Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 05]

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Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 05] Page 10

by Bluegate Fields


  “What the hell does that matter?” Vanderley exploded. He shot to his feet, his clean, chisel-boned face flushed, his muscles tight. “You know he did it, don’t you? For pity’s sake, man, if he was that far demented in his obsession he could have hired rooms anywhere! You can’t be naïve enough not to know that—in your business!”

  “I do know it, sir.” Pitt tried to keep his own voice from rising, from betraying his revulsion or his growing sense of helplessness. “But I’d still feel we had a better case if we could find it—and someone who has seen Jerome there—perhaps the landlord, someone who took money—anything more definite. You see, so far all we can prove is that Jerome interfered with Godfrey Waybourne and with Titus.”

  “What do you want?” Swynford demanded. “He’s hardly likely to have seduced the boy with witnesses! He’s perverted, criminal, and spreading that filthy disease God knows where! But he’s not foolish—he’s never lost sight of the smaller sanities, like tidying up after himself!”

  Vanderley ran his fingers through his hair. Suddenly he was calm again, in control.

  “No—he’s right, Mortimer. He needs to know more than that. There are tens of thousands of rooms around London. He’ll never find it, unless he’s lucky. But there may be something he can find, somebody—somebody who knew Jerome. I don’t suppose poor Arthur was the only one.” He looked down and his face was heavy, his voice suddenly even quieter. “I mean—the man was in bondage to a weakness.”

  “Yes, of course,” Swynford said. “But that’s the police’s job, thank God; not ours. We don’t need to concern ourselves with whatever else he needs—or why.” He turned to Pitt. “You’ve talked to my son—I would have thought that was enough, but if it isn’t, then you must pursue whatever else you want—in the streets, or wherever. I don’t know what else you think there is.”

  “There must be something more.” Pitt felt confused, almost foolish. He knew so much—and so little: explanations that fitted—a growing desperation he could understand, a loneliness, a sense of having been cheated. Would it be enough to hang a man, to hang Maurice Jerome for the murder of Arthur Waybourne? “Yes, sir,” he said aloud. “Yes—we’ll go and look, everywhere we can.”

  “Good.” Swynford nodded. “Good. Well, get on with it! Good day, Inspector.”

  “Good day, sir.” Pitt walked to the door and opened it silently. He went out into the hall to collect his hat and coat from the footman.

  Charlotte had sent an urgent letter to Dominic to ask him to hasten his efforts for a meeting with Esmond Vanderley. She had little idea what she expected to learn, but it was more important than ever that she try.

  Today, at last, she had received a reply that there was an afternoon party of sorts to which, if she wished, Dominic would escort her, although he doubted she would find any enjoyment in it whatsoever; and did she possess anything she cared to wear for the occasion, because it was fashionable and a little risqué? He would call by in his carriage at four o’clock, in case she chose to go.

  Her mind whirled. Of course she chose to go! But what gown had she that would not disgrace him? Fashionable and risqué! Emily was still out of town, and so could not be borrowed from, even had there been time. She raced upstairs and pulled open her wardrobe to see what it presented. At first it was hopeless. Her own clothes were all, at best, last year’s styles, or the year before. At worst, they were plain sensible—and one could hardly say less for a gown than that! Whoever wished to seem sensible, of all things?

  There was the lavender of Great-Aunt Vespasia’s that she had been given for a funeral. With black shawl and hat it had been half mourning, and suitable. She pulled it out and looked at it. It was definitely magnificent and very formal—a duchess’s gown, and an elderly duchess at that! But if she were to cut off the high neck and make it daringly low, take out the sleeves below the shoulder drape, it would look far more modem—in fact a little avant-garde!

  Brilliant! Emily would be proud of her! She seized the nail scissors from the dresser and began before she could reconsider. If she were to stop and think what she was doing, she would lose her nerve.

