Waybourne’s hostility was even easier to read. His family had already been mutilated—he was now defending it against any unnecessary turning of the knife in the wounds. Had it been his family, Pitt would have done the same.
Godfrey came in. Then, when he saw Pitt, his face colored and his body suddenly became awkward.
Pitt felt a stab of guilt.
“Yes, sir?” Godfrey stood with his back to his father, close, as if he were a wall, something against which he could retreat.
Pitt ignored the fact that he had not been invited, and sat down in the leather-covered armchair. His position made him look up slightly at the boy, instead of obliging Godfrey to crane up at him.
“Godfrey, we don’t know Mr. Jerome very well,” he began, in what he hoped was a conversational tone. “It is important that we learn everything we can. He was your tutor for nearly four years. You must know him well.”
“Yes, sir—but I never knew he was doing anything wrong.” The boy’s clear eyes were defiant. His narrow shoulders were high and Pitt could imagine the muscles hunched underneath the flannel of his jacket.
“Of course not,” Waybourne said quickly, putting his hand on the boy’s arm. “No one imagines you knew about it, boy.”
Pitt restrained himself. He must learn, fact by fact, small impressions that built a believable picture of a man who had lost years of cold control in a sudden insane hunger—insane because it defied reality, because it could never have achieved anything but the most transient, ephemeral of pleasures while destroying everything else he valued.
Slowly, Pitt asked questions about their studies, about Jerome’s manner, the subjects he taught well and those that appeared to bore him. He questioned whether the tutor’s discipline was good, his temper, his enthusiasms. Waybourne grew more and more impatient, almost contemptuous of Pitt, as if he were being foolish, evading the real issue in a plethora of trivialities. But Godfrey became more confident in his answers.
A picture emerged so close to the man Pitt had imagined that it gave him no comfort at all. There was nothing new to grasp, no new perspective to try on all the fragments he already possessed. Jerome was a good teacher, a disciplinarian with little humor. And what humor he had was far too dry, too measured through years of self-control, to be understandable to a thirteen-year-old born and bred in privilege. Ambition that to Jerome was unachievable was to Godfrey an expected part of the adult life he was being groomed for. He was unaware of any injustice in the relationship with his tutor. They belonged to different levels of society, and would always do so. That Jerome might resent him had never occurred to the boy. Jerome was a schoolmaster; that was not the same thing as possessing the qualities of leadership, the courage of decision, the innate knowledge and acceptance of duty—or the burden, the loneliness of responsibility.
The irony was that perhaps Jerome’s very bitterness was partly born of a whisper at the back of his brain that reminded him of the gulf between them—not only because of birth but because he was too small of vision—too self-obsessed, too aware of his own position—to command. A gentleman is a gentleman because he lives unself-consciously. He is too secure to take offense, too certain of his finances to account for shillings.
All this went through Pitt’s mind as he watched the boy’s solemn, rather smug face. He was at ease now—Pitt was ineffectual, not to be feared after all. It was time to come to the point.
“Did Mr. Jerome show any consistent favoritism toward your brother?” he asked quite lightly.
“No, sir,” Godfrey answered. Then confusion spread on his face as he realized what had half dawned on him through the haze of grief—hints of something that was unknown but abominably shameful, that the imagination hardly dared conjure up, and yet could not help but try. “Well, sir, not that I realized at the time. He was pretty—sort of—well, he spent a lot of time with Titus Swynford, too, when he took lessons with us. He did quite often, you know. His own tutor wasn’t any good at Latin and Mr. Jerome was very good indeed. And he knew Greek, too. And Mr. Hollins—that’s Titus’s tutor—was always getting colds in the head. We called him ‘Sniffles.’ ” He gave a juicy, realistic imitation.
Waybourne’s face twitched with disapproval of mentioning to a person of Pitt’s social inferiority such details of frivolous and rather childish malice.
“And was he also overfamiliar with Titus?” Pitt inquired, ignoring Waybourne.
Godfrey’s face tightened. “Yes, sir. Titus told the that he was.”
“Oh? When did he tell you?”
