Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [90]
The major was again surprised. He had not expected such perception in a policeman, especially this one. “Quite,” he agreed. “That is why I do all I can to see that my sisters are kept occupied. Good, homely tasks, and of course such study as they are capable of, in the care of homes and gardens, and so forth.”
“What about current affairs, or a little history?” Pitt inquired, leading him gently.
“Current affairs? Don’t be foolish, man. Women have neither the interest nor the capacity for such things. And it is unsuitable in them. I see you don’t know women very well!”
“Not very,” Pitt lied. “I believe you were married, sir?”
The major blinked. He had not anticipated the question. “I was. My wife died a long time ago.”
“Very unfortunate,” Pitt commiserated. “Were you married long?”
“A year.”
“Tragic.”
“All over now. Got over it years ago. Not like getting used to a thing. Hardly knew her, really. I was a soldier—away fighting for my Queen and country. Price of duty.”
“Quite so.” Pitt did not have to affect pity; he was beginning to feel it like a welling, bitter spring inside him as his idea grew stronger. “And women are not always the companions one hopes,” he added.
The major’s face sank into lines of quiet reflection, looking back on disillusions. The reality was unpleasing, but the recognition of it gave him a certain satisfaction in having overcome, even a sense of superiority over those who had yet to face it.
“They are different from men,” he agreed. “Shallow creatures, for the most; nothing to talk about but fashion, the way they look, and other similar foolishness. Always laughing at nothing at all. A man cannot take much of that, unless he’s as big a fool as they are.”
The idea crystallized in Pitt’s brain. Now was the time to put it to the test. “Extraordinary thing about these bodies,” he said casually.
The major’s head jerked up. “Bodies? What bodies?”
“Keep turning up.” Pitt watched him. “First the man on the cab box, then Lord Augustus, then Porteous, then Horatio Snipe.” He saw the major’s eye flicker and his Adam’s apple move. “Did you know Horrie Snipe, sir?”
“Never heard of him.” The major swallowed.
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Do you question my word?”
“Shall we say, your memory, sir?” Pitt hated it, but he had to continue, and the more quickly it was done, the shorter the pain. “He was a procurer of women, and he worked in the Resurrection Row area. The same place Godolphin Jones kept his pornography shop. Perhaps that revives your recollection a bit?” He caught the major’s eye and held it in a hard, candid gaze that allowed no retreat, no mercy of pretended ignorance.
The color wavered, then swept up the major’s mottled skin. He was ugly and pathetic, hurting Pitt in a way perhaps he did not hurt himself. He could not see how fragile, how unused he looked, how much of him had never grown.
He could find no words. He could not admit it, and he dared no longer deny it.
“Was that what Godolphin Jones was blackmailing you with?” Pitt asked quietly. “He knew about Horrie Snipe’s woman, and he sold you photographs?”
The major sniffed. Tears started running down his cheeks, and he was furious with himself for showing weakness, hating Pitt for seeing it.
“I did—I did not kill him!” he said between gulps to control himself. “Before God, I did not kill him!”
Pitt did not doubt it for a moment. The major would never have killed him—he needed him for his private dreams, his pictures and fantasies where he could live out the mastery he could never achieve in life. Jones was doubly precious to him since Horrie Snipe had died just before him, cutting the major off from his brief, wild adventure into the realms of live women.
“No,” Pitt said quietly. “I don’t suppose you did.” He stood up, looking down on the rigid little man, wanting to get out into the fog and drizzle, and escape from the despair inside. “I’m sorry it has been necessary to discuss this. It need not be mentioned again.”
The major looked up, his eyes watering. “Your— report?”
“You are not a suspect, sir. That