THE TRIAL OF Maurice Jerome began on the second Monday in November. Charlotte had never before been in a courtroom. Her interest in Pitt’s cases had been intense in the past; indeed, on several occasions she had actively and often dangerously engaged herself in discovering the criminal. But it had always come to an end for her with the arrest; once there was no mystery left, she had considered the matter finished. To know the outcome had been sufficient—she did not wish to see it.
This time, however, she felt a strong need to attend as a gesture of support to Eugenie in what was surely one of the worst ordeals a woman could face—whatever the verdict. Even now, she was not sure what she expected the verdict to be. Usually she had entire confidence in Pitt, but in this case she had sensed an unhappiness in him that was deeper than his usual distress for the tragedy of crime. There was a sense of dissatisfaction, an air of something unfinished—answers he needed to have, and did not.
And yet if it was not Jerome, then who? There was no one else even implicated. All the evidence pointed to Jerome; why should everyone lie? It made no sense, but still the doubts were there.
She had, in her mind, formed something of a picture of Jerome, a little blurred, a little fuzzy in the details. She had to remind herself it was built on what Eugenie had told her, and Eugenie was prejudiced, to say the least. And, of course, on what Pitt had said; perhaps that was prejudiced too? Pitt had been touched by Eugenie as soon as he had seen her. She was so vulnerable; his pity was reflected in his face, his desire to protect her from the truths he knew. Charlotte had watched it in him, and felt angry with Eugenie for being so childlike, so innocent, and so very, very feminine.
But that was not important now. What was Maurice Jerome like? She had gathered that he was a man of little emotion. He displayed neither superficial emotions nor the emotions that smolder beneath an ordinary face, surfacing only in privacy in moments of unbearable passion. Jerome was cold; his appetites were less sensual than intellectual. He possessed a desire for knowledge and the status and power it afforded, for the social distinctions of manner, speech, and dress. He felt proud of his diligence and of possessing skills that others did not. He was proud, too, in an obscure way, of the satisfying totality of such branches of mental discipline as Latin grammar and mathematics.
Was that all merely a superb mask for ungovernable physical hungers beneath? Or was he precisely what he seemed: a chilly, rather incomplete man, too innately self-absorbed for passion of any sort?
Whatever the truth, Eugenie could only suffer from it. The least Charlotte could do was to be there, so that the crowd of inquisitive, accusing faces would contain at least one that was neither, that was a friend whose glance she could meet and know she was not alone.
Charlotte had put out a clean shirt for Pitt, and a fresh cravat, and she sponged and pressed his best coat. She did not tell him that she intended to go as well. She kissed him goodbye at quarter past eight, straightening his collar one last time. Then, as soon as the door closed, she whirled around and ran back to the kitchen to instruct Gracie in meticulous detail on the duties of caring for the house and the children for every day that the trial should last. Gracie assured Charlotte that she would perform every task to the letter, and be equal to any occasion that could arise.
Charlotte accepted this and thanked her gravely, then went to her room, changed into the only black dress she possessed, and put on a very beautiful, extravagant black hat that was a cast-off from Emily. Emily had worn it at some duchess’s funeral, and then, on hearing of the woman’s excessive parsimony, had taken such a dislike to her that she got rid of the hat immediately and bought another, even more expensive and stylish.
This one had a broad, rakish brim, plenty of veiling, and quite marvelous feathers. It was wildly flattering, accenting the bones of Charlotte’s face and her wide gray eyes, and was as glamorous as only a touch of mystery could be.
She did not know if one was supposed to wear black to a trial. Decent society did not attend trials! But after all it was for murder, and that necessarily had to do with death. Anyway, there was no one she could ask, at this late date. They’d probably say she should not attend at all, and make it difficult for her by pointing out to Pitt all the excellent reasons why she should not. Or they’d say that only women of scandalous character, like the old women who knitted at the foot of the guillotine in the French Revolution, attended such things.
It was cold, and she was glad she had saved enough from the housekeeping money to pay for fare in a hansom cab both ways, every day of the week, should it be necessary.
She was very early; hardly anyone else was there—only court officials dressed in black, looking a little dusty like summer crows, and two women with brooms and dusters. It was bleaker than she had imagined. Her footsteps echoed on the wide floors as she followed directions to the appropriate room and took her seat on the bare wooden rows.
She stared around, trying to people the room in her mind. The rails around the witness box and the dock were dark now, worn by the hands of generations of prisoners, of men and women who had come here to give evidence, nervous, trying to hide private and ugly truths, telling tales about others, evading with lies and half lies. Every human sin and intimacy had been exposed here; lives had been shattered, deaths pronounced. But no one had ever done the simple things here—eaten or slept, or laughed with a friend. She saw only the anonymous look of a public place.
Already there were others coming in, with bright, sneering faces. Hearing snatches of conversation, she instantly hated them. They had come to leer, to pry, to indulge their imaginations with what they could not possibly know. They would come to their own verdicts, regardless of the evidence. She wanted Eugenie to know there was at least one person who would keep pure friendship, whatever was said.
