Free Bluegate Fields by Anne Perry Page A

childhood hung on like old clothes, when new and glamorous ones, more flattering ones, were waiting.
    Charlotte met him as soon as he walked in the door.
    “I heard from Emily today, and you’ll never believe—” She saw his face. “Oh. What is it?”
    He smiled in spite of himself. “Do I look so grim?”
    “Don’t evade me, Thomas!” she said sharply. “Yes, you do. And what has happened? Is it something to do with that boy who was drowned? It is, isn’t it?”
    He took off his coat and Charlotte put it on the peg for him. She remained in the middle of the hallway, determined on an explanation.
    “It appears as if it was the tutor,” he replied. “It’s all very sad and grubby. Somehow I can’t be outraged with any pleasure anymore when it stops being anonymous and I can attach a face to it and a life before it. I wish I could find it incomprehensible—it would be so much damnably easier!”
    She knew he was referring to the emotions, not the crime. He had no need to explain. She turned in silence, just offering him her hand, and led the way into the warm kitchen—its blacked stove open, with live embers behind the bars, its wooden table scrubbed white, gleaming pans, blue-ringed china set out on the dresser, ironing waiting over the rails to be taken upstairs. Somehow it seemed to him to be the heart of the house, the living core that only slept but was never empty—unlike the parlor or bedrooms when there was no one in them. It was more than just the fire; it was something to do with the smell of the room, the love and the work, the echo of voices that laughed and talked there.
    Had Jerome ever had a kitchen like this that was his own to sit in for as long as he wanted, where he could put things into perspective?
    He eased comfortably into one of the wooden chairs, and Charlotte put the kettle on the hob.
    “The tutor,” she repeated. “That was quick.” She got down two cups and the china teapot with the flowers on it. “And convenient.”
    He was stung. Did she imagine he was trimming the case to suit his comfort or his career?
    “I said it appears as if it was,” he retorted sharply. “It’s far from proven! But you said yourself that it was unlikely to have been a stranger. Who would be more likely than a lonely, inhibited man, forced by circumstances to be always more than a servant and less than an equal, neither in one world nor the other? He saw the boy every day, worked with him. He was constantly and subtly patronized, one minute encouraged for his knowledge, his skills, and the next rebuffed because of his social status, set aside as soon as school was out.”
    “You make that sound awful.” She poured milk from the cooler at the back door into a jug and set it on the table. “Sarah and Emily and I had a governess, and she wasn’t treated like that at all. I think she was perfectly happy.”
    “Would you have changed places with her?” he asked.
    She thought for only a moment; then her face shadowed very slightly.
    “No. But then a governess is never married. A tutor can be married because he doesn’t have to look after his own children. Didn’t you say this tutor was married?”
    “Yes, but he has no children.”
    “Then why do you think he’s lonely or dissatisfied? Maybe he likes teaching. Lots of people do. It’s better than being a clerk or a shopboy.”
    He thought. Why had he supposed Jerome was lonely or dissatisfied? It was an impression, no more—and yet it was deep. He had felt a resentment around him, a hunger to have more, to be more.
    “I don’t know,” he answered. “Something about the man; but it’s no more than informed suspicion so far.”
    She took the kettle off the hob and made the tea, sending steam up in a sweet-smelling cloud.
    “You know, most crimes are not very mysterious,” he went on, still a little defensively. “The most obvious person is usually the one responsible.”
    “I know.” She did not look at him. “I know that,