The naked body of an aristocratic youth turns up in the sewers beneath Bluegate Fields, one of London’s most notorious slums. But Arthur Waybourne had been drowned in his bath, not in the Thames. More shocking still was that the boy had been sexually violated and infected with syphilis before he was murdered. Despite Inspector Thomas Pitt’s efforts to fully investigate the crime, the family closes ranks, stonewalling Pitt, leaving him to wonder what they are hiding. All evidence points to Arthur’s tutor, Jerome, as the murderer. The courts agree and Jerome is sentenced to hang. Pitt and his wife, Charlotte, don’t believe the answer is so simple. But if not Jerome, then who molested and infected the boy? To learn the truth, Charlotte uses her familiarity with the upper classes to draw aside the curtain of lies, while Pitt defies his superior and the boy’s family to follow a trail that leads him into the foulest streets of London through a web of deceit involving male prostitution and pedophilia. In a race against time, Thomas and Charlotte must find the real killer to save Jerome from the hangman’s noose.
About the Author
Anne Perry (b. 1938) is a bestselling author of historical detective fiction, most notably the Thomas and Charlotte Pitt series and the William Monk series, both set in Victorian England. Her first book, The Cater Street Hangman (1979), launched both the Pitt series and her career as a premier writer of Victorian mysteries. Other novels in the series include Resurrection Row, Death in the Devil’s Acre, and Silence in Hanover Close, as well as more than twenty others. The William Monk series of novels, featuring a Victorian police officer turned private investigator, includes Funeral in Blue, The Twisted Root, and The Silent Cry. In addition to these series, Perry is also author of the World War I novels No Graves as Yet, Shoulder the Sky, Angels in the Gloom, and others, as well as several collections of short stories. Perry’s novels have appeared on bestseller lists around the world and she has over twenty-five million books in print worldwide. She lives in Scotland.
Hometown:Portmahomack, Ross-shire, U.K
Date of Birth:October 28, 1938
Place of Birth:Blackheath, London England
Read an Excerpt
By Anne Perry
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIACopyright © 1984 Anne Perry
All rights reserved.
Inspector Pitt shivered a little and stared unhappily while Sergeant Froggatt lifted the manhole cover and exposed the opening beneath. Iron rungs led downward into a hollow chasm of stone that echoed the distant slither and drip of water. Did Pitt imagine the scutter of clawed feet?
A breath of damp air drifted up, and immediately he tasted the sourness below. He sensed the labyrinth of tunnels and steps, the myriad layers, and even more tunnels of slimy bricks that stretched out under the whole of London and carried away the waste and the unwanted, the lost.
"Down 'ere, sir," Froggatt said dolefully. "That's where they found 'im. Odd, I calls it—very odd."
"Very," Pitt agreed, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. Though it was only early September, he felt cold. The streets of Bluegate Fields were dank and smelled of poverty and human filth. It had once been a prosperous area, with high, elegant houses, the homes of merchants. Now it was one of the most dangerous of all the portside slums in England, and Pitt was about to descend into its sewers to examine a corpse that had been washed up against the great sluice gates that closed off the Thames' tides.
"Right!" Froggatt stood aside, determined not to go first into the gaping hole with its wet, dark caverns.
Pitt stepped resignedly backward over the edge, grasped hold of the rungs, and began his careful descent. As the gloom closed in on him, the coursing water below sounded louder. He could smell the stale, entombed old water. Froggatt was also climbing down, his feet a rung or two beyond Pitt's hands.
Standing on the wet stones at the bottom, Pitt hunched his coat higher onto his shoulders and turned to look for the sewer cleaner who had reported the discovery; he was there, part of the shadows—the same colors, the same damp, blurred lines. He was a little sharp-nosed man. His trousers, cobbled together from several other pairs, were held up by rope. He carried a long pole with a hook on the end, and around his waist was a large sacking bag. He was used to the darkness, the incessantly dripping walls, the smell, and the distant scurrying of rats. Perhaps he had already seen so many signs of the tragic, the primitive, and the obscene in human life that nothing shocked him anymore. There was nothing in his face now but a natural wariness of the police and a certain sense of his own importance because the sewers were his domain.