And that was odd, because her feelings for Eugenie were still very confused. Charlotte was irritated by her saccharine femininity; not only did it scrape Charlotte raw, but it was a perpetuation of all that was most infuriating in men’s assumptions about women. She had been aware of such attitudes ever since the time her father had taken a newspaper from her, and told her it was unsuitable for a lady to be interested in such things, and insisted she return to her painting and embroidery. The condescension of men to female frailty and general silliness made her temper boil. And Eugenie pandered to it by pretending to be exactly what they expected. Perhaps she had learned to act that way as a form of self-protection, as a way of getting what she wanted? That was a partial excuse, but it was still the coward’s way out.
And the worst thing about it all was that it worked—it worked even with Pitt! He melted like a complete fool! She had watched it happen in her own parlor! Eugenie, in her own simpering, self-deprecating, flattering way, was socially quite as clever as Emily! If she had started from as good a family and had been as pretty as Emily, perhaps she too might have married a title.
What about Pitt? The thought sent a chill throughout her body. Would Pitt have preferred someone a little softer, a little subtler at playing games; someone who would remain at least partly a mystery to him, demanding nothing of his emotions but patience? Would he have been happier with someone who left him at heart utterly alone, who never really hurt him because she was never close enough, who never questioned his values or destroyed his self-esteem by being right when he was wrong and letting him know it?
Surely to suspect Pitt of wanting such a woman was the most supreme insult of all. It assumed he was an emotional child, unable to stand the truth. But we are all children at times, and we all need dreams—even foolish ones.
Perhaps she would be wiser if she bit her tongue a little more often, let truth—or her understanding of the truth—wait its time. There was kindness to consider—as well as devotion to honesty.
The court was now full. In fact, when she turned around there were people being refused entrance. Curious faces crowded at the doorways, hoping for a glimpse of the prisoner, the man who had murdered an aristocrat’s son and stuffed his naked body down a manhole to the sewers!
The proceedings began. The clerk, somber in old black, wearing a gold pince-nez on a ribbon around his neck, called for attention in the matter of the Crown versus Maurice Jerome. The judge, his face like a ripe plum beneath his heavy, horsehair wig, puffed out his cheeks and sighed. He looked as if he had dined too well the evening before. Charlotte could imagine him in a velvet jacket, with crumbs on his waistcoat, wiping away the last remnants of the Stilton and upending the port wine. The fire would be climbing the chimney and the butler standing by to light his cigar.
Before the end of the week, he would probably put on the black three-cornered cap and sentence Maurice Jerome to be hanged by the neck until he was dead.
She shivered and turned to look for the first time at the man standing in the dock. She was startled—unpleasantly so. She realized what a precise mental picture she had built of him, not so much of his features, but of the sense of him, the feeling she would have on seeing his face.
And the picture vanished. He was larger than her pity had allowed; his eyes were cleverer. If there was fear in him, it was masked by his contempt for everyone around him. There were ways in which he was superior—he could speak Latin and considerable Greek; he had read about the arts and the cultures of ancient peoples, and this rabble below him had not. They were here to indulge a vulgar curiosity; he was here by force, and he would endure it because he had no choice. But he would not descend to be part of the emotional tide. He despised the vulgarity, and in his slightly flared nostrils, his pursed mouth that destroyed any lines of softness or sensitivity, in the slight movement of his shoulders that prevented him from touching the constables at either side, he silently made it understood.
Charlotte had begun with sympathy for him, thinking she could understand, at least in part, how he could have come to such a depth of passion and despair—if he was guilty. And surely he was deserving of every compassion and effort at justice if he was innocent?
And yet looking at him, real and alive, only yards away, she could not like him. The warmth faded and she was left with discomfort. She must begin all over again with her feelings, build them for an entirely different person from the one her mind had created.
The trial had begun. The sewer cleaner was the first witness. He was small, narrow as a boy, and he blinked, unaccustomed to the light. The counsel for the prosecution was a Mr. Bartholomew Land. He dealt with the man quickly and straightforwardly, drawing from him the very simple story of his work and his discovery of the corpse, the body surprisingly unmarked by injury or attacks by rats—and the fact that, remarkably, it had kept none of its clothes, not even boots. Of course he had called the police immediately, and certainly not, the lud, he had removed nothing whatsoever—he was not a thief! The suggestion was an insult.
Counsel for the defense, Mr. Cameron Giles, found nothing to contest, and the witness was duly excused.
The next witness was Pitt. Charlotte bent a little to hide her face as he passed within a yard of her. She was amused and felt a small quake of uncertainty when, even at a time like this, he glanced for a moment at her hat. It was beautiful! Though of course he did not know it was she who was wearing it! Did he often notice other women with that quick flash of appreciation? She drove the idea from her mind. Eugenie had worn a hat.
Pitt took the witness stand and swore to his name and occupation. Though she had pressed his jacket before he left the house, it sat slightly lopsided already, his cravat was crooked, and, as usual, he had run his fingers through his hair, leaving it on end. It was a waste of time even trying! Heaven only knew what he had in his pockets to make them hang like that! Stones, by the look of it!
