Wittle nodded. “ ’O course. That would change it from bein’ fun to suffin’ quite different. I s’pose ’e panicked and wanted a doctor—an’ that panicked Vanderley. Would do! After all, you can’t ’ave yer nephew runnin’ around sayin’ as ’e picked up syphilis from ’avin’ unnatural relations wiv yer! That’d be enough to provoke most men into doin’ suffink permanent. Reckon ’e just grabbed ’is feet and, woops-a-daisy, ’is ’ead goes under an’ in a few minutes ’e’s dead.”
“Something like that,” Pitt said. The scene was easy to imagine; the bathroom with big cast-iron tub, perhaps even one of those newfangled gas burners underneath to keep it hot, towels, fragrant oil, the two men—Arthur suddenly frightened by the sores on his body, something said that brought the realization of what they were—the quick violence—and then the corpse to be disposed of.
It had probably all happened in Vanderley’s own house—a servants’ night off. He would be alone. He would wrap the corpse in a blanket or something similar, carry it to the street in the dark, find the nearest manhole that was out of sight of passersby, and get rid of the body, hoping it would never be found. And, but for chance, it never would have been.
It was disgusting, and so easy to see, now that he knew. How could he ever have believed it was Jerome? This was so much more probable.
“Want any ’elp?” Wittle asked. “We still got a few of Albie’s things from the rooms ’e ’ad. We didn’t find any use in them, but you might, since you might know what you was looking for. Weren’t any letters or anythin’ like that.”
“I’ll look anyway,” Pitt said. “And I’ll go back to the rooms and search them again—might be something hidden. You found he knew quite a few high-class customers, you said. Can you give me their names?”
Wittle pulled a face. “Like to make yerself unpopular, do yer? There’ll be a rare lot o’ squealin’ and complainin’ goin’ on if you go and talk to these gentlemen.”
“I daresay,” Pitt agreed wryly. “But I’m not going to give up on this as long as there’s anything at all that I can still do. I don’t care who screams!”
Wittle fished among the papers on the desk and came up with half a dozen.
“There’s the people as Albie knew that we know of.” He grimaced. “O’ course there’s dozens more we’ll never know. That’s just about all we done to date. An’ ’is things that we got are in the other room. Not much, poor little swine. Still, I suppose ’e ate reg’lar, and that’s suffink. An’ ’is rooms was comfortable enough, and warm. That’d be part of ’is rent—can’t ’ave gentlemen comin’ in ter bare their delicate bodies to the naked an’ the room all freezin’ chill, now, can we?”
Pitt did not bother to reply. He knew they had an understanding about it. He thanked Wittle, went to the room where Albie’s few possessions were, looked through them carefully, then left and caught an omnibus back to Bluegate Fields.
The weather was bitter; shrill winds howled around the angles of walls and moaned in streets slippery with rain and sleet. Pitt found more and more pieces of Albie’s life. Sometimes they meant something: an assignation that took him closer to Esmond Vanderley, a small note with initials on it found stuffed in a pillow, an acquaintance in the trade who recalled something or had seen something. But it was never quite enough. Pitt could have drawn a vivid picture of Albie’s life, even of his feelings: the squalid, jealous, greedy world of buying and selling punctuated by possessive relationships that ended in fights and rejections, the underlying loneliness, the ever-present knowledge that as soon as his youth was worn out his income would vanish.
He told Charlotte a lot of it. The sadness, pointlessness lay heavy on his mind, and she wanted to know, for her own crusade. He had underestimated her strength. He found he was talking to her as he might have someone who was purely a friend; it was a good feeling, an extra dimension of warmth.
Time was growing desperately short when he found a young fop who swore, under some pressure, that he had attended a party where both Albie and Esmond Vanderley had been present. He thought they had spent some time together.
Then a call came to the police station, and shortly afterward Athelstan strode into Pitt’s office where he was sitting with a pile of statements trying to think whom else he could interview. Athelstan’s face was pale, and he closed the door with a quiet snap.
“You can stop all that,” he said with a shaking voice. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Pitt looked up, anger rising inside him, ready to fight—until he saw Athelstan’s face.
“Why?”
“Vanderley’s been shot. Accident. Happened at Swynford’s house. Swynford keeps sporting guns or something. Vanderley was playing about with one, and the thing went off. You’d better go around there and see them.”
“Sporting guns?” Pitt said incredulously, rising to his feet. “In the middle of London! What does he shoot—sparrows?”
“God dammit, man, how do I know?” Athelstan was exasperated and confused. “Antiques, or something! Antique guns—they’re collectors’ things. What does it matter? Get out there and see what’s happened! Tidy it up!”
Pitt walked to the hatstand, picked off his muffler, and wound it around his neck, then put on his coat and jammed his hat on hard.
“Yes, sir. I’ll go and see.”
“Pitt!” Athelstan shouted after him. But Pitt ignored him and went down the steps to the street, calling for a hansom, then running along the pavement.
