Farriers' Lane Read online

  “Yes,” Juniper agreed, nodding very slightly. “He was part of the company at the time—and of course he still is. You saw him tonight. He was a friend of Aaron Godman’s, and I believe for a while a suspect—before they knew who it was, of course.”

  “I see. And who is O’Neil? Another member of the company?”

  “Oh no! No, Mr. O’Neil was a friend of Kingsley Blaine, the murdered man. He was very respectable!”

  “Why did Mr. Stafford wish to see him?”

  She shook her head very slightly. “He was a suspect—in the very beginning. But of course that did not last long. I have no idea why Samuel wanted to see him. He didn’t discuss it with me, I only knew because he was so distressed I asked him where he was going, and he just said to see Mr. O’Neil and Mr. Fielding.”

  Adolphus Pryce shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat.

  “Er—I—I know that to be true, Mr. Pitt. Mr. Stafford also came to see me today. He had already spoken to both Fielding and O’Neil.”

  Pitt looked at him with surprise. He had forgotten Pryce was there.

  “Indeed? Did he discuss the matter with you, Mr. Pryce?”

  “Well, yes—and no. In a manner of speaking.” Pryce stared at him fixedly, as if he were with difficulty avoiding letting his eyes stray somewhere else. “He asked me some further questions about the Blaine/Godman case—that is how we referred to it, Blaine being the victim, and Godman the offender. I was the prosecuting counsel, you know. It was really a very clear case. Godman had motive; the means were to hand for anyone, and the opportunity. In fact he was observed by several people in the immediate vicinity, and did not deny it.” A look of apology flickered across his face. “And of course he was a Jew.”

  Pitt felt a hardness inside him settle like a stone. He did not even try to keep the anger out of his eyes.

  “What has that to do with it, Mr. Pryce? I can see no connection whatever!”

  Pryce’s delicate nostrils flared.

  “He was crucified, Mr. Pitt,” he said between his teeth. “I would have thought the connection was appallingly obvious!”

  Pitt was stunned. “Crucified?” he blurted.

  “To the stable door, in Farriers’ Lane,” Livesey put in from his position still close to the door. “Surely you remember the case. It was written about extensively in every newspaper in London. People spoke of little else.”

  A sharper recollection came back to Pitt. He had been working on another case himself at the time, and had no spare moments to read newspapers or listen to the recounting of events other than those of his own case, but this had rocked the entire city.

  “Yes.” He frowned, embarrassed to be so caught out. “I do recall hearing of it, but I was in Barking on an investigation of my own. One can become very absorbed …” He smiled twistedly. “In fact I don’t even know the details of the Whitechapel murders last year, I was so busy with a double murder in Highgate.”

  “I hardly think a Christian would have crucified anyone.” Pryce was still determined to defend himself. “That is why being a Jew was relevant.”

  “Is O’Neil a Jew?” Pitt asked sarcastically.

  “Of course not! But no one seriously suspected him for long,” Pryce replied with an edge to his voice. “Fielding and Miss Macaulay were the other main suspects.”

  “It is all quite beside the point,” Livesey interrupted with impatience. “Godman was guilty, and it is unfortunate his sister cannot accept the fact and leave the case to sink into oblivion, where it belongs.” He shook his head and his lips tightened. “It can help no one at all to keep on raking it up. It will change nothing. She is a very foolish woman.”

  Pitt turned back to Juniper. “Do you know of anyone else Mr. Stafford saw today, or anywhere he went?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, that is all he spoke of. Then he came home. We had dinner a little earlier than usual—quite a light meal really.” She swallowed with difficulty. “And then we came to the theater—here …”

  Charlotte held her hand tightly, still sitting very close to her. She looked at Pitt.

  “Is there really anything more you have to know tonight, Thomas? Would it not be possible for Mrs. Stafford to go home now and pursue whatever else there may be in the morning? She is exhausted.”

  “Yes, of course.” Pitt stood up slowly. “I am extremely sorry to have had to speak of it at all, Mrs. Stafford, and I hope it may all prove to have been unnecessary.” He held out his hand. “May I offer my deepest sympathy.”

