THERE WAS NOT time for the decencies of mourning to be observed. People’s memories were short; details passed from mind. Pitt was obliged to return to the Waybourne family the next morning and begin the inquiries that could not wait upon grief or the recapturing of composure.
The house was silent. All the blinds were partway down, and there was black crepe on the front door. Straw was spread on the road outside to reduce the sound of carriage wheels passing. Gillivray had come in the soberest of garb, and stayed, grim-faced, two steps behind Pitt. He reminded Pitt irritatingly of an undertaker’s assistant, full of professional sorrow.
The butler opened the door and ushered them in immediately, not allowing them time to stand on the doorstep. The hall was somber in the half-light of the drawn blinds. In the morning room, the gas lamps were lit and a small fire burned in the grate. On the low, round table in the center of the room were white flowers in a formal arrangement: chrysanthemums and thick, soft-fleshed lilies. It all smelled faintly of wax and polish and old sweet flowers, just a little stale.
Anstey Waybourne came in almost immediately. He looked pale and tired, his face set. He had already prepared what he intended to say and did not bother with courtesies.
“Good morning,” he began stiffly. Then, without waiting for a response, he continued: “I assume you have certain questions it is necessary for you to ask. I shall do my best, of course, to give you the small amount of information I possess. I have given the matter some considerable thought, naturally.” He clasped his hands together and looked at the lilies on the table. “I have come to the conclusion that my son was quite certainly attacked by strangers, perhaps purely from the base motives of robbery. Or I admit it is marginally possible that abduction was intended, although we have received no indication that it was so—no demand for any kind of ransom.” He glanced at Pitt, and then away again. “Of course it may be that there was not time—some preposterous accident occurred, and Arthur died. Obviously, they then panicked.” He took a deep breath. “And the results we are all painfully aware of.”
Pitt opened his mouth, but Waybourne waved his hand to silence him.
“No, please! Allow me to continue. There is very little we can tell you, but no doubt you wish to know about my son’s last day alive, although I cannot see of what use it will be to you.
“Breakfast was perfectly normal. We were all present. Arthur spent the morning, as is customary, with his younger brother Godfrey, studying under the tutelage of Mr. Jerome, whom I employ for that purpose. Luncheon was quite unremarkable. Arthur was his usual self. Neither his manner nor his conversation was in any way out of the ordinary, and he made no mention of any persons unknown to us, or any plans for unusual activity.” Waybourne did not move in all the time he spoke, but stood in exactly the same spot on the rich Aubusson carpet.
“In the afternoon, Godfrey resumed his studies with Mr. Jerome. Arthur read for an hour or two—his classics, I believe—a little Latin. Then he went out with the son of a family friend, a boy of excellent background and well known to us. I have spoken to him myself, and he is also unaware of anything unusual in Arthur’s behavior. They parted at approximately five in the afternoon, as near as Titus can remember, but Arthur did not say where he was going, except that it was to dine with a friend.” Waybourne looked up at last and met Pitt’s eyes. “I’m afraid that is all we can tell you.”
Pitt realized that there was already a wall raised against investigation. Anstey Waybourne had decided what had occurred: a chance attack that might have happened to anyone, a tragic but insoluble mystery. To pursue a resolution would not bring back the dead, and would only cause additional and unnecessary distress to those already bereaved.
Pitt could sympathize with him. He had lost a son, and in extraordinarily painful circumstances. But murder could not be concealed, for all its anguish.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I would like to see the tutor, Mr. Jerome, if I may, and your son Godfrey.”
Waybourne’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? You may see Jerome, of course, if you wish. Although I cannot see what purpose it will serve. I have told you all that he knows. But I’m afraid it is quite out of the question that you should speak with Godfrey. He has already lost his brother. I will not have him subjected to questioning—especially as it is completely unnecessary.”
It was not the time to argue. At the moment, they were all just names to Pitt, people without faces or characters, without connections except the obvious ones of blood; all the emotions involved were not yet even guessed.
“I would still like to speak to Mr. Jerome,” Pitt repeated. “He may recall something that would be of use. We must explore every possibility.”
“I cannot see the purpose of it.” Waybourne’s nose flared a little, perhaps with irritation, perhaps from the deadening smell of lilies. “If Arthur was set upon by thieves, Jerome is hardly likely to know anything that might help.”
“Probably not, sir.” Pitt hesitated, then said what he had to. “But there is always the possibility that his death had something to do with his—medical condition.” What an obscene euphemism. Yet he found himself using it, painfully aware of Waybourne, the shock saturating the house, generations of rigid self-discipline, imprisoned feelings.
Waybourne’s face froze. “That has not been established, sir! My own family physician will no doubt find your police surgeon is utterly mistaken. I daresay he has to do with a quite different class of person, and has found what he is accustomed to. I am sure that when he is aware of who Arthur was, he will revise his conclusions.”
Pitt avoided the argument. It was not yet necessary; perhaps it never would be if the “family physician” had both skill and courage. It would be better for him to tell Waybourne the truth, to explain that it could be kept private to some degree but could not be denied.
He changed the subject. “What was the name of this young friend—Titus, sir?”
Waybourne let out his breath slowly, as if a pain had eased.
“Titus Swynford,” he replied. “His father, Mortimer Swynford, is one of our oldest acquaintances. Excellent family. But I have already ascertained everything that Titus knows. He cannot add to it.”
“All the same, sir, we’ll speak to him,” Pitt insisted.
