered, frowning. "What, for instance?"

"Well, there must be more to know about Arthur, for a start. And I would like to see those two boys without their fathers present. I should dearly like to know what they would say if they were questioned properly."

"Highly unlikely you'll ever know." Emily was a realist. ' 'The more there is to hush up, the more their families will make sure they are not pressed too hard. They will have learned their answers by heart now and they won't dare go back on it. They'll say exactly the same thing whoever asks them."

"I don't know," Charlotte countered. "They might say it differently if they are not on their guard. We might see something, sense something."

' 'In fact, what you came for was to get me to find you a way into the Waybournes' house," Emily said with a little laugh. "I will-on one condition!"

Charlotte knew before she spoke. "That you come, too." She smiled wryly. "Of course. Do you know the Way-bournes?"

Emily sighed. "No."

Charlotte felt her heart sink.

"But I'm sure Aunt Vespasia does, or knows someone else who does. Society is really very small, you know."

Charlotte remembered George's Great-Aunt Vespasia with a tingle of pleasure. She stood up from the table.

"Then we'd better go and see her," she said enthusiastically. She'll be bound to help us when she knows why."

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Emily also stood up. "Are you going to tell her this tutor is innocent?" she asked doubtfully.

Charlotte hesitated. She needed the help desperately, and Aunt Vespasia might be disinclined to intrude herself into a grieving family, bringing two inquisitive sisters to uncover ugly secrets, unless she believed gross injustice was about to be done. On the other hand, when Charlotte recalled Aunt Vespasia, she realized that lying to her would be impossible, and worse than pointless.

"No." She shook her head. "No, I'll tell her there may be a gross injustice done, that's all. She'll mind about that."

"I wouldn't guarantee her loving truth for its own sake," Emily replied. "She'll be able to see all its disadvantages too. She's extremely practical, you know." She smiled and rang the bell at last, to permit Gwenneth to clear the table. "But then, of course, she would hardly have survived in society for seventy years if she were not. Do you want to borrow a decent dress? I suppose we'll go calling immediately, if it can be arranged. There's hardly time to lose. And, by the way, you'd better let me explain all this to Aunt Vespasia. You'll let all sorts of things slip and shock her out of her senses. People like her don't know about your disgusting rookeries and your boy prostitutes with their diseases and perversions. You were never any good at saying anything without saying everything else at the same time." She led the way to the door and out into the hall, practically falling over Gwenneth, who was balanced against the door with a tray in her hand. Emily ignored her and swept across to the stairs.

' 'I've got a dark red dress that would probably look better on , you than it does on me anyway. The color is too hard for me- makes me look sallow."

Charlotte did not bother to argue, either over the dress or the insult to her tact; she could not afford to, and Emily was probably right.

The red dress was extremely flattering, rather too much so for someone proposing to call on the recently bereaved. Emily looked her up and down with her mouth pursed, but Charlotte was too pleased with her reflection in the glass to consider

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changing it; she had not looked so dashing since she had spent that unspeakable evening in the music hall-an incident she profoundly hoped Emily had forgotten.

"No," she said firmly before Emily spoke. "They are in mourning, but I am not. Anyway, if we let them know that we know they are, then we can hardly go at all! I can wear a black hat and gloves-that will be enough to tone it down. Now you had better get dressed, or we shall have wasted half the mom-ing. We don't want to find Aunt Vespasia already gone out when we get there!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Emily snapped. "She's seventy-four! She doesn't go calling on people at this hour! Have you forgotten all your breeding?"

But when they arrived at Great-Aunt Vespasia's house they were informed that Lady Cumming-Gould had been up for some considerable time, and had already received a caller that morning; the maid would have to see whether she was available to receive Lady Ashworth and her sister. They were invited to wait in a morning room fragrant with the earthy smell of a bowl of chrysanthemums, reflected in gold-edged French cheval glasses and echoed in a most unusual Chinese silk embroidery on the wall. They were both drawn to admire the embroidery in the minutes left them.

Vespasia Cumming-Gould threw open the doors and came in. She was exactly as Charlotte had remembered her: tall, straight as a lance, and as thin. Her aquiline face, which had been among the most beautiful of her generation, was now tilted in surprise, with eyebrows arched. Her hair was exquisitely piled in silver coils, and she had on a dress with delicate Chantilly lace over the shoulders and down to the waist. It must have cost as much as Charlotte would have spent on clothes in a year; yet, looking at it, she felt nothing but delight at seeing Aunt Vespasia, and a surging of spirit inside herself.

"Good morning, Emily." Aunt Vespasia walked in and allowed the footman to close the doors behind her. "My dear Charlotte, you appear extremely well. That cari only mean that either you are with child again or you have another murder to meddle with."

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f

Emily let out her breath in a gasp of frustration.

Charlotte felt all her good intentions vanish like water through a sieve.

"Yes, Aunt Vespasia," she agreed instantly. "A murder."

"That's what comes of marrying beneath you," Aunt Vespasia said without a flicker of expression, patting Emily on the arm. "I always thought it would be rather more fun-if, of course, one could find a man of any natural wit-and grace. I cannot bear a man who allows himself to be put upon. It is really very frustrating. I require people to know their places, and yet I despise them when they do! I think that is what I like about your policeman, my dear Charlotte. He never knows his place, and yet he leaves it with such panache one is not offended. How is he?"

Charlotte was taken aback. She had never heard Pitt described that way before. And yet perhaps she understood what Aunt Vespasia meant; it was nothing physical, rather a way,of meeting the eyes, of not permitting himself to feel insulted, whatever the intent of others. Maybe it had something to do with the innate dignity of believing.

Aunt Vespasia was staring at her, waiting.

"In excellent health, thank you," she replied. "But very worried about an injustice that may be about to take place-an unpardonable one!"

"Indeed?" Aunt Vespasia sat down, arranging her dress on the sofa with a single, expert movement. "And I suppose you intend to do something about this injustice, which is why you have come. Who has been murdered? Not that disgusting business with the Waybourne boy?"

"Yes!" Emily said quickly, wrestling the initiative before Charlotte could provoke some social disaster. "Yes, it is not necessarily what it seems."

"My dear girl." Aunt Vespasia's eyebrows rose in amazement. "Very little ever is-or life would be insufferably boring. I sometimes think that is the whole purpose of society. The basic difference between us and the working classes is that we have the time and the wit to see that very little appears to be what it is. It is the very essence of style.

' 'What in particular is more than usually deceptive about this 181

wretched business? It certainly appears plain enough!" She turned to Charlotte as she said this. "Speak, girl! I am aware that young Arthur was found in the most sordid of circumstances, and that some servant or other has been tried for the crime and, as far as I know, found to be guilty. What else is there to know?"

