of ill-fortune and some excellent police work, it would never have been identified.

Gentlemen, have you ever faced a clearer case-or a more tragic and despicable one? There can be but one verdict- guilty! And there can be but one sentence!

The jury were out for less than half an hour. They filed back stone-faced. Jerome stood, white and stiff.

The judge asked the foreman of the jury and the answer was what had long since been decided by the silent voice of the courtroom.

'Guilty, my lord.'

The judge reached for the black cap and placed it on his head. In his thick, ripe voice he pronounced sentence.

'Maurice Jerome, a jury of your peers has found you guilty of the murder of Arthur William Waybourne. The sentence of this court .is that you be returned to the place from whence you came, and in not less than three weeks from now you shall be taken to the place of execution, and there you shall be hanged

141

by the neck until you are dead. May the Lord have mercy upon your soul.'

Charlotte walked out into icy November winds that cut through her as if they had been knives. But her flesh was numb, already too preoccupied with shock and suffering to be aware of further pain.

142

The trial should have been the end of the case for Pitt. He had found all the evidence he could, and had sworn to its truth in court without fear or favor. The jury had found Maurice Jerome guilty.

He had never expected to feel satisfaction. It was the tragedy of an unhappy man with a gift beyond his opportunity to use. The flaws in Jerome's character had robbed him of the chance to climb in academic fields where others of less offensive nature might have succeeded. He would never have been an equal-that was denied from birth. He had ability, not genius. With a smile, a little flattery now and then, he might have gained a very enviable place. If he could have taught his pupils to like him, to trust him, he might have influenced great houses.

But his pride denied him of it; his resentment of privilege burned through his every action. He seemed never to appreciate what he had, concentrating instead on what he had not. That surely was the true tragedy-because it was unnecessary.

And the sexual flaw? Was it of the body or the mind? Had nature denied him the usual satisfaction of a man, or was it fear in him that drove him from women? No, surely Eugenie would have known-poor creature. In eleven years, how could she not? Surely no woman could be so desperately ignorant of nature and its demands?

Was it something much uglier than that, a need to subjugate in the most intimate and physical manner the boys he taught, the youths who held the privileges he could not?

143

Pitt sat in the parlor and stared into the flames. For some reason, Charlotte had lit the fire in here tonight, instead of preparing dinner to be eaten in the kitchen, as they often did. He was glad of it. Perhaps she also felt like spending an evening by the warm open hearth, sitting in the best chairs, and all the lamps lit and sparkling, revealing the gleam and nap of the velvet curtains. They were an extravagance, but she had wanted them so much it had been worth the cheap mutton stews and the herrings they had eaten for nearly two months!

He smiled, remembering, then looked across at her. She was watching him, her eyes, steady on his face, almost black in the shadows from the lamp behind her.

'I saw Eugenie after the trial,' she said almost casually. 'I took her home and stayed with her for nearly two hours.'

He was surprised, then realized he should not have been. That was what she had gone to the trial for-to offer Eugenie some fragment of comfort or at least companionship.

'How is she?' he asked.

'Shocked,' she said slowly. 'As if she could not understand how it had happened, how anyone could believe it of him.'

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