  “Thank you.” She took his hand, not merely to bid him good-bye, but with his assistance, to rise (somewhat heavily) to her feet.

  “I’ll come with you to your carriage,” Charlotte offered.

  Pryce came forward suddenly, holding out his arm, his face tight with emotion.

  “Please—permit me! May I help you, Mrs. Stafford? You need someone to make sure you are not harassed or crowded on the way, and to support you. I should deem it an honor.”

  Her eyes were wide, almost feverish. She hesitated, as if to make some protest; then the practicality of it became apparent and she took a step towards him.

  “You have been most kind, Mrs. Pitt,” Pryce added, looking at Charlotte with sudden courtesy and a fragment of what was probably a characteristic charm. “But please allow me to be of some service, and yourself to remain with your husband.”

  “That is most generous of you,” Charlotte accepted with relief. “I confess, I had completely forgotten about my mother, who is our hostess here. She may still be in our box, waiting for us.”

  “Then it is settled.” Pryce offered Mrs. Stafford his arm. After a brief farewell, they went out together, she leaning upon him and he gently supporting her.

  “Oh dear.” Livesey pursed his lips. “A hard business, very hard. But I am sure you have handled it correctly, Mr. Pitt. And you, Mrs. Pitt, have been most considerate with your sympathy and kindness.” He sighed. “However, I know there may be worse to come, if indeed his death was not natural. Let us pray that our fear is unnecessary.”

  “I don’t think even God can change what is already done,” Pitt said dryly. “What time did Mr. Stafford come to see you, sir?”

  “Immediately before luncheon,” Livesey replied. “I was to dine with a colleague, and was about to leave my chambers when Stafford came in. He stayed only a few moments—”

  “Was he there in connection with the Blaine/Godman case?” Pitt interrupted.

  A look of distaste crossed Livesey’s broad face. “Not primarily, although he did mention it. It was regarding another matter, which is naturally confidential.” He smiled very slightly. “But I can be of some assistance, Inspector. Just before leaving he took a small sip from his flask, and so did I. As you can see, I am in excellent health. So we know beyond question that the flask was untainted at that time.”

  Pitt looked at him in silence, digesting the information and its implications.

  Livesey made a small gesture of amusement, a downward curling of his lips. “Corroborated, Inspector. My colleague, John Wentworth, an eminent Queen’s Counsel, had arrived for our luncheon engagement. I am sure if you wish it he will confirm what I have said.”

  Pitt let out his breath quickly. “I did not doubt you, sir. I was considering the gravity of the conclusions which that obliges, should there prove to be poison in the flask.”

  “Indeed.” Livesey’s face darkened. “Exceedingly unpleasant, I fear, but perhaps unavoidable nonetheless. I do not envy you your task, sir.”

  At last Pitt also smiled. “Not mine, Mr. Livesey. I shall hand it over to my superiors tomorrow morning, if indeed it is a case at all. I was merely responding because I was here at the time. It would be irresponsible to ignore the opportunity to gather evidence, against eventuality.”

  “Commendable, and as you say, your duty.” Livesey inclined his head. “And now if you will excuse me, I believe I can be of no further assistance. It has been a long and extremely unpleasant
evening. I shall be relieved to find my carriage and take my leave. Good night to you.”

  “Good night, Mr. Livesey. Thank you for your help.”

  Charlotte returned to the box to find Caroline still there. Somehow after the reality of the tragedy its plush seats and cozy luxury, its view of the blank stage, seemed absurdly trivial. Caroline was facing the door, her expression one of anxiety. She rose to her feet as soon as Charlotte arrived.

  “What has happened? How is he?”

  “I am afraid he is dead,” Charlotte replied, closing the door behind her. “He never regained his senses, which is perhaps a blessing. What is far worse is that the other judge, Mr. Livesey, seems to think it may have been poison.”

  “Oh, dear heaven!” Caroline was aghast. “You mean, he took his …” Then realization struck her. “No—you don’t, do you? You mean he was murdered!”

  Charlotte sat down and took Caroline’s hand to draw her down again too.