"You come for the body, then?" He craned upward to stare at Pitt's height. "Rum thing, that. Can't 'ave bin 'ere long, or the rats'd 'ave got it. Not bitten, it ain't. Now who'd want to do a thing like that, I ask yer?" Apparently, it was a rhetorical question, because he did not wait for an answer but turned and scurried along the great tunnel. He reminded Pitt of a busy little rodent, his feet clattering along the wet bricks. Froggatt followed behind them, his bowler hat jammed fiercely on his head, his galoshes squelching noisily.
Around the corner they came quite suddenly upon the great river sluice gates, shut against the rising tide.
"There!" the sewerman announced proprietarily, pointing to the white body that lay on its side as modestly as could be managed. It was completely naked on the dark stones at the side of the channel.
Pitt was startled. No one had told him the body was without the ordinary decency of clothes—or that it was so young. The skin was flawless, no more than a fine down on the cheeks. The stomach was lean, the shoulders slight. Pitt knelt down, momentarily forgetting the slimy bricks.
"Lantern, Froggatt," he demanded. "Bring it over here, man! Hold it still!" It was unfair to be angry with Froggatt, but death—especially useless, pathetic death—always affected him this way.
Pitt turned the body over gently. The boy could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old, his features still soft. His hair, though wet and streaked with filth, must have been fair and wavy, a little longer than most. By twenty he might have been handsome, when his face had had time to mature. Now he was pallid, a little swollen with water, and his pale eyes were open.
But the dirt was only superficial; underneath he was well-cared for. There was none of the ingrained grayness of those who do not wash, whose clothes stay on from one month to another. He was slender, but it was only the lissomeness of youth, not the wasting of starvation.
Pitt reached for one of the hands and examined it. Its softness was not due only to the flaccidity of death. The skin had no calluses, no blisters, no lines of grime such as the skin of a cobbler, a ragpicker, or a crossing sweeper would have. His nails were clean and well clipped.
Surely he did not come from the seething, grinding poverty of Bluegate Fields? But why no clothes?
Pitt looked up at the sewer cleaner.
"Are the currents strong enough down here to rip off a man's clothes?" he asked. "If he were struggling—drowning?"
"Doubt it." The cleaner shook his head. "Mebbe in the winter—lot o' rains. But not now. Any'ow, not boots—never boots. 'E can't 'ave bin down 'ere long, or rats'd 'ave bin at 'im. Seen a sweeper's lad eaten to the bone, I 'ave , wot slipped and drowned a couple o' year ago."
He gave it some thought, allowing Pitt to savor the full delicacy of his expertise before he committed himself.
"Hours," he said at last. "Depends where 'e fell in. Not more than hours, though. Current won't take off boots. Boots stay on."
Pitt should have thought of that.
"Did you find any clothes?" he asked, although he was not sure he could expect an honest reply. Each sewerman had his own stretch of channel, jealously guarded. It was not so much a job as a franchise. The reward lay in the pickings garnered under the gratings: coins, sometimes a gold sovereign or two, the occasional piece of jewelry. Even clothes found a good market. There were women who spent sixteen or eighteen hours a day sitting in sweatshops unpicking and resewing old clothes.
Froggatt hopefully swung the lantern out over the water, but it revealed nothing but the dark, oily, unbroken surface. If the depths held anything, it was sunken out of sight.
"No," the sewerman answered indignantly. "I ain't found nuffink at all or I would 'ave said. An' I searches the place reg'lar."
"No boys working for you?" Pitt pressed.
"No, this is mine. Nobody else comes 'ere—and I ain't found nuffink."
Pitt stared at him, uncertain whether he dared believe him. Would the man's avarice outmatch his natural fear of the police if he withheld something? As well-cared-for a body as this might have been dressed in clothes that would fetch a fair price.
"I swear! God's oath!" the sewerman protested, self-righteousness mixed with the beginnings of fear.
"Take his name," Pitt ordered Froggatt tersely. "If we find you've lied, I'll charge you with theft and obstructing the police in the investigation of a death. Understand me?"
