first place, only to tear her life apart!
“Mrs. Jerome—”
“Mr. Pitt, my husband is not an impulsive man. I have been married to him for eleven years and I have never known him to act without giving the matter consideration, weighing whether it would be fortunate or unfortunate.”
That also Pitt found only too easy to accept. Jerome was not a man to laugh aloud, dance on the pavement, or sing a snatch of song. His was a careful face; the only spontaneity in it was of the mind. He possessed a sour appreciation for humor, but never impulse. He did not even speak without judging first what effect it would have, how it would profit or harm him. What extraordinary passions must this boy have tapped to break the dam of years in a torrent that ended in murder?
If Jerome were guilty ...
How could so careful, so self-preserving a man have risked a clumsy fondling of young Godfrey for the few instants of slight gratification it might have afforded him? Was it a façade beginning to crack—a first breach of the wall that was soon going to explode in passion and murder?
He looked at Mrs. Jerome. She was close to Charlotte’s age, and yet she looked so much younger, so much more vulnerable, with her slender body and delicate face. She needed someone to protect her.
“Have you parents near to you?” he asked suddenly. “Someone with whom you can stay?”
“Oh, no!” Her face puckered with consternation and she screwed up her handkerchief, absently letting her reticule slide down her skirt to the floor. Charlotte bent and picked it up for her. “Thank you, Mrs. Pitt, you are so kind.” She took it back and clutched it. “No, Mr. Pitt, I couldn’t possibly do that. My place is at home, where I can be of as much support to Maurice as I am able. People must see that I do not for a single moment believe this dreadful thing that has been said about him. It is completely untrue, and I only beg that for justice’s sake you will do everything you can to prove it so. You will, won’t you?”
“Please, Mr. Pitt? You will not allow the truth to be buried in such a web of lies that poor Maurice is—” Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away with a sob to rest in Charlotte’s arms. She wept like a child, lost in her own desperation, unconscious of anyone else’s thoughts or judgments.
Charlotte slowly patted her, her eyes meeting Pitt’s helplessly. He could not read what she thought. There was anger, but was it at him, at circumstances, at Mrs. Jerome for intruding and disturbing them with her distress, or at their inability to do anything for her?
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Jerome,” he said. “I can only find out the truth—I can’t alter it.” How abrasively cruel that sounded, and how sanctimonious!
“Oh, thank you,” she said between sobs and gasps for breath. “I was sure you would—but I am so grateful.” She clung to Charlotte’s hands like a child. “So very grateful.”
The more Pitt thought about it, the less did he find it within what he had observed of Jerome’s character that he should be so impulsive and so inept as to pursue Godfrey while simultaneously conducting an affair with his elder brother. If the man was so driven by his appetite that he had lost all ordinary sense, surely others would have noticed it—many others?
He spent a miserable evening, refusing to talk about it with Charlotte. The next day, he sent Gillivray on what he sincerely believed would be a fool’s errand, searching for a room rented by Jerome or Arthur Waybourne. In the meantime, he took himself back to the Waybournes’ house to interview Godfrey again.
He was received with extreme disfavor.
“We have already been through this exceedingly painful matter in every detail!” Waybourne said sharply. “I refuse to discuss it any further! Hasn’t there been enough—enough obscenity?”
“It would be an obscenity, Sir Anstey, if a man were hanged for a crime we believe he committed but are too
“Mrs. Jerome—”
“Mr. Pitt, my husband is not an impulsive man. I have been married to him for eleven years and I have never known him to act without giving the matter consideration, weighing whether it would be fortunate or unfortunate.”
That also Pitt found only too easy to accept. Jerome was not a man to laugh aloud, dance on the pavement, or sing a snatch of song. His was a careful face; the only spontaneity in it was of the mind. He possessed a sour appreciation for humor, but never impulse. He did not even speak without judging first what effect it would have, how it would profit or harm him. What extraordinary passions must this boy have tapped to break the dam of years in a torrent that ended in murder?
If Jerome were guilty ...
How could so careful, so self-preserving a man have risked a clumsy fondling of young Godfrey for the few instants of slight gratification it might have afforded him? Was it a façade beginning to crack—a first breach of the wall that was soon going to explode in passion and murder?
He looked at Mrs. Jerome. She was close to Charlotte’s age, and yet she looked so much younger, so much more vulnerable, with her slender body and delicate face. She needed someone to protect her.
“Have you parents near to you?” he asked suddenly. “Someone with whom you can stay?”
“Oh, no!” Her face puckered with consternation and she screwed up her handkerchief, absently letting her reticule slide down her skirt to the floor. Charlotte bent and picked it up for her. “Thank you, Mrs. Pitt, you are so kind.” She took it back and clutched it. “No, Mr. Pitt, I couldn’t possibly do that. My place is at home, where I can be of as much support to Maurice as I am able. People must see that I do not for a single moment believe this dreadful thing that has been said about him. It is completely untrue, and I only beg that for justice’s sake you will do everything you can to prove it so. You will, won’t you?”
“Please, Mr. Pitt? You will not allow the truth to be buried in such a web of lies that poor Maurice is—” Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away with a sob to rest in Charlotte’s arms. She wept like a child, lost in her own desperation, unconscious of anyone else’s thoughts or judgments.
Charlotte slowly patted her, her eyes meeting Pitt’s helplessly. He could not read what she thought. There was anger, but was it at him, at circumstances, at Mrs. Jerome for intruding and disturbing them with her distress, or at their inability to do anything for her?
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Jerome,” he said. “I can only find out the truth—I can’t alter it.” How abrasively cruel that sounded, and how sanctimonious!
“Oh, thank you,” she said between sobs and gasps for breath. “I was sure you would—but I am so grateful.” She clung to Charlotte’s hands like a child. “So very grateful.”
The more Pitt thought about it, the less did he find it within what he had observed of Jerome’s character that he should be so impulsive and so inept as to pursue Godfrey while simultaneously conducting an affair with his elder brother. If the man was so driven by his appetite that he had lost all ordinary sense, surely others would have noticed it—many others?
He spent a miserable evening, refusing to talk about it with Charlotte. The next day, he sent Gillivray on what he sincerely believed would be a fool’s errand, searching for a room rented by Jerome or Arthur Waybourne. In the meantime, he took himself back to the Waybournes’ house to interview Godfrey again.
He was received with extreme disfavor.
“We have already been through this exceedingly painful matter in every detail!” Waybourne said sharply. “I refuse to discuss it any further! Hasn’t there been enough—enough obscenity?”
“It would be an obscenity, Sir Anstey, if a man were hanged for a crime we believe he committed but are too
Similar Books