Emily shot Charlotte a warning glance, then abandoned hope and sat back in the Louis Quinze chair to await the worst.

Charlotte cleared her throat. "The evidence upon which the tutor was convicted was entirely the testimony of other people, nothing material at all."

"Indeed," Aunt Vespasia said with a little nod. "What could there be? Drowning someone will hardly leave tangible marks upon a bath. And presumably there was no struggle of any worth. What was this testimony, and from whom?"

"The two other boys who say Jerome tried to interfere with them also-that is Godfrey, Arthur's young brother, and Titus Swynford."

"Oh." Aunt Vespasia gave a little grunt. "Knew Callantha Vanderley's mother. She was married to Benita Wayboume's uncle-Benita Vanderley, as she was then, of course. Callantha married Mortimer Swynford. Could never understand why she did that. Still, I suppose she found him agreeable enough. Never cared much for him myself-made too much of a noise about his good sense. A trifle vulgar. Good sense should never be discussed-it's like good digestion, better assumed than spoken of." She sighed. "Still, I suppose young men are bound to be pleased with themselves for some reason or other, and good sense is a better one in the long run than a straight nose, or a long pedigree."

Emily smiled. "Well, if you know Mrs. Swynford," she said hopefully, "perhaps we can call on her? We may learn something."

"That would be a distinct advantage!" Aunt Vespasia answered sharply. "I have learned precious little so far! For goodness' sake, continue, Charlotte! And come to some point or other!''

Charlotte forbore from mentioning that it was Vespasia who had interrupted her.

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"Apart from the two boys," she resumed, "no one else in either family had anything ill to say about Jerome, except that they did not like him much-which nobody else does either." She took a breath and hurried on before Aunt Ves-pasia could break in again. "The other main evidence came from a woman"-she hesitated for an acceptable term that was not open to complete misunderstanding-"of loose behavior."

"A what?" Aunt Vespasia's eyebrows shot up again.

"A-a woman of loose behavior," Charlotte repeated rather awkwardly. She had no idea how much a lady of Aunt Vespasia's generation might know about such things.

"Do you mean a street woman?" Aunt Vespasia inquired. "Because if you do, then for goodness' sake girl, say so! 'Loose behavior' could mean anything! I know duchesses whose conduct could well be described by such a term. What about this woman? What has she to do with it? Surely this wretched tutor did not kill the boy in jealousy over some whore?"

"Really!" Emily said under her breath, more in amazement than any moral comment.

Aunt Vespasia gave her a chilly glance.

"It is quite repellent, I agree," she said bluntly. "But then so is the idea of murder at all. It does not become nice merely because the motive is something like money!" She turned back to Charlotte. "Please explain yourself a little more clearly. What has this woman to do with it? Has she a name? I am beginning to forget whom I am speaking about."

"Abigail Winters." There was no point whatever in trying to be delicate anymore. "Arthur Way bourne was found by the police surgeon to have a disease. Since the tutor did not have it, he must have contracted it elsewhere."

"Obviously!"

"Abigail Winters said that the tutor, Jerome, had taken Arthur to her. He was a voyeur as well! Arthur contracted the disease from her-she does have it."

"How singularly unpleasant." Aunt Vespasia wrinkled her long nose very slightly. "Still, an occupational risk, I imagine.

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But if the boy has it, and this Jerome person was meddling with him-why did he not also have it? You say he did not?"

Emily sat upright suddenly, her face alight.

"Charlotte?" she said with a sharp lift of her voice.

"No," Charlotte said slowly. "No-and that doesn't make sense, does it! If the affair was still going on, he should have. Or are some people immune to it?"

"My dear girl!" Vespasia stared, rumbling for her pince-nez to observe Charlotte more closely. "How on earth should I know? I imagine so, or a great deal of society would have it who apparently do not-from what one is told. But it would bear thinking on! What else? So far, we have the words of two youths of a most unreliable age-and a woman of the streets. There must be more?"

"Yes-a-a male prostitute, aged seventeen." Her anger about Albie came stinging through her voice. "He began when he was thirteen-he was doubtless more or less sold into it. He swore Jerome had been a regular customer of his. That was the chief way we know that he is . . ." She avoided the word ' 'homosexual" and left its meaning hanging in the air.

Aunt Vespasia was happy to allow her the liberty. Her face was somber.

"Thirteen," she repeated, frowning. "That is truly one of the most obscene offenses of our society, that we permit such things to happen. And the youth-he too has a name, presumably? He says that this wretched tutor was his customer? What about the boy, Arthur-was he also?"

"Apparently not, but then he would not be likely to admit it if he could avoid doing so," Charlotte reasoned, "since Arthur was murdered. No one admits to knowing a person who has been murdered, if they can avoid it-not if they would be suspected."

"Quite. What an extremely distasteful affair. I presume you have told me all this because you believe the tutor, what's-his-name, to be innocent?"

Now that it came to the point, it was impossible even to prevaricate.

"I don't know," Charlotte said bluntly. "But it's so convenient, it closes it up so tidily that I think we haven't both-

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ered to prove it properly. And if we hang him, it's too late after that!"

Aunt Vespasia sighed very gently. "I imagine Thomas is not able to prove the matter any further, since the trial will be considered to have ended all questions." It was an observation rather than a request for information. "What alternative solutions do you have in mind? That this miserable child Arthur may have had other lovers-possibly even have set up in business in a mild way for himself?" Her fine mouth turned down delicately at the corners. "An undertaking fraught with all manner of dangers, one would have thought. One wonders for a start whether he procured his own custom, or whether he had a business partner, a protector, who did it for him. He can hardly have used his own home for such a concern! What order of money was involved, and what happened to it? Was money at the root of it, after all, for whatever reason? Yes, I see that there are a number of avenues to explore, none of which would be pleasing to the families.

"Emily said you were a social disaster. I fear she was being somewhat generous to you-you are a catastrophe! Where do you wish to begin?"

In fact, they began with an exceedingly formal call upon Callantha Swynford, since she was the only person connected with the affair whom Vespasia had any personal acquaintance with. And even then, it took them some mind-searching to concoct an adequate excuse, including two conversations upon that marvelous new instrument, the telephone, which Aunt Vespasia had had installed and used with the greatest enjoyment.

They drove in her carriage as soon after luncheon as was considered acceptable to visit. They presented calling cards to the parlormaid, who was duly impressed by the presence of not merely one but two titled ladies. She showed them in almost immediately.

