I am. She knows he's humorless and ftill of resentment, and that hardly anybody likes him. I'm not even sure if she likes him very much herself. But she does know him! He has no passion, he's as cold as a cod, and he didn't particularly like Arthur Way-bourne. But he knew that working in the Waybourne house was a good position. Actually, the one he preferred was Godfrey. He said Arthur was a nasty boy, sly and conceited.'
'How do you know that?' he asked. His curiosity was roused, even though he thought she was being unfair to Eugenie. Funny how even the nicest women, the most levelheaded, could give way to feminine spite.
'Because Eugenie said so, of course!' she said impatiently. 'And she might be able to play you like a threepenny violin, but she doesn't pull the wool over my eyes for a moment-she has too much wit to try! And don't look at me like that!' She
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glared at him. 'Just because I don't melt into tears in front of you and tell you you're the only man in London who is clever enough to solve a case! That doesn't mean I don't care. I care very much indeed. And I think its all frighteningly convenient for everyone else that it's Jerome. So much tidier-don't you think? Now you can leave all the important people alone to get on with their lives without having to answer a lot of very personal and embarrassing questions, or have the police in their houses for the neighbors to gawp at and speculate about.'
'Charlotte!' Indignation welled up inside him. She was being wildly unfair. Jerome was guilty; everything pointed to it, and nothing whatsoever pointed to anyone else. She was sorry for Eugenie and she was upset over the boy prostitute; she was letting her emotions run all over the place. It was his fault; he should not have told her about Albie. It was stupid and self-indulgent of him. Worse than that, he had known it was stupid all the time, even as he heard his own voice saying the words.
Charlotte stood still, waiting, staring at him.
He took a deep breath. 'Charlotte, you do not know all the evidence. If you did, then you would know that there is enough to convict Maurice Jerome, and there is none at all-do you hear me?-none at all to indicate anyone else knew anything, or had any guilt or complicity in any part of it. I cannot help Mrs. Jerome. I cannot alter or hide the facts. I cannot suppress witnesses. I cannot and
Unblinking, she stared at him while she absorbed what he had said. He stared straight back at her. She took a deep breath and let it out.
'Yes, Thomas,' she answered. 'It is in the kitchen.' She switched her skirts sharply and turned and led the way out and down the hallway.
He followed with a very slight smile that he did not intend her to see. A little Eugenie Jerome would not hurt her at all!
ill
Just short of a week later, Gillivray came up with his second stroke of brilliance. Admittedly-and he was obliged to concede it-he made the discovery following an idea Pitt had given him and insisted he pursue. All the same, he contrived to tell Athelstan before he reported to Pitt himself. This was achieved by the simple stratagem of delaying his return to the police station with the news until he knew Pitt would be out on another errand.
Pitt came back, wet to the knees from the rain, and with water dripping off the edge of his hat and soaking his collar and scarf. He took off his hat and scarf with numb fingers and flung them in a heap over the hatstand.
'Well?' he demanded as Gillivray stood up from the chair opposite. 'What have you got?' He knew from Gillivray's smug face that he had something, and he was too tired to spin it out.
'The source of the disease,' Gillivray replied. He disliked using the name of it and avoided it whenever he could; the word seemed to embarrass him.
'Syphilis?' Pitt asked deliberately.
Gillivray's nose wrinkled in distaste, and he colored faintly .up his well-shaven cheeks.
'Yes. It's a prostitute-a woman called Abigail Winters..'