  “Yes, it seems a strong possibility. And I am afraid there is worse, much worse …”

  “What?” Caroline’s eyes were wide. “What in heaven’s name would be worse than that?”

  “Tamar Macaulay visited him today, about a very dreadful case for which her brother was hanged, about five years ago.”

  “Hanged? Oh, Charlotte! How tragic. But whatever could Mr. Stafford have done about it?”

  “Apparently she still believes he was innocent, in spite of all the evidence, and she wanted Stafford to reopen the case. Mrs. Stafford said Tamar had pestered him for a long time, and he was quite upset by it. After she left he went out very hastily and told Mrs. Stafford he was going to see the other principal suspects in the case.”

  “And you think one of them murdered him?” Caroline concluded with distress. “And that—that was what we saw: We saw him murdered?”

  “Yes. But Mama, the other suspects were a man called O’Neil—and Joshua Fielding.”

  Caroline stared at her, her eyes hurt, her face full of confusion.

  “Joshua Fielding,” she repeated, blinking. “Suspected of murder? Who? Who was killed?”

  “A man called Blaine. Apparently it was a very shocking case. He was crucified.”

  “What?” Caroline could not grasp what she had said. “You mean—no, you can’t! It’s …”

  “Against a door,” Charlotte went on. “They hanged Tamar’s brother, but she has never believed him guilty. I’m sorry.”

  “But why Joshua Fielding? Why should he kill this man? What reason could he have?”

  “I don’t know. Mrs. Stafford just said that the judge went to see both Mr. Fielding and Mr. O’Neil after Tamar called on him today.” She gave a harsh little laugh. “Or it must be yesterday, by now.”

  “What is Thomas doing?”

  “Finding out all he can, so that when he hands it over to whoever will look into the case—if, of course, it is poison and there is a case—so that they have all they can to begin with.”

  “Yes. I see.” She shivered. “I suppose it would be remiss not to act. I had no idea when you married a policeman of some of the extraordinary things we should find ourselves doing.”

  “Nor I,” Charlotte said frankly. “But some of them have been wonderful, some terrifying, some tragic, and many most deepening of experience, and I hope of wisdom and understanding. I pity those women who have nothing to do but stitch embroidery, flirt, gossip and try to think of something to do which could be called charitable and yet not impair their reputations or get their fingers dirty!”

  Caroline pulled a slight face, but did not voice the argument in her mind. She knew Charlotte well enough to appreciate the pointlessness of it, and a small part of her had a sneaking desire to dabble in such adventures herself, not that she would have admitted it.

  A few moments later the door opened and Pitt stood in the entrance, his face grave. His eyes went first to Caroline.

  “I’m sorry, Mama-in-law,” he apologized. “But it seems as if it may be a case for the police, and since no one else is here now, I should go and see two of the actors. Stafford visited both of them earlier in the day. They may have some connection—or at least know something that explains what happened.”

  Charlotte rose to her feet quickly, absentmindedly straightening her skirt.

  “We’ll come with you. I don’t want to wait here, do you, Mama?”

  “No.” Caroline stood up beside her. “No. I’d far rather come with you. We can wait somewhere where we shall not intrude.”

  Pitt stepped back and held the door open for them. Hastily they passed through, then walked along the corridor with him to the stage door, which apparently he had found. The manager was waiting for them, shifting from foot to foot, his face creased with anxiety.

  “What has happened, Mr. Pitt?” he said as soon as Pitt was close enough he did not need to raise his voice. “I know the judge is dead, but why do you need to see Miss Macaulay and Mr. Fielding? What can they possibly do to help?” He put his hands in his pockets and then pulled them out again. “I don’t understand, really I don’t! I want to be of assistance, naturally—but this is beyond comprehension.”

  “Mr. Stafford visited with them earlier in the day,” Pitt replied, his hand on the door to the stage.

  “Visited with them?” The manager looked appalled. “Not here, Inspector! Certainly not here!”

  “No,” Pitt agreed as they walked in single file along the narrower passageway towards the room where Fielding and Tamar Macaulay had been asked to wait. “Miss Macaulay called upon the judge in his home. That at least we know.”

