Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [10]
Pitt felt an instinctive dislike for the man. It was unreasonable, but he imagined Jerome and he would have no belief or emotion in common, not even their perceptions of the same event.
“But he might have known with whom he intended to have dinner?” Pitt pointed out. “I presume it would be someone he was already acquainted with. We should be able to discover who it was.”
Jerome’s eyes were dark, a little rounder than average.
“I fail to see how that will help,” he answered. “He cannot have reached the appointment. If he did, then the person would no doubt have come forward and expressed his condolences at least. But what purpose would it serve?”
“We would learn where he was,” Pitt pointed out. “It would narrow the area. Witnesses might be found.”
Jerome did not see any hope in that.
“Possibly. I suppose you know your business. But I’m afraid I have no idea with whom he intended to spend the evening. I presume, in view of the fact that the person has not come forward, that it was not a prearranged appointment, but something on the spur of the moment. And boys of that age do not confide their social engagements to their tutors, Inspector.” There was a faint touch of irony in his voice—something less than self-pity, but more sour than humor.
“Perhaps you could give me a list of his friends that you are aware of?” Pitt suggested. “We can eliminate them quite easily. I would rather not press Sir Anstey at the moment.”
“Of course.” Jerome turned to the small leather-topped writing table by the wall and pulled out a drawer. He took paper and began to make notes, but his face expressed his disbelief. He thought Pitt was doing something quite useless because he could think of nothing else, a man clutching at straws to appear efficient. He had written half a dozen lines when Waybourne came back. He glanced at Pitt, then immediately at Jerome.
“What is that?” he demanded, hand outstretched toward the paper.
Jerome’s face stiffened. “Names of various friends of Mr. Arthur’s, sir, with whom he might have intended to dine. The inspector wishes it.”
Waybourne sniffed. “Indeed?” He looked icily at Pitt. “I trust you will endeavor to be discreet, Inspector. I should not care for my friends to be embarrassed. Do I make myself clear?”
Pitt had to force himself to remember the circumstances in order to curb his rising temper.
But Gillivray stepped in before he could answer.
“Of course, Sir Anstey,” he said smoothly. “We are aware of the delicacy of the matter. All we shall ask is whether the gentlemen in question was expecting Mr. Arthur for dinner, or for any other engagement that evening. I’m sure they will understand it is important that we make every effort to discover where this appalling event took place. Most probably it was just as you say, a chance attack that might have happened to any well-dressed young gentleman who appeared to have valuables on him. But we must do what little we can to ascertain that this was so.”
Waybourne’s face softened with something like appreciation.
“Thank you. I cannot think it will make the slightest difference, but of course you are right. You will not discover who did this—this thing. However, I quite see that you are obliged to try.” He turned to the tutor. “Thank you, Jerome. That will be all.”
Jerome excused himself and left, closing the door behind him.
Waybourne looked from Gillivray back to Pitt, his expression changing. He could not understand the essence of Gillivray’s social delicacy, or of Pitt’s brief, sharp compassion that leaped the gulf of every other difference between them; to him, the men represented the distinction between discretion and vulgarity.
“I believe that is all I can do to be of assistance to you, Inspector,” he said coldly. “I have spoken to Mr. Mortimer Swynford, and if you still feel it necessary, you may speak to Titus.” He ran his hand through his thick, fair hair