Bluegate Fields (3 page)

Gillivray was too startled to react for an instant, but the morgue attendant had seen it more times than he could recall. It was the worst part of his job. He had a chair ready, and as Waybourne’s knees buckled he eased him into it as if it were all one natural movement—not a collapse but a seating.

Pitt covered the face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said quietly. “You identify this as the body of your son Arthur Waybourne?”

Waybourne tried to speak but at first his voice would not come. The attendant gave him a glass of water and he took a sip of it.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, that is my son Arthur.” He grasped the glass and drank some more of it slowly. “Would you be so good as to tell me where he was discovered and how he died?”

“Of course. He was drowned.”

“Drowned?” Obviously, Waybourne was startled. Perhaps he had never seen a drowned face before and did not recognize the puffy flesh, marble white.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Drowned? How? In the river?”

“No, sir, in a bath.”

“You mean he—he fell? He hit his head or something? What a ridiculous accident! That’s the sort of thing that happens to old men!” Already the denial had begun, as if its ridiculousness could somehow make it untrue.

Pitt took a breath and let it out slowly. Evasion was not possible.

“No, sir. It seems he was murdered. His body was not found in a bath—not even in a house. I’m sorry—it was found in the sewers below Bluegate Fields, up against the sluice gates to the Thames. But for a particularly diligent sewer cleaner, we might not have found him at all.”

“Oh, hardly!” Gillivray protested. “Of course he would have been found!” He wanted to contradict Pitt, prove him wrong in something, as if it could even now in some way disprove everything. “He could not have disappeared. That’s nonsense. Even in the river—” He hesitated, then decided the subject was too unpleasant and abandoned it.

“Rats,” Pitt said simply. “Twenty-four hours more in the sewer and he would not have been recognizable. A week, and there would have been nothing but bones. I’m sorry, Sir Anstey, but your son was murdered.”

Waybourne bridled visibly, his eyes glittering in the white face.

“That’s preposterous!” His voice was high now, even shrill. “Who on earth would have any reason to murder my son? He was sixteen! Quite innocent of anything at all. We lead a perfectly proper and orderly life.” He swallowed convulsively and regained a fraction of his control. “You have mixed too much among the criminal element and the lower classes, Inspector,” he said. “There is no one whatsoever who would wish Arthur any harm. There was no reason.”

Pitt felt his stomach tighten. This was going to be the most painful of all: the facts Waybourne would find intolerable, beyond acceptance.

“I’m sorry.” He seemed to be beginning every sentence with an apology. “I’m sorry, sir, but your son was suffering from the early stages of venereal disease—and he had been homosexually used.”

Waybourne stared at him, scarlet blood suffusing his skin.

“That’s obscene!” he shouted, starting from the chair as if to stand up, but his legs buckled. “How dare you say such a thing! I’ll have you dismissed! Who is your superior?”

“It’s not my diagnosis, sir. It is what the police surgeon says.”

“Then he is a mischievous incompetent! I’ll see he never practices again! It’s monstrous! Obviously, Arthur was kidnapped, poor boy, and murdered by his captors. If—” He swallowed. “If he was abused before he was killed, then you must charge his murderers with that also. And see to it that they are hanged! But as for the other”—he made a sharp slicing motion with his hand in the air—“that is—that is quite impossible. I demand that our own family physician examine the—the body and refute this slander!”

“By all means,” Pitt agreed. “But he will find the same facts, and they are capable of only one diagnosis—the same as the police pathologist.”

Waybourne gulped and caught his breath awkwardly. His voice, when it came, was tight, scraping.

“He will not! I am not without influence, Mr. Pitt. I shall see that this monstrous wrong is not done to my poor son or to the rest of his family. Good day to you.” He stood a little unsteadily, then turned and walked out of the room, up the steps, and into the daylight.

Pitt ran his hand through his hair, leaving it on end.

“Poor man,” he said softly, to himself rather than to Gillivray. “He’s going to make it so much harder for himself.”

“Are you sure it really is—?” Gillivray said anxiously.

“Don’t be so stupid!” Pitt sank down with his head in his hands. “Of course I’m damned well sure!”

T
HERE WAS NOT
time for the decencies of mourning to be observed. People’s memories were short; details passed from mind. Pitt was obliged to return to the Waybourne family the next morning and begin the inquiries that could not wait upon grief or the recapturing of composure.