The withdrawing room was more than pleasant; it was both gracious and comfortable, a combination unfortunately rare. A large fire burned in the grate, giving a feeling of warmth and life. The room was cluttered with far less than the usual forest

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of family portraits; it was even devoid of the customary stuffed animals and dried flowers under glass.

Callantha Swynford was also a surprise, at least to Charlotte. She had expected someone portly and self-satisfied, perhaps inordinately pleased with her own good sense. Instead, Callantha was on the lean side, with white skin and freckles, which in her youth she had doubtless spent hours endeavoring to remove, or at least to mask. Now she ignored them, and they complemented her russet-colored hair in a surprisingly attractive way. She was not beautiful; her nose was too high and long for that, and her mouth too large. But she was certainly handsome, and, more than that, she possessed individuality.

"How charming of you to call, Lady Cumming-Gould," she said with a smile, extending her hand and inviting the ladies to sit down. "And Lady Asnworth-" Charlotte had not presented a card, and she was at a loss. No one helped her.

"My cousin Angelica is indisposed." Aunt Vespasia lied as easily as if she were reading the time. "She was so sorry not to renew your acquaintance in person, and told me to say how much she enjoyed meeting you. She asked me if I would call upon you instead, so you would not feel she was cool in your friendship. Since I had my niece Lady Ashworth and her sister Charlotte already in my company, I felt you would not be inconvenienced if they were to call also."

"Of course not." Callantha gave the only possible answer. "I am delighted to make their acquaintance. How very thoughtful of Angelica. I hope her indisposition is nothing serious?"

"I should imagine not." Aunt Vespasia waved it away with her hand, very delicately, as though it were something vaguely indecent to discuss. "One gets these little afflictions from time to time."

Callantha understood immediately; it was something it would be kinder not to refer to again.

"Of course," she agreed. They all knew the danger of her comparing notes with Angelica was now taken care of.

"What a delightful room." Charlotte looked about her and was able to comment quite genuinely. "I do admire your choice. I feel comfortable immediately."

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"Oh, do you?" Callantha seemed quite surprised. "I am delighted you think so. Many people find it too bare. I imagine they expect rather more in the way of family portraits and such."

Charlotte seized her chance; it might not come again so felicitously.

"I always think a few pictures of quality that really catch the essence of a person are of far more value than a great number that are merely likenesses," she replied. "I cannot help observing the excellent portrait over the mantel. Is that your daughter? Great-Aunt Vespasia mentioned that you have a son and a daughter. She is quite charming, and she looks already as if she may grow to resemble you."

Callantha smiled, glancing at the painting.

"Yes, indeed, that is Fanny. It was painted about a year ago, and she is quite unbecomingly proud of it. I must curb her. Vanity is not a quality one dare encourage. And to be frank, she is not in the least a beauty. Such charm as she has will lie within her personality." She pulled a small face, a little rueful, perhaps echoing memories of her own youth.

"But that is far better!" Charlotte approved with conviction. "Beauty fades, and often disastrously quickly, whereas with a little attention, character can improve indefinitely! I am sure I should like Fanny very much."

Emily gave her a sour look, and Charlotte knew she felt she was being too obvious. But then Callantha had no idea why they had called.

"You'are very generous," she murmured politely.

"Not at all," Charlotte demurred. "I often think beauty is a very mixed blessing, especially in the young. It can lead to so many unfortunate associations. Too much praise, too much admiration, and I have seen even some of the nicest people led astray, because they were innocent, sheltered by a decent family, so did not realize the shallowness or the vice that can exist behind the mask of flattery."

A shadow passed across Callantha's face. Charlotte felt guilty for bringing up the subject so blatantly, but there was no time to waste in being subtle.

"Indeed," she continued, "I have even seen instances in my 187

acquaintance where unusual beauty has led a young person to acquire power over others, and then quite abuse it, to their own undoing in the end-and most unfortunately, to the misfortune of those involved with them as well." She took a deep breath. "Whereas true charm of personality can do nothing but good. I think you are most fortunate." She remembered that Jerome had tutored Fanny in Latin. "And of course intelligence is one of the greatest of gifts. Foolishness can sometimes be overcome if one is safeguarded from its effects by a loving and patient family. But how much more of the world's joys are open to you if you have sensibility of your own, and how many pitfalls avoided." Did she sound as priggish as she felt? But it was difficult to approach the subject, retain a modicum of good manners, and not sound hopelessly pompous at the same time.

"Oh, Fanny has plenty of intelligence," Callantha said with a smile. "In fact, she is a better student than her brother, or either of-" She stopped.

"Yes?" Charlotte and Emily said, leaning forward in hope-fill inquiry.

Callantha's face paled. "I was going to say 'either of her cousins,' but her elder cousin died some weeks ago."

"I'm so sorry." Again Emily and Charlotte spoke together, affecting total surprise. "How very hard to bear," Emily went on. "It was a sudden illness?"

Callantha hesitated, perhaps weighing the chances of getting away with a lie. In the end she decided on the truth. After all, the case had been written up in the newspapers, and although ladies of excellent upbringing would not read such things, it was impossible to avoid hearing gossip-supposing anyone were even to try!

"No-no, he was killed." She still avoided the word "murder." "I'm afraid it was all very dreadful."

"Oh, dear!" Emily was a better actress than Charlotte; she always had been. And she had not lived with the story from the beginning; she could affect ignorance. "How terribly distressing for you! I do hope we have not called at an inappropriate time?" It was really an unnecessary question. One could not cease all social life every time a relative died, unless it were in the immediate family, or else the number of one's relatives and

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the frequency of death would cause one to be forever in mourning.

"No, no." Callantha shook her head. "It is most pleasant to see you."

"Perhaps," Aunt Vespasia said, "it would be possible for you to come to a small soiree at my house in Gadstone Park, if you are accepting invitations. I should be delighted to see you, and your husband also, if he wishes and is free of business functions? I have not met him, but I'm sure he is charming. I will send the footman with an invitation."

Charlotte's heart sank. It was Titus and Fanny she wanted to talk to, not Mortimer Swynford!

"I am sure he would enjoy that as much as I," Callantha said. "I had intended to invite Angelica to an afternoon entertainment, a new pianist who has been much praised. I have planned it for Saturday. I hope she will have recovered by then. But in any case, I should be delighted if you would all come. We shall be ladies, in the main, but if Lord Ashworth or your husband would care to come?" She turned from one to the other of them.

"Of course!" Emily glowed with anticipation. The object was achieved. The men would not come; that was understood. She darted a look across at Charlotte. "Perhaps we shall meet Fanny? I admit I am quite intrigued-I shall look forward to it."

