Bluegate Fields (18 page)

Gillivray confirmed Pitt’s evidence. Land then went on to question him about discovering Albie Frobisher, stopping short, of course, of Albie’s evidence, which would have been hearsay from Gillivray. And Albie would be called in due course to give it himself—far more tellingly.

Charlotte sat, cold; it was all so logical, it fitted so well. Thank heaven at least Eugenie was outside. As a witness, she was not permitted in until after she had testified.

Gillivray told how he had then pursued his investigations. He did not mention Pitt’s hand in them, or that he had been following Pitt’s orders, Pitt’s intuition of where he should look. He stood very straight. He told them how he found Abigail Winters and learned that she had a disease that on examination proved to be syphilis.

He left the stand pink-cheeked with pride, two hundred pairs of eyes watching his straight back and elegant shoulders as he returned to his seat.

Charlotte loathed him, because he was satisfied; to him this was an achievement, not a tragedy. He should have hurt! He should have felt pain and bewilderment welling up inside him.

The judge adjourned them for luncheon, and Charlotte huddled out with the crowd, hoping that Pitt would not see her. She wondered now if perhaps the vanity that had led her to wear the black hat was going to be her undoing.

Actually, it did not happen until she was returning—a little early, to be sure of claiming her seat again.

She saw Pitt as soon as she entered the hallway, and stopped. Then, realizing that stopping would only attract further attention, she tilted her chin higher and sailed down toward the courtroom door.

It was inevitable that Pitt should see her. She was dressed entirely in black, and the hat was quite marvelous. He would have looked had they been anywhere.

She considered inclining her head away and decided against it. It would be unnatural and arouse his suspicion.

Even so, it was a moment before he recognized her.

She felt his hand hard on her arm and was obliged to stop. She froze, then she turned to stare at him.

“Charlotte!” He was astonished, his face almost comical. “Charlotte? What on earth are you doing here? You can’t help!”

“I wish to be here,” she said reasonably, keeping her voice low. “Don’t make a scene, or everyone will look at us.”

“I don’t give a damn if everyone looks at us! Go home. This is no place for you!”

“Eugenie’s here—I think there is very good cause for me to remain. She may need a deal of comfort before this is through.”

He hesitated. She took his hand off her arm gently.

“Wouldn’t you want the to help her if I could?”

He could think of no answer and she knew it. She gave him a dazzling smile and swept into the courtroom.

The first witness in the afternoon was Anstey Waybourne. Suddenly, the room became aware of tragedy. There was no sound from the body of the court except a low mutter of sympathy. People nodded sagely, joining in a sort of mass awareness of death.

He had little of worth to add, just the identification of his son’s body, an account of the boy’s brief life and its day-to-day details, his studies with Jerome. He was asked by Giles how he had come to employ Jerome, about the excellent references and the fact that no previous employer had had any complaint about him. Jerome’s academic qualifications were unquestionable; his discipline was exacting but without brutality. Neither Arthur nor Godfrey had especially liked him, but neither, Waybourne had to admit, had they expressed any but the natural resentment of young people for one in constant authority over them.

Questioned about his own opinion of Jerome, he had little to contribute. The whole matter had shocked him deeply. He had had no conception of what was happening to his sons. He could be of no assistance. The judge, in subdued voice, permitted him to be excused.

Godfrey Waybourne was called. There was an instant hum of anger against Jerome; he was to blame for such a child being required to suffer this ordeal.

Jerome sat motionless, staring straight ahead as if Godfrey had been a stranger and of no interest. Neither did he look at Land when he spoke.

The evidence was brief. Godfrey repeated what he had told Pitt, all in genteel words—almost ambiguous, except to those who already knew what he was talking about.

Even Giles was gentle with him, not requiring him to repeat the painful details.

They finished for the day surprisingly early. Charlotte had had no idea courts closed at what for Pitt was barely more than halfway through the afternoon. She found herself a hansom and rode home. She had been there over two hours and had changed into a more modest dress when Pitt finally came in. She was at the stove with dinner simmering. She waited for the blast, but it did not come.

