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the death itself? Pitt watched him more closely, waiting for surprise in the round eyes, disgust—or any kind of fear.
    “You are aware of their friends, even if you do not know them personally?” he continued.
    “To a limited extent.” This time Jerome was more guarded, not willing to commit himself where he could not foresee.
    There was no delicate way of approaching the subject. If Jerome had observed any strange personal habits in either of his charges, he could hardly afford to admit it now. And a wise tutor who wished to retain his position made it his business not to see the less attractive attributes of his employers or their friends. Pitt understood before he asked. Anything must be framed in such a way that Jerome could pretend only now to understand the meaning of what he had seen.
    To be direct seemed the only avenue. He tried to make himself sound frank, to hide his instinctive dislike.
    “Did Sir Anstey tell you the cause of Arthur’s death?” he asked, leaning forward in an unconscious attempt to do physically what he could not do emotionally.
    Jerome sat back at the same moment, viewing Pitt with a frown.
    “I believe he was attacked in the street,” he replied. “I haven’t heard more than that.” His nostrils flared delicately. “Are the details important, Inspector?”
    “Yes, Mr. Jerome, they are very important indeed. Arthur Waybourne was drowned.” He watched closely: Was the incrudulity feigned, a little too much?
    “Drowned?” Jerome regarded him as if he had made an attempt at humor that was repellent. Then comprehension flashed across his face. “You mean in the river?”
    “No, Mr. Jerome, in a bath.”
    Jerome spread out his manicured hands. His eyes were bleak.
    “If this sort of idiocy is part of your method of interrogation, Inspector, I find it unnecessary and most unpleasant.”
    Pitt could not disbelieve him. Such a dry, sour man could not be so consummate an actor, or he would have shown humor, learned charm to make his own path easier.
    “No,” Pitt answered him. “I mean it quite literally. Arthur Waybourne was drowned in bathwater, and his naked body put down a manhole into the sewers.”
    Jerome stared at him. “In God’s name! What’s happening? Why—I mean—who? How could—for heaven’s sake, man, it’s preposterous!”
    “Yes, Mr. Jerome—and very ugly,” Pitt said quietly. “And there is worse than that. He was homosexually used sometime before he was killed.”
    Jerome’s face was absolutely still, as if he either did not understand or could not believe it as any kind of reality.
    Pitt waited. Was the silence caution, a consideration what to say? Or was it genuine shock, the emotion any decent man would feel? He watched every flicker—and still he had no idea.
    “Sir Anstey did not tell me that,” Jerome said at last. “It is perfectly dreadful. I suppose there is no question?”
    “No.” Pitt allowed himself the shadow of a smile. “Do you think Sir Anstey would concede it if there were?”
    Jerome took his point, but the irony passed him by.
    “No—no, of course not. Poor man. As if death were not enough.” He looked up quickly, hostile again. “I trust you are going to treat the matter with discretion?”
    “As far as possible,” Pitt said. “I would prefer to get all the answers I can from within the household.”
    “If you are suggesting that I have any idea who might have had such a relationship with Arthur, you are quite mistaken.” Jerome bristled with offense. “If I had had even the least suspicion of such a thing, I should have done something about it!”
    “Would you?” Pitt said quickly. “Upon suspicion—and without proof? What would you have done, Mr. Jerome?”
    Jerome saw the trap instantly. A flicker of self-mockery moved in his face, and then vanished.
    “You are quite right, Mr. Pitt. I should have done nothing. However, disappointing as it is, I had no suspicion at all. Whatever occurred, it was quite