Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [57]
Pitt took the witness stand and swore to his name and occupation. Though she had pressed his jacket before he left the house, it sat slightly lopsided already, his cravat was crooked, and, as usual, he had run his fingers through his hair, leaving it on end. It was a waste of time even trying! Heaven only knew what he had in his pockets to make them hang like that! Stones, by the look of it!
“You examined the body?” Land asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And there was no identification on it whatsoever? How did you then learn who he was?”
Pitt outlined the process, the elimination of one possibility after another. He made it sound very routine, a matter of common sense anyone might have followed.
“Indeed.” Land nodded. “And in due course Sir Anstey Waybourne identified his son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you do then, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt’s face was blank. Only Charlotte knew that it was misery that took away his normal expression, the consuming interest that was usually there. To anyone else he might simply have appeared cold.
“Because of information given the by the police surgeon”—he was far too used to giving evidence to repeat hearsay— “I began to make investigations into Arthur Waybourne’s personal relationships.”
“And what did you learn?”
Everything was being dragged out of him; he volunteered nothing.
“I learned of no close relationships outside his own household that fitted the description we were looking for.” What a careful answer, all in words that gave nothing away. He had not even implied there was any sort of sexuality involved. He could have been talking of finance, or even some trade or other.
Land’s eyebrows shot up and his voice showed surprise.
“No relationships, Mr. Pitt! Are you sure?”
Pitt’s mouth curled down. “I think you will have to ask Sergeant Gillivray for the information you are fishing for,” he said with thinly concealed acidity.
Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, even behind her veiling. So he was going to make Gillivray tell all about Albie Frobisher and the woman prostitute with the disease. Gillivray would love that. He would be a celebrity.
Why? Gillivray would make it all so much more florid, so full of detail and certainty. Or was it that Pitt simply did not want to be part of it and this was his way of escaping—at least from saying the words himself, as if that made some difference? Left to Gillivray, they would be the more damning.
She looked up. He was terribly alone there in that wood-railed box; there was nothing she could do to help. He did not even know she was here, understanding his fear because some part of him was still not entirely satisfied of Jerome’s guilt.
What had Arthur Waybourne really been like? He was young, well-born, and a victim of murder. No one would dare to speak ill of him now, to dig up the mean or grubby truths. Maurice Jerome, with his cynical face, probably knew that, too.
She looked across at Pitt.
He was going on with his evidence, Land drawing it out of him a piece at a time.
Giles had nothing to ask. He was too skilled to try to shake him, and would not give him the opportunity to reinforce what he had already said.
Then it was the police surgeon’s turn. He was calm, quite certain of his facts and impervious to the power or solemnity of the court. Neither the judge’s flowing size and rippling wig nor Land’s thundering voice made any impression on him. Under the pomposity of the court were only human bodies. And he had seen bodies naked, had taken them apart when they were dead. He was only too aware of their frailty, their common indignities and needs.
Charlotte tried to imagine members of the court in white dust sheets, without the centuries of dignity their robes lent them, and suddenly it all seemed faintly ridiculous. She wondered if the judge was hot under that great wig; did it itch?
Perhaps the white dust sheets would be just as delusionary as the gowns and robes?