When he arrived at the Swynford house, he was let in immediately. A footman had been waiting behind the door to conduct him to the withdrawing room, where Mortimer Swynford was sitting with his head in his hands. Callantha, Fanny, and Titus stood close together by the fire. Fanny clung to her mother without any pretense at being adult. Titus stood very stiff, but under the disguise of supporting his mother, he was holding her just as tightly.
Swynford looked up as he heard Pitt come in. His face was ashen.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” he said unsteadily. He climbed to his feet. “I am afraid there has been an—an appalling accident. My wife’s cousin Esmond Vanderley was alone in my study, where I keep some antique guns. He must have found the case of dueling pistols, and God knows what made him do it, but he took one out and loaded it—” He stopped, apparently unable to keep his composure.
“Is he dead?” Pitt inquired, although he knew already that he was. A strange sense of unreality was creeping over him, over the whole room, as if it were all merely a rehearsal for something else and in some bizarre way they all knew what each person would say.
“Yes.” Swynford blinked. “Yes, he’s dead. That is why I sent for you. We have one of these new telephones. God knows I never thought I would use it for this!”
“Perhaps I had better go and look at him.” Pitt went to the door.
“Of course.” Swynford followed him. “I’ll show you. Callantha, you will remain here. I shall see that it is all taken care of. If you would prefer to go upstairs, I am sure the inspector will not mind.” It was not a question; he was assuming Pitt would feel unable to argue.
Pitt turned in the doorway; he wanted Callantha there. He was not sure why, but the feeling was strong.
“No, thank you.” She spoke before Pitt had time to speak. “I prefer to stay. Esmond was my cousin. I wish to know the truth.”
Swynford opened his mouth to argue, but something in her had changed and he saw it. Perhaps he would reassert his authority as soon as Pitt had gone, but not now—not here in front of him. This was not the time for a battle of wills he might not win immediately.
“Very well,” he said quickly. “If that is what you prefer.” He led Pitt out and across the hallway toward the rear of the house. There was another footman outside the study door. He stood aside and they went in.
Esmond Vanderley was lying on his back on the red carpet in front of the fire. He had been shot in the head and the gun was still in his hand. There were powder burns on his skin, and
blood. The gun lay on the floor beside him, his fingers crooked loosely around the butt.
Pitt bent down and looked, without touching anything. His mind raced. An accident—to Vanderley—now, of all times, when he was at last finding the first shreds of evidence to connect him with Albie?
But he was not close enough yet—not nearly close enough for Vanderley to panic! In fact, the more he knew of the garish half-world that Albie had lived in, the more he doubted he would ever have proof he could bring to court that Vanderley had killed Albie. Surely Vanderley knew that too? He had stayed calm through all the investigation. Now, with Jerome about to be hanged, suicide was senseless.
In the original case, it was Arthur who had panicked, at his understanding of those lesions—not Vanderley. Vanderley had acted quickly, even adroitly, in an obscene way. He played any game to the last card. Why suicide now? He was far from being cornered.
But he would have known that Pitt was after him. Word would have spread—that was inevitable. There had never been any chance of stalking him, surprising him.
But it had been too soon for panic—and infinitely too soon for suicide. And an accident was idiotic!
He stood up and turned to face Swynford. An idea was gathering in his mind, still shapeless as yet, but becoming stronger.
“Shall we go back to the other room, sir?” he suggested. “It is not necessary to discuss it in here.”
“Well—” Swynford hesitated.
Pitt affected a look of piety. “Let us leave the dead in peace.” It was imperative that he say what he intended in front of Callantha, and even in front of Titus and Fanny, cruel though it was. Without them it was all academic—if he was right.
Swynford could not argue. He led the way back to the withdrawing room.
“You surely do not require my wife and children to remain, Inspector?” he said, leaving the door open for them to leave, although they showed no sign of wishing to.
“I am afraid I shall have to ask them some questions.” Pitt closed the door firmly and stood in front of it, blocking the way. “They were in the house when it happened. It is a very serious matter, sir.”
“Dammit, it was an accident!” Swynford said loudly. “The poor man is dead!”
“An accident,” Pitt repeated. “You were not with him when the gun went off?”
“No, I wasn’t! What are you accusing the of?” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I am extremely distressed. I was fond of the man. He was part of my family.”
“Of course, sir,” Pitt said with less sympathy than he had intended. “It is a most distressing business. Where were you, sir?”
“Where was I?” Swynford looked momentarily confused.
“A shot like that must have been heard all over the house. Where were you when it went off?” Pitt repeated.
“I—ah.” Swynford thought for a moment. “I was on the stairs, I think.”
“Going up or coming down, sir?”
“What in God’s name does it matter!” Swynford exploded. “The man is dead! Are you totally insensitive to tragedy? A moron who comes in here in the midst of grief and starts asking questions—idiotic questions as to whether I was going upstairs or downstairs at the instant?”
