Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 05] Read online

  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 e
vening. 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 e
veryone 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.