Farriers' Lane Read online

  “Or possibly Mr. Stafford’s; he wished to see O’Neil again.”

  “That does not mean that he doubted him, Mr. Pitt.” He lifted his broad shoulders a little. “As I have already said to you, Stafford had no intention whatever of reopening the Blaine/Godman case. There are no grounds to question any part of it. The conduct of the original trial was exemplary, and there is no new evidence whatever.” He smiled, drumming his fingers on the leather desk top. “Stafford had no new evidence. He spoke to me yesterday himself. His intention was to prove Godman’s guilt yet again, beyond even Tamar Macaulay’s ability to question.” He looked at Pitt fixedly. “It is for everyone’s benefit, even Miss Macaulay herself, that she should at last accept the truth and allow herself to turn her attention to her own life, her career, or whatever she counts of value. For the rest of us, we should stop doubting the law and calling into question its efficacy or integrity.”

  “He told you this?” Pitt asked, uncertainty in his mind, weighing what Juniper Stafford had said, and Pryce. “As late as yesterday?”

  “Not entirely yesterday,” Livesey said patiently. “Over a period of time, and yesterday he did not change any part of it. He reaffirmed it, both by what he said and what he omitted to say. There was no change in his mind, and he certainly had discovered nothing new.”

  “I see.” Pitt spoke only to acknowledge that he had heard. In truth, he did not see at all. Pryce had seemed so certain Stafford intended to reopen the case, and why should he have any interest in wishing Pitt to believe that, were it not true? Pryce had prosecuted, and seemed to feel a certain responsibility for the conviction. He would not want it overturned now.

  And yet if Stafford had had no intention of reopening the case, why should anyone kill him?

  Perhaps they had not, and it was some obscure disease with poisonlike symptoms, and either he was unaware of it himself or he had chosen not to tell his wife, possibly not realizing how serious it was.

  Livesey seemed to seize Pitt’s thoughts. The judge’s face was grave, all the impatience washed away as if it had been trivial, a momentary and shallow thing. Now he was returned to reality, which concerned him.

  “If he was not reopening the case, why should anyone kill him?” Livesey said quietly. “A justified question, Mr. Pitt. He was not reopening the case, and even if he were, there is no one with anything to fear from it, except Tamar Macaulay herself, because it would have reawakened the public to her brother’s disgrace and raised the whole matter in people’s minds again. She cannot wish that, when there is no hope of exoneration.” He smiled without humor or pleasure, only an awareness of the loss and wasted tears.

  “I think the poor woman has been so steeped in her own crusade for these many years it has gained its own impetus, apart from any reality. She has lost sight of the truth of the case,” he continued. “She is no longer thinking of evidence, only of her own desire to vindicate her brother. Love, even family love, can be very blind. We so easily see only what we wish to, and with the person absent, as happens with the dead, there is nothing to remind us of reality.” His lips tightened. “The vision consumes. It has become like a religion with her, so important to her she cannot let go. She is a little intoxicated with it. It has taken the place of husband and child with her. It is really very tragic.”

  Pitt had seen such obsession before. It was not impossible to believe. But it did not answer the question of who had killed Stafford, if he had been killed.

  “Do you think Stafford told her as much?” he asked, looking up at Livesey.

  “And she killed him in rage because he had disappointed her?” Livesey bit his lip, frowning. “It strains the credulity, to be candid. She is obsessed, certainly, but I do not think she is so far unbalanced as to do that. It would have to be proved beyond question before I could accept it.”

  “Then what?” Pitt asked. “Mrs. Stafford said he was presently involved in no other appeal. Revenge for some old matter?”

  “On a judge of appeal?” Livesey shrugged. “Unlikely—in the extreme. I have heard convicted men make threats against witnesses, the police officer who arrested them, against prosecuting counsel or their own defense counsel, if they believed them inadequate—even against the trial judge, and once against the jury—but never against the judges of appeal! And there are at least five of us on any case. It seems farfetched, Mr. Pitt.”

  “Then who?”

  Livesey’s face darkened.

  “I regret to say this, Mr. Pitt, but I have no alternative. It would seem there is little left but his personal life. Most murders are committed either in the course of a robbery or they are domestic, as I am sure you are already aware.”

  Pitt knew it.

  “What reason would Mrs. Stafford have for wishing her husband dead?” he asked, watching Livesey’s face.

  Livesey raised his eyes from the desk and sighed heavily.

  “I dislike intensely having to repeat this. It is shabby and an unworthy thing to say of a colleague or his family. But Mrs. Stafford’s relationship with Mr. Adolphus Pryce is a great deal closer than it would at first appear.”

  “Improperly so?” For an instant Pitt was surprised, then small memories came back to his mind: a glance, a quick color in the face, an eagerness, an odd awkward moment, self-consciousness where there was no understandable cause.

  “I regret to say it—but yes,” Livesey confessed, his eyes on Pitt’s face. “I had not thought it more than a rash affaire, a season’s lust which would wear itself out as such passions often do. But perhaps it is deeper than that. I do not envy you, Mr. Pitt, but I fear you may be driven to investigating such a possibility.”

