Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [124]
Blood vessels stood out in Swynford’s neck.
“Do you leave my house of your own will?” he shouted furiously. “Or must I call a footman to have you escorted? Mrs. Swynford is forbidden to see you again—and if you call here you will not be admitted.”
“Mortimer!” Callantha whispered. She reached out to him, then dropped her hands helplessly. She was transfixed with embarrassment.
Swynford ignored her. “Do you leave, Mrs. Pitt, or shall I be obliged to ring for a servant?”
Charlotte turned to Titus, standing rigid and white-faced.
“You are in no way to blame,” she said clearly. “Don’t worry about what you have said. I shall see for you that it reaches the right people. You have discharged your conscience. You have nothing now to be ashamed of.”
“He had nothing at any time!” Swynford roared, and reached for the bell.
Charlotte turned and walked to the door, stopping a moment when she had opened it.
“Goodbye, Callantha, it has been most pleasant knowing you. Please believe I do not bear you any grudge, or hold you responsible for this.” And before Swynford could reply she closed the door and collected her cloak from the footman, then went outside to Emily’s carriage, stepped in, and gave the coachman directions to take her home.
She debated whether or not to tell Pitt about it. But when he came in she found that, as always, she was incapable of keeping it to herself. It all came out, every word and feeling she could remember, until her dinner was cold in front of her and Pitt had completely eaten his.
Of course there was nothing he could do. The evidence against Maurice Jerome had evaporated until there was none left that would have been sufficient to convict him. On the other hand, there was no other person to put in his place. The proof had disappeared, but it had not proved his innocence, nor had it given the least indication toward anyone else. Gillivray had connived at Abigail’s lies because he was ambitious and wished to please Athelstan—and possibly he had genuinely believed Jerome to be guilty. Titus and Godfrey had not lied in any intentional sense; they were merely too naive, as any young boys might be, to realize what their suggestions meant. They had agreed because they did not understand. They were guilty only of innocence and a desire to do what was expected of them.
And Anstey Waybourne? He had wanted to find the least painful way out: He was outraged. One of his sons had been seduced; why should he not believe the other had been also? It was most probable he had no idea that, by his own outrage and his leap to conclusions, he had led his son into the statement that damned Jerome. He had expected a certain answer, conceiving it in his wounded imagination first, and made the boy believe there had been an offense that he was simply too young to understand.
Swynford? He had done the same—or had he? Perhaps he now guessed that it had all been a monumental catastrophe of lies; but who would dare admit such a thing? It could not be undone. Jerome was convicted. Swynford’s fury was gross and offensive, but there was no reason to believe it was guilt of anything but connivance at a lie to protect his own. Accessory perhaps to the death of Jerome? But not the murder of Arthur.
So who—and why?
The murderer was still unknown. It could be anyone at all, someone they had never even heard of—some anonymous pimp or furtive customer.
It was some days before Charlotte learned the truth, which was waiting for her when she returned home from a visit to Emily. They had been working on their crusade, which had by no means been abandoned.