“I shall ask his father if he will give you permission,” Waybourne said coldly, “although I cannot see that it will serve any purpose, either. Titus neither saw nor heard anything of relevance. Arthur did not tell him where he intended to go, nor with whom. But even if he had, he was obviously set upon by ruffians in the street, so the information would be of little use.”
“Oh, it might help, sir.” Pitt told a half lie. “It might tell us in what area he was, and different hooligans frequent different streets. We might even find a witness, if we know where to look.”
Indecision contorted Waybourne’s face. He wanted the whole matter buried as quickly and decently as possible, hidden with good heavy earth and flowers. There would be proper memories draped with black crepe, a coffin with brass handles, a discreet and sorrowful eulogy. Everyone would return home with hushed voices to observe an accepted time of mourning. Then would follow the slow return to life.
But Waybourne could not afford the inexplicable behavior of not appearing to help the police search for his son’s murderer. He struggled mentally and failed to find words to frame what he felt so that it sounded honorable, something he could accept himself as doing.
Pitt understood. He could almost have found the words for him, because he had seen it before; there was nothing unusual or hard to understand in wanting to bury pain, to keep the extremity of death and the shame of disease private matters.
“I suppose you had better speak to Jerome,” Waybourne said at last. It was a compromise. “I’ll ask Mr. Swynford if he will permit you to see Titus.” He reached for the bell and pulled it. The butler appeared as if he had been at the door.
“Yes, sir?” he inquired.
“Send Mr. Jerome to me.” Waybourne did not look at him.
Nothing was said in the morning room until there was a knock on the door. At Waybourne’s word, the door opened and a dark man in his early forties walked in and closed it behind him. He had good features, if his nose was a little pinched. His mouth was full-lipped, but pursed with a certain carefulness. It was not a spontaneous face, not a face that laughed, except after consideration, when it believed laughter advisable—the thing to do.
Pitt looked at him only from habit; he did not expect the tutor to be important. Maybe, Pitt reflected, if he had worked teaching the sons of a man like Anstey Waybourne, imparting his knowledge yet knowing they were growing up only to inherit possessions without labor and to govern easily, by right of birth, he would be like Jerome. If Pitt had spent his life as always more than a servant but less than his own man, dependent on boys of thirteen and sixteen, perhaps his face would be just as careful, just as pinched.
“Come in, Jerome,” Waybourne said absently. “These men are from the police. Er—Pitt—Inspector Pitt, and Mr.— er—Gilbert. They wish to ask you a few questions about Arthur. Pointless, as far as I can see, but you had better oblige them.”
“Yes, sir.” Jerome stood still, not quite to attention. He looked at Pitt with the slight condescension of one who knows that at last he addresses someone beyond argument his social inferior.
“I have already told Sir Anstey all I know,” Jerome said with a slight lift of his eyebrows. “Naturally, if there were anything, I should have said so.”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “But it is possible you may know something without being aware of its relevance. I wonder, sir,” he looked at Waybourne, “if you would be good enough to ask Mr. Swynford for his permission to speak with his son?”
Waybourne hesitated, torn between the desire to stay and make sure nothing was said that was distasteful or careless, and the foolishness of allowing his anxiety to be observed. He gave Jerome a cold, warning look, then went to the door.
When it was closed behind him, Pitt turned to the tutor. There was really very little to ask him, but now that he was here, it was better to go through the formalities.
“Mr. Jerome,” he began gravely. “Sir Anstey has already said that you observed nothing unusual about Mr. Arthur’s behavior on the day he died.”
“That is correct,” Jerome said with overt patience. “Although there could hardly be expected to have been, unless one believes in clairvoyance”—he smiled faintly, as though at a lesser breed from whom foolishness was to be expected— “which I do not. The poor boy cannot have known what was to happen to him.”
Pitt felt an instinctive dislike for the man. It was unreasonable, but he imagined Jerome and he would have no belief or emotion in common, not even their perceptions of the same event.
“But he might have known with whom he intended to have dinner?” Pitt pointed out. “I presume it would be someone he was already acquainted with. We should be able to discover who it was.”
Jerome’s eyes were dark, a little rounder than average.
“I fail to see how that will help,” he answered. “He cannot have reached the appointment. If he did, then the person would no doubt have come forward and expressed his condolences at least. But what purpose would it serve?”
“We would learn where he was,” Pitt pointed out. “It would narrow the area. Witnesses might be found.”
Jerome did not see any hope in that.
“Possibly. I suppose you know your business. But I’m afraid I have no idea with whom he intended to spend the evening. I presume, in view of the fact that the person has not come forward, that it was not a prearranged appointment, but something on the spur of the moment. And boys of that age do not confide their social engagements to their tutors, Inspector.” There was a faint touch of irony in his voice—something less than self-pity, but more sour than humor.
“Perhaps you could give me a list of his friends that you are aware of?” Pitt suggested. “We can eliminate them quite easily. I would rather not press Sir Anstey at the moment.”
“Of course.” Jerome turned to the small leather-topped writing table by the wall and pulled out a drawer. He took paper and began to make notes, but his face expressed his disbelief. He thought Pitt was doing something quite useless because he could think of nothing else, a man clutching at straws to appear efficient. He had written half a dozen lines when Waybourne came back. He glanced at Pitt, then immediately at Jerome.
“What is that?” he demanded, hand outstretched toward the paper.
Jerome’s face stiffened. “Names of various friends of Mr. Arthur’s, sir, with whom he might have intended to dine. The inspector wishes it.”
Waybourne sniffed. “Indeed?” He looked icily at Pitt. “I trust you will endeavor to be discreet, Inspector. I should not care for my friends to be embarrassed. Do I make myself clear?”