"And I also," Charlotte agreed. "Very much."

Aunt Vespasia rose. They had been long enough for the strict duty call'they professed it to be, and certainly long enough for a first visit. Most important, their purpose was achieved. With great dignity she took leave for all of them, and, after the appropriate civilities had been exchanged, swept them out to the carriage.

"Excellent," she said as they seated themselves, arranging their skirts so as to be crushed as little as possible before the next call. "Charlotte, did you say this wretched child was only thirteen when he began his disgusting trade?"

"Albie Frobisher? Yes, so he said. He looked only a little more now-he's very thin and underdeveloped-no beard at all."

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"And how do you know, may I ask?" Aunt Vespasia fixed her with a cool eye.

"I was in the courtroom," Charlotte replied without thinking. "I saw him."

"Were you indeed?" Aunt Vespasia's brows shot up and her face looked very long. "Your conduct becomes more extraordinary by the moment. Tell me more. In fact, tell me everything! Or, no-not yet. We are going to visit Mr. Somerset Carlisle. I daresay you remember him?"

Charlotte remembered him vividly, and the whole unspeakable affair around Resurrection Row. He had been the keenest of all of them in fighting to get the child-poverty bill passed through Parliament. He knew as much as Pitt did of the slums-indeed he had frightened and appalled poor Dominic by taking him to the Devil's Acre, under the shadow of Westminster.

But would he be interested in the facts of one extremely unlikable tutor, who was very possibly guilty of a despicable crime anyway?

"Do you think Mr. Carlisle will be bothered over Mr. Jerome?" she asked doubtfully. "The law is not at fault. It is hardly a Parliamentary matter."

"It is a matter for reform,'' Aunt Vespasia replied as the carriage swayed around a comer rather fiercely and she was obliged to brace her body to prevent herself falling into Charlotte's lap. Opposite them, Emily clung on quite ungracefully. Aunt Vespasia snorted. "I shall have to speak to that young man! He has visions of becoming a charioteer. I think he sees me as a rather elderly Queen Boudicca! Next thing you know, he will have put sabers on the wheels!"

Charlotte pretended to sneeze in order to hide her expression.

"Reform?" she said after a moment, straightening up under the cold and highly perceptive eye of Vespasia. "I don't see how."

"If children of thirteen can be bought and sold for these practices," Vespasia snapped, "then there is something grossly wrong, and it needs to be reformed. Actually, I have been considering it for some time. You have merely brought it to the,

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forefront of my mind. I think it is a cause worthy of our best endeavors. I imagine Mr. Carlisle will think so, too."

Carlisle listened to them with great attention and, as Aunt Ves-pasia had expected, distress for the conditions of people like Albie Frobisher in general, and for the possible injustice of the case against Jerome.

After some thought, he posed several questions and theories himself. Had Arthur threatened Jerome with blackmail, threatened to tell his father about the relationship? And when Way-bourne had faced Jerome, could Jerome have told him a great deal more of the truth than Arthur had envisioned? Did he tell Waybourne of their visits to Abigail Winters-even to Albie Frobisher-and that it was Arthur himself who had introduced the two younger boys to such practices? Could it then have been Waybourne, in rage and horror, who had killed his own son, rather than face the unbearable scandal that could not be' suppressed forever? The possibilities had been very far from explored!

But now, of course, the police, the law, the whole establishment had committed itself to the verdict. Their reputations, indeed their very professional office, depended upon the conviction standing. To admit they had been precipitate in duty, perhaps even negligent, would make a public exhibition of their inadequacies. And no one does that unless driven to it by forces byond control.

Added to that, Charlotte conceded, they may well believe in all honesty that Jerome was guilty. And perhaps he was!

And would smart, clean, pink young Gillivray ever admit that he might have helped Albie Frobisher just a little in his identification, planted the seed of understanding in a mind so quick, so subtle, and so anxious to survive that Albie had grasped what he wanted and given it to him?

Could Gillivray afford such a thought, even if it occurred to him? Of course not! Apart from anything else, it would be betraying Athelstan, leaving him standing alone-and that would be cataclysmic!

Abigail Winters might not have been lying entirely. Maybe Arthur had been there; his tastes may have been more

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catholic than for boys only. And perhaps Abigail had tacitly accepted some immunity for herself by including Jerome in her evidence. The temptation to tie a case up conclusively that you were morally sure of anyway was very real. Gilliv-ray may have succumbed to it-visions of success, favor, promotion dancing before his eyes. Charlotte was ashamed of the thought when she expressed it to Carlisle, but felt it should not be dismissed.

And what did they wish of him? Carlisle asked.

The answer was quite explicit. They wished to have correct and detailed facts of prostitution in general, and that of children in particular, so that they might present them to the women of society, whose outrage at such conditions might in time make the abuse of children so abhorrent that they would refuse to receive any man of whom such a practice, or even tolerance, was suspected.

Ignorance of its horrors was largely responsible for the women's indifference to it. Some knowledge, however dependent upon imagination for the reality of its fear and despair, would mobilize all their very great social power.

Carlisle vacillated at presenting such appalling facts to ladies, but Aunt Vespasia froze him with an icy stare.

"I am perfectly capable of looking at anything whatsoever that life has to afford,'' she said loftily, "if there is some reason for it! I do not care for vulgarity, but if a problem is to be dealt with, then it must be understood. Kindly do not patronize me, Somerset!"

"I wouldn't dare!" he replied with a flash of humor. It was almost an apology, and she accepted it with grace.

"I hardly imagine it will be a pleasant subject," she acknowledged. "Nevertheless it must be done. Our facts must be correct-one grave error and we lose our case. I shall avail myself of all the help I can." She turned in her chair. "Emily, the best opinion to begin with is that of the people who have the most influence, and who will be the most offended by it."

"The Church?" Emily suggested.

"Nonsense! Everyone expects the Church to make noises about sin. That is their job! Therefore no one really listens-it has no novelty whatsoever. What we need is a few of the

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best society hostesses, the ones people listen to and imitate, the leaders of fashion. That is where you will assist, Em-ily."

Emily was delighted; her face shone with anticipation.

"And you, Charlotte," Vespasia continued. "You will acquire some of the information we shall need. You have a husband in the police force. Use him. Somerset, I shall speak to you again." She rose from the armchair and went to the door. "In the meanwhile, I trust you will do everything you can to look into the matter of this tutor Jerome and the possibility that there may be some other explanation. It is rather pressing."

Pitt told Charlotte nothing about his interview with Athelstan, and so she was unaware that he had tried to reopen the case. But in any event, she had not imagined it would be possible once the verdict was in. If anything, she knew better than he did that those with influence would not permit the result to be questioned, now that the law had been met.