"Name?" Froggatt repeated with rising sharpness.
"Is that with two 'b's?" Froggatt fished for his pencil and wrote carefully, balancing the lamp on the ledge.
"Yes, it is. But I swears—"
"All right." Pitt was satisfied. "Now you'd better help us get this poor creature up and outside to the mortuary wagon. I suppose he drowned—he certainly looks like it. I don't see any marks of anything else, not even a bruise. But we'd better be sure."
"Wonder who 'e was?" Froggatt said dispassionately. His beat was in Bluegate Fields, and he was used to death. Every week he came across children dead of starvation, piled in alleys or doorways. Or he found the old, dead of disease, the cold, or alcohol poisoning. "Suppose we'll never know now." He wrinkled his face. "But I'm damned if I can think 'ow 'e came to be down 'ere stark as a babe!" He gave the sewerman a sour look. "But I've got your name, my lad—and I'll know where to find you again—if as I should want to!"
When Pitt went home that evening to his warm house, with its neat window boxes and scrubbed step, he did not mention the matter. He had met his wife, Charlotte, when he had called at her parents' extremely comfortable, respectable home to investigate the Cater Street murders five years ago, in 1881. He fell in love with her then, never believing a lady of such a house would consider him as more than a painful adjunct to the tragedy, something to be borne with as much dignity as possible.
Incredibly, she had learned to love him as well. And although her parents hardly found the match fortunate, they could not refuse a marriage desired by a daughter so willful and disastrously outspoken as Charlotte. The alternative to marriage was to remain at home in genteel idleness with her mother or to engage in charitable works.
Since then, she had taken an interest in several of his cases—often to her own considerable peril. Even when she had been expecting Jemima, it had not deterred her from joining her sister Emily in meddling in the affair in Callander Square. Now their second child, Daniel, was only a few months old, and even with the full-time help of the maid, Gracie, she had plenty to occupy her. There was no purpose in distressing Charlotte with the story of the dead youth found in the sewers below Bluegate Fields.
When he came in, she was in the kitchen bending over the table with the flat iron in her hand. He thought again how handsome she was—the strength in her face, the high cheekbones, and the richness of her hair.
She smiled at him, and there was the comfort of friendship in her glance. He felt her warmth, as if in some secret way she knew not what he thought but what he felt inside, as if she would understand anything he said, whether his words were fluent or not, easy or awkward. It was a sense of coming home.
He forgot the boy and the sluice gates, the smell of the water. Instead, the quiet certainties washed over him, driving out the cold. He kissed Charlotte, then looked around at all the safe, familiar things: the scrubbed table, white with wear, the vase of late daisies, Jemima's playpen in the corner, the clean linen waiting to be mended, a small pile of colored bricks he had painted as a toy—Jemima's favorite.
Charlotte and he would eat and then sit by the old stove and talk of all kinds of things: memories of past pleasures or pains, new ideas struggling to find words, small incidents of the day.
But by noon the next day, the body under Bluegate Fields was forced back to his mind sharply and unpleasantly. He was sitting in his untidy office looking at the papers on his desk, trying to decipher his own notes, when a constable rapped on the door and, without waiting for an answer, came straight in.
"Police surgeon to see you, sir. Says it's important." Ignoring any acknowledgment, he opened the door wider and ushered in a neat, solid man with a fine gray beard and a marvelous head of curling gray hair.
"Cutler," he announced himself smartly. "You're Pitt? Been looking at your corpse from Bluegate Fields sewers. Miserable business."
Pitt put down his notes and stared at him.
"Indeed." He forced himself to be civil. "Extremely unfortunate. I suppose he drowned? I saw no marks of any kind of violence. Or did he die naturally?" He did not believe that. For one thing, where were the clothes? What was he doing down there at all? "I suppose you haven't any idea who he was? No one claimed him?"
Cutler pulled a face. "Hardly. We don't put them up for public exhibition."
"But he drowned?" Pitt insisted. "He wasn't strangled or poisoned or suffocated?"
"No, no." Cutler pulled himself out a chair and sat down as though preparing for a long stay. "He drowned."
