Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [25]
Had Jerome ever had a kitchen like this that was his own to sit in for as long as he wanted, where he could put things into perspective?
He eased comfortably into one of the wooden chairs, and Charlotte put the kettle on the hob.
“The tutor,” she repeated. “That was quick.” She got down two cups and the china teapot with the flowers on it. “And convenient.”
He was stung. Did she imagine he was trimming the case to suit his comfort or his career?
“I said it appears as if it was,” he retorted sharply. “It’s far from proven! But you said yourself that it was unlikely to have been a stranger. Who would be more likely than a lonely, inhibited man, forced by circumstances to be always more than a servant and less than an equal, neither in one world nor the other? He saw the boy every day, worked with him. He was constantly and subtly patronized, one minute encouraged for his knowledge, his skills, and the next rebuffed because of his social status, set aside as soon as school was out.”
“You make that sound awful.” She poured milk from the cooler at the back door into a jug and set it on the table. “Sarah and Emily and I had a governess, and she wasn’t treated like that at all. I think she was perfectly happy.”
“Would you have changed places with her?” he asked.
She thought for only a moment; then her face shadowed very slightly.
“No. But then a governess is never married. A tutor can be married because he doesn’t have to look after his own children. Didn’t you say this tutor was married?”
“Yes, but he has no children.”
“Then why do you think he’s lonely or dissatisfied? Maybe he likes teaching. Lots of people do. It’s better than being a clerk or a shopboy.”
He thought. Why had he supposed Jerome was lonely or dissatisfied? It was an impression, no more—and yet it was deep. He had felt a resentment around him, a hunger to have more, to be more.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Something about the man; but it’s no more than informed suspicion so far.”
She took the kettle off the hob and made the tea, sending steam up in a sweet-smelling cloud.
“You know, most crimes are not very mysterious,” he went on, still a little defensively. “The most obvious person is usually the one responsible.”
“I know.” She did not look at him. “I know that, Thomas.”
Two days later, any doubts he had were dismissed when a constable met him with the message that Sir Anstey Waybourne’s footman had called, and Pitt was required at the house because a most serious turn of events had taken place; new and extremely disturbing evidence was to hand.
Pitt had no choice but to go immediately. It was raining, and he buttoned up his coat, tied his scarf tighter, and pushed his hat down on his head. It took only moments to find a hansom and clatter over the wet stones to the Waybourne house.
A serene-faced parlormaid let him in. Whatever had happened, it seemed she was unaware of it. She showed him straight into the library, where Waybourne was standing in front of the fire, clasping and unclasping his hands. His head jerked up and he faced Pitt even before the maid had closed the door.
“Good!” he said quickly. “Now perhaps we can get this whole dreadful business over with and bury the tragedy where it belongs. My God, it’s appalling!”
The door closed with a faint snap and they were alone. The maid’s footsteps clicked away on the parquet floor outside.
“What is the new evidence, sir?” Pitt asked guardedly. He was still sensitive to Charlotte’s implication of convenience, and it would have to be more than suspicion or malice before he regarded it with any credence.
Waybourne did not sit down or offer Pitt a seat.
“I have learned