Thomas Pitt Bluegate Fields

doesn't it?'

'It may be closed,' Pitt said, keeping his temper with difficulty. He realized Gillivray annoyed him so much because he seemed invulnerable to the things that hurt Pitt. He was smiling and clean, and he walked through other people's tragedies and emotional dirt without being scathed by them at all.

'It may be closed for the court,' Pitt said, starting, 'but I think there are still things we ought to know, for justice's sake.''

Gillivray looked dubious. The courts were sufficient for him. His job was to detect crime and to enforce the law, not to sit in judgment. Each arm of the machinery had its proper function: the police to detect and apprehend; the barristers to prosecute or to defend; the judge to preside and see that the procedures of the law were followed; the jury to decide truth and fact. And in due course, if necessary, the warders to guard, and the executioner to end life rapidly and efficiently. For any one arm to usurp the function of another was to put the whole principle in jeopardy. This was what a civilized society was about, each person knowing his function and place. A good man fulfilled his obligation to the limit of his ability and, with good fortune, rose to a better place.

'Justice is not our business,' Gillivray said at last. 'We've done our job and the courts have done theirs. We shouldn't interfere. That would be the same as saying that we don't believe in them.'

Pitt looked at him. He was earnest, very composed. There was a good deal of truth in what he said, but it altered nothing. They had been clumsy, and it was going to be painful to try to rectify it. But that did not alter the necessity.

'The courts judge according to what they know,' he answered. 'There are things they should have known, that they did not because we neglected to find them out.'

Gillivray was indignant. He was being implicated in dereliction of duty, and not only him, but the entire police force above

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him, even the lawyers for the defense, who ought to have noticed any omission of worth.

'We didn't explore the possibility that Jerome was telling the truth,' Pitt began, before Gillivray interrupted him.

'Telling the truth?' Gillivray exploded, his eyes bright and furious. 'With respect, Mr. Pitt-that's ridiculous! We caught him in lie after lie! Godfrey Way bourne said he interfered with him, Titus Swynford said the same. Abigail Winters identified him! Albie Frobisher identified him! And Albie alone has to be damning. Only a perverted man goes to a male prostitute. That's a crime in itself! What else could you want, short of an eyewitness? It isn't even as if there was another suspect!'

Pitt sat back in his chair, and let himself slide down till he was resting on the base of his spine. He put his hands into his pockets and touched a ball of string he carried, a lump of sealing wax, a pocketknife, two marbles he had picked up in the street, and a shilling.

'What if the boys were lying?' he suggested. 'And the relationship was among themselves, the three of them, and had nothing to do with Jerome?'

'Three of them?' Gillivray was startled. 'All-' He did not like to use the word, and would have preferred some genteelism that avoided the literal. 'All perverted?'

'Why not? Perhaps Arthur was the only one whose nature it was, and he forced the others to go along.'

'Then where did Arthur get the disease?' Gillivray hit on the weak point with satisfaction. 'Not from two innocent young boys he drove into such a relationship by force! They certainly didn't have it!'

'Don't they?' Pitt raised his eyebrows. 'How do you know?'

Gillivray opened his mouth; then realization flooded his face, and he closed it again.

'We don't-do we!' Pitt challenged. 'Don't you think we should find out? He may have passed it on to them, however innocent they are.'

'But where did he get it?' Gillivray still held to his objection. 'The relationship can't have involved only the three of them. There must have been someone else!'