Godfrey stared back at him without blinking.
“Yesterday evening, sir. I told him that Mr. Jerome had been arrested by the police because he had done something terrible to Arthur. I told him what I told you, about what Mr. Jerome did to me. And Titus said he’d done it to him, too.”
Pitt felt no surprise, only a gray sense of inevitability. Jerome’s weakness had shown itself after all. It had not been the secret thing, erupting without warning, that had struck Pitt as so unlikely. Perhaps surrender to it had been sudden, but once he had recognized it and allowed the hunger to release itself in action, then it had been uncontrollable. It could only have been a matter of time until some adult had seen it and understood it for what it was.
What a tragic mischance that the violence—the murder—had arisen so quickly. If even one of those boys had spoken to a parent, the greater tragedy could have been avoided—for Arthur, for Jerome himself, for Eugenie.
“Thank you.” Pitt sighed and looked up at Waybourne. “I would appreciate it, sir, if you would give me Mr. Swynford’s address so that I can call on him and verify this with Titus himself. You will understand that secondhand testimony, no matter from whom, is not sufficient.”
Waybourne took a breath as if to argue, then accepted the futility of it.
“If you insist,” he said grudgingly.
Titus Swynford was a cheerful boy, a little older than Godfrey. He was broader, with a freckled, less handsome face, but he possessed a natural ease that Pitt found attractive. Pitt was not permitted to see his young sister Fanny. And since he could put forward no argument to justify insisting, he saw only the boy, in the presence of his father.
Mortimer Swynford was calm. Had Pitt been less aware of society’s rules, he might have imagined his courtesy to be friendliness.
“Of course,” he consented, in his rich voice. His manicured hands rested on the back of the tapestried antimacassar. His clothes were immaculate. His tailor had cut his jacket so skillfully it all but disguised the thickening of his body, the considerable swell of his stomach under his waistcoat, the heaviness of his thighs. It was a vanity that Pitt could sympathize with, even admire. He had no such physical defects to mask, but he would dearly like to have possessed even a fraction of the polish, the ease of manner with which Swynford stood waiting, watching him.
“I’m sure you won’t press the matter any further than is absolutely necessary,” he went on. “But you must have enough to stand up in court—we all understand that. Titus—” He gestured toward his son with an embracing sweep. “Titus, answer Inspector Pitt’s questions quite frankly. Don’t hide anything. It is not a time for false modesty or any misplaced sense of loyalty. Nobody cares for a telltale, but there are times when a man is witness to a crime that cannot be permitted to continue, or to go unpunished. Then it is his duty to speak the truth, without fear or favor! Is that not so, Mr. Pitt?”
“Quite so,” Pitt agreed with less enthusiasm than he should have felt. The sentiment was perfect. Was it only Swynford’s aplomb, his supreme mastery of the situation, that made the words sound unnatural? He did not look like a man who either feared or favored anyone. Indeed, his money and his heritage had placed him in a situation where, with a little judgment, he could avoid the need for pleasing others. As long as he obeyed the usual social rules of his class, he could remain exceedingly comfortable.
Titus was waiting.
“You were occasionally tutor
ed by Mr. Jerome?” Pitt rushed in, aware of the silence.
“Yes, sir,” Titus agreed. “Both Fanny and I were. Fanny’s rather clever at Latin, although I can’t see what good it will do her.”
“And what will you do with it?” Pitt inquired.
Titus’s face split with a broad grin.
“I say, you’re rather odd, aren’t you? Nothing at all, of course! But we aren’t allowed to admit that. It’s supposed to be fearfully good discipline—at least that’s what Mr. Jerome said. I think that’s the only reason he put up with Fanny, because she was better at it than any of the rest of us. It would make you sick, wouldn’t it? I mean, girls being better at class, especially a thing like Latin? Mr. Jerome says that Latin is fearfully logical, and girls aren’t supposed to have any logic.”
“Quite sick,” Pitt agreed, keeping a sober face with difficulty. “I gather Mr. Jerome was not very keen on teaching Fanny?”
