“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 academi
c 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.
3
THE WAYBOURNE FAMILY doctor had asked to see the body and make an examination; he came away silent, shaking his head, his face drawn. Pitt did not know what he said to Waybourne, but there was never any further suggestion of incompetence by the police surgeon, and no other explanation for the symptoms was put forward. In fact, they were not mentioned.
Pitt and Gillivray returned at ten o’clock in the morning; they interviewed the grooms and the footmen, which proved fruitless. Arthur’s tastes had been more sophisticated than anything the stables or the mews had to offer. He had liked to be well driven, and admired a handsome rig, but he had never shown the least desire to take the reins himself. Even good bloodstock moved him to no more than a passing appreciation, like good boots or a well-tailored coat.
“This is all a waste of time,” Gillivray said, poking his hands in his pockets and stepping up into the areaway. “He probably fell into bad company with some older boy—a single experience—and then he reverted to quite natural relationships. After all, he was sixteen! I daresay he contracted the disease from a street woman or some other miserable initiation. Perhaps someone gave him a little too much to drink—you know how these things can end up. I don’t suppose he had the least idea, poor little devil. And we certainly won’t do any good pursuing it.” He raised his eyebrows and gave Pitt a warning glance. “None of those men,” he said, jerking his head back toward the stables, “would dare touch the son of the house! And I don’t imagine they’d want to. They’d stick to their own class—more fun and less dangerous. We could probably find out about that from the maids, if it matters. A groom would have to be insane to risk his livelihood. He’d probably never get another place with a decent family anywhere in the country if he was caught! No man in his right mind is going to risk that for a bit of foolery.”
Pitt had no argument; he had already thought the same things himself. Added to which, by all accounts so far, neither Arthur nor his brother had been in the habit of visiting the stables. Carriages were brought to the front door and there was no occasion for them to go to the mews except from personal interest. And that, apparently, had not existed.
“No,” Pitt agreed tersely, cleaning his feet against the iron boot-scraper at the back door. “Now we’d better try the rest of the staff to see what they can tell us.”
“Oh, come on!” Gillivray protested. “Boys like that don’t spend their spare time—or their affection—in the servants’ hall!”
“Clean your boots,” Pitt ordered. “Anyway, it was you who wanted to check on the grooms,” he added spitefully. “Just ask them. The butler or the valet may know where the boys went visiting, other houses they stayed at. Families go away for weekends or longer, you know. Strange things happen at country houses on occasion.”
Gillivray scraped his boots obediently, taking off some straw and, to his surprise, manure. He wrinkled his nose.
“Spent many weekends in the country, have you, Inspector?” he asked, permitting a faint touch of sarcasm into his voice.
“More than I can count,” Pitt replied with a very small smile. “I grew up on a country estate. The gentlemen’s gentlemen could tell a few tales, if they were plied with a little of the butler’s best port.”
Gillivray was caught between distaste and curiosity. It was a world he had never entered, but had watched avidly from the first time he glimpsed its color and ease, and the grace with which it hid its frailties.
“I hardly think the butler will give me the keys to his cellar for that purpose,” he said with a touch of envy. It smarted that Pitt, of all people, should have seen inside such a society, even if only from the vantage of an outdoor servant’s son. The mere knowledge was something Gillivray did not have.
“We won’t do any good raking it all over,” Gillivray repeated.
Pitt did not bother to argue anymore. Gillivray was obliged to obey. And, to be honest, Pitt did not believe there was any purpose in it either, except to satisfy Waybourne—and perhaps Athelstan.
“I’ll see the tutor.” He opened the back door and went into the scullery. The kitchenmaid, a girl of about fourteen, dressed in gray stuff and a calico apron, was scrubbing pots. She looked up, her hands dripping soap, her face full of curiosity.
“You get on with your work, Rosie,” the cook ordered, scowling at the intruders. “And what’ll you be wanting now?” she demanded of Pitt. “I’ve no time to be getting you anything to eat, or cups of tea either! I’ve never seen the like of it. Police indeed! I’ve luncheon to get for the family, and dinner to think of, I’ll have you know. And Rosie’s much too busy to be bothering with the likes of you!”
Pitt looked at the table and at a glance he could see the ingredients for pigeon pie, five types of vegetables, some sort of whitefish, a fruit pudding, trifle, sherbet, and a bowl full of eggs that could have been for anything—perhaps a cake or a soufflé.
The downstairs maid was polishing glasses. The light caught on the cut designs, sending prisms of color into the mirror behind her.
“Thank you,” Pitt said dryly. “Mr. Gillivray will talk to the butler, and I am going through to speak to Mr. Jerome.”
The cook snorted, dusting flour from her hands.
“Well, you’ll not do it in my kitchen,” she snapped. “You’d best go and see Mr. Welsh in his pantry, if you must. Where you see Mr. Jerome is nothing to do with me.” She bent to her pastry again, sleeves rolled up, hands strong and thick, powerful enough to wring a turkey’s neck.
Pitt walked past her, along the passage and through the baize door into the hallway. The footman showed him to the morning room, and five minutes later, Jerome came in.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he said with a faintly supercilious half smile. “I really cannot add anything to what I have already told you. But if you insist, I am prepared to repeat it.”
Pitt could not feel any liking for the man, in spite of an empathy for his situation; but it was an intellectual understanding, an ability to imagine how Jerome felt—the scrapi
ng of the emotions with every small reminder of dependence, of inferiority. Facing him in the flesh—seeing his bright, guarded eyes, the pursed mouth, the precise collar and tie, hearing the edge to his voice—Pitt still disliked him.
“Thank you,” he said, forcing himself to be patient. He wanted to let Jerome know that they were both there under compulsion: Pitt of duty, Jerome because Waybourne required it. But that would have been to give way to himself, and would defeat his objective. He sat down to indicate that he intended to take some time.
Jerome sat also, arranging his coat and trousers with care. Opposite Pitt, who spread out like dumped laundry, Jerome was meticulous. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“How long have you taught Arthur and Godfrey Waybourne?” Pitt began.
“Three years and ten months,” Jerome replied.
“Then Arthur would have been twelve and Godfrey nine?” Pitt calculated.
“Bravo.” Jerome’s voice went down at the end in weary sarcasm.
Pitt restrained his inclination to retaliate.
“Then you must know both boys well. You have observed them through most important years, the change from child to youth,” he said instead.
“Naturally.”
There was still no interest in Jerome’s face, no anticipation of what was to come. Had Waybourne told him anything of the details of Arthur’s death or merely of the death itself? Pitt watched him more closely, waiting for surprise in the round eyes, disgust—or any kind of fear.
“You are aware of their friends, even if you do not know them personally?” he continued.
“To a limited extent.” This time Jerome was more guarded, not willing to commit himself where he could not foresee.
There was no delicate way of approaching the subject. If Jerome had observed any strange personal habits in either of his charges, he could hardly afford to admit it now. And a wise tutor who wished to retain his position made it his business not to see the less attractive attributes of his employers or their friends. Pitt understood before he asked. Anything must be framed in such a way that Jerome could pretend only now to understand the meaning of what he had seen.
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