The next thing to do was to prepare for Callantha's party, when she might have the chance to speak with Fanny Swyn-ford. And if the occasion to speak to Titus did not offer itself gratuitously, she would then engineer some opportunity to speak with him also. At least Emily and Aunt Vespasia would be there to help her. And Aunt Vespasia was able to get away with almost any social behavior she chose, because she had the position-and, above all, the sheer style-to carry it off as if she were the rule and everyone else the exception.

She told Pitt only that she was going out with Aunt Vespasia. She knew that he liked Vespasia enough not to question it. In fact, he sent her his very best wishes in a message of what was for him unusual respect.

She accompanied Emily in her carriage, and had borrowed another dress for the day, since it was impractical for her to spend such allowance as she had for clothes on something she would wear probably only once. The minutiae of high fashion changed so frequently that last season's dress was distinctly passe this season; it was seldom more than once or twice in six months that Charlotte attended an affair like the entertainment at Callantha Swynford's.

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The weather was perfectly appalling, driving sleet out of an iron-gray sky. The only way to look in the least glamorous was to wear something as gay and dazzling as possible. Emily chose light, clear red. Not wishing to look too similar, Charlotte chose an apricot velvet that made Emily slightly cross she had not chosen it herself. She was too proud, though, to demand they exchange, even though both were her gowns; her reasons would have been too obvious.

However, by the time they reached the Swynfords' hallway and were welcomed into the large withdrawing room, which had been opened into the room beyond, fires blazing, lamps bright, Emily forgot the matter and launched herself into the business of the visit.

"How delightful," she said with a brilliant smile at Callan-tha Swynford. "I shall look forward to meeting absolutely everyone! And so will Charlotte, I am sure. She has spoken of little else all the way here."

Callantha made the usual polite replies, and conducted them to be introduced to the other guests, all talking busily and saying very little of consequence. Just over half an hour later, when the pianist had begun to play a composition of incredible monotony, Charlotte observed a very self-possessed child of about fourteen whom she recognized from the portrait to be Fanny. She excused herself from her present company-easily done, since they were all bored with each other and had been pretending to listen to the music-and made her way between other groups until she was next to Fanny.

"Do you like it?" she whispered quite casually, as if they were long acquaintances.

Fanny looked slightly uncertain. She had an intelligent, candid little face, with the same mouth as her mother, and gray eyes, but otherwise the resemblance was less than the portrait affected. And she did not look as if lying came to her by nature.

"I think perhaps I don't understand it." She found the tactful answer with some triumph.

"Neither do I," Charlotte said agreeably. "I don't care to have to understand music unless I like the sound of it."

Fanny relaxed. "You don't like it either," she observed with 194

relief. "Actually, I think it's awful. I can't imagine why Mama invited him. I suppose he's 'the thing' this month or something. And he looks so dreadfully serious about it I can't help thinking he doesn't like it much himself. Maybe this isn't the way he means it to sound, do you suppose?"

"Perhaps he's worried he won't be paid," Charlotte answered. "I wouldn't pay him.*'

Seeing her smile, Fanny burst into laughter, then realized it was completely improper, and hid her mouth with her hands. She regarded Charlotte with new interest.

"You are so pretty you don't look as if you'd say dreadful things," she observed frankly, then realized that she had added to her social mistake even further, and blushed.

"Thank you," Charlotte said sincerely. "I'm so glad you think I look nice." She lowered her voice in conspiracy. "Actually, I borrowed my dress from my sister, and I think now she wishes she'd worn it herself. But please don't tell anyone."

"Oh, I shan't!" Fanny promised instantly. "It's beautiful."

"Have you got any sisters?"

Fanny shook her head. "No, only a brother, so I can't really borrow anything much. It must be nice to have a sister."

"Yes, it is-most of the time. Although I think I might have liked a brother, too. I have some cousins, only I hardly ever see them."

"So have I-but they're mostly boys as well. At least the ones I see are. They're second cousins really, but it's much the same." Her face became sober. "One of them just died. It was all rather horrible. He got killed. I don't really understand what happened, and nobody will tell me. I think it must be something disgusting, or they'd say-don't you think?"

Her words were quite casual, but Charlotte saw behind the puzzled, rather offhand look the need to be reassured. And reality would be better than the monsters created by silence.

Apart from her own need to press for information, Charlotte did not want to insult the child with comfortable lies.

"Yes," she said honestly. "I should think there's probably something that hurts, so people would rather not talk about it.''

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Fanny looked at her for several moments before speaking again, measuring her up.

"He was murdered," she said at last.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry," Charlotte answered with perfect composure. "That's very sad. How did it happen?"

"Our tutor, Mr. Jerome-everyone says he killed him."

"Your tutor? How appalling. Did they have a fight? Do you suppose it was an accident? Perhaps he did not mean to be so violent?"

"Oh, no!" Fanny shook her head. "It wasn't like that at all. It wasn't a fight-Arthur was drowned in the bath." She screwed up her face in bewilderment. "I simply don't understand it. Titus-that's my brother-had to give evidence in court. They wouldn't let me go, of course. They don't let me do anything really interesting! Sometimes it's awful being a girl." She sighed. "But I've thought a lot-and I can't imagine what he knows that would be any good!"

"Well, men do tend to be a bit pompous," Charlotte offered.

"Mr. Jerome was," Fanny said. "Oh, he was very stuffy, too. He had an expression as if he was eating rice pudding all the time! But he was an awfully good teacher. I hate rice pudding-it always has lumps in it and it tastes of nothing, but we have to have it every Thursday. He used to teach me Latin. I don't think he liked any of us very much, but he never lost his temper. I think he was sort of proud of that. He was terribly-I don't know." She shrugged. "He never had any fun."

"But he hated your cousin Arthur?"

"I never thought he liked him a lot." Fanny considered it carefully. "But I never thought he hated him either."

Charlotte felt a quickening of excitement.

"What was he like, your cousin Arthur?"

Fanny wrinkled up her nose and hesitated.

"You didn't like him?" Charlotte helped.

Fanny's face ironed out, the tension relieved. Charlotte guessed it was the first time the decencies of mourning had allowed her to speak the truth about Arthur.

"Not very much," she admitted.

"Why not?" Charlotte pressed, trying to hide at least some of her interest.

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"He was awfully conceited. He was very good-looking, you know." Fanny shrugged again. "Some boys are very vain- just as vain as any girl. And he behaved as if he was superior, but I suppose that's just because he was older." She took a deep breath. "I say, isn't that piano dreadful? It sounds like a maid dropping a whole load of knives and forks."