“You examined the body?” Land asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And there was no identification on it whatsoever? How did you then learn who he was?”
Pitt outlined the process, the elimination of one possibility after another. He made it sound very routine, a matter of common sense anyone might have followed.
“Indeed.” Land nodded. “And in due course Sir Anstey Waybourne identified his son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you do then, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt’s face was blank. Only Charlotte knew that it was misery that took away his normal expression, the consuming interest that was usually there. To anyone else he might simply have appeared cold.
“Because of information given the by the police surgeon”—he was far too used to giving evidence to repeat hearsay— “I began to make investigations into Arthur Waybourne’s personal relationships.”
“And what did you learn?”
Everything was being dragged out of him; he volunteered nothing.
“I learned of no close relationships outside his own household that fitted the description we were looking for.” What a careful answer, all in words that gave nothing away. He had not even implied there was any sort of sexuality involved. He could have been talking of finance, or even some trade or other.
Land’s eyebrows shot up and his voice showed surprise.
“No relationships, Mr. Pitt! Are you sure?”
Pitt’s mouth curled down. “I think you will have to ask Sergeant Gillivray for the information you are fishing for,” he said with thinly concealed acidity.
Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, even behind her veiling. So he was going to make Gillivray tell all about Albie Frobisher and the woman prostitute with the disease. Gillivray would love that. He would be a celebrity.
Why? Gillivray would make it all so much more florid, so full of detail and certainty. Or was it that Pitt simply did not want to be part of it and this was his way of escaping—at least from saying the words himself, as if that made some difference? Left to Gillivray, they would be the more damning.
She looked up. He was terribly alone there in that wood-railed box; there was nothing she could do to help. He did not even know she was here, understanding his fear because some part of him was still not entirely satisfied of Jerome’s guilt.
What had Arthur Waybourne really been like? He was young, well-born, and a victim of murder. No one would dare to speak ill of him now, to dig up the mean or grubby truths. Maurice Jerome, with his cynical face, probably knew that, too.
She looked across at Pitt.
He was going on with his evidence, Land drawing it out of him a piece at a time.
Giles had nothing to ask. He was too skilled to try to shake him, and would not give him the opportunity to reinforce what he had already said.
Then it was the police surgeon’s turn. He was calm, quite certain of his facts and impervious to the power or solemnity of the court. Neither the judge’s flowing size and rippling wig nor Land’s thundering voice made any impression on him. Under the pomposity of the court were only human bodies. And he had seen bodies naked, had taken them apart when they were dead. He was only too aware of their frailty, their common indignities and needs.
Charlotte tried to imagine members of the court in white dust sheets, without the centuries of dignity their robes lent them, and suddenly it all seemed faintly ridiculous. She wondered if the judge was hot under that great wig; did it itch?
Perhaps the white dust sheets would be just as delusionary as the gowns and robes?
The surgeon was talking. He had a good face, strong without arrogance. He told the truth, sparing nothing. But he stated it as fact, without emotion or judgment. Arthur Waybourne had been homosexually used. A ripple of disgust spread through the room. Everyone doubtless already knew, but it was a pleasure, a kind of catharsis to be able to express the feeling and wallow in it. After all, that was what they had come for!
Arthur Waybourne had recently contracted syphilis. Another wave of revulsion—this time also a shudder of surprise and fear. This was disease; it was contagious. There were things about it one knew, and decent people stood in no peril. But there was always mystery with disease, and they were close enough to it for a thrill of apprehension, the cold brush of real danger. It was a disease for which there was no cure.
Then came the surprise. Giles stood up.
“You say, Dr. Cutler, that Arthur Waybourne had recently contracted syphilis?”
“Yes, that is so.”
“Unquestionably?”
“Unquestionably.”
“You could not have made a mistake? It could not be some other disease with similar symptoms?”
“No, it could not.”
“From whom did he contract this disease?”
“I have no way of knowing, sir. Except, of course, that it must have been someone who suffered from the disease.”
“Precisely. That would not tell you who it was—but it would tell you undoubtedly who it was not!”
“Of course.”
There was a shifting in the seats. The judge leaned forward.
“So much would appear to be obvious, Mr. Giles, even to the veriest imbecile. If you have a point, please come to it, sir!”
“Yes, my lord. Dr. Cutler, have you examined the prisoner with the purpose of determining whether he has or has ever had syphilis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And has he that disease?”
“No, sir, he has not. Nor has he any other communicable disease. He is in good health, as good as a man may be under such stress.”
There was silence. The judge screwed up his face and stared at the doctor with dislike.
“Do I understand you to say, sir, that the prisoner did not pass on this disease to the victim, Arthur Waybourne?” he asked icily.
“That is correct, my lord. It would have been impossible.”
“Then who did? How did he get it? Did he inherit it?”
“No, my lord, it was in the early stages, such as is found when it has been sexually transmitted. Congenital syphilis would betray entirely different symptoms.”