“Where did you get the hat?” he asked, sitting down in the kitchen chair.

She smiled with relief. She had not been aware of it, but her whole body had been tense, waiting for his anger. It would have hurt her more than she could easily accommodate. She poked the stew and took a little broth in her spoon, blowing on it to taste. She usually failed to put in sufficient salt. She wanted this to be especially good.

“Emily,” she replied. “Why?”

“It looks expensive.”

“Is that all?” She turned around to look at him, smiling at last.

He met her eyes without a flicker, reading her perfectly.

“And beautiful,” he added, then said, beaming, “Quite beautiful! But it would have suited Emily, too. Why did she give it to you?”

“She saw one she liked better,” she said truthfully. “Although of course she said it was because she bought it for a funeral and then heard something unpleasant about the deceased.”

“So she gave you the hat?”

“You know Emily.” She sipped the broth and added enough salt to suit Pitt’s sharper tongue. “When does Eugenie give evidence?”

“When the defense starts. That may not be tomorrow—more probably the next day. You don’t need to go.”

“No, I suppose not. But I want to. I don’t want just half an opinion.”

“My dear, when did you ever have less than a total opinion? Whatever the issue!”

“Then if I’m going to have an opinion,” she retorted instantly, “better it be an informed one!”

He had neither energy nor will to argue. If she wanted to go, it was her own decision. In a way there was comfort in sharing the burden of knowing; his aloneness melted away. He could not change anything, but at least he could touch her, and without words, explanations, she would understand exactly what he felt.

The following day, the first witness was Mortimer Swynford. His only purpose was to lay the ground for Titus, by testifying that he had employed Jerome to tutor both his son and his daughter. He had done so very soon after Jerome was engaged by Anstey Waybourne, to whom Swynford was related by marriage; it was Waybourne, in fact, who had recommended Jerome to him. No, he had had no idea that Jerome was anything but of the most impeccable moral character. His intellectual record was excellent.

They kept Titus only a matter of minutes. Grave, but more curious than frightened, he stood straight in the stand. Charlotte immediately liked the boy because he gave her the feeling he was saddened by the whole thing, speaking only reluctantly of something he still found distressing and hard to believe.

After the luncheon adjournment, the atmosphere changed entirely. The sympathy, the sober silence, vanished and was replaced with a buzz of whisper, the rustling of clothes in seats as the spectators settled to enjoy a salacious superiority, a little voyeurism without the indignity of crouching at windows or peeping through holes.

Albert Frobisher was called to the stand. He looked small, a strange mixture of the weariness of great age and the vulnerability of a child. He did not surprise Charlotte; her imagination had already built a picture of him that was not far from the truth. Yet the reality did somehow shock her. There was something so much sharper about the voice, not just the mind. She sensed a being whose feelings she could not reach, who said things she had not thought of first.

He swore to his name and address.

“What is your occupation, Mr. Frobisher?” Land asked coolly. He needed Albie—indeed Albie was vital to the case—but Land could not keep the contempt out of his voice, the reminder to everyone that there was an unbridgeable gulf between them. He did not wish anyone, even in a moment’s absence of mind, to imagine that they had any connection but this necessary one of duty.

Charlotte could understand. She would not have wished to be bracketed with him. Yet she was angry; perhaps it was unfair.

“I am a prostitute,” Albie said with cold derision. He understood the niceties, too, and despised them. But at least he would not hide in a hypocrisy of ignorance.

“A prostitute?” Land’s voice rose in pretended disbelief. “But you are a man?”

“I’m seventeen,” Albie replied. “I began with my first customer when I was thirteen.”

“I did not ask your age!” Land was annoyed. He was not interested in child prostitution—that was an entirely different matter, and one he was not concerned with. “Do you sell your services to some kind of depraved women whose appetites are so gross they cannot be satisfied with a normal relationship?”

Albie was tired of this playacting. His whole trade was one long charade, a procession of people who pretended to be respectable.