Pitt had to force himself to remember the circumstances in order to curb his rising temper.
But Gillivray stepped in before he could answer.
“Of course, Sir Anstey,” he said smoothly. “We are aware of the delicacy of the matter. All we shall ask is whether the gentlemen in question was expecting Mr. Arthur for dinner, or for any other engagement that evening. I’m sure they will understand it is important that we make every effort to discover where this appalling event took place. Most probably it was just as you say, a chance attack that might have happened to any well-dressed young gentleman who appeared to have valuables on him. But we must do what little we can to ascertain that this was so.”
Waybourne’s face softened with something like appreciation.
“Thank you. I cannot think it will make the slightest difference, but of course you are right. You will not discover who did this—this thing. However, I quite see that you are obliged to try.” He turned to the tutor. “Thank you, Jerome. That will be all.”
Jerome excused himself and left, closing the door behind him.
Waybourne looked from Gillivray back to Pitt, his expression changing. He could not understand the essence of Gillivray’s social delicacy, or of Pitt’s brief, sharp compassion that leaped the gulf of every other difference between them; to him, the men represented the distinction between discretion and vulgarity.
“I believe that is all I can do to be of assistance to you, Inspector,” he said coldly. “I have spoken to Mr. Mortimer Swynford, and if you still feel it necessary, you may speak to Titus.” He ran his hand through his thick, fair hair in a tired gesture.
“When will it be possible to speak to Lady Waybourne, sir?” Pitt asked.
“It will not be possible. There is nothing she can tell you that would be of any use. Naturally, I have asked her, and she did not know where Arthur planned to spend his evening. I do not intend to subject her to the ordeal of being questioned by the police.” His face closed, hard and final, the skin tight.
Pitt drew a deep breath and sighed. He felt Gillivray stiffen beside him and could almost taste his embarrassment, his revulsion for what Pitt was going to say. He half expected to be touched, to feel a hand on his arm to restrain him.
“I’m sorry, Sir Anstey, but there is also the matter of your son’s illness and his relationships,” he said gently. “We cannot ignore the possibility that they were connected to his death. And the relationship is in itself a crime—”
“I am aware of that, sir!” Waybourne looked at Pitt as if he himself had participated in the act merely by mentioning it. “Lady Waybourne will not speak with you. She is a woman of decency. She would not even know what you were talking about. Women of gentle birth have never heard of such—obscenities.”
Pitt knew that, but pity overruled his resentment.
“Of course not. I was intending only to ask her about your son’s friends, those who knew him well.”
“I have already told you everything you can possibly find of use, Inspector Pitt,” Waybourne said. “I have no intention whatsoever of prosecuting whoever”—he swallowed— “whoever abused my son. It’s over. Arthur is dead. No raking over of personal”—he took a deep breath and steadied himself, his hand gripping the carved back of one of the chairs— “depravities of—of some unknown man is going to help. Let the dead at least lie in peace, man. And let those of us who have to go on living mourn our son in decency. Now please pursue your business elsewhere. Good day to you.” He turned his back and stood, his body stiff and square-shouldered, facing the fire and the picture over the mantelshelf.
There was nothing for Pitt or Gillivray to do but leave. They accepted their hats from the footman in the hall and went out the front door into the sharp September wind and the bustle of the street.
Gillivray held up the list of friends written by Jerome.
“Do you really want this, sir?” he said doubtfully. “We can hardly go around asking these people much more than if they saw the boy that evening. If they knew of anything”—his face wrinkled slightly in distaste, reflecting just such an expression as Waybourne himself might have assumed—“indecent, they are not going to admit it. We can hardly press them. And, quite honestly, Sir Anstey is right—he was attacked by footpads or hooligans. Extremely unpleasant, especially when it happens to a good family. But the best thing we can do is let it lie for a while, then discreetly write it off as insoluble.”
Pitt turned on him, his anger at last safe to unloose.
“Unpleasant?” he shouted furiously. “Did you say ‘unpleasant,’ Mr. Gillivray? The boy was abused, diseased, and then murdered! What does it have to be before you consider it downright vile? I should be interested to know!”
“That’s uncalled for, Mr. Pitt,” Gillivray said stiffly, repugnance in his face rather than offense. “Discussing tragedy only makes it worse for people, harder for them to bear, and it is not part of our duty to add to their distress—which, God knows, must be bad enough!”
“Our duty, Mr. Gillivray, is to find out who murdered that boy and then put his naked body down a manhole into the sewers to be eaten by the rats and left as anonymous, untraceable bones. Unfortunately for them, it was washed up to the sluice gates and a sharp-eyed sewerman, on the lookout for a bargain, found him too soon.”
Gillivray looked shaken, the pink color gone from his skin.
“Well—I—I hardly think it is necessary to put it quite like that.”
“How would you put it?” Pitt demanded, swinging around to face him. “A little gentlemanly fun, an unfortunate accident? Least said the better?” They crossed the road and a passing hansom flung mud at them.
“No, of course not!” Gillivray’s color flooded back. “It is an unspeakable tragedy, and a crime of the worst kind. But I honestly do not believe there is the slightest chance whatever that we shall discover who is responsible, and therefore it is better we should spare the feelings of the family as much as we can. That is all I meant! As Sir Anstey said, he is not going to prosecute whoever—well—that’s a different matter. And one that we have no call in!” He bent and brushed the mud off his trousers irritably.
Pitt ignored him.
