Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [8]
“In the afternoon, Godfrey resumed his studies with Mr. Jerome. Arthur read for an hour or two—his classics, I believe—a little Latin. Then he went out with the son of a family friend, a boy of excellent background and well known to us. I have spoken to him myself, and he is also unaware of anything unusual in Arthur’s behavior. They parted at approximately five in the afternoon, as near as Titus can remember, but Arthur did not say where he was going, except that it was to dine with a friend.” Waybourne looked up at last and met Pitt’s eyes. “I’m afraid that is all we can tell you.”
Pitt realized that there was already a wall raised against investigation. Anstey Waybourne had decided what had occurred: a chance attack that might have happened to anyone, a tragic but insoluble mystery. To pursue a resolution would not bring back the dead, and would only cause additional and unnecessary distress to those already bereaved.
Pitt could sympathize with him. He had lost a son, and in extraordinarily painful circumstances. But murder could not be concealed, for all its anguish.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I would like to see the tutor, Mr. Jerome, if I may, and your son Godfrey.”
Waybourne’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? You may see Jerome, of course, if you wish. Although I cannot see what purpose it will serve. I have told you all that he knows. But I’m afraid it is quite out of the question that you should speak with Godfrey. He has already lost his brother. I will not have him subjected to questioning—especially as it is completely unnecessary.”
It was not the time to argue. At the moment, they were all just names to Pitt, people without faces or characters, without connections except the obvious ones of blood; all the emotions involved were not yet even guessed.
“I would still like to speak to Mr. Jerome,” Pitt repeated. “He may recall something that would be of use. We must explore every possibility.”
“I cannot see the purpose of it.” Waybourne’s nose flared a little, perhaps with irritation, perhaps from the deadening smell of lilies. “If Arthur was set upon by thieves, Jerome is hardly likely to know anything that might help.”
“Probably not, sir.” Pitt hesitated, then said what he had to. “But there is always the possibility that his death had something to do with his—medical condition.” What an obscene euphemism. Yet he found himself using it, painfully aware of Waybourne, the shock saturating the house, generations of rigid self-discipline, imprisoned feelings.
Waybourne’s face froze. “That has not been established, sir! My own family physician will no doubt find your police surgeon is utterly mistaken. I daresay he has to do with a quite different class of person, and has found what he is accustomed to. I am sure that when he is aware of who Arthur was, he will revise his conclusions.”
Pitt avoided the argument. It was not yet necessary; perhaps it never would be if the “family physician” had both skill and courage. It would be better for him to tell Waybourne the truth, to explain that it could be kept private to some degree but could not be denied.
He changed the subject. “What was the name of this young friend—Titus, sir?”
Waybourne let out his breath slowly, as if a pain had eased.
“Titus Swynford,” he replied. “His father, Mortimer Swynford, is one of our oldest acquaintances. Excellent family. But I have already ascertained everything that Titus knows. He cannot add to it.”
“All the same, sir, we’ll speak to him,” Pitt insisted.
“I shall ask his father if he will give you permission,” Waybourne said coldly, “although I cannot see that it will serve any purpose, either. Titus neither saw nor heard