“Not terribly. He preferred us boys.” His eyes darkened suddenly, and his skin flushed red under his freckles. “That’s what you’re here about, isn’t it? What happened to Arthur, and the fact that Mr. Jerome kept touching us?”
There was no point in denying it; apparently, Swynford had already been very frank.
“Yes. Did Mr. Jerome touch you?”
Titus pulled a face to express a succession of feelings.
“Yes.” He shrugged. “But I never thought about it till Godfrey explained to me what it meant. If I’d known, sir, that it was going to end up with poor Arthur dead, I’d have said something sooner.” His face shadowed; his gray-green eyes were hot with guilt.
Pitt felt a surge of sympathy. Titus was quite intelligent enough to know that his silence could have cost a life.
“Of course.” Pitt put out his hand without thinking and clasped the boy’s arm. “Naturally you would—but there was no way you could know. Nobody wishes to think so ill of someone, unless there is no possible doubt. You cannot go around accusing somebody on a suspicion. Had you been wrong, you could have done Mr. Jerome a fatal injustice.”
“As it is, it’s Arthur who’s dead.” Titus was not so easily comforted. “If I’d said something, I might have saved him.”
Pitt felt compelled to be bolder and risk a deeper wound. “Did you know it was wrong?” he asked. He let go the boy’s arm and sat back again.
“No, sir!” Titus colored, the blood rushing up again under his skin. “To be honest, sir, I still don’t really know exactly. I don’t know whether I wish to know—it sounds rather dirty.”
“It is.” Pitt was soiled himself, by all his knowledge, in the face of this child who would probably never know a fraction of the weakness and misery Pitt had been forced to see. “It is,” he repeated. “I’d leave it well alone.”
“Yes, sir. But do you—do you think I could have saved Arthur if I’d known?”
Pitt hesitated. Titus did not deserve a lie.
“Perhaps—but quite possibly not. Maybe no one would have believed you anyway. Don’t forget, Arthur could have spoken himself—if he’d wished to!”
Titus’s face showed incomprehension.
“Why didn’t he, sir? Didn’t he understand? But that doesn’t make any sense!”
“No—it doesn’t, does it?” Pitt agreed. “I’d like to know the answer to that myself.”
“No doubt frightened.” Swynford spoke for the first time since Pitt had begun questioning Titus. “Poor boy probably felt guilty—too ashamed to tell his father. I daresay that wretched man threatened him. He would, don’t you think, Inspector? Just thank God it’s all over now. He can do no more harm.”
It was far from the truth, but this time Pitt did not argue. He could only guess what the trial would bring. There was no need to distress them now, no need to tell them the sad and ugly things that would be exposed. Titus, at least, need never know.
“Thank you.” Pitt stood up, and his coat fell in creases where he had been sitting on it. “Thank you, Titus. Thank you, Mr. Swynford. I don’t think we shall have to trouble you again until the trial.”
Swynford took a deep breath, but he knew better than to waste energy arguing now. He inclined his head in acknowledgment and pulled the bell for the footman to show Pitt out.
The door opened and a girl of about fourteen ran in, saw Pitt, and stopped with an instant of embarrassment. She then immediately composed herself, stood quite upright, and looked at him with level gray eyes—a little coolly, as if it were he who had committed the social gaffe, and not she.
“I beg your pardon, Papa,” she said, with a little hitch of her shoulders under her lace-edged pinafore. “I didn’t know you had a visitor.” She had sized up Pitt already and knew he was not “company.” Her father’s social equals did not wear mufflers; they wore silk scarves, and they left them with whoever opened the door, along with their hats and sticks.
“Hello, Fanny,” Swynford replied with a slight smile. “Have you come down to inspect the policeman?”
“Certainly not!” She lifted her chin and returned her gaze to Pitt, regarding him from head to toe. “I came to say that Uncle Esmond is here, and he promised me that when I am old enough to ‘come out’ he will give me a necklace with pearls in it for my seventeenth birthday, so I may wear it when I am presented at court. Do you suppose it will be to the Queen herself, or only the Princess of Wales? Do you imagine the Queen will still be alive then? She’s fearfully old already, you know!”