By the end of the day, they had separately called on the few names on Jerome’s list. None had admitted expecting or seeing Arthur Waybourne that evening, or having had any idea as to his plans. On returning to the police station a little after five o’clock, Pitt found a message awaiting him that Athelstan wished to see him.
“Yes, sir?” he inquired, closing the heavy, polished door behind him. Athelstan was sitting behind his desk, with a fine leather set of inkwells, powder, knife, and seals beside his right hand.
“This Waybourne business.” Athelstan looked up. A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. “Well, sit down, man! Don’t stand there flapping about like a scarecrow.” He surveyed Pitt with distaste. “Can’t you do something about that coat? I suppose you can’t afford a tailor, but for heaven’s sake get your wife to press it. You are married, aren’t you?”
He knew perfectly well that Pitt was married. Indeed, he was aware that Pitt’s wife was of rather better family than Athelstan himself, but it was something he chose to forget whenever possible.
“Yes, sir,” Pitt said patiently. Not even the Prince of Wale’s tailor could have made Pitt look tidy. There was a natural awkwardness about him. He moved without the languor of a gentleman; he was far too enthusiastic.
“Well, sit down!” Athelstan snapped. He disliked having to look up, especially at someone who was taller than he was, even when standing. “Have you discovered anything?”
Pitt sat obediently, crossing his legs.
“No, sir, not yet.”
Athelstan eyed him with disfavor.
“Never imagined you would. Most unsavory affair, but a sign of the times. City’s coming to a sad state when gentlemen’s sons can’t take a walk in the evening without being set upon by thugs.”
“Not thugs, sir,” Pitt said precisely. “Thugs strangle from behind, with scarves. This boy was—”
“Don’t be a fool!” Athelstan said furiously. “I am not talking of the religious nature of the assailants! I am talking of the moral decline of the city and the fact that we have been unable to do anything about it. I feel badly. It is the job of the police to protect people like the Waybournes—and everyone else, of course.” He slapped his hand on the burgundy leather surface of his desk. “But if we cannot discover even the area in which the crime was committed, I don’t see what we can do, except save the family a great deal of public notice which can only make their bereavement the harder to bear.”
Pitt knew immediately that Gillivray had already reported to Athelstan. He felt his body tighten with anger, the muscles cord across his back.
“Syphilis may be contracted in one night, sir,” he said distinctly, sounding each word with the diction he had learned with the son of the estate on which he had grown up. “But the symptoms do not appear instantly, like a bruise. Arthur Waybourne was used by someone long before he was killed.”
The skin on Athelstan’s face was beaded with sweat; his mustache hid his lip, but his brow gleamed wet in the gaslight. He did not look at Pitt. There were several moments of silence while he struggled with himself.
“Indeed,” he said at last. “There is much that is ugly, very ugly. But what gentlemen, and the sons of gentlemen, do in their bedrooms is fortunately beyond the scope of the police—unless, of course, they request our intervention. Sir Anstey has not. I deplore it as much as you do.” His eyes flickered up and met Pitt’s with a flash of genuine communication, then slid away again. “It is abominable, repugnant to every decent human being.”
He picked up the paper knife and fiddled with it, watching the light on the blade. “But it is only his death we are concerned with, and that would seem to be insoluble. Still, I appreciate that we must appear to try. Quite obviously the boy did not come to be where he was by accident.” He clenched his hand until his knuckles showed white through the red skin. He looked up sharply. “But for God’s sake, Pitt—use a little discretion! You’ve moved in society before with investigations. You ought to know how to behave! Be sensitive to their grief, and their horrible shock in learning the other—facts. I don’t know why you felt it necessary to tell them! Couldn’t it have been decently buried with the boy?” He shook his head. “No—I suppose not. Had to tell the father, poor man. He has a right to know—might have wanted to prosecute someone. Might have known something already—or guessed. You won’t find anything now, you know. Could have been washed to Bluegate Fields from anywhere this side of the city. Still—we have to make it seem as if we’ve done all we can, if only for the mother’s sake. Wretched business—most unpleasant crime I’ve ever had to deal with.
“All right, you’d better get on with it! Do what you can.” He waved his hand to indicate that Pitt could leave. “Let me know in a day or two. Good night.”
Pitt stood up. There was nothing else to say, no argument that was worth making.
“Good night, sir.” He went out of the polished office and closed the door behind him.
When Pitt arrived home, he was tired and cold. Indecision was no more than a shadow at the back of his mind, disturbing his certainty, spoiling the solidity of his will. It was his job to resolve mysteries, to find offenders and hand them over to the law for trial. But he had seen the damage that the resolution of all secrets could bring; every person should have the right to a certain degree of privacy, a chance to forget or to overcome. Crime must be paid for, but not all sins or mistakes need be made public and explained for everyone to examine and remember. And sometimes victims were punished doubly, once by the offense itself, and then a second and more enduring time when others heard of it, pored over it, and imagined every intimate detail.
Could that be so with Arthur Waybourne? Was there any point now in exposing his weakness or his tragedy?
And if answers were dangerous, half answers were worse. The other half was built by the imagination; even the innocent were involved and could never disprove what was not real to begin with. Surely that was a greater wrong than the original crime, because it was not committed in the heat of emotion or by instinct, but deliberately, and without fear or danger to oneself. There was almost an element of voyeurism, a self-righteousness in it that sickened him.
Were Gillivray and Athelstan right? Was there no chance of finding the person who had murdered Arthur? If it had nothing to do with his private weaknesses, his sins, or sickness, then the investigation would only publicize the pain of a lot of men and women who were probably no more to blame than most people, for one omission or another.
