Godfrey.'
Waybourne's eyebrows rose. 'Indeed? You may see Jerome, of course, if you wish. Although I cannot see what purpose it will serve. I have told you all that he knows. But I'm afraid it is quite out of the question that you should speak with Godfrey. He has already lost his brother. I will not have him subjected to questioning-especially as it is completely unnecessary.'
It was not the time to argue. At the moment, they were all just names to Pitt, people without faces or characters, without connections except the obvious ones of blood; all the emotions involved were not yet even guessed.
'I would still like to speak to Mr. Jerome,' Pitt repeated. 'He may recall something that would be of use. We must explore every possibility.'
'I cannot see the purpose of it.' Wayboume's nose flared a little, perhaps with irritation, perhaps from the deadening smell of lilies. 'If Arthur was set upon by thieves, Jerome is hardly likely to know anything that might help.'
'Probably not, sir.'' Pitt hesitated, then said what he had to. 'But there is always the possibility that his death had something to do with his-medical condition.' What an obscene euphemism. Yet he found himself using it, painfully aware of Wayboume, the shock saturating the house, generations of rigid self-discipline, imprisoned feelings.
Waybourne's face froze. 'That has not been established, sir! My own family physician will no doubt find your police surgeon is utterly mistaken. I daresay he has to do with a quite different class of person, and has found what he is accustomed to. I am sure that when he is aware of who Arthur was, he will revise his conclusions.'
Pitt avoided the argument. It was not yet necessary; perhaps
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it never would be if the 'family physician' had both skill and courage. It would be better for him to tell Way bourne the truth, to explain that it could be kept private to some degree but could not be denied.
Waybourne let out his breath slowly, as if a pain had eased.
'Titus Swynford,' he replied. 'His father, Mortimer Swynford, is one of our oldest acquaintances. Excellent family. But I have already ascertained everything that Titus knows. He cannot add to it.'
'All the same, sir, we'll speak to him,' Pitt insisted.
'I shall ask his father if he will give you permission,' Waybourne said coldly, 'although I cannot see that it will serve any purpose, either. Titus neither saw nor heard anything of relevance. Arthur did not tell him where he intended to go, nor with whom. But even if he had, he was obviously set upon by ruffians in the street, so the information would be of little use.'
'Oh, it might help, sir.' Pitt told a half lie. 'It might tell us in what area he was, and different hooligans frequent different streets. We might even find a witness, if we know where to look.'
Indecision contorted Waybourne's face. He wanted the whole matter buried as quickly and decently as possible, hidden with good heavy earth and flowers. There would be proper memories draped with black crepe, a coffin with brass handles, a discreet and sorrowful eulogy. Everyone would return home with hushed voices to observe an accepted time of mourning. Then would follow the slow return to life.
But Waybourne could not afford the inexplicable behavior of not appearing to help the police search for his son's murderer. He struggled mentally and failed to find words to frame what he felt so that it sounded honorable, something he could accept himself as doing.
Pitt understood. He could almost have found the words for him, because he had seen it before; there was nothing unusual or hard to understand in wanting to bury pain, to keep
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the extremity of death and the shame of disease private matters.
'I suppose you had better speak to Jerome,' Way bourne said at last. It was a compromise. 'I'll ask Mr. Swynford if he will permit you to see Titus.' He reached for the bell and pulled it. The butler appeared as if he