"Thank you." Pitt meant it as a dismissal. Surely there was nothing more to be said. Perhaps they would find out who he was, perhaps not. It depended on whether his parents or guardians reported him missing and set up any inquiries before it was too late to identify the corpse. "Good of you to come so soon," he added as an afterthought.
Cutler did not move. "He didn't drown in the sewer, you know," he announced.
"What?" Pitt sat upright, a chill running through him.
"Didn't drown in the sewer," Cutler repeated. "Water in his lungs is as clean as my bath! In fact, it could have come out of my bath—even got a little soap in it!"
"What on earth do you mean?"
There was a wry, sad expression on Cutler's face.
"Just what I say, Inspector. The boy drowned in bathwater. How he got into the sewer, I haven't the faintest idea. Fortunately that's not my task to discover. But I should be very surprised indeed if he had ever been in Bluegate Fields in his life."
Pitt absorbed the information slowly. Bathwater! Not someone from the slums. He had half known that much from the clean, firm flesh of the body—it should not have been any surprise.
"Accident?" It was only a formal question. There had been no mark of violence, no bruises on the throat or on the shoulders or arms.
"I think not," Cutler answered gravely.
"Because of where he was found?" Pitt shook his head, dismissing the thought. "That doesn't prove murder, only the disposal of the body—which is an offense, of course, but not nearly as serious."
"Bruises." Cutler raised his eyebrows a little.
Pitt frowned. "I saw none."
"On the heels. Quite hard. If you came upon a man in his bath, it would be far easier to drown him by grasping hold of his heels and pulling them upward, thereby forcing his head under the water, than it would be to try forcing his shoulders down, leaving his arms free to struggle with you."
Pitt imagined it against his will. Cutler was right. It would be an easy, quick movement. A few moments' hold and it would be all over.
"You think he was murdered?" he said slowly.
"He was a strong youth, apparently in excellent health"—Cutler hesitated, and a shadow of distress flickered across his face—"but for one thing, which I shall come to. There were no marks of injury except for those on his heels, and he was certainly not concussed by any fall. Why should he drown?"
"You said except for one thing. What was it? Could he have fainted?"
"Not from this. He was in the very early stages of syphilis—just a few lesions."
Pitt stared at him. "Syphilis? But he was of good background, you said—and not more than fifteen or sixteen!" he protested.
"I know. And there's more than that."
Cutler's face looked suddenly old and sad. He rubbed his hand across his head as if it hurt. "He had been homosexually used," he answered quietly.
"Are you sure?" Still Pitt struggled, unreasonably. His sense knew better, but his emotions rebelled.
Irritation flashed in Cutler's eyes.
"Of course I'm sure. Do you think it's the sort of thing I'd say on speculation?"
"I'm sorry," Pitt said. It was stupid—the boy was dead now anyway. Perhaps that was why Pitt was so upset by Cutler's information. "How long?" he asked.
"Not long, about eight or ten hours when I saw him, as far as I can tell."
"Sometime the night before we found him," Pitt remarked. "I suppose that was obvious. I imagine you've no idea who he was?"
"Upper middle class," Cutler said, as if thinking aloud. "Probably privately educated—a little ink on one of his fingers. Well fed—shouldn't think he'd gone hungry a day in his life or done a day's hard work with his hands. The odd sports, probably cricket or something of that kind. Last meal was expensive—pheasant and wine and a sherry trifle. No, very definitely not Bluegate Fields."
"Damnation," Pitt said under his breath. "Someone must miss him! We'll have to find out who he was before we can bury him. You'll have to do the best you can to make him fit to be seen." He had been through it all before: the white-faced, stomach-clenched parents coming, ravaged by hope and fear, to stare at the dead face; then the sweat before they found the courage to look, followed by the nausea, the relief, or the despair—the end of hope, or back again into unknowing, waiting for the next time.
"Thank you," he said formally to Cutler. "I'll tell you as soon as we know anything."
Cutler stood up and took his departure silently, also aware of everything that lay ahead.
Excerpted from Bluegate Fields by Anne Perry. Copyright © 1984 Anne Perry. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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