  It answered many questions, unpleasant as it was.

  Livesey was watching him.

  “I see you have thought of that also,” he observed. “If Adolphus Pryce tried to convince you that Stafford was reopening the Blaine/Godman case, you may readily appreciate why. Naturally both he and Mrs. Stafford would prefer you to believe it was some guilty and fearful party to that case who had committed the crime of murdering her husband, rather than have you investigate either of them.”

  “Of course.” Pitt felt unreasonably oppressed by it. It was foolish. He knew that what Livesey said was true. Now that he saw it, he knew he had been careless not to have noticed the small signs before. He stood up, pushing his chair back a little. “Thank you very much for sparing me time this afternoon, Mr. Livesey.”

  “Not at all.” Livesey rose also. “It is a very grave matter, and I assure you I shall give you any assistance within my power. You have only to tell me what I can do.”

  And with that Pitt excused himself and left, walking slowly, heavy in thought. It was already late, the sun was low behind the rooftops and a slight mist gathered in the damp streets, smoke smearing gray across the pale color of the sky and the smell of it rank as people stoked their fires against the chill of the evening.

  Perhaps the medical examiner would have the results of the autopsy. Or at least he might know if there was poison in the flask. This whole case might disappear, a hasty judgment, a fear not realized. He quickened his pace and strode out along the pavement towards the main thoroughfare and the chance of finding a hansom.

  The light was still on in the medical examiner’s office, and when Pitt knocked on the door he was commanded to enter.

  Sutherland was in shirtsleeves, his hair standing on end where he had run his fingers through it. He had a pencil behind each ear, and another in his fingers, the end chewed to splinters. He jerked up from the papers he had been staring at, and regarded Pitt with ferocious interest.

  “Opium,” he said simply. “The flask was full of it. More than enough to kill four men, let alone one.”

  “Is that what killed Stafford?” Pitt asked.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. You were quite right, opium poisoning. Easily recognizable, if you know what you are looking for, and you told me. Nasty.”

  “Could it have been accidental, inten
ded just as …”

  “No,” Sutherland said firmly. “One doesn’t take opium in whiskey like that. It should be smoked. And anyone who took it regularly would know perfectly well that a dose that size would kill. No, Mr. Pitt, it was intended to be precisely what it was: lethal. You have a murder, unquestionably.”

  Pitt said nothing. It was what he had feared, and yet a small part of him had still kept hope that it might not be so. Now it was conclusive. Mr. Justice Samuel Stafford had been murdered—not apparently over the Blaine/Godman case. Was it Juniper Stafford and Adolphus Pryce? One of them—or both? As simple and as ugly as that?

  “Thank you,” he said aloud to Sutherland.

  “I’ll write it all out,” Sutherland replied, screwing up his face, “and send it to the station.”

  “Thank you,” Pitt repeated, and saw the look of rueful understanding in Sutherland’s expression. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” Sutherland picked up his pencil again and continued scribbling on the paper in front of him.

  3

  THE MORNING AFTER the theater Charlotte went out quite early, and during the rest of the day was fully occupied in domestic matters, since it was her maid Gracie’s afternoon off. Therefore it was the following day, when Pitt already knew that Stafford had died of opium poisoning, that she began the long task of making a rich fruitcake, and had the opportunity to tell Gracie what had happened.

  The first job with the cake was to prepare the fruit itself. The currants and sultanas had to be rubbed in flour to ease out the lumps. Charlotte was busy doing this in the center of the scrubbed kitchen table while Gracie took everything down from the dresser and washed the shelves and the plates and polished the saucepans. She had been with Charlotte for several years now, and was nearly seventeen, but in spite of all Charlotte’s efforts, she was still almost as small and waiflike in appearance as when she had first come. However, her bearing had altered beyond recognition. She had a confidence greater than that of any other maid on the street, quite probably in half of Bloomsbury. She not only worked for a detective, the best in the whole metropolitan force, but she had actually assisted in a case herself. She had had adventures, and she did not accept a cheeky answer from any errand boy or tradesman, whoever they were.

  Now she was perched on the dresser at risk to life and limb, a damp cloth in one hand and a china tureen in the other, her face set in concentration as she turned very slowly and set down the tureen before wiping the top shelf with first one side of the cloth, then the other, regarding the dirt with satisfaction, then doing it again.

  Charlotte bent over the fruit, her fingers exploring the hard-packed knobs of currants and forcing them into separate pieces.

  “Was it a wonderful drama, ma’am?” Gracie asked with interest, climbing backwards precariously.

  “I don’t know,” Charlotte said with candor. “To tell you the truth I hardly noticed it. But the main actor was extremely attractive.” She smiled as she said it, thinking of Caroline’s vulnerability in the matter.

  “Was ’e terrible ’andsome?” Gracie said curiously. “Was ’e dark and very dashing?”