At first he said nothing about it to Charlotte. In fact, he said very little at all, eating his meal in near silence in the parlor, which was soft in the evening gaslight. He was unaware of his withdrawal until Charlotte put it into words.
“What is the decision?” she asked, as she laid down her knife and fork and folded her napkin.
He looked up, surprised.
“Decision? About what?”
Her mouth tightened in a tiny smile. “Whatever it is that has been tormenting you all evening. I’ve watched it wavering back and forth across your face ever since you came in.”
He relaxed with a little sigh.
“I’m sorry. Yes, I suppose I have been. But it’s an unpleasant case. I’d rather not discuss it with you.”
She stood, picked up the plates, and stacked them on the sideboard. Gracie worked all day, but she was permitted to leave the dinner dishes until the following morning.
Pitt went to sit by the fire. He eased into the fat, padded chair with relief.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said briskly, coming to sit opposite him. “I’ve already been involved with all sorts of murders. My stomach is as strong as yours.”
He did not bother to argue. She had never even imagined most of the things he had seen in the rookery slums: filth and misery beyond the imagination of any sane person.
“Well?” She came back and sat down, looking at him expectantly.
He hesitated. He wanted her opinion, but he could not tell her the dilemma without the details. If the disease or the homosexuality was omitted, there would be no problem. Eventually he gave in to his need and told her.
“Oh,” she said when he finished. She sat without saying anything more for so long that he was afraid he had distressed her too deeply, perhaps confused or disgusted her.
He leaned forward and took her hand.
“Charlotte?”
She looked up. There was pain in her eyes, but it was the pain of pity, not confusion or withdrawal. He felt an overwhelming surge of relief, a desire to hold on to her, feel her in his arms. He wanted even just to touch her hair, to pull out its neat coils and thread his fingers through its softness. But it seemed inappropriate; she was thinking of a dead boy, hardly more than a child, and of the tragic compulsions that had driven someone to use him, and then destroy him.
“Charlotte?” he said again.
Her face was screwed up with doubt as she met his eyes.
“Why should ruffians put him down into the sewers?” she said slowly. “In a place like Bluegate Fields, what would it matter if he were found? Don’t you find bodies there anyway? I mean—wouldn’t ruffians have hit him over the head, or stabbed him? Kidnappers might drown him! But there’s no point in kidnapping someone if you don’t know who he is—because whom do you ask for a ransom?”
He stared at her. He knew what her answer was going to be long before she framed it in words herself.
“It had to be someone who knew him, Thomas. For it to have been strangers doesn’t make any sense! They’d have robbed him and left him there in the street, or in an alley. Maybe—” She frowned; she did not believe it herself. “Maybe it has nothing to do with whoever used him—but don’t you think it has? People don’t just suddenly stop having ‘relationships.’ ” She used a delicate word, but they both knew what she meant. “Not where there isn’t love. Whoever it is, he’ll find someone else now this boy is dead—won’t he?”
He sat back wearily. He had been deceiving himself because it would be easier, would avoid the unpleasantness and the pain.
“I expect so,” he admitted. “Yes, I suppose he will. I can’t take the chance. You’re right,” he sighed. “Damn.”
Charlotte could not put the boy’s death out of her mind. She did not speak of it again that evening to Pitt; he was already full of the knowledge of it and wanted to bar it from his thoughts, to have some hours to restore his emotions and revitalize.
But through the night she woke often. As she lay staring at the ceiling, Pitt silent beside her in the sleep of exhaustion, her mind compelled her to think over and over what sort of tragedy had finally ended in this dreadful manner.
Of course she did not know the Waybournes—they were hardly within her social circle—but her sister Emily might. Emily had married into the aristocracy and moved in high society now.
Then she remembered that Emily was away in the country, in Leicestershire, visiting a cousin of George’s. They were to go hunting, or something of the sort. She could picture Emily in immaculate riding habit as she sat perched on her sidesaddle, heart in her throat, wondering whether she could take the fences without falling off and making a fool of herself, yet determined not to admit defeat. There would be an enormous hunt breakfast: two hundred people or more, the master in glorious pink, hounds milling around the horses’ feet, chatter, shouts to order, the smell of frost—not, of course, that Charlotte had ever been to a hunt! But she had heard from those who had.
And neither could she turn to Great-Aunt Vespasia—she had gone to Paris for the month. She would have been ideal; she had known absolutely everyone that mattered over the last fifty years.
But then, according to Pitt, Waybourne was only a baronet, a very minor title—it could even have been bought in trade. Her own father was a banker and man of affairs; her mother might know Lady Waybourne. It was at least worth trying. If she could meet the Waybournes socially, when they were not guarding themselves against the vulgarity and intrusion of the police, she might learn something that would be of use to Pitt.
Naturally, they would be in mourning now, but there were always sisters or cousins, or even close friends—people who would, as a matter of course, know of relationships that would never be discussed with persons of the lower orders, such as professional investigators.
Accordingly, without mentioning it to Pitt, she took an omnibus just before lunch the following day and called on her mother at her home in Rutland Place.
“Charlotte, my dear!” Her mother was delighted to see her; it seemed she had completely forgiven her for that miserable affair over the Frenchman. There was nothing but warmth in Caroline’s face now. “Do stay for luncheon—Grandmama will be down in half an hour, and we shall have lunch. I am expecting Dominic any moment.” She hesitated, searching Charlotte’s eyes for any shadow of the old enchantment when she had been so in love with the husband of her eldest sister, Sarah, when Sarah was still alive. But she found nothing; indeed, Charlotte’s feelings for Dominic had long since faded into simple affection.