  “Do we! Do we?” the manager demanded. “I know nothing about it at all!” He stopped and flung open the door. “There you are! I wash my hands of the whole affair! Upon my soul, as if this wasn’t bad enough! A judge dying in his box during the performance—and now the police! Anyone would think we were doing the Scottish play! Well go on, go on! You’d better do whatever it is you have to!”

  “Thank you.” Pitt accepted with only the slightest twist of irony. He held the door just long enough for Charlotte and Caroline to pass through, then closed it with a very slight bow, just as the manager came to it.

  Inside the room was calm and comfortable. Half a dozen easy chairs were scattered about over a carpeted floor. There was a small stove in one corner and a kettle on it. The walls were almost covered with past playbills and posters. Some were lists of actors, others quite elaborate and beautiful evocations of glamour. Looking at them one could almost hear the music begin, see the lights dim. Pitt recognized the faces of Henry Irving, Sarah Bernhardt, Ellen Terry, Herbert Beerbohm Tree, the young Italian actress Eleanora Duse and Mrs. Patrick Campbell.

  But the room was unimportant. The figures that dominated everyone’s attention were standing side by side with a grace which was in all probability so practiced as now to be quite unconscious. Joshua Fielding was exactly as he had appeared through the lens of the opera glasses, except there was more humor in his face. Tiny lines around his mouth were less exaggerated than the gestures he had used to convey the same sense of wit and rueful amusement. He was perhaps less handsome. At a few yards’ distance his nose was not quite straight, his eyes uneven, one brow different from the other. Yet the very imperfection of it was more immediate, and thus more lastingly attractive than the flawless stage appearance, which lacked a certain humanity.

  Tamar Macaulay, on the other hand, was surprisingly different from her stage presence. Or perhaps neither Caroline nor Charlotte had looked at her so closely. She was smaller and leaner. The extreme femininity she had projected was part of her art, not a natural quality; and the intense vitality, almost lightness of character she played had been set aside with her costume. In repose she was motionless, all her strength inward. Yet her face was one of the most compelling Charlotte had ever seen. There was power of the mind in it and startling intelligence. She was extremely dark, her skin was sallow and her hair black, and yet she had the extraordinary gift of being
able to portray anything from ugliness to dazzling beauty. She could never have been lush, warm or voluptuous; but in Charlotte’s mind at least, she could have been anyone from Medusa, the Gorgon, to Helen of Troy, and been utterly convincing as either. With the power of personality behind her dark face, Charlotte could have looked at it and believed that men fought an eleven-year war and ruined an empire over her.

  Pitt betrayed nothing so fanciful in his manner. He began with an apology.

  “I am sorry to have had to ask you to remain,” he said with a tight smile. “You must be tired at the end of so long a day. However, I daresay you have been informed that Mr. Justice Stafford died in his box during the performance this evening.” He looked at Joshua, then at Tamar.

  “I knew he was ill,” Joshua replied, looking away from Caroline and at Pitt.

  Pitt realized his omission. “I am sorry. May I present Mrs. Caroline Ellison, and my wife, Mrs. Pitt. I preferred not to leave them standing outside.”

  “Of course.” Joshua bowed very slightly, first to Caroline, who blushed self-consciously, then to Charlotte. “I regret the circumstances of our meeting. I can offer you little comfort or refreshment.”

  “I knew he had been taken ill,” Tamar said, returning them to the matter in hand. Her voice was low and of unusual timbre. “I did not know he had died.” Her face pinched with sadness. “I am very sorry. I have no idea how we can be of help.”

  “You called upon him at his home earlier in the day?”

  “Yes.” She added nothing, no explanation. She had an extraordinary repose, even delivering such a bald reply.

  “And I saw him later, in my lodgings,” Joshua added. “He seemed perfectly well then. But is that really what you wished to ask?” He looked very relaxed, hands in his pockets. “Surely Mrs. Stafford is the one to tell you anything you need to know. Doesn’t his own physician know his condition?”

  Pitt corrected the misapprehension. “I am not a physician, Mr. Fielding. I am an inspector with the police.”