Bluegate Fields (37 page)

“So I began to wonder, if it was not Jerome, then with whom did Arthur have this dreadful relationship? As I told you, I asked Titus many questions. And I also asked Benita. The further we progressed in our discoveries, the more did we find that one single fear became clearer in our minds. It was Benita who spoke it at last. It will do you no good”—she turned to look at Charlotte—“because I do not think there is any way you will ever be able to prove it, but I believe it was my cousin Esmond Vanderley who was Arthur’s seducer. Esmond has never married, and so of course he has no children of his own. We have always considered it most natural that he should be extremely fond of his nephews, and spend some time with them, the more with Arthur because he was the eldest. Neither Benita nor I saw anything amiss—thoughts of a physical relationship of that nature between a man and a boy did not enter our minds. But now, with knowledge, I look back and I understand a great deal that passed by me then. I can even recall Esmond having a course of medical treatment recently, medicine he was obliged to take which he did not discuss and which Mortimer would not tell me of. Both Benita and I were concerned, because Esmond appeared so worried and short in temper. He said it was a complaint of the circulation, but when I asked Mortimer, he said it was of the stomach. When Benita asked the family doctor, he said Esmond had not consulted him at all.

“Of course, you will never be able to prove that either, because even if you were to find the doctor concerned—and I have no idea who he might be—doctors do not allow anyone else to know what is in their records, which is perfectly proper.

“I’m sorry.” She stopped quite suddenly.

Charlotte was stunned. It was an answer—it was probably even the truth—and it was no use at all. Even if they could prove that Vanderley had spent a lot of time with Arthur, that was perfectly natural. No one could be found who had seen Arthur the night he was killed; they had already looked, long and pointlessly. And they did not know which doctor had seen Vanderley when the symptoms of his disease had first appeared, only that it was not the family doctor, and either Swynford did not know what it was or he knew and had lied—probably the former. It was a disease that aped many others, and its symptoms, after the initial eruptions, frequently lay dormant for years, even decades. There was amelioration, but no cure.

The only thing they might possibly do would be to find proof of some other relationship he had had, and thus show that he was homosexual. But since Jerome had been found guilty and condemned by the court, Pitt could not investigate Vanderley’s private life. He had no reason.

Callantha was right; there was nothing they could do. It was not even worth telling Eugenie Jerome that her husband was innocent, because she had never believed him to be anything else.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said quietly, standing up. “That must have been extremely difficult for you, and for Lady Waybourne. I am grateful for your honesty. It is something to know the truth.”

“Even when it is too late? Jerome will still be hanged.”

“I know.” There was nothing more to say. Neither of them wished to sit together and discuss it anymore, and it would have been ridiculous, even obscene, to try to talk of anything else. Callantha took her leave on the doorstep.

“You have shown me much that I did not wish to see, and yet now that I have, I know it is impossible to go back. I could not be the person that I was.” She touched Charlotte on the arm, a quick gesture of closeness, then walked across the pavement and accepted her footman’s hand into her carriage.

The following day Pitt walked into Athelstan’s office and closed the door behind him.

“Maurice Jerome did not kill Arthur Waybourne,” he said bluntly. When Charlotte had told him the previous evening, he had made up his mind then, and had forced it from his thoughts ever since, lest fear should make him draw back. He dared not even think of what he might lose; the price might rob him of the courage to do what his first instinct told him he must, however uselessly.

“Yesterday, Callantha Swynford came to my house and told my wife that she and her cousin Lady Waybourne knew that it was Esmond Vanderley, the boy’s uncle, who had killed Arthur Waybourne but they could not prove it. Titus Swynford admitted he did not know what he was talking about in the witness box. He merely agreed to what his father had suggested to him, because he believed his father might be right—Godfrey the same.” He allowed Athelstan no chance to interrupt him. “I went to the brothel where Abigail Winters worked. No one else ever saw either Jerome or Arthur Waybourne in the place, not even the old woman who keeps the door and watches it like a hawk. And Abigail has suddenly vanished to the country, for her health. And Gillivray admits he put the words into her mouth. And Albie Frobisher has been murdered. Arthur Waybourne had venereal disease and Jerome has not. There is no longer any evidence against Jerome at all—nothing! We can probably never prove Vanderley killed Arthur Waybourne—it appears to have been an almost perfect crime—except that for some reason or other he had to kill Albie! And by God I intend to do everything I can to get him for that!