The anxiety disappeared. “It will be an excellent party. How are you, my dear? How are Jemima and Daniel?”
For some time they discussed family affairs. Charlotte could hardly launch instantly into inquiries her mother would be bound to disapprove of. She had always found Charlotte’s meddling in Pitt’s affairs both alarming and in the poorest possible taste.
There was a thump on the door. The maid opened it, and Grandmama swept in, wearing dourest black, her hair screwed up in a style that had been fashionable thirty years before, when society, in her opinion, had reached its zenith—it had been on the decline ever since. Her face was sharp with irritation. She eyed Charlotte up and down silently, then whacked the chair nearest to her with her stick to make sure it was precisely where she supposed, and sat down in it heavily.
“Didn’t know you were coming, child!” she observed. “Have you no manners to inform people? Don’t suppose you have a calling card either, eh? When I was young, a lady did not drop in to a person’s house without due notice, as if she were a piece of unsolicited postage! No one has any manners these days. And I take it you will be getting one of these contraptions with strings and bells, and the good Lord knows what else? Telephones! Talking to people on electric wires, indeed!” She sniffed loudly. “Since dear Prince Albert died, all moral sensibility has declined. It is the Prince of Wales’s fault—the scandals one hears are enough to make one faint! What about Mrs. Langtry? No better than she should be, I’ll be bound!” She squinted at Charlotte, her eyes bright and angry.
Charlotte ignored the matter of the Prince of Wales and returned to the question of the telephone.
“No, Grandmama, they are very expensive—and, for me, quite unnecessary.”
“Quite unnecessary for anyone!” Grandmama snorted. “Lot of nonsense! What’s wrong with a perfectly good letter?” She swiveled a little to glare at Charlotte face to face. “Though you always wrote a shocking hand! Emily was the only one of you who could handle a pen like a lady. Don’t know what you were thinking of, Caroline! I brought up my daughter to know all the arts a lady should, the proper things—embroidery, painting, singing and playing the pianoforte pleasingly—the sort of occupations proper for a lady. None of this meddling in other people’s affairs, politics and such. Never heard such nonsense! That’s men’s business, and not good for the health or the welfare of women. I’ve told you that before, Caroline.”
Grandmama was Charlotte’s father’s mother, and never tired of telling her daughter-in-law how things should be done to conform with standards as they used to be in her own youth, when things were conducted properly.
Mercifully they were saved any further pursuance of the subject by Dominic’s arrival. He was as elegant as always but now the grace of his movement, the way his dark hair grew to his quick smile stirred no pain in Charlotte at all. She felt only the pleasure of seeing a friend.
He greeted them all charmingly, even Grandmama, and as always she dissembled in front of him. She examined him for something to criticize and failed to find anything. She was not sure whether she was pleased or disappointed. It was not desirable that young men, however attractive, should be too satisfied with themselves. It did them no good at all. She looked at him again, more carefully.
“Is your barber indisposed?” she said at last.
Dominic’s black eyebrows rose a little.
“You consider my hair ill-cut, Grandmama?” He still gave her the courtesy title, even though his membership in the family was far more distant since Sarah’s death and his move from the house in Cater Street to his own lodgings.
“I had not realized it had been cut at all!” she replied, screwing up her face. “At least not recently! Have you considered joining the army?”
“No, never,” he said, affecting surprise. “Are their barbers good?”
She snorted with infinite contempt and turned to Caroline.
“I’m ready for luncheon. How long am I obliged to wait? Are we expecting yet another guest I have not been told of?”
Caroline opened her mouth to argue, then resigned herself to the futility of it.
“Immediately, Mother-in-law,” she said, standing up and reaching for the bell. “I will have it served now.”
Charlotte did not find an opportunity to raise the name of the Waybournes until after soup had been served and eaten, the plates removed, and the fish set on the table.
“Waybourne?” Grandmama balanced an enormous portion on her fork, her eyes like black prunes. “Waybourne?” The fish overbalanced and fell on her plate into a pile of sauce. She scooped it up again and put it into her mouth, her cheeks bulging.
“I don’t think so.” Caroline shook her head. “Who was Lady Waybourne before she was married, do you know?”
Charlotte had to admit that she had no idea.
Grandmama swallowed with a gulp and coughed violently.
“That’s the trouble with the world these days!” she snapped when she caught her breath. “Nobody knows who anyone is anymore! Society has gone to the dogs!” She took another huge mouthful of fish and glared at each of them in turn.
“Why do you ask?” Caroline inquired innocently. “Are you considering whether to pursue an acquaintance?”
Dominic appeared lost in his own thoughts.
“Are they people you have met?” Caroline continued.
Grandmama swallowed. “Hardly!” she said with considerable acid. “If they are people we might be acquainted with, then they would not move in Charlotte’s circle. I told her that when she insisted on running off and marrying that extraordinary creature from the Bow Street runners, or whatever they call them these days! I don’t know what you were thinking of, Caroline, to allow such a thing! If one of my daughters had ever entertained such an idea, I’d have locked her in her bedroom until she came out of it!” She spoke as if it were some kind of fit.
Dominic covered his face with his napkin to hide his smile, but it still showed in his eyes as he looked up quickly at Charlotte.
“A lot of things were done in your day that are impractical now,” Caroline said crossly. “Times change, Mama-in-law.”
Grandmama banged her fork on her empty plate and her eyebrows rose almost to her hair.