  It was completed in time. She coiled her hair high (if only Gracie were a lady’s maid!), bit her lips and pinched her cheeks to give herself a little more color, and splashed on some lavender water. When Dominic arrived, she sailed out, head high, teeth clenched, looking neither to right nor left, and certainly not at Dominic to see what he thought of her.

  In the carriage, he opened his mouth to comment, then smiled faintly, a little confused, and closed it again.

  Charlotte prayed that she was not making a complete fool of herself.

  The party was like nothing she had ever attended before. It was not in one room but in a series of rooms, all lavishly decorated in styles she considered a trifle obtrusive, with vague suggestions of the last courts of France in one and of the sultans of the Turkish Empire in another; a third seemed Oriental, with red lacquer and silk-embroidered screens. It was rather overwhelming and a little vulgar; she began to have serious misgivings about the wisdom of having come.

  But if she had been concerned about her dress, that at least was needless; some of the fashions were so outrageous that she felt quite mildly dressed by comparison. Indeed, her gown was low over the bosom and a little brief around the shoulders, but it did not look in any danger of sliding off altogether and producing a catastrophe. And, glancing around, that was more than she could say for some! Grandmama would have had apoplexy if she could have seen these ladies’ attire! As Charlotte stood watching them, keeping one hand on Dominic’s arm lest he leave her alone, their behavior was so brazen it would not have passed in the circles she was accustomed to before her marriage.

  But Emily had always said high society made its own rules.

  “Do you want to leave?” Dominic whispered hopefully.

  “Certainly not!” she replied without giving herself time to consider, in case she accepted. “I wish to meet Esmond Vanderley.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you—there has been a crime.”

  “I know that!” he said sharply. “And they have arrested the tutor. What on earth do you hope to achieve by talking to Vanderley?”

  It was a very reasonable question and he did have a certain right to ask.

  “Thomas is not really satisfied that he is guilty,” she whispered back. “There is a great deal we do not know.”

  “Then why did he arrest him?”

  “He was commanded to!”

  “Charlotte—”

  At this point, deciding that valor was the better part of discretion, she let go of his arm and swept forward to join in the party.

  She discovered immediately that the conversation was glittering and wildly brittle, full of bons mots and bright laughter, glances with intimate meaning. At another time, she might have felt excluded, but today she was here just to observe. The few people who spoke to her she answered without effort to be entertaining, half her mind absorbed with watching everyone else.

  The women were all expensively dressed, and seemed full of self-assurance. They moved easily from group to group, and flirted with a skill that Charlotte both envied and deplored. She could no more have achieved it than grown wings to fly. Even the plainest ones seemed peculiarly gifted in this particular skill, exhibiting wit and a certain panache.

  The men were every bit as fashionable: coats exquisitely cut, cravats gorgeous, hair exaggeratedly long and with waves many a woman would have been proud of. For once, Dominic seemed unremarkable. His chiseled features were discreet, his clothes sober by comparison—and she discovered she greatly preferred them.

  One lean young man with beautiful hands and a passionately sensitive face stood alone at a table, his dark gray eyes on the pianist gently rippling a Chopin nocturne on the grand piano. She wondered for a moment if he felt as misplaced here as she did. There was an unhappiness in his face, a sense of underlying grief that he sought to distract, and failed. Cou
ld he be Esmond Vanderley?

  She turned to find Dominic. “Who is he?” she whispered.

  “Lord Frederick Turner,” he replied, his face shadowing with an emotion she did not understand. It was a mixture of dislike and something else, indefinable. “I don’t see Vanderley, yet.” He took her firmly by the elbow and pushed her forward. “Let us go through the next room. He may be there.” Short of pulling herself free by force, she had no choice but to move as he directed.

  A few people drifted up and spoke with Dominic, and he introduced Charlotte as his sister-in-law Miss Ellison. The conversation was trivial and bright; she gave it little of her attention. A striking woman with very black hair addressed them and skillfully led Dominic off, grasping his arm in an easy, intimate gesture, and Charlotte found herself suddenly alone.

