Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [3]
Cutler did not move. “He didn’t drown in the sewer, you know,” he announced.
“What?” Pitt sat upright, a chill running through him.
“Didn’t drown in the sewer,” Cutler repeated. “Water in his lungs is as clean as my bath! In fact, it could have come out of my bath—even got a little soap in it!”
“What on earth do you mean?”
There was a wry, sad expression on Cutler’s face.
“Just what I say, Inspector. The boy drowned in bathwater. How he got into the sewer, I haven’t the faintest idea. Fortunately that’s not my task to discover. But I should be very surprised indeed if he had ever been in Bluegate Fields in his life.”
Pitt absorbed the information slowly. Bathwater! Not someone from the slums. He had half known that much from the clean, firm flesh of the body—it should not have been any surprise.
“Accident?” It was only a formal question. There had been no mark of violence, no bruises on the throat or on the shoulders or arms.
“I think not,” Cutler answered gravely.
“Because of where he was found?” Pitt shook his head, dismissing the thought. “That doesn’t prove murder, only the disposal of the body—which is an offense, of course, but not nearly as serious.”
“Bruises.” Cutler raised his eyebrows a little.
Pitt frowned. “I saw none.”
“On the heels. Quite hard. If you came upon a man in his bath, it would be far easier to drown him by grasping hold of his heels and pulling them upward, thereby forcing his head under the water, than it would be to try forcing his shoulders down, leaving his arms free to struggle with you.”
Pitt imagined it against his will. Cutler was right. It would be an easy, quick movement. A few moments’ hold and it would be all over.
“You think he was murdered?” he said slowly.
“He was a strong youth, apparently in excellent health”— Cutler hesitated, and a shadow of distress flickered across his face— “but for one thing, which I shall come to. There were no marks of injury except for those on his heels, and he was certainly not concussed by any fall. Why should he drown?”
“You said except for one thing. What was it? Could he have fainted?”
“Not from this. He was in the very early stages of syphilis—just a few lesions.”
Pitt stared at him. “Syphilis? But he was of good background, you said—and not more than fifteen or sixteen!” he protested.
“I know. And there’s more than that.”
“What more?”
Cutler’s face looked suddenly old and sad. He rubbed his hand across his head as if it hurt. “He had been homosexually used,” he answered quietly.
“Are you sure?” Still Pitt struggled, unreasonably. His sense knew better, but his emotions rebelled.
Irritation flashed in Cutler’s eyes.
“Of course I’m sure. Do you think it’s the sort of thing I’d say on speculation?”
“I’m sorry,” Pitt said. It was stupid—the boy was dead now anyway. Perhaps that was why Pitt was so upset by Cutler’s information. “How long?” he asked.
“Not long, about eight or ten hours when I saw him, as far as I can tell.”
“Sometime the night before we found him,” Pitt remarked. “I suppose that was obvious. I imagine you’ve no idea who he was?”
“Upper middle class,” Cutler said, as if thinking aloud. “Probably privately educated—a little ink on one of his fingers. Well fed—shouldn’t think he’d gone hungry a day in his life or done a day’s hard work with his hands. The odd sports, probably cricket or something of that kind. Last meal was expensive—pheasant and wine and a sherry trifle. No, very definitely not Bluegate Fields.”
“Damnation,” Pitt said under his breath. “Someone must miss him! We’ll have to find out who he was before we can bury him. You’ll have to do the best you can to make him fit to be seen.” He had been through it all before: the white-faced, stomach-clenched parents coming, ravaged by hope and fear, to stare at the dead face; then the sweat before they found the courage to look, followed by the nausea, the relief, or the despair—the end of hope, or back again into unknowing, waiting for the next time.
“Thank you,” he said formally to Cutler.