Bluegate Fields (27 page)

Charlotte remembered him vividly, and the whole unspeakable affair around Resurrection Row. He had been the keenest of all of them in fighting to get the child-poverty bill passed through Parliament. He knew as much as Pitt did of the slums—indeed he had frightened and appalled poor Dominic by taking him to the Devil’s Acre, under the shadow of Westminster.

But would he be interested in the facts of one extremely unlikable tutor, who was very possibly guilty of a despicable crime anyway?

“Do you think Mr. Carlisle will be bothered over Mr. Jerome?” she asked doubtfully. “The law is not at fault. It is hardly a Parliamentary matter.”

“It is a matter for reform,” Aunt Vespasia replied as the carriage swayed around a corner rather fiercely and she was obliged to brace her body to prevent herself falling into Charlotte’s lap. Opposite them, Emily clung on quite ungracefully. Aunt Vespasia snorted. “I shall have to speak to that young man! He has visions of becoming a charioteer. I think he sees me as a rather elderly Queen Boudicca! Next thing you know, he will have put sabers on the wheels!”

Charlotte pretended to sneeze in order to hide her expression.

“Reform?” she said after a moment, straightening up under the cold and highly perceptive eye of Vespasia. “I don’t see how.”

“If children of thirteen can be bought and sold for these practices,” Vespasia snapped, “then there is something grossly wrong, and it needs to be reformed. Actually, I have been considering it for some time. You have merely brought it to the forefront of my mind. I think it is a cause worthy of our best endeavors. I imagine Mr. Carlisle will think so, too.”

Carlisle listened to them with great attention and, as Aunt Vespasia had expected, distress for the conditions of people like Albie Frobisher in general, and for the possible injustice of the case against Jerome.

After some thought, he posed several questions and theories himself. Had Arthur threatened Jerome with blackmail, threatened to tell his father about the relationship? And when Waybourne had faced Jerome, could Jerome have told him a great deal more of the truth than Arthur had envisioned? Did he tell Waybourne of their visits to Abigail Winters—even to Albie Frobisher—and that it was Arthur himself who had introduced the two younger boys to such practices? Could it then have been Waybourne, in rage and horror, who had killed his own son, rather than face the unbearable scandal that could not be suppressed forever? The possibilities had been very far from explored!

But now, of course, the police, the law, the whole establishment had committed itself to the verdict. Their reputations, indeed their very professional office, depended upon the conviction standing. To admit they had been precipitate in duty, perhaps even negligent, would make a public exhibition of their inadequacies. And no one does that unless driven to it by forces beyond control.

Added to that, Charlotte conceded, they may well believe in all honesty that Jerome was guilty. And perhaps he was!

And would smart, clean, pink young Gillivray ever admit that he might have helped Albie Frobisher just a little in his identification, planted the seed of understanding in a mind so quick, so subtle, and so anxious to survive that Albie had grasped what he wanted and given it to him?

Could Gillivray afford such a thought, even if it occurred to him? Of course not! Apart from anything else, it would be betraying Athelstan, leaving him standing alone—and that would be cataclysmic!

Abigail Winters might not have been lying entirely. Maybe Arthur had been there; his tastes may have been more catholic than for boys only. And perhaps Abigail had tacitly accepted some immunity for herself by including Jerome in her evidence. The temptation to tie a case up conclusively that you were morally sure of anyway was very real. Gillivray may have succumbed to it—visions of success, favor, promotion dancing before his eyes. Charlotte was ashamed of the thought when she expressed it to Carlisle, but felt it should not be dismissed.

And what did they wish of him? Carlisle asked.

The answer was quite explicit. They wished to have correct and detailed facts of prostitution in general, and that of children in particular, so that they might present them to the women of society, whose outrage at such conditions might in time make the abuse of children so abhorrent that they would refuse to receive any man of whom such a practice, or even tolerance, was suspected.

Ignorance of its horrors was largely responsible for the women’s indifference to it. Some knowledge, however dependent upon imagination for the reality of its fear and despair, would mobilize all their very great social power.

Carlisle vacillated at presenting such appalling facts to ladies, but Aunt Vespasia froze him with an icy stare.