The house was silent. All the blinds were partway down, and there was black crepe on the front door. Straw was spread on the road outside to reduce the sound of carriage wheels passing. Gillivray had come in the soberest of garb, and stayed, grim-faced, two steps behind Pitt. He reminded Pitt irritatingly of an undertaker’s assistant, full of professional sorrow.

The butler opened the door and ushered them in immediately, not allowing them time to stand on the doorstep. The hall was somber in the half-light of the drawn blinds. In the morning room, the gas lamps were lit and a small fire burned in the grate. On the low, round table in the center of the room were white flowers in a formal arrangement: chrysanthemums and thick, soft-fleshed lilies. It all smelled faintly of wax and polish and old sweet flowers, just a little stale.

Anstey Waybourne came in almost immediately. He looked pale and tired, his face set. He had already prepared what he intended to say and did not bother with courtesies.

“Good morning,” he began stiffly. Then, without waiting for a response, he continued: “I assume you have certain questions it is necessary for you to ask. I shall do my best, of course, to give you the small amount of information I possess. I have given the matter some considerable thought, naturally.” He clasped his hands together and looked at the lilies on the table. “I have come to the conclusion that my son was quite certainly attacked by strangers, perhaps purely from the base motives of robbery. Or I admit it is marginally possible that abduction was intended, although we have received no indication that it was so—no demand for any kind of ransom.” He glanced at Pitt, and then away again. “Of course it may be that there was not time—some preposterous accident occurred, and Arthur died. Obviously, they then panicked.” He took a deep breath. “And the results we are all painfully aware of.”

Pitt opened his mouth, but Waybourne waved his hand to silence him.

“No, please! Allow me to continue. There is very little we can tell you, but no doubt you wish to know about my son’s last day alive, although I cannot see of what use it will be to you.

“Breakfast was perfectly normal. We were all present. Arthur spent the morning, as is customary, with his younger brother Godfrey, studying under the tutelage of Mr. Jerome, whom I employ for that purpose. Luncheon was quite unremarkable. Arthur was his usual self. Neither his manner nor his conversation was in any way out of the ordinary, and he made no mention of any persons unknown to us, or any plans for unusual activity.” Waybourne did not move in all the time he spoke, but stood in exactly the same spot on the rich Aubusson carpet.

“In the afternoon, Godfrey resumed his studies with Mr. Jerome. Arthur read for an hour or two—his classics, I believe—a little Latin. Then he went out with the son of a family friend, a boy of excellent background and well known to us. I have spoken to him myself, and he is also unaware of anything unusual in Arthur’s behavior. They parted at approximately five in the afternoon, as near as Titus can remember, but Arthur did not say where he was going, except that it was to dine with a friend.” Waybourne looked up at last and met Pitt’s eyes. “I’m afraid that is all we can tell you.”

Pitt realized that there was already a wall raised against investigation. Anstey Waybourne had decided what had occurred: a chance attack that might have happened to anyone, a tragic but insoluble mystery. To pursue a resolution would not bring back the dead, and would only cause additional and unnecessary distress to those already bereaved.

Pitt could sympathize with him. He had lost a son, and in extraordinarily painful circumstances. But murder could not be concealed, for all its anguish.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I would like to see the tutor, Mr. Jerome, if I may, and your son Godfrey.”

Waybourne’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? You may see Jerome, of course, if you wish. Although I cannot see what purpose it will serve. I have told you all that he knows. But I’m afraid it is quite out of the question that you should speak with Godfrey. He has already lost his brother. I will not have him subjected to questioning—especially as it is completely unnecessary.”

It was not the time to argue. At the moment, they were all just names to Pitt, people without faces or characters, without connections except the obvious ones of blood; all the emotions involved were not yet even guessed.

“I would still like to speak to Mr. Jerome,” Pitt repeated. “He may recall something that would be of use. We must explore every possibility.”

“I cannot see the purpose of it.” Waybourne’s nose flared a little, perhaps with irritation, perhaps from the deadening smell of lilies. “If Arthur was set upon by thieves, Jerome is hardly likely to know anything that might help.”

“Probably not, sir.” Pitt hesitated, then said what he had to. “But there is always the possibility that his death had something to do with his—medical condition.” What an obscene euphemism. Yet he found himself using it, painfully aware of Waybourne, the shock saturating the house, generations of rigid self-discipline, imprisoned feelings.

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.