Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [9]
“Oh, it might help, sir.” Pitt told a half lie. “It might tell us in what area he was, and different hooligans frequent different streets. We might even find a witness, if we know where to look.”
Indecision contorted Waybourne’s face. He wanted the whole matter buried as quickly and decently as possible, hidden with good heavy earth and flowers. There would be proper memories draped with black crepe, a coffin with brass handles, a discreet and sorrowful eulogy. Everyone would return home with hushed voices to observe an accepted time of mourning. Then would follow the slow return to life.
But Waybourne could not afford the inexplicable behavior of not appearing to help the police search for his son’s murderer. He struggled mentally and failed to find words to frame what he felt so that it sounded honorable, something he could accept himself as doing.
Pitt understood. He could almost have found the words for him, because he had seen it before; there was nothing unusual or hard to understand in wanting to bury pain, to keep the extremity of death and the shame of disease private matters.
“I suppose you had better speak to Jerome,” Waybourne said at last. It was a compromise. “I’ll ask Mr. Swynford if he will permit you to see Titus.” He reached for the bell and pulled it. The butler appeared as if he had been at the door.
“Yes, sir?” he inquired.
“Send Mr. Jerome to me.” Waybourne did not look at him.
Nothing was said in the morning room until there was a knock on the door. At Waybourne’s word, the door opened and a dark man in his early forties walked in and closed it behind him. He had good features, if his nose was a little pinched. His mouth was full-lipped, but pursed with a certain carefulness. It was not a spontaneous face, not a face that laughed, except after consideration, when it believed laughter advisable—the thing to do.
Pitt looked at him only from habit; he did not expect the tutor to be important. Maybe, Pitt reflected, if he had worked teaching the sons of a man like Anstey Waybourne, imparting his knowledge yet knowing they were growing up only to inherit possessions without labor and to govern easily, by right of birth, he would be like Jerome. If Pitt had spent his life as always more than a servant but less than his own man, dependent on boys of thirteen and sixteen, perhaps his face would be just as careful, just as pinched.
“Come in, Jerome,” Waybourne said absently. “These men are from the police. Er—Pitt—Inspector Pitt, and Mr.— er—Gilbert. They wish to ask you a few questions about Arthur. Pointless, as far as I can see, but you had better oblige them.”
“Yes, sir.” Jerome stood still, not quite to attention. He looked at Pitt with the slight condescension of one who knows that at last he addresses someone beyond argument his social inferior.
“I have already told Sir Anstey all I know,” Jerome said with a slight lift of his eyebrows. “Naturally, if there were anything, I should have said so.”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “But it is possible you may know something without being aware of its relevance. I wonder, sir,” he looked at Waybourne, “if you would be good enough to ask Mr. Swynford for his permission to speak with his son?”
Waybourne hesitated, torn between the desire to stay and make sure nothing was said that was distasteful or careless, and the foolishness of allowing his anxiety to be observed. He gave Jerome a cold, warning look, then went to the door.
When it was closed behind him, Pitt turned to the tutor. There was really very little to ask him, but now that he was here, it was better to go through the formalities.
“Mr. Jerome,” he began gravely. “Sir Anstey has already said that you observed nothing unusual about Mr. Arthur’s behavior on the day he died.”
“That is correct,” Jerome said with overt patience. “Although there could hardly be expected to have been, unless one