Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [71]
He sat and thought about it and the minutes ticked by. There was no sound but the clock and the faint hiss of the fire. It was possible—quite possible—and extremely ugly. And there was nothing of any substance to disprove any of it. Why had it not occurred to him before—to any of them? Was it just that it was more comfortable to blame Jerome? They would risk no disturbing reactions by charging him, no threat to any of their careers, even if by mischance they had not, at the last, been able to prove it.
Surely they were better men than that? And they were too honest, were they not, simply to have settled on Jerome because he was pompous and irritating?
He tried to recall every meeting he had had with Waybourne. How had the man seemed? Was there anything in him at all, any shadow of deceit, of extra grief or unexplained fear?
He could remember nothing. The man was confused, shocked because he had lost a son in appalling circumstances: He was afraid of scandal that would further injure his family. Wouldn’t any man be? Surely it was only natural, only decent.
And young Godfrey? He had seemed open, as far as his shock and fear would allow him to be. Or was his singular guilelessness only the mask of childhood, the clear skin and wide eyes of a practiced liar who felt no shame, and therefore no guilt?
Titus Swynford? He had liked Titus, and unless he was very much mistaken, the boy was grieved by the whole course of events—a natural grief, an innocent grief. Was Pitt losing his judgment, falling into the trap of the obvious and the convenient?
It was a distressing thought. But was it true?
He found it hard to accept that Titus and Godfrey were so devious—or, frankly, that they were clever enough to have deceived him so thoroughly. He was used to sifting lies from truth; it was his job, his profession, and he was good at it. Of course he made mistakes—but seldom was he so totally blinded as not even to suspect!
Charlotte was looking at him. “You don’t think that’s the answer, do you?” she said.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “No—it doesn’t feel right.”
“And do you feel right about Jerome?”
He looked at her. He had forgotten lately how much her face pleased him, the line of her cheek, the slight upward wing of her brow.
“No,” he said simply. “No, I don’t think so.”
She picked up the sewing again. The thread slipped out of the needle and she put the end in her mouth to moisten it, then carefully rethreaded it.
“Then I suppose you’ll have to go back and start again,” she said, looking at the needle. “There’s still three weeks’ time left.”
The following morning, Pitt found a pile of new cases on his desk. Most of them were comparatively minor: thefts, embezzlement, and a possible arson. He detailed them to various other officers, one of the privileges of his rank that he made the most of; then he sent for Gillivray.
Gillivray came in cheerfully, his face glowing, shoulders square. He closed the door behind him and sat down before being asked, which annoyed Pitt quite out of proportion.
“Something interesting?” Gillivray inquired eagerly. “Another murder?”
“No.” Pitt was sour. He had disliked the whole case, and he disliked even more having to open it up again, but it was the only way to get rid of the crowding uncertainties in his mind, the vague possibilities that intruded every