“And if you don’t ask Deptford for the case back, I shall tell some very interesting people I know that Jerome is innocent, and we shall execute the wrong man because we accepted the words of prostitutes and ignorant boys without looking at them hard enough—because it suited us to have Jerome guilty. It was convenient. It meant we did not have to tread on important toes, ask ugly questions, risk our own careers by embarrassing the wrong people.” He stopped, his legs shaking and his chest tight.

Athelstan stared at him. His face had been red, but now the color drained and left him pasty, beads of sweat standing out on his brow. He looked at Pitt as if he were a snake that had crawled out of a desk drawer to menace him.

“We did everything we could!” He licked his lips.

“We did not!” Pitt exploded, guilt running like fire through his anger. He was even more guilty than Athelstan, because part of him had never entirely believed Jerome had killed Arthur, and he had suppressed that voice with the smooth arguments of reason. “But God help me, we shall now!”

“You’ll—you’ll never prove it, Pitt! You’ll only make a lot of trouble, hurt a lot of people! You don’t know why that woman came to you. Maybe she’s a hysteric.” His voice grew a little stronger as hope mounted. “Maybe she has been scorned by him at some time, and she is—”

“His sister?” Pitt’s voice was thick with contempt.

Athelstan had forgotten Benita Waybourne.

“All right! Maybe she believes it—but we’ll never prove it!” he repeated helplessly. “Pitt!” His voice sank to a moan.

“We might be able to prove he killed Albie—that’ll do!”

“How? For God’s sake, man, how?”

“There must have been a connection. Somebody may have seen them together. There may be a letter, money, something. Albie lied for him. Vanderley must have thought he was dangerous. Perhaps Albie tried a little blackmail, went back for more money. If there is anybody or anything at all, I’m going to find it—and I’m going to hang him for Albie’s murder!” He glared at Athelstan, daring him to prevent him, daring him to protect Vanderley, the Waybournes, or anyone else any longer.

This was not the time; Athelstan was too shaken. In a few hours, perhaps by tomorrow, he would have had a chance to think about it, to balance one risk against another and find courage. But now he had not the resolve to fight Pitt.

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “Well, I suppose we must. Ugly—it’s all very ugly, Pitt. Remember the morale of the police force, so—so be careful what you say!”

Pitt knew the danger of argument now. Even a hint of indecision, of vacillation, would allow Athelstan the chance to gather his thoughts. He gave him a cold, withering look.

“Of course,” he said sharply, then turned and went to the door. “I’m going to Deptford now. I’ll tell you when I learn something.”

Wittle was surprised to see him. “Morning, Mr. Pitt! You’re not still on about that boy as we got out o’ the river, are you? Can’t tell you anythin’ more. Goin’s to close the case, poor little sod. Can’t waste the time.”

“I’m taking the case back.” Pitt did not bother to sit down; there was too much emotion and energy boiling inside him to permit it. “We discovered Maurice Jerome did not kill the Waybourne boy, and we know who did, but we can’t prove it. But we may be able to prove he killed Albie.”

Wittle pulled a sad, sour face. “Bad business,” he said softly. “Don’t like that. Bad for everybody, that is. ’Anging’s kind o’ permanent. Can’t say you’re sorry to a bloke as you’ve already ’anged. Wot can I do to ’elp?”

Pitt warmed to him. He seized a chair and swung it around to face the desk, then sat down close, leaning his elbows on the littered surface. He told Wittle all he knew and Wittle listened without interruption, his dark face growing more and more somber.

“Nasty,” he said at the end. “Sorry for the wife, poor little thing. But wot I don’t understand—why did Vanderley kill the Waybourne boy at all? No need, as I see it. Boy wouldn’t a’ blackmailed ’im—was just as guilty ’isself. Who’s to say ’e didn’t like it anyway?”

“I expect he did,” Pitt said. “Until he discovered he had contracted syphilis.” He recalled the lesions the police surgeon had found on the body, enough to frighten any youth with the faintest clue of their meaning.

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.”