Farriers' Lane Page 13

“Ah, a good morning to you, Papa-in-law,” O’Neil said with a charming smile. “This is Mr. Pitt, a business acquaintance of mine.”

  “Indeed!” Harrimore looked at Pitt civilly enough, but with a carefully guarded expression. He had a remarkable face; at one moment it was almost intimidating with its strength, and yet when he moved, and the intelligence lit his eyes, it was also vulnerable. His mouth was twisted a little, but it was impossible to say whether with cruelty or his own pain. “Good of you to come to us at home, Mr. Pitt, and save us the trouble of traveling at this hour. Have you eaten, sir, or may we offer you some refreshment?”

  “That is very kind of you, Mr. Harrimore, but I have eaten, thank you,” Pitt replied. Kathleen might have accepted an interest in photography as his reason for being there, but he did not think Prosper Harrimore would be taken in so easily.

  “Devlin was showing Mr. Pitt the photograph of Kingsley and me at our wedding,” Kathleen said with a smile.

  “Indeed?” Harrimore said, looking at Pitt narrowly.

  “An excellent example of the art,” Pitt offered, glancing at O’Neil.

  “Indeed it is,” O’Neil agreed, then turned to his wife. “Perhaps you had better take the children, my dear, and see to their morning walk, now the weather is so pleasant.”

  She rose obediently, recognizing an order when she heard it. She excused herself to Pitt and her father, and followed by the two small children, she went out into the hallway and closed the door.

  “Mr. Pitt is here about the recent and sudden death of Judge Stafford,” O’Neil said immediately, his face resuming its earlier gravity. “I saw the poor man the very day he died, so natural it is I should be asked.”

  “Tactful of you, Mr. Pitt,” Harrimore said slowly, looking him up and down. “And why is it you are concerned with the matter, sir? You don’t look like a policeman.”

  Pitt was not sure whether that was a compliment or a complaint.

  “Sometimes an advantage,” he replied quietly. “But I did not mislead Mr. O’Neil in the matter.”

  “No—no, I imagine not.” Uncertain humor flickered in Harrimore’s eyes. “And why do the police involve themselves with the death of Mr. Stafford?”

  “Because I regret he did not die of any natural cause.”

  Harrimore’s face tightened. “Not our concern, sir. We have had more than our share of murder in this house, as I am sure you will be aware. My late son-in-law met his death by violence. I would thank you not to rake up that matter and distress my family again. My daughter has already suffered profoundly and I will do all I can to protect them all from further distress.” He looked at Pitt grimly and the tacit threat in him was unmistakable.

  “That is why I refrained from mentioning the true cause of my visit in her presence, sir,” Pitt answered quietly. “Mrs. O’Neil could know nothing of Mr. Stafford, since she was not at home when he called, so I judged tact to be the better part.”

  “At least that is something,” Harrimore said grudgingly. “Although what Devlin could tell you I don’t know.”

  “Very little,” O’Neil said with feeling. “Only what Mr. Pitt already knows from others, Papa-in-law. But I suppose the poor man has a hard job to do.”

  Harrimore grunted.

  The door opened again and a very elderly woman came in, heavy bosomed, narrow shouldered and broad hipped, but erect of carriage and with a fine head of hair. Her resemblance to Harrimore was so pronounced as to make introductions unnecessary, except for courtesy’s sake.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Harrimore,” Pitt replied to her cool greeting.

  Adah Harrimore regarded him with bright dark eyes, deep set like her son’s, and acutely intelligent.

  “Inspector,” she said warily. “And what is it now? We have had no crime here. What do you want with us?”

  “It’s about Judge Stafford’s death, poor man,” O’Neil explained to her, patting a cushion in the chair to her side and plumping it up. “He died the other evening, at the theater, he did.”

  “For heaven’s sake leave the thing alone!” she snapped, glaring at the chair. “I don’t need to sit down yet. I am perfectly well! What if he did? Old men die all the time. I daresay he drank too much and took an apoplexy.” She turned to Pitt and looked at him narrowly. “Why do you come here because a judge died at the theater? You had better have some excellent explanation for yourself, young man!”