Charlotte's heart sank. Just as they were really touching Arthur, the boy behind all the trappings of grief, Fanny had changed the subject.

"He was very clever," Fanny went on. "Or perhaps I mean cunning. But that isn't a reason to kill him, is it?"

"No," Charlotte said slowly. "Not by itself. Why did they say the tutor killed him?"

Fanny scowled. "Now that's what I don't understand. I did ask Titus, and he told me it was men's business, and not proper for me to know. It makes me sick! Boys really are so pompous sometimes! I'll bet it's nothing I don't know anyhow. Always pretending they know secrets that they don't." She snorted. "That's boys all the time!"

"Don't you think this time it might be true?" Charlotte suggested.

Fanny looked at her with the scorn she felt for boys.

"No-Titus doesn't know what he's talking about really. I know him very well, you know. I can see right through him. He's just being important to please Papa. I think it's all very silly."

"You mustn's monopolize our guests, Fanny." It was a man's' voice, and familiar. With a light flutter of nervousness, Charlotte turned around to face Esmond Vanderley. Dear heaven-did he remember her from that awful evening? Perhaps not; the clothes, the whole atmosphere, were so utterly different. She met his eyes, and the hope died instantly.

He smiled back at her with a sharp glint of humor, so close to laughter it dazzled.

"I apologize for Fanny. I think the music bores her."

"Well, I find it a great deal less pleasing than Fanny's company," she replied a little more tartly than she intended. What was he thinking of her? He had given evidence about Jerome's character, and he had known Arthur well. If he had the charity

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to ignore their first meeting, she was extremely grateful, but she could not afford to retire from the battle all the same. This could be her only opportunity.

She smiled back at him, trying to take some of the sting out of her words. "Fanny was merely being an excellent hostess and relieving my solitude, since I know so few people here."

"Then I apologize to Fanny," he said pleasantly; apparently he had taken no offense.

Charlotte searched her mind for some way to keep alive the subject of Arthur without being too offensively curious.

"She was telling me about her family. You see, I had two sisters, while she has only a brother and male cousins. We were comparing differences."

"You had two sisters?" Fanny seized on it as Charlotte had hoped she would. She was ashamed to use tragedy in such a way, but there was no time to be delicate.

"Yes." She lowered her voice and did not have to strain to include the emotion. "My elder sister was killed. She was attacked in the street."

"Oh, how dreadful!" Fanny was shocked, her face full of sympathy. "That's absolutely the most awful thing I've heard for ages. That's worse than Arthur-because I didn't even love Arthur."

"Thank you." Charlotte touched her gently on the arm. "But I don't think you can say one person's loss is greater than another-we really can't tell. But yes, I did love her."

"I'm so sorry," Vanderley said quietly. "It must have been very distressing. Death is bad enough, without all the police investigation that follows. I'm afraid we've just suffered all that. But thank heaven it's over now."

Charlotte did not want to let the chance slip through her fingers. But how could she possibly pursue the less pleasant truths about Arthur in front of Fanny? And the whole subject was in appalling taste-she knew that before she even approached it.

"That must be a great relief to you all," she said politely. It was a sliding away; she was beginning to talk inanities. Where were Emily and Aunt Vespasia? Why couldn't they come to the

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rescue-either take Fanny away or else pursue the real nature of Arthur with Esmond Vanderley themselves? "Of course one never gets over the loss," she added hastily.

"I suppose not," Vanderley answered civilly. "I saw Arthur quite often. One does in a family, of course. But, as I said before, I was not especially fond of him."

Suddenly, Charlotte had an idea. She turned to Fanny.

"Fanny, I'm terribly thirsty, but I don't wish to be drawn into conversation with the lady by the table. Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of punch?"

"Of course," Fanny said immediately. "Some of those people are awful, aren't they? There's one over there in the blue shiny gown who talks of nothing but her ailments, and it's not as if they were even interesting, like rare diseases-just vapors, like anyone else." And she left on her errand.

Charlotte faced Vanderley. Fanny would only be gone a few minutes, although with luck, since she was a child, she would be served last.

"How refreshingly honest you are," Charlotte said, trying to be as charming as she could but feeling self-conscious and rather ridiculous. "So many people pretend to have loved the dead and seen only virtue in them whatever they actually felt when they were alive."

He smiled with a slight twist. "Thank you. I admit it is a relief to confess that I saw in poor Arthur plenty that I did not care for."

"At least they have caught the man who killed him," she went on. "I suppose there is no question about it-he is definitely guilty? I mean the police are perfectly satisfied and that is an end to it? Now you will be left alone."

' 'No question at all." Then a thought seemed to flash into his mind. He hesitated, looked at her face, then took a deep breath. "At least I don't imagine so. There was a peculiarly persistent policeman who made the inquiries, but I cannot see what else he could want to find now."

Charlotte assumed a look of amazement. Heaven help her if he realized who she was.

"You mean he doesn't believe he has the entire truth? How 199

dreadful! How perfectly appalling for you! If it wasn't the man they have, who can it have been?"

"God knows!" Vanderley looked pale. "Quite frankly, Arthur could be a beastly little animal! They say the tutor was his lover, you know. Sorry if I shock you." It was an afterthought; he has suddenly remembered she was a woman who might possibly not even know of such things. "They say he seduced the boy into unnatural practices. Possibly, but I wouldn't be totally surprised if Arthur was the one who did the seducing, and the poor man was drawn into it, flattered, and then ignored. Or maybe Arthur did that to someone else, and it was an old lover who killed him in a fit of jealousy. Now there's a thought! He might even have been a thoroughgoing little whore! Sorry-I am shocking you, Mrs.-I was so taken with your gown the other evening, I cannot now recall your name!"

"Oh!" Charlotte's mind raced for an answer. "I am Lady Ashworth's sister." That at least would make it seem unlikely she had any connection with the police. Again she felt her face scald with embarrassment.

"Then I apologize for such a-a violent and rather obscene discussion, Lady Ashworth's sister!" A smile of genuine amusement flickered over his face. "But you invited it, and if your own sister was murdered you are already acquainted with the less pleasant side of investigations."

"Oh, yes, of course." Charlotte said, still blushing. He was fair; she had invited it. "I'm not shocked," she said quickly. "But it is a very unpleasant thought that your nephew was such a-a warped person as you suggest."

