Bluegate Fields (17 page)

And that was odd, because her feelings for Eugenie were still very confused. Charlotte was irritated by her saccharine femininity; not only did it scrape Charlotte raw, but it was a perpetuation of all that was most infuriating in men’s assumptions about women. She had been aware of such attitudes ever since the time her father had taken a newspaper from her, and told her it was unsuitable for a lady to be interested in such things, and insisted she return to her painting and embroidery. The condescension of men to female frailty and general silliness made her temper boil. And Eugenie pandered to it by pretending to be exactly what they expected. Perhaps she had learned to act that way as a form of self-protection, as a way of getting what she wanted? That was a partial excuse, but it was still the coward’s way out.

And the worst thing about it all was that it worked—it worked even with Pitt! He melted like a complete fool! She had watched it happen in her own parlor! Eugenie, in her own simpering, self-deprecating, flattering way, was socially quite as clever as Emily! If she had started from as good a family and had been as pretty as Emily, perhaps she too might have married a title.

What about Pitt? The thought sent a chill throughout her body. Would Pitt have preferred someone a little softer, a little subtler at playing games; someone who would remain at least partly a mystery to him, demanding nothing of his emotions but patience? Would he have been happier with someone who left him at heart utterly alone, who never really hurt him because she was never close enough, who never questioned his values or destroyed his self-esteem by being right when he was wrong and letting him know it?

Surely to suspect Pitt of wanting such a woman was the most supreme insult of all. It assumed he was an emotional child, unable to stand the truth. But we are all children at times, and we all need dreams—even foolish ones.

Perhaps she would be wiser if she bit her tongue a little more often, let truth—or her understanding of the truth—wait its time. There was kindness to consider—as well as devotion to honesty.

The court was now full. In fact, when she turned around there were people being refused entrance. Curious faces crowded at the doorways, hoping for a glimpse of the prisoner, the man who had murdered an aristocrat’s son and stuffed his naked body down a manhole to the sewers!

The proceedings began. The clerk, somber in old black, wearing a gold pince-nez on a ribbon around his neck, called for attention in the matter of the Crown versus Maurice Jerome. The judge, his face like a ripe plum beneath his heavy, horsehair wig, puffed out his cheeks and sighed. He looked as if he had dined too well the evening before. Charlotte could imagine him in a velvet jacket, with crumbs on his waistcoat, wiping away the last remnants of the Stilton and upending the port wine. The fire would be climbing the chimney and the butler standing by to light his cigar.

Before the end of the week, he would probably put on the black three-cornered cap and sentence Maurice Jerome to be hanged by the neck until he was dead.

She shivered and turned to look for the first time at the man standing in the dock. She was startled—unpleasantly so. She realized what a precise mental picture she had built of him, not so much of his features, but of the sense of him, the feeling she would have on seeing his face.

And the picture vanished. He was larger than her pity had allowed; his eyes were cleverer. If there was fear in him, it was masked by his contempt for everyone around him. There were ways in which he was superior—he could speak Latin and considerable Greek; he had read about the arts and the cultures of ancient peoples, and this rabble below him had not. They were here to indulge a vulgar curiosity; he was here by force, and he would endure it because he had no choice. But he would not descend to be part of the emotional tide. He despised the vulgarity, and in his slightly flared nostrils, his pursed mouth that destroyed any lines of softness or sensitivity, in the slight movement of his shoulders that prevented him from touching the constables at either side, he silently made it understood.

Charlotte had begun with sympathy for him, thinking she could understand, at least in part, how he could have come to such a depth of passion and despair—if he was guilty. And surely he was deserving of every compassion and effort at justice if he was innocent?

And yet looking at him, real and alive, only yards away, she could not like him. The warmth faded and she was left with discomfort. She must begin all over again with her feelings, build them for an entirely different person from the one her mind had created.

