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was nothing else to say, no argument that was worth making.
    “Good night, sir.” He went out of the polished office and closed the door behind him.
    When Pitt arrived home, he was tired and cold. Indecision was no more than a shadow at the back of his mind, disturbing his certainty, spoiling the solidity of his will. It was his job to resolve mysteries, to find offenders and hand them over to the law for trial. But he had seen the damage that the resolution of all secrets could bring; every person should have the right to a certain degree of privacy, a chance to forget or to overcome. Crime must be paid for, but not all sins or mistakes need be made public and explained for everyone to examine and remember. And sometimes victims were punished doubly, once by the offense itself, and then a second and more enduring time when others heard of it, pored over it, and imagined every intimate detail.
    Could that be so with Arthur Waybourne? Was there any point now in exposing his weakness or his tragedy?
    And if answers were dangerous, half answers were worse. The other half was built by the imagination; even the innocent were involved and could never disprove what was not real to begin with. Surely that was a greater wrong than the original crime, because it was not committed in the heat of emotion or by instinct, but deliberately, and without fear or danger to oneself. There was almost an element of voyeurism, a self-righteousness in it that sickened him.
    Were Gillivray and Athelstan right? Was there no chance of finding the person who had murdered Arthur? If it had nothing to do with his private weaknesses, his sins, or sickness, then the investigation would only publicize the pain of a lot of men and women who were probably no more to blame than most people, for one omission or another.
    At first he said nothing about it to Charlotte. In fact, he said very little at all, eating his meal in near silence in the parlor, which was soft in the evening gaslight. He was unaware of his withdrawal until Charlotte put it into words.
    “What is the decision?” she asked, as she laid down her knife and fork and folded her napkin.
    He looked up, surprised.
    “Decision? About what?”
    Her mouth tightened in a tiny smile. “Whatever it is that has been tormenting you all evening. I’ve watched it wavering back and forth across your face ever since you came in.”
    He relaxed with a little sigh.
    “I’m sorry. Yes, I suppose I have been. But it’s an unpleasant case. I’d rather not discuss it with you.”
    She stood, picked up the plates, and stacked them on the sideboard. Gracie worked all day, but she was permitted to leave the dinner dishes until the following morning.
    Pitt went to sit by the fire. He eased into the fat, padded chair with relief.
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said briskly, coming to sit opposite him. “I’ve already been involved with all sorts of murders. My stomach is as strong as yours.”
    He did not bother to argue. She had never even imagined most of the things he had seen in the rookery slums: filth and misery beyond the imagination of any sane person.
    “Well?” She came back and sat down, looking at him expectantly.
    He hesitated. He wanted her opinion, but he could not tell her the dilemma without the details. If the disease or the homosexuality was omitted, there would be no problem. Eventually he gave in to his need and told her.
    “Oh,” she said when he finished. She sat without saying anything more for so long that he was afraid he had distressed her too deeply, perhaps confused or disgusted her.
    He leaned forward and took her hand.
    “Charlotte?”
    She looked up. There was pain in her eyes, but it was the pain of pity, not confusion or withdrawal. He felt an overwhelming surge of relief, a desire to hold on to her, feel her in his arms. He wanted even just to touch her hair, to pull out its neat coils and thread his fingers through its softness. But it seemed inappropriate; she was