“The bedroom door still has a lock on it, has it not?” she demanded.
“Vanderley,” Dominic said suddenly.
Grandmama swung around to face him. “What did you say?”
“Vanderley,” he repeated. “Benita Waybourne was Vanderley before she married. I remember because I know Esmond Vanderley.”
Charlotte instantly forgot about Grandmama and her insults, and looked at him with excitement.
“Do you? Could you possibly find a way to introduce me—discreetly, of course? Please?”
He looked a bit startled. “If you wish—but whatever for? I don’t think you would like him. He is fashionable, and quite amusing—but I think you would find him very light.”
“All young men are light-minded these days!” Grandmama said morosely. “No one knows their duty anymore.”
Charlotte ignored her. She had already thought of her excuse. It was a complete lie, but desperate situations occasionally call for a little invention.
“It is for a friend,” she said, looking at no one in particular. “A certain young person I know—a romantic affair. I would rather not divulge the details. They are”—she hesitated delicately—“most personal.”
“Indeed!” Grandmama scowled. “I hope it is nothing sordid.”
“Not in the least.” Charlotte jerked her head up and faced her, finding suddenly that it gave her great pleasure to lie to the old lady. “She is of good family but slight resources, and she wishes to better herself. I’m sure you would sympathize with that, Grandmama.”
Grandmama gave her a suspicious look, but did not argue. Instead she glanced across at Caroline.
“We are all finished! Why don’t you ring the bell and have them dish the next course? I presume we are to have a next course? I don’t want to sit here all afternoon! We may have callers. Do you wish them to find us still at luncheon?”
Resignedly, Caroline reached out and rang the bell.
When it was time to leave, Charlotte bade her mother and grandmother goodbye. Dominic escorted her out and offered to take her home in a hansom. He knew her circumstances: that otherwise she would have to walk to an omnibus. She gratefully accepted, both for the comfort and because she wished to pursue the matter of a meeting with Esmond Vanderley, who must be, if Dominic was correct, the dead boy’s uncle.
Inside the hansom, he looked at her skeptically.
“It’s unlike you to interfere in other people’s romances, Charlotte. Who is she, that her ‘betterment’ has engaged your assistance?”
She debated rapidly whether it would be advisable to continue the lie or to tell him the truth. On the whole, the truth was better—at least it was more consistent.
“It isn’t a romance at all,” she confessed. “It is a crime.”
“Charlotte!”
“A very serious one!” she said hastily. “And if I lean something of the circumstances, I may prevent its happening again. Truly, Dominic, it is something Thomas would never learn in the way we could!”
He looked at her sideways. “We?” he said cautiously.
“We who are placed so as to be socially acquainted with the family!” she explained with a fairly successful attempt at innocence.
“Well, I can’t just take you round to Vanderley’s rooms and present you,” he protested reasonably.
“No, of course not.” She smiled. “But I’m sure you could find an occasion, if you tried.”
He looked dubious.
“I am still your sister-in-law,” she pressed. “It would all be quite proper.”
“Does Thomas know about this?”
“Not yet.” She evaded the truth with uncharacteristic skill. “I could hardly tell him before I knew that you were able to help.” She did not mention that she had no intention of telling him afterward either.
Her ability to deceive was entirely new, and he was not used to it. He took her remarks at face value.
“Then I suppose it is all right. I’ll arrange it as soon as I can without being crass.”
She reached out her hand and clasped his impulsively, giving him a radiant smile that unnerved him a little.
“Thank you, Dominic. That really is most generous of you! I’m sure if you knew how important it is, you would be happy to help!”
“Humph.” He was unprepared to commit himself any further; perhaps he was not entirely wise to trust Charlotte when she was embarked upon an attempt at detection.
When he returned to the Waybournes’ home three days later, Pitt had made an effort to find witnesses—anyone who had heard of an attack, a kidnapping, any event in Bluegate Fields that might have relevance to Arthur Waybourne’s death. But none of his usual sources of information offered him anything.
He was inclined to believe there was nothing to know. The crime was a domestic one, and not of the streets.
He and Gillivray were received, to their surprise, in the withdrawing room. Not only Anstey Waybourne was present, but two other men. One was lean, in his early forties, with fair, heavily waving hair and regular features. His clothes were excellently cut, but it was the elegance with which he held himself that gave the clothes distinction. The other man was a few years older, thicker of body, but still imposing. His rich side-whiskers were touched with gray, his nose fleshy and strong.
Waybourne was somewhat at a loss to know how to introduce them. One did not treat policemen as social entities, but he obviously needed to inform Pitt who the others were, though apparently they were expecting Pitt. He resolved the problem by nodding toward the older man with a brief indicative gesture.
“Good afternoon, Inspector. Mr. Swynford has been good enough to give his permission, if you still find it necessary, for you to speak to his son.” His arm moved slightly to include the younger man. “My brother-in-law Mr. Esmond Vanderley—to comfort my wife, at this extremely difficult time.” Perhaps it was intended as an introduction; more likely it was a warning of the family solidarity that was massing against any unwarranted intrusion, any excess of duty that verged on mere curiosity.
“Good afternoon,” Pitt replied, then introduced Gillivray.
Waybourne was a little surprised; it was not the reply he had foreseen, but he accepted it.
“Have you discovered anything further about my son’s death?” he inquired. Then, as Pitt glanced at the others, he smiled very bleakly. “You may say whatever you have to tell me in front of these gentlemen. What is it?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we have found no information at all—”
“I hardly expected you would,” Waybourne interrupted him. “But I appreciate it was your duty to try. I’m obliged to you for informing me so promptly.”