  A violinist was playing something that seemed to have neither beginning nor end. Within moments, she was approached by a Byronically handsome man with bold eyes, full of candid humor.

  “The music is inexpressibly tedious, is it not?” he remarked conversationally. “I cannot imagine why they bother!”

  “Perhaps to give those who desire it some easy subject with which to open a conversation?” she suggested coolly. She had not been introduced, and he was taking something of a liberty.

  It seemed to amuse him, and he regarded her quite openly, looking at her shoulders and throat with admiration. She was furious to realize from the heat she felt in her skin that she was blushing. It was the very last thing she wished!

  “You have not been here before,” he observed.

  “You must come very regularly to know that.” She allowed considerable acid into her tone. “I am surprised, if you find it so uninteresting.”

  “Only the music.” He shook his head a little. “And I am an optimist. I come in permanent hope of some delightful adventure. Who could have foretold that I should meet you here?”

  “You have not met me!” She tried to freeze him with an icy glance, but he was impervious; in fact, it appeared to entertain him the more. “You have scraped an acquaintance, which I do not intend to continue!” she added.

  He laughed aloud, a pleasant sound of true enjoyment.

  “You know, my dear, you are quite individual! I believe I shall have a delicious evening with you, and you will find I am neither ungenerous nor overly demanding.”

  Suddenly it all became abominably clear to her—this was a place of assignation! Many of these women were courtesans, and this appalling man had taken her for one of them! Her face flamed with confusion for her own obtuseness, and rage with herself because at least half of her was flattered! It was mortifying!

  “I do not care in the slightest what you are!” she said with a choking breath. She added, quite unfairly, “And I shall have most unpleasant words with my brother-in-law for bringing me to this place. His sense of humor is in the poorest possible taste!” With a flounce of her skirts, she swept away from him, leaving him surprised but delighted, with an excellent story to recount to his friends.

  “Serves you right,” Dominic said with some satisfaction when she found him. He half turned and moved his hand toward a man of casually elegant appearance, dressed in the height of fashion but managing to make it all seem uncontrived. His bones were good, his wavy, fair hair not especially long. “May I present Mr. Esmond Vanderley, my sister-in-law Miss Ellison!”

  Charlotte was ill-prepared for it; her wits were still scattered from the last encounter.

  “How do you do, Mr. Vanderley,” she said with far less composure than she had intended. “Dominic has spoken of you. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  “He was less kind to me,” Vanderley answered with an easy smile. “He has kept you a total secret, which I consider perhaps wise, but most selfish of him.”

  Now that she was faced with him, how on earth could she bring up the subject of Arthur Waybourne or anything to do with Jerome? The whole idea of meeting Vanderley in this place had been ridiculous. Emily would have managed it with far more aplomb—how thoughtless of her to be absent just when she was needed! She should have been here in London to hunt murderers, not galloping about in the Leicestershire mud after some wretched fox!

  She lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them with a frank smile, a little shy. “Perhaps he thought with your recent bereavement you would find being bothered with new acquaintances tiresome. We have had such an experience in our own family, and know that it can take one in most unexpected ways.”

  She hoped the smile, the sense of sympathy, extended to her eyes, and that he understood it as such. Dear heaven! She could not bear to be misunderstood again! She plunged on, “One moment one wishes only to be left alone; the next, one desires more than anything else to be among as many people as possible, none of whom have the faintest idea of your affairs.” She was proud of that—it was an embroidery of truth worthy of Emily at her best.

  Vanderley looked startled.

  “Good gracious! How perceptive of you, Miss Ellison. I had no idea you were even aware of it. Dominic apparently was not. Did you read it in the newspapers?”

  “Oh, no!” she lied instantly. She had not yet forgotten that ladies of good society would not do such a thing. Reading the newspaper overheated the blood; it was considered bad for the health to excite the mind too much, not to mention bad for the morals. The pages of social events might be read, perhaps, but certainly not murders! A far better answer occurred to her. “I have a friend who also has had dealings with Mr. Jerome.”

  “Oh, God, yes!” he said wearily. “Poor devil!”