The trial had begun. The sewer cleaner was the first witness. He was small, narrow as a boy, and he blinked, unaccustomed to the light. The counsel for the prosecution was a Mr. Bartholomew Land. He dealt with the man quickly and straightforwardly, drawing from him the very simple story of his work and his discovery of the corpse, the body surprisingly unmarked by injury or attacks by rats—and the fact that, remarkably, it had kept none of its clothes, not even boots. Of course he had called the police immediately, and certainly not, the lud, he had removed nothing whatsoever—he was not a thief! The suggestion was an insult.

Counsel for the defense, Mr. Cameron Giles, found nothing to contest, and the witness was duly excused.

The next witness was Pitt. Charlotte bent a little to hide her face as he passed within a yard of her. She was amused and felt a small quake of uncertainty when, even at a time like this, he glanced for a moment at her hat. It was beautiful! Though of course he did not know it was she who was wearing it! Did he often notice other women with that quick flash of appreciation? She drove the idea from her mind. Eugenie had worn a hat.

Pitt took the witness stand and swore to his name and occupation. Though she had pressed his jacket before he left the house, it sat slightly lopsided already, his cravat was crooked, and, as usual, he had run his fingers through his hair, leaving it on end. It was a waste of time even trying! Heaven only knew what he had in his pockets to make them hang like that! Stones, by the look of it!

“You examined the body?” Land asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And there was no identification on it whatsoever? How did you then learn who he was?”

Pitt outlined the process, the elimination of one possibility after another. He made it sound very routine, a matter of common sense anyone might have followed.

“Indeed.” Land nodded. “And in due course Sir Anstey Waybourne identified his son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you do then, Mr. Pitt?”

Pitt’s face was blank. Only Charlotte knew that it was misery that took away his normal expression, the consuming interest that was usually there. To anyone else he might simply have appeared cold.

“Because of information given the by the police surgeon”—he was far too used to giving evidence to repeat hearsay— “I began to make investigations into Arthur Waybourne’s personal relationships.”

“And what did you learn?”

Everything was being dragged out of him; he volunteered nothing.

“I learned of no close relationships outside his own household that fitted the description we were looking for.” What a careful answer, all in words that gave nothing away. He had not even implied there was any sort of sexuality involved. He could have been talking of finance, or even some trade or other.

Land’s eyebrows shot up and his voice showed surprise.

“No relationships, Mr. Pitt! Are you sure?”

Pitt’s mouth curled down. “I think you will have to ask Sergeant Gillivray for the information you are fishing for,” he said with thinly concealed acidity.

Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, even behind her veiling. So he was going to make Gillivray tell all about Albie Frobisher and the woman prostitute with the disease. Gillivray would love that. He would be a celebrity.

Why? Gillivray would make it all so much more florid, so full of detail and certainty. Or was it that Pitt simply did not want to be part of it and this was his way of escaping—at least from saying the words himself, as if that made some difference? Left to Gillivray, they would be the more damning.

She looked up. He was terribly alone there in that wood-railed box; there was nothing she could do to help. He did not even know she was here, understanding his fear because some part of him was still not entirely satisfied of Jerome’s guilt.

What had Arthur Waybourne really been like? He was young, well-born, and a victim of murder. No one would dare to speak ill of him now, to dig up the mean or grubby truths. Maurice Jerome, with his cynical face, probably knew that, too.

She looked across at Pitt.

He was going on with his evidence, Land drawing it out of him a piece at a time.

Giles had nothing to ask. He was too skilled to try to shake him, and would not give him the opportunity to reinforce what he had already said.

Then it was the police surgeon’s turn. He was calm, quite certain of his facts and impervious to the power or solemnity of the court. Neither the judge’s flowing size and rippling wig nor Land’s thundering voice made any impression on him. Under the pomposity of the court were only human bodies. And he had seen bodies naked, had taken them apart when they were dead. He was only too aware of their frailty, their common indignities and needs.

Charlotte tried to imagine members of the court in white dust sheets, without the centuries of dignity their robes lent them, and suddenly it all seemed faintly ridiculous. She wondered if the judge was hot under that great wig; did it itch?