"Arthur? Yes, isn't it. It's a pity someone has to hang for him, even a particularly unlovable Latin master with a temperament like vinegar. Poor wretch-still, I daresay if he weren't convicted, he'd have gone on and seduced other boys. Apparently, he interfered with Arthur's younger brother, too- and Titus Swynford. Shouldn't have done that. If Arthur dumped him, he should have found someone else already so inclined-stuck to the willing, not have gone scaring the sense out of some child like Titus. He's a nice boy, Titus. A bit like Fanny, only not so clever, thank heaven. Clever girls Fanny's age terrify me. They notice everything and then remark it with

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piercing clarity, at the most unfortunate times. Comes of having too little to do."

At that point Fanny returned, proudly carrying Charlotte's punch, and Vanderley excused himself and wandered away, leaving Charlotte puzzled and vaguely excited. He had sowed seeds of ideas she had hardly even thought of, and, she believed, neither had Pitt.

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Pitt was quite unaware of Charlotte's enterprise. He was so preoccupied with his own doubts about the proof of Jerome's guilt that he accepted at face value her having gone calling with Great-Aunt Vespasia, something that at another time he would have regarded with sensible suspicion. Charlotte had respect and considerable affection for Aunt Vespasia, but she would not have gone calling with her for purely social reasons. It was a circle in which Charlotte had neither place nor interest.

Concern about Jerome tantalized Pitt's thoughts and made concentration on anything else almost impossible. He performed his other investigations mechanically, so much so that a junior sergeant had to point out to him his oversights, at which Pitt lost his temper, principally because he knew he was at fault, and then had to apologize to the man. To his credit, the man accepted it with grace; he recognized worry when he saw it, and appreciated a senior who could unbend enough to admit fault.

But Pitt knew it for a warning. He must do something more about Jerome or his conscience would intrude further and further until it upset all decent thought and he made some mistake that could not be undone.

Like hanging: that, too, could not be undone. A man imprisoned wrongfully could be released, could begin to rebuild his life. But a man hanged was gone forever.

It was morning. Pitt was sitting at his desk sorting through a pile of reports. He had looked at every sheet and read the words

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with his eyes, but not a single fraction of their meaning penetrated his brain.

Gillivray was sitting opposite, waiting, staring.

Pitt picked the reports upagain and began again at the beginning. Then he looked up. "Gillivray?"

"Yes, sir?"

"How did you find Abigail Winters?"

"Abigail Winters?" Gillivray frowned.

"That's what I said. How did you find her?"

"Process of elimination, sir," Gillivray replied a little irritably. "I investigated lots of prostitutes. I was prepared to go through them all, if necessary. She was about twenty-fifth, or something like that. Why? I can't see that it matters now."

"Did anyone suggest her to you?"

"Of course they did! How else do you think I find any prostitutes? I don't know them for myself. I got her name from some of the contacts I got the other names from. I didn't get hers from anyone special, if that's what you mean. Look, sir." He leaned forward over the desk. It was a mannerism that Pitt found particularly irritating. It smacked of familiarity, as if they were professional equals. "Look, sir," Gillivray said again. "We've done our job on the Wayboume case. Jerome has been found guilty by the courts. He was tried fairly, on the testimony of witnesses. And even if you don't have any time for Abigail Winters or her kind-or, God knows, Albie Frobisher either- you've got to admit young Titus Swynford and Godfrey Way-bourne are honest and decent youths, and had no possible connection with the prostitutes. To suggest they did is just running into the absurd. The prosecution has to prove guilt beyond all reasonable doubt, not beyond all doubt at all! And with respect, Mr. Pitt, the doubts you are entertaining now are not reasonable. They are farfetched and ridiculous! The only thing lacking was an eyewitness, and nobody commits a clever and premeditated murder in front of witnesses. Hotblooded killings, yes-out of fear maybe, or temper, or even jealousy. But this was planned and executed with care! Now leave it alone, sir! It's finished. You'll only get yourself into trouble."

Pitt looked at his earnest face above the white collar. He wanted to hate him, and yet he was obliged to admit the advice

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was fair. If their roles had been reversed, it was just what he would have said. The case was over. It was bending reason to suppose that the truth was other than the obvious. In most crimes there were far more victims than just the immediate person robbed or violated; this time it was Eugenie Jerome- perhaps obscurely even Jerome himself. To expect to be able to tidy up all the injustices was to be childishly simplistic.

"Mr. Pitt?" Gillivray was looking anxious.

"Yes," Pitt said sharply. "Yes, you are quite right. To suppose that all the people, quite independently of each other, were telling the same lie to incriminate Jerome is quite ridiculous. And to'imagine they had anything in common is even more so."

"Exactly," Gillivray agreed, relaxing a little. "The two prostitutes might, although it is unlikely they even knew each other-there is nothing to indicate they did. But to suppose they had anything in common with a child like Titus Swynford is twisting reason beyond any sense at all."

Pitt had no argument. He had talked to Titus and he could not imagine him even knowing of the existence of such people as Albie Frobisher, much less having met him and conspired with him. If Titus needed an ally to defend him, he would have chosen someone of his own class, someone he already knew. And frankly, he found it hard to believe Titus had anything for which he needed defense.

"Right!" he said with more anger than he could account for. "Arson! What have we done about this damn fire?"

Gillivray immediately produced a piece of paper from his inside pocket and began to read a string of answers. They provided no solution, but several possibilities that should be investigated. Pitt assigned two of the most promising to Gillivray, and, without realizing it, chose for himself two more that took him to that area on the edge of Bluegate Fields, within half a mile of the brothel where Abigail Winters had a room.

It was a dark day. The streets dripped with a steady, fine rain; gray houses leaned together like sour old men, brooding with complaint, impotent in senility. There was the familiar smell of staleness, and he imagined he could hear the rising

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tide of the river in the creaking boards and the slow-moving water.

What kind of a person came here for pleasure? Perhaps a tidy little clerk who sat on a high stool all day, dipping his quill in the ink and copying figures from ledger to ledger, keeping accounts of someone else's money, and went home to a sharp-tongued wife who regarded pleasure as sin and flesh as the tool of the deyil.

Pitt had seen dozens of clerks like that, pale-faced, starch-collared, models of rectitude because they dared not be anything else. Economic necessity, together with the need to live by society's rules, was a total taskmaster.

So people like Abigail Winters made a living.

The arson inquiry proved surprisingly fruitful. To be honest, he had expected Gillivray's leads to be the real ones, and it gave him a perverse satisfaction when his own turned up the answer. He took a statement, wrote it carefully, and put it in his pocket. Then, since he was only two streets away and it was still early, he walked to the house where Abigail Winters lived.

The old woman at the door looked at him with surprise.

"My, you're an early one!" she said with a sneer. "Can't yer let them girls get any sleep?"

