morning room where they could not be seen than on the front step for the entire street to know about.
'Sir Anstey will see you in half an hour, Mr.-er-Mr. Pitt. If you care to wait here-' He turned and opened the door to leave.
' It is a matter of some urgency,' Pitt said with an edge to his voice. He saw Gillivray wince. Butlers should be accorded the same dignity as the masters they represented, and most were acutely aware of it. 'It is not something that can wait,' Pitt
10
continued. 'The sooner and the more discreetly it can be dealt with, the less painful it will be.'
The butler hesitated, weighing what Pitt had said. The word 'discreetly' tipped the balance.
'Yes, sir. I shall inform Sir Anstey of your presence.'
Even so, it was a full twenty minutes before Anstey Way-boume appeared, closing the door behind him. His eyebrows were raised inquiringly, showing faint distaste. He had pale skin and full, fair side-whiskers. As soon as Pitt saw him, he knew who the dead boy had been.
'Sir Anstey.' Pitt's voice dropped; all his irritation at the man's patronage vanished. 'I believe you reported your son Arthur as missing from home?'
Wayboume made a small deprecatory gesture.
'My wife, Mr.-er.' He waved aside the necessity for recalling a name for a mere policeman. They were anonymous, like servants. 'I'm sure there is no need for you to concern yourself. Arthur is sixteen. I have no doubt he is up to some prank. My wife is overprotective-women tend to be, you know. Part of their nature. Don't know how to let a boy grow up. Want to keep him a baby forever.'
Pitt felt a stab of pity. Assurance was so fragile. He was about to shatter this man's security, the world in which he thought he was untouchable by the sordid realities Pitt represented.
'I'm sorry, sir,' he said even more quietly. 'But we have found a dead boy whom we believe may be your son.' There was no point in spinning it out, trying to come to it slowly. It was no kinder, just longer.
'Dead? Whatever do you mean?' He was still trying to dismiss the idea, to repudiate it.
'Drowned, sir,' Pitt repeated, aware of Gillivray's disapproval. Gillivry would like to skirt around it, to come at it obliquely, which seemed to Pitt like crushing someone slowly. 'He is a fair-haired boy of about sixteen years, five-feet-nine-inches tall-of good family, to judge by his appearance. Unfortunately he has no identification on him, so we do not know who he is. It is necessary for someone to come and look at the
II
body. If you prefer not to do it yourself-if it turns out not to be your son, we could accept the word of-'
'Don't be ridiculous!' Waybourne said. 'I'm sure it is not Arthur. But I shall come and tell you so myself. One does not send a servant on such a task. Where is it?'
'In the morgue, sir. Bishop's Lane, in Bluegate Fields.'
Way bourne's face dropped-it was inconceivable.
'Bluegate Fields!'
'Yes, sir. I'm afraid that is where he was found.'
'Then it cannot possibly be my son.'
'I hope not, sir. But whoever he is, he would appear to be a gentleman.'
Way bourne's eyebrows rose.
'In Bluegate Fields?' he said sarcastically.
Pitt did not argue anymore. 'Would you prefer to come in a hansom, sir, or in your own carriage?'
'In my own carriage, thank you. I do not care for public conveyances. I shall meet you there in thirty minutes.'