  Charlotte was confused. Could he possibly mean Jerome? Surely whatever sympathy he felt could only be for Arthur Waybourne.

  “Tragic,” she agreed, lowering her voice suitably. “And so very young. The destruction of innocence is always terrible.” It sounded sententious, but she was concerned with drawing him out and perhaps learning something, not with creating a good impression upon him herself.

  His wide mouth twisted very slightly.

  “Would you consider the very discourteous to disagree with you, Miss Ellison? I find total innocence the most unutterable bore, and it is inevitably lost at one point or another, unless one abdicates from life altogether and withdraws to a convent. I daresay even there the same eternal jealousies and malice still intrude. The thing to desire is that innocence should be replaced with humor and a little style. Fortunately, Arthur possessed both of those.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Jerome, on the other hand, has neither. And of course Arthur was charming, whereas Jerome is a complete ass, poor sod. He has neither lightness of touch nor even the most basic sense of social survival.”

  Dominic glared at him, but obviously could find no satisfactory words to answer such frankness.

  “Oh.” Vanderley smiled at Charlotte with candid charm. “I beg your pardon. My language is inexcusable. I have only just learned that the wretched man also forced his attentions upon my younger nephew and a cousin’s boy. Arthur was dreadful enough, but that he should have involved himself with Godfrey and Titus I still find staggering. Put my appalling manners down to shock, if you will be so generous?”

  “Of course,” she said quickly, not out of courtesy but because she truly meant it. “He must be a totally depraved man, and to discover that he has been teaching one’s family for years is enough to horrify anybody out of all thought of polite conversation. It was clumsy of me to have mentioned it at all.” She hoped he would not take her at her word and let the subject fall. Was she being too discreet? “Let us hope that the whole matter will be proved beyond question, and the man hanged,” she added, watching his face closely.

  The long eyelids lowered in a movement that seemed to reflect pain and a need for privacy. Perhaps she should not have spoken of hanging. It was the last thing she wished herself—for Jerome, or anyone else.

  “What I mean,” she hastened on, “is that the trial should be brief, and there be no question left in anyone’s co
nscience that he is guilty!”

  Vanderley regarded her with a flash of honesty that was oddly out of place in this room of games and masquerades. His eyes were very clear.

  “A clean kill, Miss Ellison? Yes, I hope so, too. Far better to bury all the squalid little details. Who needs to strip naked the pain? We use the excuse of the love for truth to inquire into a labyrinth of things that are none of our affair. Arthur is dead anyway. Let the wretched tutor be convicted without all his lesser sins paraded for a prurient public to feed its self-righteousness on.”

  She felt suddenly guilty, a raging hypocrite. She was trying to do precisely what he condemned and by silence she was agreeing with: the turning over of every private weakness in an endless search for truth. Did she really believe Jerome was innocent, or was she merely being inquisitive, like the rest?

  She shut her eyes for a moment. That was immaterial! Thomas did not believe it—at least he had desperate doubts. Prurient or not, Jerome deserved an honest hearing!

  “If he is guilty,” she said quietly.

  “You think he is not?” Vanderley was looking at her narrowly now, unhappiness in his eyes. Perhaps he feared another sordid and drawn-out ordeal for his family.

  She had trapped herself; the moment of candor was over.

  “Oh—I have no idea!” She opened her eyes wide. “I hope the police do not often make mistakes.”

  Dominic had had enough.

  “I should think it very unlikely,” he said with some asperity. “Either way, it is a most unpleasant subject, Charlotte. I am sure you will be pleased to hear that Alicia Fitzroy-Hammond married that extraordinary American—what was his name? Virgil Smith! And she is to have a child. She has retired somewhat from public functions already. You do remember them, don’t you?”

  Charlotte was delighted. Alicia had had such a miserable time when her first husband died, just before the murders in Resurrection Row.

  “Oh, I’m so glad!” she said sincerely. “Do you think she would recall me if I wrote to her?”

 

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