Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [22]
To be direct seemed the only avenue. He tried to make himself sound frank, to hide his instinctive dislike.
“Did Sir Anstey tell you the cause of Arthur’s death?” he asked, leaning forward in an unconscious attempt to do physically what he could not do emotionally.
Jerome sat back at the same moment, viewing Pitt with a frown.
“I believe he was attacked in the street,” he replied. “I haven’t heard more than that.” His nostrils flared delicately. “Are the details important, Inspector?”
“Yes, Mr. Jerome, they are very important indeed. Arthur Waybourne was drowned.” He watched closely: Was the incrudulity feigned, a little too much?
“Drowned?” Jerome regarded him as if he had made an attempt at humor that was repellent. Then comprehension flashed across his face. “You mean in the river?”
“No, Mr. Jerome, in a bath.”
Jerome spread out his manicured hands. His eyes were bleak.
“If this sort of idiocy is part of your method of interrogation, Inspector, I find it unnecessary and most unpleasant.”
Pitt could not disbelieve him. Such a dry, sour man could not be so consummate an actor, or he would have shown humor, learned charm to make his own path easier.
“No,” Pitt answered him. “I mean it quite literally. Arthur Waybourne was drowned in bathwater, and his naked body put down a manhole into the sewers.”
Jerome stared at him. “In God’s name! What’s happening? Why—I mean—who? How could—for heaven’s sake, man, it’s preposterous!”
“Yes, Mr. Jerome—and very ugly,” Pitt said quietly. “And there is worse than that. He was homosexually used sometime before he was killed.”
Jerome’s face was absolutely still, as if he either did not understand or could not believe it as any kind of reality.
Pitt waited. Was the silence caution, a consideration what to say? Or was it genuine shock, the emotion any decent man would feel? He watched every flicker—and still he had no idea.
“Sir Anstey did not tell me that,” Jerome said at last. “It is perfectly dreadful. I suppose there is no question?”
“No.” Pitt allowed himself the shadow of a smile. “Do you think Sir Anstey would concede it if there were?”
Jerome took his point, but the irony passed him by.
“No—no, of course not. Poor man. As if death were not enough.” He looked up quickly, hostile again. “I trust you are going to treat the matter with discretion?”
“As far as possible,” Pitt said. “I would prefer to get all the answers I can from within the household.”
“If you are suggesting that I have any idea who might have had such a relationship with Arthur, you are quite mistaken.” Jerome bristled with offense. “If I had had even the least suspicion of such a thing, I should have done something about it!”
“Would you?” Pitt said quickly. “Upon suspicion—and without proof? What would you have done, Mr. Jerome?”
Jerome saw the trap instantly. A flicker of self-mockery moved in his face, and then vanished.
“You are quite right, Mr. Pitt. I should have done nothing. However, disappointing as it is, I had no suspicion at all. Whatever occurred, it was quite beyond my knowledge. I can tell you all the boys of similar age that Arthur spent time with. Although I don’t envy you trying to discover which of them it was—if indeed it was any of his friends and not just some acquaintance. Personally, I think you are probably mistaken in supposing it to have any connection with his death. Why should anyone indulging in such a—a relationship commit murder? If you are suggesting some sort of an affair, with passion and jealousy or anything of the sort, I would remind you that Arthur Waybourne was barely sixteen.”
This was something that had troubled Pitt. Why should anyone have killed Arthur? Had Arthur threatened to disclose the relationship? Was he an unwilling partner, and the strain had become too great? That seemed the more likely answer. If it was someone who