  “He did not die naturally, ma’am,” Pitt replied, watching her face. “And he called here earlier that day, to see Mr. O’Neil. I wished to know his state of mind, and as much of what he said as Mr. O’Neil could recall.”

  “His state of mind was relevant to his death? Are you saying he took his own life?” she demanded.

  “No. I regret to say he was killed.”

  Her nostrils flared very slightly as she let out her breath, and there was an almost imperceptible paling of the skin around her mouth.

  “Was he. That is unfortunate, but it has nothing to do with this household, Mr. Pitt. He called here once, on some matter of enquiry, I am informed. We have not seen him either before or since. We regret his death, but other than that we can contribute nothing.” She turned to O’Neil. “Devlin? I presume this man did not confide in you any concern for his safety?”

  O’Neil looked at her with wide eyes. “No, Grandmama-in-law. He seemed to me perfectly composed and quite in command of the situation.”

  Her face was pale and there was a small muscle ticking in her right eyelid.

  “Would it be impertinent of me to enquire what matter a judge came here to see you about? The family has no pleas before the court of appeal that I am aware of.”

  O’Neil hesitated only a moment, and he did not look at Pitt.

  “Not at all, Grandmama-in-law,” he said with an easy smile. “I did not mention it at the time, not to distress you, but the poor man was pestered by Tamar Macaulay to reopen the case of Kingsley’s death, God rest him. He wanted to prove to her once and for all that it is closed. The verdict was correct, and she’ll not change it, poor woman, by all her agitation. Let people forget and get on with their lives.”

  “I should think so,” the old lady said vehemently. “The wretched creature must be demented to keep on raking it up. It is finished!” Her eyes were brilliant and hard. “Bad blood,” she said bitterly. “You can’t get away from it.” She stared unwaveringly at O’Neil’s face. “Kingsley’s in his grave, and so is that damned Jew! Let us have some peace.” Her face was hard, full of old hatred and a terrible grief.

  “Quite so, Grandmama,” O’Neil said gently. “Don’t you let it trouble you anymore. Now poor Mr. Stafford’s in his grave too—or about to be. Let’s hope that’s enough even for Miss Macaulay.”

  Adah shivered and the look of loathing deepened in her eyes.

  Prosper came to life suddenly as if until now he had been frozen and that instant obtained release.

  “It is the end of it! Mr. Pitt, there is nothing we can do to help you,” he said abruptly. “We wish you well, but whoever killed Mr. Stafford, you will have to seek for him elsewhere. No doubt he has personal enemies …” He left the rest unsaid, hanging in the air. He would not speak ill of the dead—it was vulgar—but the conclusions were implicit.

  “Thank you for your courtesy in receiving me, ma’am.” Pitt addressed Adah’s rigid figure, and then Harrimore’s. He accepted the inevitable. He would learn nothing more from O’Neil anyway. The answer that Stafford was only looking to establish the truth beyond question was too satisfactory, and too credible, for him to say anything different. And since apparently no one else had been at home, they could not be suspected, nor had they any motive. They were not involved in the murder of Kingsley Blaine; the original investigation had never considered them.

  “Not at all,” the old lady said stiffly, unbent only by the demands of civility. “Good day to you, Mr. Pitt.”

  Prosper glanced at his mother, then at Pitt, and smiled tightly, reaching for th
e bell to summon a maid who would show him to the door.

  Outside in the quiet street Pitt turned it over in his mind. It looked more and more as if it were either Juniper Stafford or Adolphus Pryce who had put the opium in the flask. And indeed, futile and unnecessary as it was when looked at in the cold light of the mind, perhaps in the heat of passion they had imagined they could find some happiness with Stafford dead which would elude them as long as he lived. Obsession does not always see beyond the moment, and the hungers that consume and fill the mind until they are satisfied, whatever the cost.

  Was that really what those two felt? It was something he would have to pursue, and the thought of it curled his lip with distaste. It was an intrusion he loathed. There were weaknesses in people no third party should know, and that kind of ill-balanced and devouring need for another person was one of them. It did not enlarge the one who felt it, it diminished, and in the end destroyed—as it seemed it had destroyed Juniper Stafford and her lover.