The judge sighed heavily and leaned back, a look of long-suffering on his face.
“I see. And of course you cannot say from whom he did contract it!” He blew his nose. “Very well, Mr. Giles, you appear to have made your point. Pray continue.”
“That is all, my lord. Thank you, Dr. Cutler.”
Before he could go, however, Land shot to his feet.
“Just a moment, Doctor! Did the police subsequently ask you to verify a diagnosis of another person, who did have syphilis?”
Cutler smiled dryly. “Several.”
“One with particular reference to this case?” Land said sharply.
“They did not tell me—it would be hearsay.” The doctor seemed to find some pleasure in being obstructively literal.
“Abigail Winters?” Land’s temper was rising. His case was flawless and he knew it, but he was being made to look inefficient in front of the court, and he resented it.
“Yes, I did examine Abigail Winters, and she does have syphilis,” Cutler conceded.
“Communicable?”
“Certainly.”
“And what is Abigail Winters’s profession—or trade, if you prefer?”
“I have no idea.”
“Don’t be naïve, Dr. Cutler! You know as well as I do what her trade is!”
Cutler’s wide mouth showed only the slightest of smiles.
“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.”
There was a twitter around the court and Land’s face flushed dull red. Even from behind him, Charlotte could see the color stain his neck. She was glad her veil hid her own expression. This was neither the place nor the time to be amused.
Land opened his mouth and closed it again.
“You are excused!” he said furiously. “I call Sergeant Harcourt Gillivray.”
Gillivray took the stand and swore to his name and office. He looked freshly scrubbed and neat without losing the air of having attained the effect without labor. He could have passed for a gentleman, except for a slight unease in his hands and just a small, betraying air of self-importance. A true gentleman would not have worried about how others saw him; he would have known there was no need—and he would not have cared anyway.
Gillivray confirmed Pitt’s evidence. Land then went on to question him about discovering Albie Frobisher, stopping short, of course, of Albie’s evidence, which would have been hearsay from Gillivray. And Albie would be called in due course to give it himself—far more tellingly.
Charlotte sat, cold; it was all so logical, it fitted so well. Thank heaven at least Eugenie was outside. As a witness, she was not permitted in until after she had testified.
Gillivray told how he had then pursued his investigations. He did not mention Pitt’s hand in them, or that he had been following Pitt’s orders, Pitt’s intuition of where he should look. He stood very straight. He told them how he found Abigail Winters and learned that she had a disease that on examination proved to be syphilis.
He left the stand pink-cheeked with pride, two hundred pairs of eyes watching his straight back and elegant shoulders as he returned to his seat.
Charlotte loathed him, because he was satisfied; to him this was an achievement, not a tragedy. He should have hurt! He should have felt pain and bewilderment welling up inside him.
The judge adjourned them for luncheon, and Charlotte huddled out with the crowd, hoping that Pitt would not see her. She wondered now if perhaps the vanity that had led her to wear the black hat was going to be her undoing.
Actually, it did not happen until she was returning—a little early, to be sure of claiming her seat again.
She saw Pitt as soon as she entered the hallway, and stopped. Then, realizing that stopping would only attract further attention, she tilted her chin higher and sailed down toward the courtroom door.
It was inevitable that Pitt should see her. She was dressed entirely in black, and the hat was quite marvelous. He would have looked had they been anywhere.
She considered inclining her head away and decided against it. It would be unnatural and arouse his suspicion.
Even so, it was a moment before he recognized her.
She felt his hand hard on her arm and was obliged to stop. She froze, then she turned to stare at him.
“Charlotte!” He was astonished, his face almost comical. “Charlotte? What on earth are you doing here? You can’t help!”
“I wish to be here,” she said reasonably, keeping her voice low. “Don’t make a scene, or everyone will look at us.”
“I don’t give a damn if everyone looks at us! Go home. This is no place for you!”
“Eugenie’s here—I think there is very good cause for me to remain. She may need a deal of comfort before this is through.”
He hesitated. She took his hand off her arm gently.
“Wouldn’t you want the to help her if I could?”
He could think of no answer and she knew it. She gave him a dazzling smile and swept into the courtroom.
The first witness in the afternoon was Anstey Waybourne. Suddenly, the room became aware of tragedy. There was no sound from the body of the court except a low mutter of sympathy. People nodded sagely, joining in a sort of mass awareness of death.
He had little of worth to add, just the identification of his son’s body, an account of the boy’s brief life and its day-to-day details, his studies with Jerome. He was asked by Giles how he had come to employ Jerome, about the excellent references and the fact that no previous employer had had any complaint about him. Jerome’s academic qualifications were unquestionable; his discipline was exacting but without brutality. Neither Arthur nor Godfrey had especially liked him, but neither, Waybourne had to admit, had they expressed any but the natural resentment of young people for one in constant authority over them.
Questioned about his own opinion of Jerome, he had little to contribute. The whole matter had shocked him deeply. He had had no conception of what was happening to his sons. He could be of no assistance. The judge, in subdued voice, permitted him to be excused.