Perhaps the white dust sheets would be just as delusionary as the gowns and robes?

The surgeon was talking. He had a good face, strong without arrogance. He told the truth, sparing nothing. But he stated it as fact, without emotion or judgment. Arthur Waybourne had been homosexually used. A ripple of disgust spread through the room. Everyone doubtless already knew, but it was a pleasure, a kind of catharsis to be able to express the feeling and wallow in it. After all, that was what they had come for!

Arthur Waybourne had recently contracted syphilis. Another wave of revulsion—this time also a shudder of surprise and fear. This was disease; it was contagious. There were things about it one knew, and decent people stood in no peril. But there was always mystery with disease, and they were close enough to it for a thrill of apprehension, the cold brush of real danger. It was a disease for which there was no cure.

Then came the surprise. Giles stood up.

“You say, Dr. Cutler, that Arthur Waybourne had recently contracted syphilis?”

“Yes, that is so.”

“Unquestionably?”

“Unquestionably.”

“You could not have made a mistake? It could not be some other disease with similar symptoms?”

“No, it could not.”

“From whom did he contract this disease?”

“I have no way of knowing, sir. Except, of course, that it must have been someone who suffered from the disease.”

“Precisely. That would not tell you who it was—but it would tell you undoubtedly who it was not!”

“Of course.”

There was a shifting in the seats. The judge leaned forward.

“So much would appear to be obvious, Mr. Giles, even to the veriest imbecile. If you have a point, please come to it, sir!”

“Yes, my lord. Dr. Cutler, have you examined the prisoner with the purpose of determining whether he has or has ever had syphilis?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And has he that disease?”

“No, sir, he has not. Nor has he any other communicable disease. He is in good health, as good as a man may be under such stress.”

There was silence. The judge screwed up his face and stared at the doctor with dislike.

“Do I understand you to say, sir, that the prisoner did not pass on this disease to the victim, Arthur Waybourne?” he asked icily.

“That is correct, my lord. It would have been impossible.”

“Then who did? How did he get it? Did he inherit it?”

“No, my lord, it was in the early stages, such as is found when it has been sexually transmitted. Congenital syphilis would betray entirely different symptoms.”

The judge sighed heavily and leaned back, a look of long-suffering on his face.

“I see. And of course you cannot say from whom he did contract it!” He blew his nose. “Very well, Mr. Giles, you appear to have made your point. Pray continue.”

“That is all, my lord. Thank you, Dr. Cutler.”

Before he could go, however, Land shot to his feet.

“Just a moment, Doctor! Did the police subsequently ask you to verify a diagnosis of another person, who did have syphilis?”

Cutler smiled dryly. “Several.”

“One with particular reference to this case?” Land said sharply.

“They did not tell me—it would be hearsay.” The doctor seemed to find some pleasure in being obstructively literal.

“Abigail Winters?” Land’s temper was rising. His case was flawless and he knew it, but he was being made to look inefficient in front of the court, and he resented it.

“Yes, I did examine Abigail Winters, and she does have syphilis,” Cutler conceded.

“Communicable?”

“Certainly.”

“And what is Abigail Winters’s profession—or trade, if you prefer?”

“I have no idea.”

“Don’t be naïve, Dr. Cutler! You know as well as I do what her trade is!”

Cutler’s wide mouth showed only the slightest of smiles.

“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.”

There was a twitter around the court and Land’s face flushed dull red. Even from behind him, Charlotte could see the color stain his neck. She was glad her veil hid her own expression. This was neither the place nor the time to be amused.

Land opened his mouth and closed it again.

“You are excused!” he said furiously. “I call Sergeant Harcourt Gillivray.”

Gillivray took the stand and swore to his name and office. He looked freshly scrubbed and neat without losing the air of having attained the effect without labor. He could have passed for a gentleman, except for a slight unease in his hands and just a small, betraying air of self-importance. A true gentleman would not have worried about how others saw him; he would have known there was no need—and he would not have cared anyway.