Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [5]
“My wife, Mr.—er.” He waved aside the necessity for recalling a name for a mere policeman. They were anonymous, like servants. “I’m sure there is no need for you to concern yourself. Arthur is sixteen. I have no doubt he is up to some prank. My wife is overprotective—women tend to be, you know. Part of their nature. Don’t know how to let a boy grow up. Want to keep him a baby forever.”
Pitt felt a stab of pity. Assurance was so fragile. He was about to shatter this man’s security, the world in which he thought he was untouchable by the sordid realities Pitt represented.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said even more quietly. “But we have found a dead boy whom we believe may be your son.” There was no point in spinning it out, trying to come to it slowly. It was no kinder, just longer.
“Dead? Whatever do you mean?” He was still trying to dismiss the idea, to repudiate it.
“Drowned, sir,” Pitt repeated, aware of Gillivray’s disapproval. Gillivray would like to skirt around it, to come at it obliquely, which seemed to Pitt like crushing someone slowly. “He is a fair-haired boy of about sixteen years, five-feet-nine-inches tall—of good family, to judge by his appearance. Unfortunately he has no identification on him, so we do not know who he is. It is necessary for someone to come and look at the body. If you prefer not to do it yourself—if it turns out not to be your son, we could accept the word of—”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Waybourne said. “I’m sure it is not Arthur. But I shall come and tell you so myself. One does not send a servant on such a task. Where is it?”
“In the morgue, sir. Bishop’s Lane, in Bluegate Fields.”
Waybourne’s face dropped—it was inconceivable.
“Bluegate Fields!”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid that is where he was found.”
“Then it cannot possibly be my son.”
“I hope not, sir. But whoever he is, he would appear to be a gentleman.”
Waybourne’s eyebrows rose.
“In Bluegate Fields?” he said sarcastically.
Pitt did not argue anymore. “Would you prefer to come in a hansom, sir, or in your own carriage?”
“In my own carriage, thank you. I do not care for public conveyances. I shall meet you there in thirty minutes.”
Pitt and Gillivray excused themselves and found a hansom to take them to the morgue, since Waybourne was obviously not willing to have them accompany him.
The drive was not long. They were quickly out of the fashionable squares and into the narrow, grimy streets of the port-side, enveloped by the smell of the river, the drift of fog in their throats. Bishop’s Lane was anonymous; gray men came and went about their business.
The morgue was grim: less effort made to be clean than in a hospital—less reason. There was no humanity here except one brown-faced little man with faintly Eastern eyes and curiously light hair. His manner was suitably subdued.
“Yes, sir,” he said to Gillivray, who led the way in. “I know the boy you mean. The gentleman to see it has not arrived yet.”
There was nothing to do but wait for Waybourne. It turned out to be not thirty minutes but very nearly an hour. If Waybourne was aware of the time elapsed, he gave no sign. His face was still irritated, as though he had been called out on an unnecessary duty, required only because someone had made a foolish error.
“Well?” He came in briskly, ignoring the morgue attendant and Gillivray. He faced Pitt with raised eyebrows, hitching the shoulders of his coat into better position. The room was cold. “What is it you want me to see?”
Gillivray shifted his feet uncomfortably. He had not seen the corpse, nor did he know where it had been found. Oddly, he had not inquired. He regarded the whole task as something he was seconded to because of his superior manners, a task to be fulfilled and forgotten as soon as possible. He preferred the investigation of robbery, particularly robbery from the wealthy and the lesser aristocracy. The quiet, discreet association with such people when he was assisting was a rather pleasing way to advance his career.
Pitt knew what was to come—the inescapable pain, the struggle to explain away the horror, the denial