Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [46]
Gillivray slammed his notebook down on the table, speechless because he did not wish to be vulgar and use the only words that sprang to his mind.
Pitt smiled to himself, and allowed Gillivray to see it.
The investigation continued. It was now October and the streets were hard and bright, full of the edge of autumn. Cold winds penetrated coats, and the first frost made the pavements slippery under one’s boots. They had traced Jerome’s career back through his previous employers, all of whom had found him of excellent scholastic ability. If admitting to no great personal liking for him, all felt definite satisfaction with his work. None of them had had the least notion that his personal life was anything but of the most regular—even, one might almost say, prim. Certainly he appeared to be a man of little imagination and no humor at all, except of the most perverse, which they failed to understand. As they had said: not likable, but of the utmost propriety—to the point of being a prig—and socially an unutterable bore.
On October 5, Gillivray came into Pitt’s office without knocking, his cheeks flushed either with success or by the sharpening wind outside.
“Well?” Pitt asked irritably. Gillivray might have ambition, and might consider himself a cut above the average policeman, as indeed he was, but that did not give him the right to walk in without the courtesy of asking.
“I’ve found it!” Gillivray said triumphantly, his face glowing, eyes alight. “I’ve got it at last!”
Pitt felt his pulse quicken in spite of himself. It was not entirely pleasure, which was unexplainable. What else should he feel?
“The rooms?” he asked calmly, then swallowed hard. “You’ve found the rooms where Arthur Waybourne was drowned? Are you sure this time? Could you prove it in a court?”
“No, no!” Gillivray waved his arms expansively. “Not the rooms. Far better than that, I’ve found a prostitute who swears to a relationship with Jerome! I’ve got times, places, dates, everything—and perfect identification!”
Pitt let out his breath with disgust. This was useless—and a sordid contradiction he did not want to know. He saw Eugenie Jerome’s face in his mind, and wished Gillivray had not been so zealous, so self-righteously successful. Damn Maurice Jerome! And damn Gillivray. And Eugenie, for being so innocent!
“Brilliant,” he said sarcastically. “And totally pointless. We are trying to prove that Jerome assaulted young boys, not that he bought the services of street women!”
“But you don’t understand!” Gillivray leaned forward over the desk, his face, shining with victory, only a foot from Pitt’s. “The prostitute is a young boy! His name is Albie Frobisher, and he’s seventeen—just a year older than Arthur Waybourne. He swears he’s known Jerome for four years, and been used by him all that time! That’s all we need! He even says Arthur Waybourne took his place—Jerome admitted as much. That’s why Jerome was never suspected before—he never bothered anyone else! He paid for his relationship—until he became infatuated with Arthur. Then, when he seduced Arthur, he stopped seeing Albie Frobisher—no need! It explains everything, don’t you see? It all fits into place!”
“What about Godfrey—and Titus Swynford?” Why was Pitt arguing? As Gillivray said, it all fell into place; it even answered the question of why Jerome had never been suspected before, why he had been able to control himself so completely that his appearance was perfect—until Godfrey. “Well?” he repeated. “What about Godfrey?”
“I don’t know!” Gillivray was confused for a moment. Then comprehension flashed into his eyes, and Pitt knew exactly what he was thinking. He believed Pitt was envious because it was Gillivray who had found the essential link, and not Pitt himself. “Perhaps once he’d seduced someone he resented paying for it?” he suggested. “Or maybe Albie’s prices had gone up? Maybe he was short of money? Or, most likely, he’d developed a taste for a high class of youth—a touch of quality. Perhaps