Godfrey Waybourne was called. There was an instant hum of anger against Jerome; he was to blame for such a child being required to suffer this ordeal.
Jerome sat motionless, staring straight ahead as if Godfrey had been a stranger and of no interest. Neither did he look at Land when he spoke.
The evidence was brief. Godfrey repeated what he had told Pitt, all in genteel words—almost ambiguous, except to those who already knew what he was talking about.
Even Giles was gentle with him, not requiring him to repeat the painful details.
They finished for the day surprisingly early. Charlotte had had no idea courts closed at what for Pitt was barely more than halfway through the afternoon. She found herself a hansom and rode home. She had been there over two hours and had changed into a more modest dress when Pitt finally came in. She was at the stove with dinner simmering. She waited for the blast, but it did not come.
“Where did you get the hat?” he asked, sitting down in the kitchen chair.
She smiled with relief. She had not been aware of it, but her whole body had been tense, waiting for his anger. It would have hurt her more than she could easily accommodate. She poked the stew and took a little broth in her spoon, blowing on it to taste. She usually failed to put in sufficient salt. She wanted this to be especially good.
“Emily,” she replied. “Why?”
“It looks expensive.”
“Is that all?” She turned around to look at him, smiling at last.
He met her eyes without a flicker, reading her perfectly.
“And beautiful,” he added, then said, beaming, “Quite beautiful! But it would have suited Emily, too. Why did she give it to you?”
“She saw one she liked better,” she said truthfully. “Although of course she said it was because she bought it for a funeral and then heard something unpleasant about the deceased.”
“So she gave you the hat?”
“You know Emily.” She sipped the broth and added enough salt to suit Pitt’s sharper tongue. “When does Eugenie give evidence?”
“When the defense starts. That may not be tomorrow—more probably the next day. You don’t need to go.”
“No, I suppose not. But I want to. I don’t want just half an opinion.”
“My dear, when did you ever have less than a total opinion? Whatever the issue!”
“Then if I’m going to have an opinion,” she retorted instantly, “better it be an informed one!”
He had neither energy nor will to argue. If she wanted to go, it was her own decision. In a way there was comfort in sharing the burden of knowing; his aloneness melted away. He could not change anything, but at least he could touch her, and without words, explanations, she would understand exactly what he felt.
The following day, the first witness was Mortimer Swynford. His only purpose was to lay the ground for Titus, by testifying that he had employed Jerome to tutor both his son and his daughter. He had done so very soon after Jerome was engaged by Anstey Waybourne, to whom Swynford was related by marriage; it was Waybourne, in fact, who had recommended Jerome to him. No, he had had no idea that Jerome was anything but of the most impeccable moral character. His intellectual record was excellent.
They kept Titus only a matter of minutes. Grave, but more curious than frightened, he stood straight in the stand. Charlotte immediately liked the boy because he gave her the feeling he was saddened by the whole thing, speaking only reluctantly of something he still found distressing and hard to believe.
After the luncheon adjournment, the atmosphere changed entirely. The sympathy, the sober silence, vanished and was replaced with a buzz of whisper, the rustling of clothes in seats as the spectators settled to enjoy a salacious superiority, a little voyeurism without the indignity of crouching at windows or peeping through holes.
Albert Frobisher was called to the stand. He looked small, a strange mixture of the weariness of great age and the vulnerability of a child. He did not surprise Charlotte; her imagination had already built a picture of him that was not far from the truth. Yet the reality did somehow shock her. There was something so much sharper about the voice, not just the mind. She sensed a being whose feelings she could not reach, who said things she had not thought of first.
He swore to his name and address.
“What is your occupation, Mr. Frobisher?” Land asked coolly. He needed Albie—indeed Albie was vital to the case—but Land could not keep the contempt out of his voice, the reminder to everyone that there was an unbridgeable gulf between them. He did not wish anyone, even in a moment’s absence of mind, to imagine that they had any connection but this necessary one of duty.
Charlotte could understand. She would not have wished to be bracketed with him. Yet she was angry; perhaps it was unfair.
“I am a prostitute,” Albie said with cold derision. He understood the niceties, too, and despised them. But at least he would not hide in a hypocrisy of ignorance.
“A prostitute?” Land’s voice rose in pretended disbelief. “But you are a man?”
“I’m seventeen,” Albie replied. “I began with my first customer when I was thirteen.”
“I did not ask your age!” Land was annoyed. He was not interested in child prostitution—that was an entirely different matter, and one he was not concerned with. “Do you sell your services to some kind of depraved women whose appetites are so gross they cannot be satisfied with a normal relationship?”
Albie was tired of this playacting. His whole trade was one long charade, a procession of people who pretended to be respectable.
“No, I don’t,” he said flatly. “I’ve never touched a woman. I sell myself to men, mostly rich men, toffs, who prefer boys to women and can’t get them without paying, so they come to people like me. I thought you knew that—or why did you call me here? What use would I be to you if I didn’t, eh?”
