to his cellar for that purpose,” he said with a touch of envy. It smarted that Pitt, of all people, should have seen inside such a society, even if only from the vantage of an outdoor servant’s son. The mere knowledge was something Gillivray did not have.
“We won’t do any good raking it all over,” Gillivray repeated.
Pitt did not bother to argue anymore. Gillivray was obliged to obey. And, to be honest, Pitt did not believe there was any purpose in it either, except to satisfy Waybourne—and perhaps Athelstan.
“I’ll see the tutor.” He opened the back door and went into the scullery. The kitchenmaid, a girl of about fourteen, dressed in gray stuff and a calico apron, was scrubbing pots. She looked up, her hands dripping soap, her face full of curiosity.
“You get on with your work, Rosie,” the cook ordered, scowling at the intruders. “And what’ll you be wanting now?” she demanded of Pitt. “I’ve no time to be getting you anything to eat, or cups of tea either! I’ve never seen the like of it. Police indeed! I’ve luncheon to get for the family, and dinner to think of, I’ll have you know. And Rosie’s much too busy to be bothering with the likes of you!”
Pitt looked at the table and at a glance he could see the ingredients for pigeon pie, five types of vegetables, some sort of whitefish, a fruit pudding, trifle, sherbet, and a bowl full of eggs that could have been for anything—perhaps a cake or a soufflé.
The downstairs maid was polishing glasses. The light caught on the cut designs, sending prisms of color into the mirror behind her.
“Thank you,” Pitt said dryly. “Mr. Gillivray will talk to the butler, and I am going through to speak to Mr. Jerome.”
The cook snorted, dusting flour from her hands.
“Well, you’ll not do it in my kitchen,” she snapped. “You’d best go and see Mr. Welsh in his pantry, if you must. Where you see Mr. Jerome is nothing to do with me.” She bent to her pastry again, sleeves rolled up, hands strong and thick, powerful enough to wring a turkey’s neck.
Pitt walked past her, along the passage and through the baize door into the hallway. The footman showed him to the morning room, and five minutes later, Jerome came in.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he said with a faintly supercilious half smile. “I really cannot add anything to what I have already told you. But if you insist, I am prepared to repeat it.”
Pitt could not feel any liking for the man, in spite of an empathy for his situation; but it was an intellectual understanding, an ability to imagine how Jerome felt—the scraping of the emotions with every small reminder of dependence, of inferiority. Facing him in the flesh—seeing his bright, guarded eyes, the pursed mouth, the precise collar and tie, hearing the edge to his voice—Pitt still disliked him.
“Thank you,” he said, forcing himself to be patient. He wanted to let Jerome know that they were both there under compulsion: Pitt of duty, Jerome because Waybourne required it. But that would have been to give way to himself, and would defeat his objective. He sat down to indicate that he intended to take some time.
Jerome sat also, arranging his coat and trousers with care. Opposite Pitt, who spread out like dumped laundry, Jerome was meticulous. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“How long have you taught Arthur and Godfrey Waybourne?” Pitt began.
“Three years and ten months,” Jerome replied.
“Then Arthur would have been twelve and Godfrey nine?” Pitt calculated.
“Bravo.” Jerome’s voice went down at the end in weary sarcasm.
Pitt restrained his inclination to retaliate.
“Then you must know both boys well. You have observed them through most important years, the change from child to youth,” he said instead.
“Naturally.”
There was still no interest in Jerome’s face, no anticipation of what was to come. Had Waybourne told him anything of the details of Arthur’s death or merely of
“We won’t do any good raking it all over,” Gillivray repeated.
Pitt did not bother to argue anymore. Gillivray was obliged to obey. And, to be honest, Pitt did not believe there was any purpose in it either, except to satisfy Waybourne—and perhaps Athelstan.
“I’ll see the tutor.” He opened the back door and went into the scullery. The kitchenmaid, a girl of about fourteen, dressed in gray stuff and a calico apron, was scrubbing pots. She looked up, her hands dripping soap, her face full of curiosity.
“You get on with your work, Rosie,” the cook ordered, scowling at the intruders. “And what’ll you be wanting now?” she demanded of Pitt. “I’ve no time to be getting you anything to eat, or cups of tea either! I’ve never seen the like of it. Police indeed! I’ve luncheon to get for the family, and dinner to think of, I’ll have you know. And Rosie’s much too busy to be bothering with the likes of you!”
Pitt looked at the table and at a glance he could see the ingredients for pigeon pie, five types of vegetables, some sort of whitefish, a fruit pudding, trifle, sherbet, and a bowl full of eggs that could have been for anything—perhaps a cake or a soufflé.
The downstairs maid was polishing glasses. The light caught on the cut designs, sending prisms of color into the mirror behind her.
“Thank you,” Pitt said dryly. “Mr. Gillivray will talk to the butler, and I am going through to speak to Mr. Jerome.”
The cook snorted, dusting flour from her hands.
“Well, you’ll not do it in my kitchen,” she snapped. “You’d best go and see Mr. Welsh in his pantry, if you must. Where you see Mr. Jerome is nothing to do with me.” She bent to her pastry again, sleeves rolled up, hands strong and thick, powerful enough to wring a turkey’s neck.
Pitt walked past her, along the passage and through the baize door into the hallway. The footman showed him to the morning room, and five minutes later, Jerome came in.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he said with a faintly supercilious half smile. “I really cannot add anything to what I have already told you. But if you insist, I am prepared to repeat it.”
Pitt could not feel any liking for the man, in spite of an empathy for his situation; but it was an intellectual understanding, an ability to imagine how Jerome felt—the scraping of the emotions with every small reminder of dependence, of inferiority. Facing him in the flesh—seeing his bright, guarded eyes, the pursed mouth, the precise collar and tie, hearing the edge to his voice—Pitt still disliked him.
“Thank you,” he said, forcing himself to be patient. He wanted to let Jerome know that they were both there under compulsion: Pitt of duty, Jerome because Waybourne required it. But that would have been to give way to himself, and would defeat his objective. He sat down to indicate that he intended to take some time.
Jerome sat also, arranging his coat and trousers with care. Opposite Pitt, who spread out like dumped laundry, Jerome was meticulous. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“How long have you taught Arthur and Godfrey Waybourne?” Pitt began.
“Three years and ten months,” Jerome replied.
“Then Arthur would have been twelve and Godfrey nine?” Pitt calculated.
“Bravo.” Jerome’s voice went down at the end in weary sarcasm.
Pitt restrained his inclination to retaliate.
“Then you must know both boys well. You have observed them through most important years, the change from child to youth,” he said instead.
“Naturally.”
There was still no interest in Jerome’s face, no anticipation of what was to come. Had Waybourne told him anything of the details of Arthur’s death or merely of
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