"I want to talk to Abigail Winters," he replied with a slight smile, hoping it would soften her.

"Talk, eh? That's a new one," she said with heavy disbelief. "Well, it don't matter wot yer do-time's time just the same. Yer pays by the hour." She held out her hand, rubbing her fingers together.

"Why should I pay you?" He made no move.

" 'Cause this is my 'ouse," she snapped. "And if yer wants to come in an' see one o' my girls, then yer pays me. Wot's the matter wiv yer-'aven't yer never bin 'ere before?"

' 'I want to talk to Abigail, nothing more, and I have no intention of paying you for that," he replied sternly. "I'll talk to her in the street, if necessary."

"Oh, will yer then, Mr. Fancy?" she said with a hard edge to her voice. "We'll see abaht that!" And she started to slam the door.

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Pitt was very much larger than she was, and stronger. He put his foot next to the frame and leaned on the door.

" ' Ere!" she said angrily. '' You try ter force yer way in 'ere, an' I've got boys as'll do yer over till yer own muvver won't knew yer! Yer no beauty now-but yer'11 be a rare sight when they've finished, and that's a promise!"

"Threatening me, are you?" Pitt inquired calmly.

"Now you've got it!" she agreed. "An' I'll do it yer better believe!"

"That's a pretty serious offense-threatening a police officer." He met her sharp old eyes squarely. "I could have you up for that and put in Coldbath Fields for a spell. How would you like that? Fancy picking oakum for a while?"

She paled under the grime on her face.

"Liar!" she spat. "Yer no fuzz!"

"Oh, yes, I am. Investigating a case of arson." That was true, if not the completely so. "Now where's Abigail Winters?-before I get unpleasant, and come back with force!"

"Bastard!" she said. But the venom had gone out of her voice, and there was a certain satisfaction underlying it. Her mouth widened into a stump-toothed smile. "Well, you can't see 'er, Mr. Fuzz-'cause she ain't 'ere! Left here after that there trial. Gorn to see 'er cousin or suffink, up in the country. An' it's no use yer askin' where to, 'cause I dunno, and nor do I care! Could be any place. IPn yer wants 'er that bad, yer'd better go an' look." She gave a dry little laugh. "Course yer can come and search the place-if yer wants?" She pulled the door wider, invitingly. An odor of cabbage and drains hit his nose, but he had smelled it too often before for it to make him sick.

He believed her. And if his persistent, almost silenced suspicions were right after all, it was not unlikely Abigail had gone. All the same, it would be negligent not to make sure.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I'll come and look." Please God her bullyboys were not inside waiting to beat him in the privacy of this warren of rooms. She might have them do it-just in revenge for the insult. Then, on the other hand, if she believed he was a police officer, such an act would be stupid, even ruinous to her business-a luxury she could most definitely not afford.

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The very name of Coldbath Fields was enough to sober anyone from the intoxication of revenge.

Pitt followed her inside and along the corridor. The place had a dead look about it, almost unused, like a music hall in daylight when all the tinsel and laughter has gone, and the kindness of concealing shadows.

She opened the rooms for him, one after another. He peered in at the rumpled beds, shabby in the dim light, and girl after girl turned over and stared at him out of blurred eyes, faces still smudged with paint, and swore at him for disturbing them.

"Rozzer come ter take a look atcher," the old woman said maliciously. " 'E's lookin' fer Abbie. I tell'd 'im she ain't 'ere, but 'e wants 'er that bad 'e's come ter look fer 'isself. *E don't believe me!"

He did not bother to argue. He had believed her, but he could not afford to take the one chance in a hundred that she was lying. For his own sake, he had to be sure.

' 'There now!'' she said triumphantly at the end. "Believe me now, do yer? Owes me an apologizement, Mr. Rozzer! She ain't 'ere!"

"Then you'll have to do instead, won't you!'' he said acidly, and was pleased to see the start of surprise in her face.

"I dunno nuffink! Yer don't fink no toff comes 'ere and lies wiv me, do yer? Toffs ain't no diff rent to no one else wiv their trousers orf! They likes 'em all sorts, 'ceptin' old."

Pitt wrinkled his nose at her crudity. "Rubbish!" he said sharply. '' You' ve never seen a real gentleman in your life-and certainly not here!"

"It's wot Abigail said, an' I 'card 'er," the old woman argued, looking at him closely. "An" said in a court o' law she did, too. I was read it out o' the newspapers. Got a girl 'ere wot can read, I 'ave. She was in service till she lost 'er character."

An idea materialized in Pin's mind, suddenly and without warning.

"Did Abigail say it to you before she said it in the court, or afterwards?" he asked quietly.

"Afterwards, the thievin' little cow!" The old woman's face creased with anger and outrage.' 'Wasn't goin' ter tell me abaht

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it, she wasn't! Coin' ter keep it all fer 'erself- when I provides 'er room and lodgin' and protection! Ungrateful bitch!"

' 'You're getting careless.'' Pitt looked at her with contempt. "Letting a couple of well-heeled gentlemen in here and not collecting your share. And you must have known men dressed like that could pay-and well, too!"

"I never saw them-you fool!" she spat. "Yer fink I'd 'a let 'em walk past me ifn I 'ad, do yer?"

"What's the matter-fall asleep at your post?" Pitt's lip curled. "You're getting too old-you should give it up and let someone with a more careful eye take over. You're probably being robbed every night of the week."

"No one comes through this door wivout I knows it!" she shouted at him. "I got you quick enough, Mr. Rozzer!"

"This time," he agreed. "Any. of the other girls see these gentlemen you missed?"

"If they did and didn't tell me, I'll 'ave their thievin' 'ides!"

"You mean you haven't asked them? My, but you are losing your hold on the game," he jeered.

"O' course I arst 'em!" she shouted. "An' vey didn't! Nobody takes me for a fool! I'll 'ave my boys beat the skin orf any girl as takes advantage-and they knows it!"

"But still Abigail did." He narrowed his eyes. "Or did you have your boys beat her for it already-maybe a little too hard- and she ended up dead in the river? Maybe we should have a better look for Abigail Winters, do you, think?"

Her skin went white under the rime of dirt.

"I never touched the thievin' cow!" she shrieked. "An" neither did me boys! She gave me 'arf the money and I never touched 'er! She went into the country, I swear on me muvver's grave! You'll never prove I 'armed an 'air on 'er 'ead, 'cause I never did-none of us never did."

"How often did these particular toffs come and see Abigail?"

"Once-as I knows of-just once-that's wot she said."

"No, she didn't. She said they were regular customers."

"Then she's a liar! You think I don't know me own "ouse?" 208