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chose to forget whenever possible.
    “Yes, sir,” Pitt said patiently. Not even the Prince of Wale’s tailor could have made Pitt look tidy. There was a natural awkwardness about him. He moved without the languor of a gentleman; he was far too enthusiastic.
    “Well, sit down!” Athelstan snapped. He disliked having to look up, especially at someone who was taller than he was, even when standing. “Have you discovered anything?”
    Pitt sat obediently, crossing his legs.
    “No, sir, not yet.”
    Athelstan eyed him with disfavor.
    “Never imagined you would. Most unsavory affair, but a sign of the times. City’s coming to a sad state when gentlemen’s sons can’t take a walk in the evening without being set upon by thugs.”
    “Not thugs, sir,” Pitt said precisely. “Thugs strangle from behind, with scarves. This boy was—”
    “Don’t be a fool!” Athelstan said furiously. “I am not talking of the religious nature of the assailants! I am talking of the moral decline of the city and the fact that we have been unable to do anything about it. I feel badly. It is the job of the police to protect people like the Waybournes—and everyone else, of course.” He slapped his hand on the burgundy leather surface of his desk. “But if we cannot discover even the area in which the crime was committed, I don’t see what we can do, except save the family a great deal of public notice which can only make their bereavement the harder to bear.”
    Pitt knew immediately that Gillivray had already reported to Athelstan. He felt his body tighten with anger, the muscles cord across his back.
    “Syphilis may be contracted in one night, sir,” he said distinctly, sounding each word with the diction he had learned with the son of the estate on which he had grown up. “But the symptoms do not appear instantly, like a bruise. Arthur Waybourne was used by someone long before he was killed.”
    The skin on Athelstan’s face was beaded with sweat; his mustache hid his lip, but his brow gleamed wet in the gaslight. He did not look at Pitt. There were several moments of silence while he struggled with himself.
    “Indeed,” he said at last. “There is much that is ugly, very ugly. But what gentlemen, and the sons of gentlemen, do in their bedrooms is fortunately beyond the scope of the police—unless, of course, they request our intervention. Sir Anstey has not. I deplore it as much as you do.” His eyes flickered up and met Pitt’s with a flash of genuine communication, then slid away again. “It is abominable, repugnant to every decent human being.”
    He picked up the paper knife and fiddled with it, watching the light on the blade. “But it is only his death we are concerned with, and that would seem to be insoluble. Still, I appreciate that we must appear to try. Quite obviously the boy did not come to be where he was by accident.” He clenched his hand until his knuckles showed white through the red skin. He looked up sharply. “But for God’s sake, Pitt—use a little discretion! You’ve moved in society before with investigations. You ought to know how to behave! Be sensitive to their grief, and their horrible shock in learning the other—facts. I don’t know why you felt it necessary to tell them! Couldn’t it have been decently buried with the boy?” He shook his head. “No—I suppose not. Had to tell the father, poor man. He has a right to know—might have wanted to prosecute someone. Might have known something already—or guessed. You won’t find anything now, you know. Could have been washed to Bluegate Fields from anywhere this side of the city. Still—we have to make it seem as if we’ve done all we can, if only for the mother’s sake. Wretched business—most unpleasant crime I’ve ever had to deal with.
    “All right, you’d better get on with it! Do what you can.” He waved his hand to indicate that Pitt could leave. “Let me know in a day or two. Good night.”
    Pitt stood up. There