Land was furious. He turned to the judge.
“My lord! Will you order the witness to answer the questions and refrain from making impertinent observations that may well slander decent and honorable men, and can only distress the court! There are ladies present!”
Charlotte thought that was ridiculous, and would dearly like to have said so. Anyone attending this court—except witnesses, who were outside anyway—had come here precisely because they wanted to hear something shocking! Why else attend a murder trial where you know in advance the victim was abused and contaminated by a venereal disease? The hypocrisy was revolting; her whole body was rigid with anger.
The judge’s face was even purpler than it had been.
“You will answer only the questions you are asked!” he said sharply to Albie. “I understand the police have laid no charges against you. Conduct yourself here in a manner to insure that that remains so! Do you understand me? This is not an opportunity for you to advertise your vile trade, or to slander your betters!”
Charlotte thought bitterly that the men who used him, far from being his betters, were considerably inferior. They did not go to Albie out of ignorance or the need to survive. Albie was not innocent, but he could plead some mitigation. They had none but the compulsion of their appetites.
“I shall mention no one who is better than I am, my lord,” Albie said with a curl of his lip. “I swear.”
The judge gave him a look of sour suspicion, but he had obtained the promise he had asked for. No complaint he could justify came to his mind.
Charlotte found herself smiling with sharp satisfaction. She would like to have been able to say exactly that.
“So your customers are men?” Land continued. “Just answer yes or no!”
“Yes.” Albie omitted the “sir.”
“Do you see anyone in this courtroom who has been a customer of yours at any time?”
Albie’s soft mouth widened into a smile and he began to look slowly, almost lingeringly around the room. His eyes stopped on one smart-suited gentleman after another.
Land saw the danger and his body stiffened in alarm.
“Has the prisoner ever been a customer of yours?” he said loudly. “Look at the prisoner!”
Albie affected surprise and removed his glance from the gallery to the dock.
“Yes.”
“Maurice Jerome bought your services as a male prostitute?” Land said triumphantly.
“Yes.”
“On one occasion or several?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be obtuse!” Land allowed his temper to show at last. “You can be charged with contempt of court, and find yourself in jail if you are obstructive, I promise you!”
“Several.” Albie was unruffled. He had a certain power and he meant to taste the full pleasure of it. It would almost certainly not arise again. Life would not be long, and he knew it. Few people’s were, in Bluegate Fields, still fewer in his occupation. Today was for the savoring. Land was the one with status and possessions to lose; Albie had nothing anyway—he could afford to live dangerously. He faced Land without a quiver.
“Maurice Jerome came to your rooms on several occasions?” Land waited to make sure the jury had taken the point.
“Yes,” Albie repeated.
“And did he have a physical relationship with you, and pay you for it?”
“Yes.” His mouth curled in contempt and his eyes flickered over the gallery. “Good God, I don’t do it free! You don’t imagine I like it, do you?”
“I have no idea as to your tastes, Mr. Frobisher,” Land said icily. There was a very small smile on his face. “They are quite beyond my imagination!”
Albie’s face was white in the gaslight. He leaned forward a little over the railing.
“They’re very simple. I expect they’re much the same as yours. I like to eat at least once every day. I like to have clothes that keep me warm, and don’t stink. I like to have a dry roof over my head and not have to share it with ten or twenty other people! Those are my tastes—sir!”
“Silence!” The judge banged his gravel. “You are being impertinent. We are not concerned with your life story or your desires. Mr. Land, if you cannot control your witness, you had better dismiss him. Surely you have elicited the information you require? Mr. Giles, have you anything to ask?”
“No, my lord. Thank you.” He had already tried to shake Albie’s identification and failed. There was no purpose in showing his failure to the jury.
Dismissed from the stand, Albie walked back along the aisle, passing within a few feet of Charlotte. His moment of protest was over, and he looked small and thin again.
The last witness for the prosecution was Abigail Winters. She was an ordinary-looking girl, a little plump but with fine, clear skin that many a lady would have envied. Her hair was frizzy and her teeth too large, and a little discolored, but she was handsome enough. Charlotte had seen daughters of countesses who had been less favored by nature.
The evidence was short and to the point. She had neither Albie’s bitterness nor his vicarious education. She was not ashamed of what she did. She knew gentlemen and judges, even bishops, had patronized her and girls like her, and a barrister without his gown and wig looks much the same as a clerk without his suit. If Abigail had few illusions about people, she had none at all about the rules of society. Those who wished to survive kept the rules.
She answered the questions soberly and directly, adding nothing. Yes, she knew the prisoner in the dock. Yes, he had patronized her establishment—not that he wished her services for himself, but for a young gentleman of about sixteen or seventeen years old that he had brought with him. Yes, he had asked her to initiate the young gentleman into the arts of such a relationship while he, the prisoner, sat in the room and watched.
