not!”
“Some people do—”
“Some people are no doubt guilty! I find the whole subject disgusting. You will very soon find out your mistake, and then I shall expect reparation. I am not responsible for Arthur Waybourne’s death, or anything else that happened to him. I suggest you look among his own class for that sort of perversion! Or do I expect too much courage of you?”
“I have looked!” Pitt bit back at last, stung beyond control. “And all I have found so far is an allegation from Godfrey Waybourne that you interfered with him! It would seem you have the weakness which would provide the motive, and the opportunity. The means was simply water—anyone has that.”
There was fear in Jerome’s eyes this time—quick, before reason overrode it, but real enough. The taste of it was unique, unmistakable.
“Nonsense! I was at a musical recital.”
“But no one saw you there.”
“I go to musical recitals to listen to the music, Inspector, not to make idiotic conversation with people I barely know, and interrupt their pleasure by requiring them to mouth equal inanities back to me!” Jerome surveyed Pitt with contempt as one who listened to nothing better than public-house songs.
“Are there no intervals in your recitals?” Pitt asked with exactly the same chill. He had to look a little downward at Jerome from his superior height. “That’s uncommon, surely?”
“Are you fond of classical music, Inspector?” Jerome’s voice was sharp with sarcastic disbelief. Perhaps it was a form of self-defense. He was attacking Pitt, his intelligence, his competence, his judgment. It was not hard to understand; part of Pitt, detached, could even sympathize. A greater part of him was stung raw by the patronage.
“I am fond of the pianoforte when it is well played,” he replied with open-eyed candor. “And I like a violin, on occasions.”
For an instant there was communication between them, a little surprise; then Jerome turned away.
“So you spoke to no one?” Pitt returned to the pursuit, the ugliness of the present.
“No one,” Jerome answered.
“Not even to comment on the performance?” He could believe it. Who would, after listening to beautiful music, want to turn to a man like Jerome? He would sour the magic, the pleasure. His was a mind without softness or laughter, without the patina of romance. Why did he like music at all? Was it purely a pleasure of the senses, the sound and the symmetry answered in the brain?
Pitt went out, and the cell door clanged behind him; the bolt shot home and the jailer pulled out the key.
A constable was dispatched to collect Jerome’s necessary belongings. Gillivray and Pitt spent the rest of the day seeking additional evidence.
“I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Jerome,” Gillivray said with a cheerfulness Pitt could have kicked him for. “She doesn’t know what time he came in. She had a headache and doesn’t like classical music very much, especially chamber music, which apparently was what this was. There was a program published beforehand, and Jerome had one. She decided to stay at home. She fell asleep and didn’t waken until morning.”
“So Mr. Athelstan told me,” Pitt said acidly. “Perhaps next time you have such a piece of information you will do me the courtesy of sharing it with me as well?” Immediately he regretted allowing his anger to become so obvious. He should not have let Gillivray see it. He could at least have kept himself that dignity.
Gillivray smiled, and his apology was no more than the minimum of good manners.
They spent six hours and achieved nothing, neither proof nor disproof.
Pitt went home late, tired and cold. It was beginning to rain and scurries of wind sent an old newspaper rattling along the gutter. It was a day he was glad to leave behind, to close out with the door, leaving the space of the evening to talk of something else. He hoped Charlotte would not even mention the case.
He stepped into the hall,
“Some people do—”
“Some people are no doubt guilty! I find the whole subject disgusting. You will very soon find out your mistake, and then I shall expect reparation. I am not responsible for Arthur Waybourne’s death, or anything else that happened to him. I suggest you look among his own class for that sort of perversion! Or do I expect too much courage of you?”
“I have looked!” Pitt bit back at last, stung beyond control. “And all I have found so far is an allegation from Godfrey Waybourne that you interfered with him! It would seem you have the weakness which would provide the motive, and the opportunity. The means was simply water—anyone has that.”
There was fear in Jerome’s eyes this time—quick, before reason overrode it, but real enough. The taste of it was unique, unmistakable.
“Nonsense! I was at a musical recital.”
“But no one saw you there.”
“I go to musical recitals to listen to the music, Inspector, not to make idiotic conversation with people I barely know, and interrupt their pleasure by requiring them to mouth equal inanities back to me!” Jerome surveyed Pitt with contempt as one who listened to nothing better than public-house songs.
“Are there no intervals in your recitals?” Pitt asked with exactly the same chill. He had to look a little downward at Jerome from his superior height. “That’s uncommon, surely?”
“Are you fond of classical music, Inspector?” Jerome’s voice was sharp with sarcastic disbelief. Perhaps it was a form of self-defense. He was attacking Pitt, his intelligence, his competence, his judgment. It was not hard to understand; part of Pitt, detached, could even sympathize. A greater part of him was stung raw by the patronage.
“I am fond of the pianoforte when it is well played,” he replied with open-eyed candor. “And I like a violin, on occasions.”
For an instant there was communication between them, a little surprise; then Jerome turned away.
“So you spoke to no one?” Pitt returned to the pursuit, the ugliness of the present.
“No one,” Jerome answered.
“Not even to comment on the performance?” He could believe it. Who would, after listening to beautiful music, want to turn to a man like Jerome? He would sour the magic, the pleasure. His was a mind without softness or laughter, without the patina of romance. Why did he like music at all? Was it purely a pleasure of the senses, the sound and the symmetry answered in the brain?
Pitt went out, and the cell door clanged behind him; the bolt shot home and the jailer pulled out the key.
A constable was dispatched to collect Jerome’s necessary belongings. Gillivray and Pitt spent the rest of the day seeking additional evidence.
“I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Jerome,” Gillivray said with a cheerfulness Pitt could have kicked him for. “She doesn’t know what time he came in. She had a headache and doesn’t like classical music very much, especially chamber music, which apparently was what this was. There was a program published beforehand, and Jerome had one. She decided to stay at home. She fell asleep and didn’t waken until morning.”
“So Mr. Athelstan told me,” Pitt said acidly. “Perhaps next time you have such a piece of information you will do me the courtesy of sharing it with me as well?” Immediately he regretted allowing his anger to become so obvious. He should not have let Gillivray see it. He could at least have kept himself that dignity.
Gillivray smiled, and his apology was no more than the minimum of good manners.
They spent six hours and achieved nothing, neither proof nor disproof.
Pitt went home late, tired and cold. It was beginning to rain and scurries of wind sent an old newspaper rattling along the gutter. It was a day he was glad to leave behind, to close out with the door, leaving the space of the evening to talk of something else. He hoped Charlotte would not even mention the case.
He stepped into the hall,
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