Bluegate Fields by Anne Perry Page A

words.
    Vanderley flushed. “I was suggesting the intention, Anstey, not the result. I take it from your remark that you believe the two are connected?”
    Now it was Wayborne’s turn to color with awkwardness, even anger with himself.
    “No—I—”
    For the first time, Swynford spoke; his voice was rich, full of confidence. He was used to being listened to without the need to seek attention.
    “I’m afraid, Anstey, it does look inevitably as if someone of poor Arthur’s acquaintance was perverted in the most appalling fashion. Don’t blame yourself—no man of decency would conceive of such an abominable thing. It doesn’t enter the mind. But now it has to be faced. As the police say, there doesn’t appear to be any other rational explanation.”
    “What do you suggest I do?” Waybourne demanded sarcastically. “Allow the police to question my friends, to see if any of them seduced and murdered my son?”
    “I hardly think you will find him among your friends, Anstey.” Swynford was patient. He was dealing with a man in the extremities of grief. Outbursts that at another time would be frowned upon were now quite naturally excused. “I would begin by looking a little more closely at some of your employees.”
    Waybourne’s face fell. “Are you suggesting Arthur was—was consorting with the butler or the footman?”
    Vanderley looked up. “I remember I used to be great friends with one of the grooms when I was Arthur’s age. He could do anything with a horse, rode like a centaur. Lord, how I wanted to do that myself! I was a damned sight more impressed by his talents than any of the dry political skills my father practiced.” He made a face. “One is, at sixteen.”
    A flicker of light shone in Waybourne’s eyes. He looked up at Pitt.
    “Never thought of that. I suppose you’d better consider the groom, although I’ve no idea whether he rides. He’s a competent driver, but I never knew Arthur had any interest....”
    Swynford leaned on the back of one of the chairs.
    “And of course there’s always the tutor—whatever his name is. A good tutor can become a great influence on a boy.”
    Waybourne frowned. “Jerome? He had excellent references. Not a particularly likable man, but extremely competent. Fine academic record. Keeps good discipline in the schoolroom. Has a wife. Good woman—spotless reputation. I do take certain care, Mortimer!” The criticism was implicit.
    “Of course you do. We all do!” Swynford said reasonably, even placatingly. “But then a vice of that sort would hardly be known! And the fact that the wretched man has a wife is no proof of anything. Poor woman!”
    “Good God!”
    Pitt remembered the tutor’s tight, intelligent face reflecting a painful knowledge of his position, of what it would always be, and why. There was nothing wrong with his talent or his diligence; it was just his birth that was wrong. Now, perhaps, the slow growth of sourness had warped his character as well, probably permanently after all these years.
    It was time to interrupt. But before Pitt spoke, Gillivray cut in.
    “We’ll do that, sir. I think there’s every chance we shall discover something. You may well have found the answer already.”
    Waybourne let out his breath slowly. The muscles in his face calmed.
    “Yes. Yes, I suppose you’d better. Most unpleasant, but if it cannot be avoided ...”
    “We’ll be discreet, sir,” Gillivray promised.
    Pitt felt irritation wash over him. “We’ll investigate everything, “ he said a little sharply. “Until we have either discovered the truth or exhausted every possibility.”
    Waybourne looked at him with disapproval, his eyes sharp under the sweeping, fair lashes.
    “Indeed! Then you may return tomorrow and begin with the groom and Mr. Jerome. Now I think I have said everything that I have to say to you. I will instruct the appropriate servants for your convenience tomorrow. Good day to you.”
    “Good day, gentlemen.” Pitt