Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [67]
There was only one verdict possible. After all, if Maurice Jerome had not killed him, who had? Well may they ask! And the answer was evident—no one! Not even Jerome himself had been able to suggest another answer.
It all fitted. There were no outstanding pieces, nothing that teased the mind or was left unexplained.
Did they ask themselves why Jerome had seduced the boy, used him, and then murdered him? Why not simply carry on with his base practice?
There were several possible answers.
Perhaps Jerome had grown tired of him, just as he had of Albie Frobisher. His appetite demanded constantly new material. Arthur was not easily discarded now that he was so debauched. He had not been bought, like Albie; he could not simply be dropped.
Could that be why Jerome had taken him to Abigail Winters? To try to stimulate in him more normal hungers?
But his own work had been too well done; the boy was debased forever—he wanted nothing from women.
He had become a nuisance. His love now bored Jerome; he was weary of it. He hungered for younger, more innocent flesh—like Godfrey or like Titus Swynford. They had heard the evidence of that for themselves. And Arthur was growing importunate, his persistence an embarrassment. Perhaps in his distress, in his desperate realization of his own perversion—yes, his damnation!—that was not too strong a word—he had even become a threat!
And so he had to be killed! And his naked body disposed of in a place where, but for a monumental stroke of ill-fortune and some excellent police work, it would never have been identified.
Gentlemen, have you ever faced a clearer case—or a more tragic and despicable one? There can be but one verdict—guilty! And there can be but one sentence!
The jury were out for less than half an hour. They filed back stone-faced. Jerome stood, white and stiff.
The judge asked the foreman of the jury and the answer was what had long since been decided by the silent voice of the courtroom.
“Guilty, my lord.”
The judge reached for the black cap and placed it on his head. In his thick, ripe voice he pronounced sentence.
“Maurice Jerome, a jury of your peers has found you guilty of the murder of Arthur William Waybourne. The sentence of this court is that you be returned to the place from whence you came, and in not less than three weeks from now you shall be taken to the place of execution, and there you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead. May the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”
Charlotte walked out into icy November winds that cut through her as if they had been knives. But her flesh was numb, already too preoccupied with shock and suffering to be aware of further pain.
7
THE TRIAL SHOULD have been the end of the case for Pitt. He had found all the evidence he could, and had sworn to its truth in court without fear or favor. The jury had found Maurice Jerome guilty.
He had never expected to feel satisfaction. It was the tragedy of an unhappy man with a gift beyond his opportunity to use. The flaws in Jerome’s character had robbed him of the chance to climb in academic fields where others of less offensive nature might have succeeded. He would never have been an equal—that was denied from birth. He had ability, not genius. With a smile, a little flattery now and then, he might have gained a very enviable place. If he could have taught his pupils to like him, to trust him, he might have influenced great houses.
But his pride denied him of it; his resentment of privilege burned through his every action. He seemed never to appreciate what he had, concentrating instead on what he had not. That surely was the true tragedy—because it was unnecessary.
And the sexual flaw? Was it of the