Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [79]
The turnkey stopped. “ ’Ere we are,” he said with a little snort. “Give me a shout when you’ve finished.”
“Thank you.” Pitt heard his voice answer as if it were someone else’s. Almost automatically, his feet took him through the open door and into the dark cell. The door shut behind him with a sound of iron on iron.
Jerome was sitting on a straw mattress in the corner. He did not immediately look around. The key turned, leaving Pitt locked inside. At last Jerome appeared to register that it was not an ordinary check. He raised his head and saw Pitt; his eyes showed surprise, but nothing strong enough to be called emotion. He was oddly the same—the stiffness, the sense of aloofness as if the past few weeks were something he had merely read about.
Pitt, dreading a change for the worse in him, had been prepared for all kinds of embarrassment. And now that it was not there, he was even more disconcerted. Jerome was impossible to like, but Pitt was forced into a certain admiration for his total self-control.
How very odd that such a man, seemingly untouched by such appalling circumstances, by physical deprivation, public shame, and the certain knowledge of one of the worst of human deaths only weeks away—how extraordinary that such a man should have been carried away by appetite and panic to his own destruction. So extraordinary that Pitt found himself opening his mouth to apologize for the squalid cell, the humiliation, as if he were responsible, and not Jerome himself.
It was ridiculous! It was the evidence. If Jerome felt nothing, or showed nothing, then it was because he was perverted, deranged in mind and body. One should not expect him to behave like a normal man—he was not normal. Remember Arthur Waybourne in the Bluegate sewers, remember that young, abused body, and get on with what you came for!
“Jerome,” he began, taking a step forward. What was he going to ask now that he was here? It was his only chance; he must find out everything he wanted to know, everything that Charlotte had so unpleasantly conjured up. He could not ask Waybourne or the two boys; it must all come from this solitary interview, here in the gray light that filtered through the grating across the high window.
“Yes?” Jerome inquired coldly. “What more can you possibly want of me, Mr. Pitt? If it is ease of conscience, I cannot give it to you. I did not kill Arthur Waybourne, nor did I ever touch him in the obscene manner you have charged me with. Whether you sleep at night or lie awake is your own problem. I can do nothing to help you, and I would not if I could!”
Pitt responded without thought. “You blame me for your situation?”
Jerome’s nostrils flared; it was an expression at once of resignation and great distaste.
“I suppose you are doing your job within your limitations. You are so used to dealing with filth that you see it everywhere. Perhaps that is the fault of society at large. We must have police.”
“I discovered Arthur Waybourne’s body,” Pitt answered, curiously unangered by the charge. He could understand it. Jerome would want to hurt someone, and there was no one else. “That’s all I testified to. I questioned the Waybourne family, and I checked the two prostitutes. But I didn’t find them, and I certainly didn’t put words in their mouths.”
Jerome looked at him carefully, his brown eyes covering Pitt’s features as if the secret lay within them.
“You didn’t discover the truth,” he said at last. “Maybe that was asking too much. Maybe you’re a victim as much as I am. Only, you are free to walk away and repeat your mistakes. I’m the one who will pay.”
“You didn’t kill Arthur?” Pitt put it forward as a proposition.
“I did not.”
“Then who did? And why?”
Jerome stared at his feet. Pitt moved to sit on the straw beside him.
“He was an unpleasant boy,” Jerome said after a few moments. “I’ve been wondering who did kill him. I’ve no idea. If I had, I would have offered it to you to investigate!”
“My wife