Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [27]
“Did Mr. Jerome embarrass you?” Pitt felt a rush of sympathy for the boy. He was being asked to recount to a stranger an experience that was profoundly personal, confusing, and probably repellent. It should have been allowed to remain a secret within his family, a secret to be told or not as he chose, perhaps a little at a time, at whatever moments it came easily. Pitt hated having to extract it this way.
The boy’s face showed surprise; his blue eyes widened into a frank stare.
“Embarrass?” he repeated, considering the word. “No, sir.”
Apparently, Pitt had chosen the wrong word, although it seemed a particularly appropriate one to him.
“He did something that caused you to feel uncomfortable because it was overfamiliar, unusual?” he said, trying again.
The boy’s shoulders lifted and tightened a little.
“Yes,” he said very quietly, and for a second his eyes went up to his father’s face, but for so short a time that there was no communication between them.
“It’s important.” Pitt decided to treat him as an adult. Perhaps candor would be less distressing than an attempt to skirt around the issue, which would make it seem that there was shame or crime attached to it, leaving the boy to seek his own words for something he did not understand.
“I know,” Godfrey replied soberly. “Papa said so.”
“What happened?”
“When Mr. Jerome touched me?”
“Yes.”
“He just put his arm around me. I slipped and fell, and he helped me up.”
Pitt curbed his impatience. For all his confusion perhaps a natural denial, a retreat, the boy must be embarrassed.
“But it was unusual this time?” he encouraged.
“I didn’t understand.” Godfrey’s face puckered. “I didn’t know there was anything wrong—till Papa explained.”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed, watching Waybourne’s hand clench on his son’s shoulder. “How was it different from other times?”
“You must tell him,” Waybourne said with an effort. “Tell him that Mr. Jerome put his hand on a most private part of your body.” His face colored with his own discomfort.
Pitt waited.
“He touched me,” Godfrey said reluctantly. “Sort of felt around.”
“I see. Did that only happen once?”
“No—not really. I—honestly, sir—I don’t understand—”
“That’s enough!” Waybourne said harshly. “He’s told you—Jerome interfered with him, more than once. I cannot permit you to pursue it any further. You have what you need. Now do your job. For heaven’s sake, arrest the man and get him out of my house!”
“Of course, sir, you must dismiss him from your employ, if you think fit,” Pitt answered with unhappiness growing inside him. A feeling of certainty was drawing close in a sad, imprisoning circle. “But I have not yet enough evidence to charge him with murder.”
Waybourne’s face convulsed, the muscles of his body knotting. Godfrey winced under his hand.
“Good God, man! What more do you want? An eyewitness?”
Pitt tried to keep calm. Why should this man understand police necessities? One son had been murdered, the other distressed by perverted attentions, and the offender was still under his roof. Why should he be reasonable? His emotions were raw. His whole family had been violated in one way after another, robbed and betrayed.
“I’m sorry, sir.” He was apologizing for the whole crime: for its nature, its obscenity, for his own intrusion into it, for the grief still to come. “I’ll be as quick and as discreet as I can. Thank you, Godfrey. Good day, Sir Anstey.” He turned and went out of the library into the hall where the parlormaid was waiting, still serene and unknowing, with Pitt’s hat in her hand.
Pitt was dissatisfied without reason. There was not yet enough known for grounds to arrest Jerome, but there was too much to justify keeping it from Athelstan any longer. Jerome had said he spent the evening at a musical recital, and had had no idea where Arthur Waybourne had been or intended to be. Perhaps if it was carefully checked, Jerome’s time could be accounted for. It was possible an acquaintance had seen him, and