'Not even to comment on the performance?' He could believe it. Who would, after listening to beautiful music, want to
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turn to a man like Jerome? He would sour the magic, the pleasure. His was a mind without softness or laughter, without the patina of romance. Why did he like music at all? Was it purely a pleasure of the senses, the sound and the symmetry answered in the brain?
Pitt went out, and the cell door clanged behind him; the bolt shot home and the jailer pulled out the key.
A constable was dispatched to collect Jerome's necessary belongings. Gillivray and Pitt spent the rest of the day seeking additional evidence.
'I've already spoken to Mrs. Jerome,' Gillivray said with a cheerfulness Pitt could have kicked him for. 'She doesn't know what time he came in. She had a headache and doesn't like classical music very much, especially chamber music, which apparently was what this was. There was a program published beforehand, and Jerome had one. She decided to stay at home. She fell asleep and didn't waken until morning.'
'So Mr. Athelstan told me,' Pitt said acidly. 'Perhaps next time you have such a piece of information you will do me the courtesy of sharing it with me as well?' Immediately he regretted allowing his anger to become so obvious. He should not have let Gillivray see it. He could at least have kept himself that dignity.
Gillivray smiled, and his apology was no more than the minimum of good manners.
They spent six hours and achieved nothing, neither proof nor disproof.
Pitt went home late, tired and cold. It was beginning to rain and scurries of wind sent an old newspaper rattling along the gutter. It was a day he was glad to leave behind, to close out with the door, leaving the space of the evening to talk of something else. He hoped Charlotte would not even mention the case.
He stepped into the hall, took his coat off, and hung it up, then noticed the parlor door open and the lamps lit. Surely Emily was not here at this time in the evening? He did not want to have to be polite, still less to satisfy Emily's inveterate curiosity. He was tempted to keep on walking to the kitchen. He hesi-
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tated for a moment, wondering if he could get away with it, when Charlotte pulled the door wide open and it was too late.
'Oh, Thomas, you're home,' she said unnecessarily, perhaps for the benefit of Emily, or whoever it was. 'You have a visitor.''
He was startled. 'I have?'
'Yes.' She stepped back a little. 'Mrs. Jerome.'
The cold spread right through him. The familiarity of his home was invaded by futile and predictable tragedy. It was too late to avoid it. The sooner he faced her, explained the evidence as decently as he could to a woman, and made her understand he could do nothing, then the sooner he could forget it and sink into his own evening, into the safe, permanent things that mattered to him: Charlotte, the details of her day, the children.
He stepped into the room.
She was small, slender, and dressed in plain browns. Her fair hair was soft about her face and her eyes were wide, making her skin look even paler, almost translucent, as though he could see the blood beneath. She had obviously been weeping.
This was one of the worst parts of crime: the victims for whom the horror was only beginning. For Eugenie Jerome, there would be the journey back to her parents' house to live-if she was fortunate. If not, she would have to take whatever job she could find, as a seamstress, a worker in a sweatshop, a ragpicker; she might even end up at the workhouse or, out of desperation, in the streets. But all of that she would not yet even have imagined. She was probably still grappling with the guilt itself, still hanging on to the belief that things were the same, that it was all a mistake-a reversible mistake.
'Mr. Pitt?' She stepped forward, her voice shaky. He was the police-for her, the ultimate power.
He wished there was something he could say that would ease the truth. All he wanted was to get rid of her and forget the case-at least until he was forced to go back to it