It was a dismissal, but Pitt could not leave it so easily, so comfortably.
“I’m afraid we do not believe strangers would have tried to hide your son as they did,” he went on. “There was no purpose. It would have been simpler to let him lie where he was attacked. It would have aroused less remark, which could only be to their advantage. And street robbers do not drown people— they use a knife or a club.”
Waybourne’s face darkened. “What are you trying to say, Inspector? It was you who told me my son was drowned. Do you now dispute that?”
“No, sir, I dispute that it was a casual attack.”
“I don’t know what you mean! If it was premeditated, then obviously someone intended to kidnap him for ransom, but there was some sort of an accident—”
“Possibly.” Pitt did not think there had ever been ransom planned. And although he had mentally rehearsed how he would tell Waybourne it was a deliberate murder—neither an accident nor anything as relatively clean as a kidnapping for money—now, faced with Vanderley and Swynford as well as Waybourne, all three watching, listening, the tidy phrases escaped him. “But if it was so designed,” he continued, “then we should be able to find out quite a lot if we investigate. They will almost certainly have cultivated his acquaintance, or that of someone close to him.”
“Your imagination is running away with you, Inspector!” Waybourne said icily. “We do not take up acquaintances as casually as you appear to imagine.” He glanced at Gillivray, as if he hoped he might have a better understanding of a social circle of finer distinctions, where people did not make such chance friendships. One required to know who people were— indeed, who their parents were.
“Oh.” Vanderley’s expression changed slightly. “Arthur might have. The young can be very tolerant, you know. Met some odd people myself, from time to time.” He smiled a little sourly. “Even the best families can have their problems. Could even have been a prank that went wrong.”
“A prank?” Waybourne’s entire body stiffened with outrage. “My son molested in his—his innocence, robbed of—” A muscle jumped in his cheek; he could not bring himself to use the words.
Vanderley flushed. “I was suggesting the intention, Anstey, not the result. I take it from your remark that you believe the two are connected?”
Now it was Wayborne’s turn to color with awkwardness, even anger with himself.
“No—I—”
For the first time, Swynford spoke; his voice was rich, full of confidence. He was used to being listened to without the need to seek attention.
“I’m afraid, Anstey, it does look inevitably as if someone of poor Arthur’s acquaintance was perverted in the most appalling fashion. Don’t blame yourself—no man of decency would conceive of such an abominable thing. It doesn’t enter the mind. But now it has to be faced. As the police say, there doesn’t appear to be any other rational explanation.”
“What do you suggest I do?” Waybourne demanded sarcastically. “Allow the police to question my friends, to see if any of them seduced and murdered my son?”
“I hardly think you will find him among your friends, Anstey.” Swynford was patient. He was dealing with a man in the extremities of grief. Outbursts that at another time would be frowned upon were now quite naturally excused. “I would begin by looking a little more closely at some of your employees.”
Waybourne’s face fell. “Are you suggesting Arthur was—was consorting with the butler or the footman?”
Vanderley looked up. “I remember I used to be great friends with one of the grooms when I was Arthur’s age. He could do anything with a horse, rode like a centaur. Lord, how I wanted to do that myself! I was a damned sight more impressed by his talents than any of the dry political skills my father practiced.” He made a face. “One is, at sixteen.”
A flicker of light shone in Waybourne’s eyes. He looked up at Pitt.
“Never thought of that. I suppose you’d better consider the groom, although I’ve no idea whether he rides. He’s a competent driver, but I never knew Arthur had any interest....”
Swynford leaned on the back of one of the chairs.
“And of course there’s always the tutor—whatever his name is. A good tutor can become a great influence on a boy.”
Waybourne frowned. “Jerome? He had excellent references. Not a particularly likable man, but extremely competent. Fine academic record. Keeps good discipline in the schoolroom. Has a wife. Good woman—spotless reputation. I do take certain care, Mortimer!” The criticism was implicit.
“Of course you do. We all do!” Swynford said reasonably, even placatingly. “But then a vice of that sort would hardly be known! And the fact that the wretched man has a wife is no proof of anything. Poor woman!”
“Good God!”
Pitt remembered the tutor’s tight, intelligent face reflecting a painful knowledge of his position, of what it would always be, and why. There was nothing wrong with his talent or his diligence; it was just his birth that was wrong. Now, perhaps, the slow growth of sourness had warped his character as well, probably permanently after all these years.
It was time to interrupt. But before Pitt spoke, Gillivray cut in.
“We’ll do that, sir. I think there’s every chance we shall discover something. You may well have found the answer already.”
Waybourne let out his breath slowly. The muscles in his face calmed.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose you’d better. Most unpleasant, but if it cannot be avoided ...”
“We’ll be discreet, sir,” Gillivray promised.
Pitt felt irritation wash over him. “We’ll investigate everything, “ he said a little sharply. “Until we have either discovered the truth or exhausted every possibility.”
Waybourne looked at him with disapproval, his eyes sharp under the sweeping, fair lashes.
“Indeed! Then you may return tomorrow and begin with the groom and Mr. Jerome. Now I think I have said everything that I have to say to you. I will instruct the appropriate servants for your convenience tomorrow. Good day to you.”
“Good day, gentlemen.” Pitt accepted dismissal this time. He had much to consider before he spoke to the groom, Jerome, or anyone else. There was already an ugliness in it beyond the tragedy of death itself. Tentacles of the compulsions that had led to the death were beginning to surface, assaulting his senses.