away for weekends or longer, you know. Strange things happen at country houses on occasion.'
Gillivray scraped his boots obediently, taking off some straw and, to his surprise, manure. He wrinkled his nose.
'Spent many weekends in the country, have you, Inspector?' he asked, permitting a faint touch of sarcasm into his voice.
'More than I can count,' Pitt replied with a very small smile. 'I grew up on a country estate. The gentlemen's gentlemen could tell a few tales, if they were plied with a little of the butler's best port.'
Gillivray was caught between distaste and curiosity. It was a world he had never entered, but had watched avidly from the first time he glimpsed its color and ease, and the grace with which it hid its frailties.
'I hardly think the butler will give me the keys to his cellar for that purpose,'' he said with a touch of envy. It smarted that
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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 souffle.
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.
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'Good morning, Inspector,' he said with a faintly supercilious half smile. 'I really cannot add anything to what ] 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 Way bourne required it.