“No, I don’t,” he said flatly. “I’ve never touched a woman. I sell myself to men, mostly rich men, toffs, who prefer boys to women and can’t get them without paying, so they come to people like me. I thought you knew that—or why did you call me here? What use would I be to you if I didn’t, eh?”

Land was furious. He turned to the judge.

“My lord! Will you order the witness to answer the questions and refrain from making impertinent observations that may well slander decent and honorable men, and can only distress the court! There are ladies present!”

Charlotte thought that was ridiculous, and would dearly like to have said so. Anyone attending this court—except witnesses, who were outside anyway—had come here precisely because they wanted to hear something shocking! Why else attend a murder trial where you know in advance the victim was abused and contaminated by a venereal disease? The hypocrisy was revolting; her whole body was rigid with anger.

The judge’s face was even purpler than it had been.

“You will answer only the questions you are asked!” he said sharply to Albie. “I understand the police have laid no charges against you. Conduct yourself here in a manner to insure that that remains so! Do you understand me? This is not an opportunity for you to advertise your vile trade, or to slander your betters!”

Charlotte thought bitterly that the men who used him, far from being his betters, were considerably inferior. They did not go to Albie out of ignorance or the need to survive. Albie was not innocent, but he could plead some mitigation. They had none but the compulsion of their appetites.

“I shall mention no one who is better than I am, my lord,” Albie said with a curl of his lip. “I swear.”

The judge gave him a look of sour suspicion, but he had obtained the promise he had asked for. No complaint he could justify came to his mind.

Charlotte found herself smiling with sharp satisfaction. She would like to have been able to say exactly that.

“So your customers are men?” Land continued. “Just answer yes or no!”

“Yes.” Albie omitted the “sir.”

“Do you see anyone in this courtroom who has been a customer of yours at any time?”

Albie’s soft mouth widened into a smile and he began to look slowly, almost lingeringly around the room. His eyes stopped on one smart-suited gentleman after another.

Land saw the danger and his body stiffened in alarm.

“Has the prisoner ever been a customer of yours?” he said loudly. “Look at the prisoner!”

Albie affected surprise and removed his glance from the gallery to the dock.

“Yes.”

“Maurice Jerome bought your services as a male prostitute?” Land said triumphantly.

“Yes.”

“On one occasion or several?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be obtuse!” Land allowed his temper to show at last. “You can be charged with contempt of court, and find yourself in jail if you are obstructive, I promise you!”

“Several.” Albie was unruffled. He had a certain power and he meant to taste the full pleasure of it. It would almost certainly not arise again. Life would not be long, and he knew it. Few people’s were, in Bluegate Fields, still fewer in his occupation. Today was for the savoring. Land was the one with status and possessions to lose; Albie had nothing anyway—he could afford to live dangerously. He faced Land without a quiver.

“Maurice Jerome came to your rooms on several occasions?” Land waited to make sure the jury had taken the point.

“Yes,” Albie repeated.

“And did he have a physical relationship with you, and pay you for it?”

“Yes.” His mouth curled in contempt and his eyes flickered over the gallery. “Good God, I don’t do it free! You don’t imagine I
like
it, do you?”

“I have no idea as to your tastes, Mr. Frobisher,” Land said icily. There was a very small smile on his face. “They are quite beyond my imagination!”

Albie’s face was white in the gaslight. He leaned forward a little over the railing.

“They’re very simple. I expect they’re much the same as yours. I like to eat at least once every day. I like to have clothes that keep me warm, and don’t stink. I like to have a dry roof over my head and not have to share it with ten or twenty other people! Those are my tastes—sir!”

“Silence!” The judge banged his gravel. “You are being impertinent. We are not concerned with your life story or your desires. Mr. Land, if you cannot control your witness, you had better dismiss him. Surely you have elicited the information you require? Mr. Giles, have you anything to ask?”

“No, my lord. Thank you.” He had already tried to shake Albie’s identification and failed. There was no purpose in showing his failure to the jury.

Dismissed from the stand, Albie walked back along the aisle, passing within a few feet of Charlotte. His moment of protest was over, and he looked small and thin again.