'Not such an innocent after all, our young Arthur,' Pitt observed with a satisfaction he would not have cared to explain. 'And what makes you think she is the source?'
' 'I showed her a picture of Arthur-the photograph we obtained from his father. She recognized it, and confessed she knew him.'
'Did she indeed? And why do you say 'confessed'? Did she seduce him, deceive him in some way?'
'No, sir.' Gillivray flushed with annoyance. 'She's a whore. She couldn't ever find herself in his society.'
'So he took himself to hers?'
'No! Jerome took him. I proved that!'
'Jerome took him?' Pitt was startled. 'Whatever for? Surely the last thing he would want would be for Arthur to develop a taste for women? That doesn't mak-e any sense!'
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'Well, whether it makes sense or not-he did!' Gillivray snapped back with satisfaction. 'Seems he was a voyeur as well. He liked to sit there and watch. You know, I wish I could hang that man myself! I don't usually go to watch a hanging, but this is one I won't miss!'
There was nothing for Pitt to say. Of course he would have to check the statement, see the woman himself; but there was too much now to argue against. It was surely proved beyond any but the most illusory and unrealistic of doubts.
He reached out and took the name and address from Gillivray's hand. It was the last piece necessary before trial.
'If it amuses you,' he said harshly. 'Can't say I ever enjoyed seeing a man hanged, myself. Any man. But you do whatever gives you pleasure!'
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1 he trial of Maurice Jerome began on the second Monday in November. Charlotte had never before been in a courtroom. Her interest in Pitt's cases had been intense in the past; indeed, on several occasions she had actively and often dangerously engaged herself in discovering the criminal. But it had always come to an end for her with the arrest; once there was no mystery left, she had considered the matter finished. To know the outcome had been sufficient-she did not wish to see it.
This time, however, she felt a strong need to attend as a gesture of support to Eugenie in what was surely one of the worst ordeals a woman could face-whatever the verdict. Even now, she was not sure what she expected the verdict to be. Usually she had entire confidence in Pitt, but in this case she had sensed an unhappiness in him that was deeper than his usual distress for the tragedy of crime. There was a sense of dissatisfaction, an air of something unfinished- answers he needed to have, and did not.
And yet if it was not Jerome, then who? There was no one else even implicated. All the evidence pointed to Jerome; why should everyone lie? It made no sense, but still the doubts were there.
She had, in her mind, formed something of a picture of Jerome, a little blurred, a little fuzzy in the details. She had to remind herself it was built on what Eugenie had told her, and Eugenie was prejudiced, to say the least. And, of course, on what Pitt had said; perhaps that was prejudiced too? Pitt had been touched by Eugenie as soon as he had seen her. She was so
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vulnerable; his pity was reflected in his face, his desire to protect her from the truths he knew. Charlotte had watched it in him, and felt angry with Eugenie for being so childlike, so innocent, and so very, very feminine.
But that was not important now. What was Maurice Jerome like? She had gathered that he was a man of little emotion. He displayed neither superficial emotions nor the emotions that smolder beneath an ordinary face, surfacing only in privacy in moments of unbearable passion. Jerome was cold; his appetites were less sensual than intellectual. He possessed a desire for knowledge and the status and power it afforded, for the social distinctions of manner, speech, and dress. He felt proud of his diligence and of possessing skills that others did