“I am perfectly capable of looking at anything whatsoever that life has to afford,” she said loftily, “if there is some reason for it! I do not care for vulgarity, but if a problem is to be dealt with, then it must be understood. Kindly do not patronize me, Somerset!”

“I wouldn’t dare!” he replied with a flash of humor. It was almost an apology, and she accepted it with grace.

“I hardly imagine it will be a pleasant subject,” she acknowledged. “Nevertheless it must be done. Our facts must be correct—one grave error and we lose our case. I shall avail myself of all the help I can.” She turned in her chair. “Emily, the best opinion to begin with is that of the people who have the most influence, and who will be the most offended by it.”

“The Church?” Emily suggested.

“Nonsense! Everyone expects the Church to make noises, about sin. That is their job! Therefore no one really listens—it has no novelty whatsoever. What we need is a few of the best society hostesses, the ones people listen to and imitate, the leaders of fashion. That is where you will assist, Emily.”

Emily was delighted; her face shone with anticipation.

“And you, Charlotte,” Vespasia continued. “You will acquire some of the information we shall need. You have a husband in the police force. Use him. Somerset, I shall speak to you again.” She rose from the armchair and went to the door. “In the meanwhile, I trust you will do everything you can to look into the matter of this tutor Jerome and the possibility that there may be some other explanation. It is rather pressing.”

Pitt told Charlotte nothing about his interview with Athelstan, and so she was unaware that he had tried to reopen the case. But in any event, she had not imagined it would be possible once the verdict was in. If anything, she knew better than he did that those with influence would not permit the result to be questioned, now that the law had been met.

The next thing to do was to prepare for Callantha’s party, when she might have the chance to speak with Fanny Swynford. And if the occasion to speak to Titus did not offer itself gratuitously, she would then engineer some opportunity to speak with him also. At least Emily and Aunt Vespasia would be there to help her. And Aunt Vespasia was able to get away with almost any social behavior she chose, because she had the position—and, above all, the sheer style—to carry it off as if she were the rule and everyone else the exception.

She told Pitt only that she was going out with Aunt Vespasia. She knew that he liked Vespasia enough not to question it. In fact, he sent her his very best wishes in a message of what was for him unusual respect.

She accompanied Emily in her carriage, and had borrowed another dress for the day, since it was impractical for her to spend such allowance as she had for clothes on something she would wear probably only once. The minutiae of high fashion changed so frequently that last season’s dress was distinctly passé this season; it was seldom more than once or twice in six months that Charlotte attended an affair like the entertainment at Callantha Swynford’s.

The weather was perfectly appalling, driving sleet out of an iron-gray sky. The only way to look in the least glamorous was to wear something as gay and dazzling as possible. Emily chose light, clear red. Not wishing to look too similar, Charlotte chose an apricot velvet that made Emily slightly cross she had not chosen it herself. She was too proud, though, to demand they exchange, even though both were her gowns; her reasons would have been too obvious.

However, by the time they reached the Swynfords’ hallway and were welcomed into the large withdrawing room, which had been opened into the room beyond, fires blazing, lamps bright, Emily forgot the matter and launched herself into the business of the visit.

“How delightful,” she said with a brilliant smile at Callantha Swynford. “I shall look forward to meeting absolutely everyone! And so will Charlotte, I am sure. She has spoken of little else all the way here.”

Callantha made the usual polite replies, and conducted them to be introduced to the other guests, all talking busily and saying very little of consequence. Just over half an hour later, when the pianist had begun to play a composition of incredible monotony, Charlotte observed a very self-possessed child of about fourteen whom she recognized from the portrait to be Fanny. She excused herself from her present company—easily done, since they were all bored with each other and had been pretending to listen to the music—and made her way between other groups until she was next to Fanny.

“Do you like it?” she whispered quite casually, as if they were long acquaintances.

Fanny looked slightly uncertain. She had an intelligent, candid little face, with the same mouth as her mother, and gray eyes, but otherwise the resemblance was less than the portrait affected. And she did not look as if lying came to her by nature.

“I think perhaps I don’t understand it.” She found the tactful answer with some triumph.