  But before he began to search for evidence of that, he would clear the Blaine/Godman case from his mind altogether. He already knew quite a lot about it, but there might be other things, details known only to the police, which altered the picture. Also he wanted to form his own beliefs of the men who had conducted the original investigation, and the pressures they were under then, the area for mistakes, if possible their own impressions.

  Consequently he walked slowly towards the main thoroughfare, hands in his pockets, thinking as he went. He did not like retracing other men’s investigations, but he had no choice. Still he would try to do it as tactfully as possible, and he took a long time choosing the words with which he would begin.

  He arrived at the Shaftesbury Avenue police station a little before noon.

  “Yes sir?” the desk sergeant said politely, his face suitably blank.

  “Inspector Pitt, from Bow Street,” Pitt introduced himself. “I have a problem I think you might be able to help me with, if you’d oblige me with your time.”

  “Indeed, sir? I’m sure we’ll do what we can. What problem might that be?”

  “I’ve got a difficult case to which you might know some background. I’d appreciate speaking with the officer in charge of a case you handled about five years ago. A murder in Farriers’ Lane.”

  The desk sergeant’s face darkened. “That was all tidied up at the time, Mr. Pitt. There in’t nothing left over from that one. I was ’ere myself an’ I know all about it.”

  “Yes, I know it was,” Pitt agreed soothingly. “It is not a question of who was guilty of that, it is a matter arising out of the conclusion. I need to speak with the officer in charge then, if possible. He’s still in the force?”

  “O’ course ’e is—been promoted since then. Did a fine job.” The desk sergeant straightened his shoulders unconsciously and lifted his chin a fraction. “That’s Chief Inspector Lambert. I daresay if ’e can ’elp you with your problem ’e’ll be glad to. I’ll certainly ask ’im for you, Inspector.” And with that very firm putting of Pitt in his place, he retreated into the back regions of the office and returned several minutes later to tell Pitt that if he cared to wait for ten minutes or so, Mr. Lambert would see him.

  Pitt accepted with a good grace, even though he itched to retaliate.

  He kicked his heels for five minutes, then sat on the wooden bench and waited a further ten minutes, then stood again. Eventually a young constable appeared and conducted him to the small, untidy office where a roaring fire made the room claustrophobically hot after the cold outer office. Charles Lambert received him with a look of guarded civility. He was in his late forties, balding severely, but with good features and clear eyes.

  “Good morning—Pitt, isn’t it? Sit down.” He waved towards the only other chair. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Very busy. Lot of nasty robberies. My sergeant says you need a spot of assistance. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m working on the murder of Judge Samuel Stafford—”

  Lambert’s eyebrows rose. “Didn’t know he was murdered! Thought he died in his box in the theater.”

  “He did. Of poison.”

  Lambert shook his head, pushing out his lower lip.

  “My sergeant mentioned Farriers’ Lane. What has Stafford’s death to do with that?” His voice was guarded. “That was all over five years ago, and he wasn’t the judge anyway. It was Quade—Thelonius Quade. Not that there was any doubt about the verdict, or about the conduct of the trial.”

  “But there was an appeal,” Pitt said as mildly as he could. He must remember all the time that he would get nothing if he angered Lambert and made him defensive. “No new evidence, I assume?”

  “None. Just a desperate attempt to save the man from hanging. Understandable, I suppose, but futile.”

  Pitt took a deep breath. He was achieving nothing. Tact had its limitations.

  “Stafford was enquiring into the case again. The day he died he interviewed most of the original suspects.”

  Lambert’s face hardened and he sat up a little straighter.

  “I don’t know what for!” Already the note of defense was in his voice. “Unless the sister prevailed on him in some way.” He shrugged in an open expression of his dismissal of the whole idea. “She’s a handsome woman, and obsessed with the idea her brother was innocent. It’s an ugly thing to suggest, I know.” Again the edge was there in his tone, the guard against an expected attack. “But it happens. He wouldn’t be the first man to lose his head over a beautiful and determined woman.”

  Pitt was irritated, but he tried to conceal it.