There was a murmur of disgust around the court, a long letting out of breath in self-righteous horror. Then there was total silence, in case the audience should inadvertently miss the next revelation. Charlotte felt sick—for all of them. This should never have happened, and they should not be here willingly listening to it. How on earth was Eugenie going to bear it when she knew—some busybody would be bound to tell her!
Land inquired whether Abigail could describe the young gentleman concerned.
Yes, she could. He was slender, fair-haired, with light blue eyes. He was very good-looking, and spoke with a fine accent. He was definitely a person of good breeding and money. His clothes were excellent.
He showed her a picture of Arthur Waybourne. Was this he?
Yes, it was he, without doubt.
Had she known his name?
Only his Christian name, which was Arthur. The prisoner had addressed him by it on several occasions.
There was nothing Giles could do. Abigail was unshakable, and after a brief attempt he accepted the futility of it and gave up.
That evening, by strict consent, neither Charlotte nor Pitt referred to Jerome or anything to do with the trial. They ate silently, absorbed in thought. Occasionally they smiled knowingly across the table.
After dinner they spoke quite casually of other things: a letter Charlotte had received from Emily, who had returned from Leicestershire, detailing social gossip, someone’s outrageous flirtation, a disastrous party, a rival’s most unflattering dress—all the pleasant trivia of daily life. She had been to a concert: there was an entertaining new novel—very risqué—and Grandmama’s health had not improved. But then it never had done so since Charlotte could recall. Grandmama enjoyed poor health, and was determined to enjoy it to the last!
On the third day, the defense began its case. There was little enough to say. Jerome could not prove his innocence, or there would have been no prosecution. All he could do was deny, and hope to bring forward enough witnesses to his previously impeccable character that there would be reasonable doubt.
Sitting in her accustomed seat near the aisle, Charlotte felt a wave of pity and hopelessness that was almost physical as Eugenie Jerome walked past her to climb into the witness stand. Just once she lifted her chin and smiled across at her husband. Then quickly, before she had time to see if he smiled back or not, she averted her eyes to take the Bible in her hand for the oath.
Charlotte lifted her veil so Eugenie could see her face and know there was one friend there in that anonymous, inquisitive crowd.
The court heard her in absolute silence. They wavered between contempt for her as an accomplice, the wife of such a monster, and compassion for her as the most innocent and ill-used of his victims. Perhaps it was her narrow shoulders, her plain dress, her white face, her soft voice, the way she kept her eyes a little downcast, then slowly gathered courage and faced her questioner. It could have been any of these things—or none, simply a whimsy of the crowd. But suddenly, like the moment when the tide slackens and turns, Charlotte could feel their mood change and they were with her. They were burning with pity, with hunger to see her avenged. She, too, was a victim.
But there was nothing Eugenie could do. She had been in bed that night and did not know when her husband had come home. Yes, she had planned to go to the concert with him, but that afternoon had developed a severe headache and gone to her room instead. Yes, the tickets had been purchased beforehand and she had fully intended to go. She had to admit, though, she was not fond of classical music; she preferred ballads, something with melody and words.
Had her husband told her what was played that evening? Certainly he had, and that it was excellently performed. Could she recall what it was? She could and did. But was it not true that the program had been published, and anyone might know simply by reading one, without having attended the performance?
She had no idea; she did not read such things.
Land assured her that it was so.
She had married Maurice Jerome eleven years ago and he had been a good husband to her, had provided well. He was sober, industrious, and had never given her cause to complain in any way. He had certainly never mistreated her either verbally or physically; he had not forbidden her any friendships or the occasional outing. He had never embarrassed her by flirting with other women, or any manner of unseemly behavior; nor had he been coarse or overdemanding in private. And he had certainly never required of her any conjugal duties that were offensive or other than would be expected of any wife.
But then, as Land pointed out with something close to embarrassment, there was a great deal she did not know. And, being a lady of decent upbringing and gentle disposition, it would never have occurred to her to be jealous of a schoolboy! In fact, she probably had not even known of the existence of such depraved practices.
No, she admitted, white to the lips, she had not. And she did not believe it now. It may be true of some, if Mr. Land said so; but it was not true of her husband. He was a decent man—indeed, highly moral. Even uncouth language offended him, and he never took alcohol. She had never known him to exhibit the least vulgarity.
They permitted her to go, and Charlotte wished she would leave the court. It was hopeless—nothing could save Jerome. It was pathetic, even vaguely revolting, to hope.
Nevertheless it ground on.
Another, less biased witness—a previous employer—was called regarding Jerome’s character. He was embarrassed to be there and it was obviously very much against his wish. While he did not want to say anything that might ally him with Jerome in the public mind, he could hardly admit to having been aware of any long-standing flaw in Jerome’s character. He had recommended him without reservation; he was now obliged to stand by that recommendation or appear a fool. And since he was an investment banker, that he could not possibly afford to do.
He duly swore that while living in his house and tutoring his sons, Jerome had appeared to be of exemplary character, and certainly he had never behaved improperly toward either of his sons.
And would the witness know if he had, Land inquired courteously.
There was a long hesitation while he weighed the consequences of either answer.