Pitt’s idea was growing stronger, clearer.
“You had been with him in the study, and had left to go upstairs for some purpose—perhaps to the bathroom?” Pitt ignored the insult.
“Probably. Why?”
“So Mr. Vanderley was alone with a loaded gun, in the study?”
“He was alone with several guns. I keep my collection in there. None of them was loaded! Do you think I keep loaded guns around the house? I am not a fool!”
“Then he must have loaded the gun the moment you left the room?”
“I suppose he must! What of it?” Swynford’s face was flushed now. “Can you not let my family leave? The discussion is painful—and, as far as I can see, totally pointless.”
Pitt turned to Callantha, still standing close to her children.
“Did you hear the shot, ma’am?”
“Yes, Inspector,” she said levelly. She was ashen white, but there was a curious composure about her, as if a crisis had come and she had met it and found herself equal to it.
“I’m sorry.” He was apologizing not for the question about the shot but for what he was about to do. Word had come back that Pitt was coming closer in his pursuit; that he knew. But it was not Esmond Vanderley who had panicked—it was Mortimer Swynford. It was Swynford who had been the architect of Jerome’s conviction—and he and Waybourne were all too willing to believe in it, until the appalling truth was uncovered. If the conviction was overturned, even questioned by society, and the truth came out about Vanderley and his nature, not only Vanderley would be ruined but all his family as well. The business would disappear; there would be no more parties, no more easy friendships, dining in fashionable clubs—everything Swynford valued would fray away like rotten fabric and leave nothing behind. In the quiet study, Swynford had taken the only way out. He had shot his cousin.
And again Pitt could certainly never prove it.
He turned to Swynford and spoke very slowly, very clearly, so that not only he would understand, but Callantha and his children also.
“I know what happened, Mr. Swynford. I know exactly what happened, although I cannot prove it now, and perhaps I never could. The boy prostitute Albie Frobisher, who gave evidence at Jerome’s trial, has also been murdered—you knew that, of course. You threw my wife out of your house for discussing it! I have been investigating that crime also, and have discovered a great deal. Your cousin Esmond Vanderley was homosexual, and he had syphilis. I could not prove to a court that it was he and not Jerome who seduced and murdered Arthur Waybourne.” He watched Swynford’s face with a satisfaction as hard and bitter as gall; it was bloodlessly white.
“You killed him for nothing,” Pitt went on. “I was close behind Vanderley, but there was no witness I could bring to court, no evidence I would have dared to call, and Vanderley knew that! He was safe from the law.”
Suddenly the color came back into Swynford’s skin, deep red. He sat up a little straighter, avoiding his wife’s eyes.
“Then there is nothing you can do!” he said with a flood of relief, almost confidence. “It was an accident! A tragic accident. Esmond is dead, and that is the end of it.”
Pitt stared back at him. “Oh, no,” he said, his voice grating with sarcasm. “No, Mr. Swynford. This was not an accidental death. That gun went off almost the moment you had left the room. He must have loaded it as soon as your back was turned—”
“But it was turned!” Swynford stood up, smiling now. “You cannot prove it was murder!”
“No, I cannot,” Pitt said. He smiled back, an icy, ruthless grimace. “Suicide. Esmond Vanderley committed suicide. That is how I shall report it—and let people make of it what they please!”
Swynford scrabbled after Pitt’s sleeve, his face sweating.
“But good God, man! They’ll say he killed Arthur, that it was remorse. They’ll realize—they’ll say that—”
“Yes—won’t they!” Pitt still smiled. He put Swynford’s hand off his arm as if it were a dirty thing, soiling him. He turned to Callantha. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said sincerely.
She ignored her husband as if he had not been there, but kept her hands tightly on her children.
“We cannot make amends,” she said quietly. “But we shall cease to protect ourselves with lies. If society chooses no longer to know us and all doors are closed, who can blame them? I shall not, nor shall I seek to excuse us. I hope you can accept that.”
Pitt bowed very slightly. “Yes, ma’am, of course I can accept it. When it is too late for reparation, some part of the truth is all that is left us. I shall send for a police doctor and a mortuary wagon. Is there anything I can do to be of service to you?” He admired her profoundly, and he wished her to know it.
“No, thank you, Insp
ector,” she said quietly. “I shall manage everything that needs to be done.”
He believed her. He did not speak again to Swynford, but walked past him out into the hall to instruct the butler to make the necessary arrangements. It was all over. Swynford would not be tried by law, but by society—and that would be infinitely worse.
And Jerome would at last be acquitted by that same society. He would walk out of Newgate Prison to Eugenie, her loyalty—perhaps even her love. Through the long searching for a new position, perhaps he would learn to value his life.
And Pitt would go home to Charlotte and the warm, safe kitchen. He would tell her—and see her smile, hold her tight and hard.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1984 by Anne Perry
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-1905-8
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 05] Page 30