  “No—of course not. And that may be all it was. But you will understand that if I am to say that, then I must have very good proof. The widow will not accept that easily—nor will his fellows on the bench.” He forced a smile he did not feel. “It calls into question the virtue and good sense of all of them if we say he was simply a fool over a lovely face, and so far forgot his own mind and experience as to reopen a case for such a reason. I shall be in a very unenviable position if I say that and cannot prove it.”

  Lambert smiled back, relaxing a little as his mind moved from his own difficulties to Pitt’s.

  “You certainly will,” he agreed with a feeling close to relish. “Their lordships will take very unkindly to that. You’ll be looking for a job chasing pickpockets and card sharps in future.”

  “Precisely.” Pitt shifted a little in his seat. The room was suffocating. “So can you tell me all you can recall of the Farriers’ Lane murder, then I can tell my superiors he cannot have been following that for any sound reason at all.” Mentally he apologized to Micah Drummond for the implicit slander.

  “If you think it will help,” Lambert replied. “It was all very straightforward, although we didn’t expect it to be at the time.”

  “Ugly, I should think,” Pitt murmured. “A lot of public outcry.”

  “Never known a case like it,” Lambert agreed, moving back in his chair and making himself more comfortable. He understood what Pitt wanted now, and more importantly, why. “Except the Whitechapel murders—but of course they never caught the Ripper, poor devils. A few resignations over that.”

  “But you caught your man.”

  Lambert’s eyes were sharp and clear hazel, meeting Pitt’s with appreciation of all that was unsaid as well as the surface conversation between them.

  “We did—and I got promoted. But it was all above-board.” The edge came back into his voice. “The evidence was incontrovertible. I can’t say we didn’t have some luck, we did. But we also did a damnably good job! My men were excellent—disciplined, dedicated, and kept their tempers in difficult conditions. A lot of public hysteria. Lot of terror. Some very nasty incidents down the east end. Couple o’ synagogues broken into, windows smashed, a pawnbroker near beaten to death. Posters all over the place and writing on walls. Some newspapers even called for all Jews to be run out of the city. Very ugly—but you can’t blame them. It was one o’ the worst murders in Lon
don.” He was watching Pitt closely, studying his face, reading his expression.

  Pitt tried to iron out his emotions and look impassive, and he was almost sure he failed.

  “Yes?” he said politely. “I know the body of Kingsley Blaine was found in Farriers’ Lane—by whom?”

  Lambert recalled himself to the details with an effort. “The blacksmith’s boy early in the morning,” he replied. “Gave the poor lad a turn he didn’t get over as long as we knew him. Heard that after the trial he left London and went to the country. Sussex way.”

  “No one else passed through Farriers’ Lane that night? Odd, wasn’t it, if it was a usual passageway?” Pitt asked.

  “Well, put it this way, if they did, either they didn’t see Blaine nailed up to the stable door or they didn’t report it. And I suppose either of those is quite likely. You’d be looking where you were going and in the dark not see him …”

  “The stable wasn’t in a direct path.”

  “No—no, it was over the far side of the yard.”

  “So whoever killed Blaine either lured him across the yard or was strong enough to carry him,” Pitt reasoned.

  “I suppose that follows,” Lambert conceded. “But then he knew Godman; it wouldn’t be hard to persuade him to come out of the alley into the yard …”

  “Wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t go into a dark stable yard alone with a man whose sister I was seducing, would you?”

  Lambert stared at him, his face growing pink with confusion and annoyance.

  “I think you have leaped to a conclusion, Pitt, for which there are no grounds. Kingsley Blaine was a good-looking, well-spoken, rather naive young man who became enamored of a very skilled actress, not really all that beautiful, but … magnetic, a woman who knows how to manipulate men.” There was both certainty and contempt in his voice. “If anyone was seduced, it was Blaine, not her. And Godman may have resented that like poison, but he knew it was true.” He shook his head. “No, Pitt, Tamar Macaulay was not an innocent young girl seduced by a callous man. No one who knew the people concerned could have imagined that. I think it is quite easy to believe that Blaine would go to Godman, thinking himself quite safe.”