Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [7]
“It’s not my diagnosis, sir. It is what the police surgeon says.”
“Then he is a mischievous incompetent! I’ll see he never practices again! It’s monstrous! Obviously, Arthur was kidnapped, poor boy, and murdered by his captors. If—” He swallowed. “If he was abused before he was killed, then you must charge his murderers with that also. And see to it that they are hanged! But as for the other”—he made a sharp slicing motion with his hand in the air—“that is—that is quite impossible. I demand that our own family physician examine the—the body and refute this slander!”
“By all means,” Pitt agreed. “But he will find the same facts, and they are capable of only one diagnosis—the same as the police pathologist.”
Waybourne gulped and caught his breath awkwardly. His voice, when it came, was tight, scraping.
“He will not! I am not without influence, Mr. Pitt. I shall see that this monstrous wrong is not done to my poor son or to the rest of his family. Good day to you.” He stood a little unsteadily, then turned and walked out of the room, up the steps, and into the daylight.
Pitt ran his hand through his hair, leaving it on end.
“Poor man,” he said softly, to himself rather than to Gillivray. “He’s going to make it so much harder for himself.”
“Are you sure it really is—?” Gillivray said anxiously.
“Don’t be so stupid!” Pitt sank down with his head in his hands. “Of course I’m damned well sure!”
2
THERE WAS NOT time for the decencies of mourning to be observed. People’s memories were short; details passed from mind. Pitt was obliged to return to the Waybourne family the next morning and begin the inquiries that could not wait upon grief or the recapturing of composure.
The house was silent. All the blinds were partway down, and there was black crepe on the front door. Straw was spread on the road outside to reduce the sound of carriage wheels passing. Gillivray had come in the soberest of garb, and stayed, grim-faced, two steps behind Pitt. He reminded Pitt irritatingly of an undertaker’s assistant, full of professional sorrow.
The butler opened the door and ushered them in immediately, not allowing them time to stand on the doorstep. The hall was somber in the half-light of the drawn blinds. In the morning room, the gas lamps were lit and a small fire burned in the grate. On the low, round table in the center of the room were white flowers in a formal arrangement: chrysanthemums and thick, soft-fleshed lilies. It all smelled faintly of wax and polish and old sweet flowers, just a little stale.
Anstey Waybourne came in almost immediately. He looked pale and tired, his face set. He had already prepared what he intended to say and did not bother with courtesies.
“Good morning,” he began stiffly. Then, without waiting for a response, he continued: “I assume you have certain questions it is necessary for you to ask. I shall do my best, of course, to give you the small amount of information I possess. I have given the matter some considerable thought, naturally.” He clasped his hands together and looked at the lilies on the table. “I have come to the conclusion that my son was quite certainly attacked by strangers, perhaps purely from the base motives of robbery. Or I admit it is marginally possible that abduction was intended, although we have received no indication that it was so—no demand for any kind of ransom.” He glanced at Pitt, and then away again. “Of course it may be that there was not time—some preposterous accident occurred, and Arthur died. Obviously, they then panicked.” He took a deep breath. “And the results we are all painfully aware of.”
Pitt opened his mouth, but Waybourne waved his hand to silence him.
“No, please! Allow me to continue. There is very little we can tell you, but no doubt you wish to know about my son’s last day alive, although I cannot see of what use it will be to you.
“Breakfast was perfectly normal. We were all present. Arthur spent the morning, as is customary, with his younger brother Godfrey,