“I have no idea,” Swynford answered with raised eyebrows, meeting Pitt’s glance with amusement. “Perhaps you could begin with the Princess of Wales, and progress from there—if the Queen survives long enough for you, that is?”
“You’re laughing at me!” she said with a note of warning. “Uncle Esmond dined with the Prince of Wales last week—he just said so!”
“Then I’ve no doubt it’s true.”
“Of course it’s true!” Esmond Vanderley appeared in the doorway behind Fanny. “I would never dare lie to anyone as perceptive or as unversed in the social arts as Fanny. My dear child.” He put his arm on Fanny’s shoulder. “You really must learn to be less direct, or you will be a social disaster. Never let people know that you know they have lied! That is a cardinal rule. Well-bred people never lie—they occasionally misremember, and only the ill-mannered are gross enough to remark it. Isn’t that so, Mortimer?”
“My dear fellow, you are the expert in society—how could I dispute what you say? If you wish to succeed, Fanny, listen to your mother’s cousin Esmond.” His words were perhaps a little tart, but, looking at his face, Pitt could see only goodwill. He also noted the relationship with a lift of interest: so Swynford, Vanderley, and the Waybournes were cousins.
Vanderley looked over the girl’s head at Pitt.
“Inspector,” he said with a return to seriousness. “Still chasing up that wretched business about young Arthur?”
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid there is a lot more we need to know yet.”
“Oh?” Vanderley’s face showed slight surprise. “For example?”
Swynford made a slight movement with his arm. “You may leave us now, thank you, Titus, Fanny! If your Latin requires improvement, then you had best be about studying it.”
“Yes, sir.” Titus excused himself to Vanderley, then a little self-consciously to Pitt, aware it was a socially unmapped area. Did he behave as if Pitt were a tradesman, and take his departure as a gentleman would? He decided on the latter, and collecting his sister’s hand, much to her annoyance because her curiosity was overwhelming, he escorted her out.
When the door was closed, Vanderley repeated his question.
“Well, we have no idea where the crime took place,” Pitt began, hoping that with their knowledge of the family they might have some idea. A new thought occurred to him. “Did the Waybournes ever possess any other property that might have been used? A country house? Or did Sir Anstey and Lady Waybourne ever travel and leave the boys behind with Jerome?”
Vand
erley considered for a moment, his face solemn, brows drawn down.
“I seem to remember them all going to the country in the spring.... They do have a place, of course. And Anstey and Benita came back to town for a while and left the boys up there. Jerome must have been there—he does go with them, naturally. Can’t ignore the boys’ education. Poor Arthur was quite bright, you know. Even considered going up to Oxford. Can’t think what for—no need to work. Rather enjoyed the classics. Think he was meaning to read Greek as well. Jerome was a good scholar, you know. Damn shame the fellow was a homosexual—damn shame.” He said it with a sigh, and his eyes looked into some distance Pitt could not see. His face was sad, but without anger or the harsh contempt Pitt would have expected.
“Worse than that.” Swynford shook his head, his wide mouth somewhat curled, as if the sourness of it were in the room with them. “More than a damn shame. Anstey said he was riddled with disease. Gave it to Arthur—poor beggar!”
“Disease?” Vanderley’s face paled a little. “Oh, God! That’s awful. I suppose you are sure?”
“Syphilis,” Swynford clarified.
Vanderley stepped backward and sat down in one of the big chairs, putting the heels of his hands over his eyes as if to hide both his distress and the vision that leaped to his mind.
“How bloody wretched! What—what a ghastly mess.” He sat silent for a few more moments, then jerked up and stared at Pitt, his eyes as gray as Fanny’s. “What are you doing about it?” He hesitated, fished frantically for words. “God in heaven, man—if all this is true, it could have gone anywhere—to anyone!”
“We are trying to find out everything about the man that we can,” Pitt answered, knowing it was not enough, not nearly enough. “We know he was overfamiliar with other children, other boys, but we can’t find out yet where he conducted the intimacies of this relationship with Arthur—or where Arthur was killed.”
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