“Yes,” he said firmly at last. “Certainly I would. I am naturally concerned with the welfare of my family.”
Land did not pursue it. He nodded and sat down, knowing a fruitless course when he saw it.
The only other witness of character was Esmond Vanderley. It was he who had recommended Jerome to Waybourne. Like the previous witness, Vanderley was caught between two poles: appearing to support Jerome and—far worse than merely being a poor judge of character—having been the single individual who had more than any other precipitated the tragedy they were discussing. After all, it was he who had brought Maurice Jerome into the house and thus into Arthur Waybourne’s life—and death.
He swore to his name and his relationship with the Waybourne household.
“Lady Waybourne is your sister, Mr. Vanderley?” Giles repeated.
“Yes.”
“And Arthur Waybourne was your nephew?”
“Naturally.”
“So you would not lightly or casually recommend a tutor for him, knowing the effect it would have on his personal and academic life?” Giles pressed.
There was only one answer that allowed self-respect.
“Of course,” Vanderley said with a slight smile. He leaned elegantly over the rail. “I would make myself unpopular rather quickly if I were to recommend regardless. They come home to roost, you know!”
“Home to roost?” Giles was momentarily confused.
“Recommendations, Mr. Giles. People seldom remember the good advice you give them—they always take the credit themselves. But let them take your bad advice and they will instantly recall that it was not their own idea but yours that was to blame. Not only that, but they will make sure everyone else is made aware of it, too.
“May we take it, then, that you did not recommend Maurice Jerome without some considerable inquiry into his qualifications—and his character?”
“You may. His qualifications were excellent. His character was not especially pleasing, but then I was not intending to make a social acquaintance of him. His morality was impeccable, so far as it was discussed at all. One doesn’t mention such things, you know, when talking of tutors. Underhousemaids one has to inquire into—or, rather, one has the housekeeper do it. But a tutor one expects to be satisfactory unless stated otherwise. In which case, of course, one doesn’t employ him in the first place. Jerome was a little stuffy, if anything—rather a prig. Oh—and a teetotaler. He’s the sort that would be.”
Vanderley smiled a little tightly.
“Married to a pleasant woman,” he went on. “Inquired into her reputation. Spotless.”
“No children?” Now Land took over, attempting to shake him. He pressed the point, as if it had some meaning.
“Don’t think so. Why?” Vanderley’s eyebrows went up innocently.
“Possibly indicative.” Land was not prepared to commit himself to something that might mar his case by being considered prejudicial. And of course he might also offend many others, dangerous others. “We are dealing with a man of most peculiar tastes!”
“Nothing peculiar about Mrs. Jerome,” Vanderley answered, his eyes still wide. “At least not that I could see. Looked like an average sort of woman to me—quiet, sober, well mannered, pretty enough.”
“But no children!”
“For heaven’s sake, man, I only met her twice!” Vanderley sounded surprised and a little irritated. “I’m not her doctor! Thousands of people don’t have children. Do you expect the to be able to account for the domestic lives of everyone else’s servants? All I did was inquire as to the man’s scholastic abilities and his suitable character. Both appeared to be excellent. What more do you want me to say?”
“Nothing, Mr. Vanderley. You may go.” Land sat down, recognizing defeat.
Giles had nothing to put in re-examination, and Vanderley, with a faint sigh, found himself a seat in the body of the court.
Maurice Jerome was the last witness to be called in his own defense. As he walked from the dock to the stand, Charlotte realized with surprise that she had not yet heard him speak. Everything had been said about him; it was all other people’s opinions, other people’s words, their recollections of events. For the first time, Jerome would be real—a moving, feeling creature, not a two-dimensional picture of a man.
Like all the others, he began with the oath and identification. Giles worked hard to present him in a sympathetic light. It was all he had: the chance somehow to create the feeling in the jury that this man in reality was a far different person from the one the prosecution had drawn; he was ordinary, decent, everyday—like one of themselves—and could not have been guilty of such obscene offenses.
Jerome stared back at him with a cold, pursed face.
Yes, he answered, he had been employed for approximately four years as tutor to Arthur and Godfrey Waybourne. Yes, he taught them in all academic subjects, and on occasion a little sports as well. No, he did not favor one boy above the other; his tone expressed disdain for such unprofessional conduct.
Already Charlotte found him hard to like. She felt, without real reason, that he would have disliked her. She would not have met his standards of how a lady should conduct herself. For a start, she had opinions, and Jerome did not look like a man who found opinions acceptable when they were not his own.
Perhaps that was unfair. She was leaping to conclusions with just the sort of prejudice she condemned in others. The poor man was accused of a crime not only violent but disgusting, and if he was found guilty he would lose his life. He was entitled to less than the best behavior. Indeed, there must be some courage about him, for he was not screaming out or in hysteria. Maybe 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 the 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 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 Waybourne to her establishment.”
“Possibly someone did,” Jerome agreed, a trace of venom showing through his voice, although he did not seek Waybourne’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.
“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?
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 themselves. 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 even 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 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.