“Neither do I,” Charlotte said agreeably. “I don’t care to have to understand music unless I like the sound of it.”

Fanny relaxed. “You don’t like it either,” she observed with relief. “Actually, I think it’s awful. I can’t imagine why Mama invited him. I suppose he’s ‘the thing’ this month or something. And he looks so dreadfully serious about it I can’t help thinking he doesn’t like it much himself. Maybe this isn’t the way he means it to sound, do you suppose?”

“Perhaps he’s worried he won’t be paid,” Charlotte answered. “I wouldn’t pay him.”

Seeing her smile, Fanny burst into laughter, then realized it was completely improper, and hid her mouth with her hands. She regarded Charlotte with new interest.

“You are so pretty you don’t look as if you’d say dreadful things,” she observed frankly, then realized that she had added to her social mistake even further, and blushed.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said sincerely. “I’m so glad you think I look nice.” She lowered her voice in conspiracy. “Actually, I borrowed my dress from my sister, and I think now she wishes she’d worn it herself. But please don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, I shan’t!” Fanny promised instantly. “It’s beautiful.”

“Have you got any sisters?”

Fanny shook her head. “No, only a brother, so I can’t really borrow anything much. It must be nice to have a sister.”

“Yes, it is—most of the time. Although I think I might have liked a brother, too. I have some cousins, only I hardly ever see them.”

“So have I—but they’re mostly boys as well. At least the ones I see are. They’re second cousins really, but it’s much the same.” Her face became sober. “One of them just died. It was all rather horrible. He got killed. I don’t really understand what happened, and nobody will tell me. I think it must be something disgusting, or they’d say—don’t you think?”

Her words were quite casual, but Charlotte saw behind the puzzled, rather offhand look the need to be reassured. And reality would be better than the monsters created by silence.

Apart from her own need to press for information, Charlotte did not want to insult the child with comfortable lies.

“Yes,” she said honestly. “I should think there’s probably something that hurts, so people would rather not talk about it.”

Fanny looked at her for several moments before speaking again, measuring her up.

“He was murdered,” she said at last.

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” Charlotte answered with perfect composure. “That’s very sad. How did it happen?”

“Our tutor, Mr. Jerome—everyone says he killed him.”

“Your tutor? How appalling. Did they have a fight? Do you suppose it was an accident? Perhaps he did not mean to be so violent?”

“Oh, no!” Fanny shook her head. “It wasn’t like that at all. It wasn’t a fight—Arthur was drowned in the bath.” She screwed up her face in bewilderment. “I simply don’t understand it. Titus—that’s my brother—had to give evidence in court. They wouldn’t let me go, of course. They don’t let me do anything really interesting! Sometimes it’s awful being a girl.” She sighed. “But I’ve thought a lot—and I can’t imagine what he knows that would be any good!”

“Well, men do tend to be a bit pompous,” Charlotte offered.

“Mr. Jerome was,” Fanny said. “Oh, he was very stuffy, too. He had an expression as if he was eating rice pudding all the time! But he was an awfully good teacher. I hate rice pudding—it always has lumps in it and it tastes of nothing, but we have to have it every Thursday. He used to teach the Latin. I don’t think he liked any of us very much, but he never lost his temper. I think he was sort of proud of that. He was terribly—I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He never had any fun.”

“But he hated your cousin Arthur?”

“I never thought he liked him a lot.” Fanny considered it carefully. “But I never thought he hated him either.”

Charlotte felt a quickening of excitement.

“What was he like, your cousin Arthur?”

Fanny wrinkled up her nose and hesitated.

“You didn’t like him?” Charlotte helped.

Fanny’s face ironed out, the tension relieved. Charlotte guessed it was the first time the decencies of mourning had allowed her to speak the truth about Arthur.

“Not very much,” she admitted.

“Why not?” Charlotte pressed, trying to hide at least some of her interest.

“He was awfully conceited. He was very good-looking, you know.” Fanny shrugged again. “Some boys are very vain—just as vain as any girl. And he behaved as if he was superior, but I suppose that’s just because he was older.” She took a deep breath. “I say, isn’t that piano dreadful? It sounds like a maid dropping a whole load of knives and forks.”