  “Not really dark.” Charlotte pictured Joshua Fielding’s highly individual, whimsical face. “Not really handsome, I suppose, in an ordinary way. But extremely appealing. I think because one felt he had such an ability to laugh without cruelty, and to be gentle. One imagined he might understand all sorts of things.”

  “Sounds very nice,” Gracie approved. “I’d like to know someone like that. Was the heroine beautiful? What was she like? All golden ’air and big eyes?”

  “No, not at all,” Charlotte replied thoughtfully. “In fact she was about the darkest woman I have ever seen who was still English. But she could make you feel she was the most beautiful woman in the world when she wanted to. She really had a presence. Everyone else looked pallid and washed out beside her. She seemed to burn inside, as if other people were half alive—but not ostentatious, if you know what I mean?”

  “No, ma’am,” Gracie admitted. “Oss what?”

  “Oh—outwardly showy.”

  “Oh.” Gracie climbed down, her skirts and apron in a bunch, and went to the tap to wash her cloth. “I can’t imagine a woman like that—but I’d like to. She sounds real exciting.” She wrung out the cloth with small, thin, very strong hands, and clambered back up onto the dresser. “Why was it you didn’t enjoy the drama, then, ma’am?”

  “Because there was a murder in the next box,” Charlotte replied, tipping out more flour onto the sultanas.

  Gracie stopped in midair, one hand on the top shelf, the other brandishing a sauceboat. She turned very slowly, her sharp little face alight with excitement.

  “A murder? Really? Are you joshing me, ma’am?”

  “Oh no,” Charlotte said seriously. “Not at all. A very eminent judge was killed. Actually I exaggerated a little; it wasn’t the next box, it was about four boxes away. He was poisoned.”

  Gracie screwed up her face, ever practical of mind. “How can you poison anyone in a theater? I mean on purpose—I ate some eels once wot made me sick—but nobody did it intentional, like.”

  “In his whiskey flask,” Charlotte explained, kneading out the last lump from the sultanas and putting them all into the colander ready to wash them under the tap in order to remove the grit before she searched them for odd stalks.

  “Oh dear—poor gentleman.” Gracie resumed wiping the shelves. “Was it ’orrible?”

  Charlotte took the colander to the sink.

  “No, not really. He just sort of sank into a coma.” Charlotte turned on the tap and flushed the water through the fruit. “I was sorrier for his wife, poor soul.”

  “She weren’t the one wot done it?” Gracie asked dubiously.

  “I don’t know. He was a judge of the appeal court, and he had started to look into a case he dealt with several years ago—a very dreadful murder. The man who was hanged for it was the brother of the actress I told you about.”

  “Cor!” Gracie was now totally absorbed. She put the sauceboat back on the wrong shelf, without its dish. “Cor!” she said again, pushing her cloth into her apron pocket and standing quite still on the dresser, her head almost to the airing rail just below the ceiling. “Was it a case the master was on?”

  “No—not then.” Charlotte turned the tap off and took the fruit back to the kitchen table, tipped it out onto a soft cloth and patted it dry, then began to look for stalks. “But he will go into it all now, I expect.”

  “Why’d they kill the judge, then?” Gracie was suddenly puzzled. “If ’e were goin’ ter look inter the case again, in’t that what she’d want? Oh! O’ course! You mean whoever really did the murder was scared as ’e’d find out it were them. Cor—it could be anybody, couldn’t it? Were it very ’orrible?”

  “Yes, very. Much too horrible to tell you about. You’ll have bad dreams.”

  “Garn,” Gracie said cheerfully. “Won’t be worse ’n I already ’eard!”

  “Possibly not,” Charlotte agreed ruefully. “It was the Farriers’ Lane murder.”

  “I never ’eard o’ that.” Gracie looked disappointed.

  “You wouldn’t,” Charlotte agreed. “It was five years ago. You were only twelve then.”

  “That were before I could read,” Gracie agreed with considerable pride. Reading was a real accomplishment, and placed her considerably above her contemporaries and previous social equals. Charlotte had taken time in which they should both have been employed in domestic chores in order to teach her, but the reward had been enormous, even if she was quite sure Gracie spent much of her reading time with penny dreadfuls.

  “The master’s goin’ ter investigate it?” Gracie interrupted her thoughts. “Actresses and judges. ’e’s gettin’ ever so important, in’t ’e?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte agreed with a smile. Gracie was so proud of Pitt her face shone when she mentioned his name. Charlotte had more than once overheard her speaking to trad
esmen, telling them precisely who she worked for, whose house this was, and that they had better mind their p’s and q’s and provide only the very best!

  Gracie began wiping the lower shelves of the dresser and replacing the dishes and pans. Twice she stopped to hitch up her skirt. She was so small that skirts were always a bit too long for her, and she had not taken this one up sufficiently. Charlotte spread out the fruit on a baking tray and put it into the warm oven, which was well damped down to keep it from getting any hotter for the time being.

  “Of course it may have been his wife,” Charlotte said, referring back to the murder of Stafford. “Or her lover.” She went to the pantry and took out the butter to wash away the salt, then wrap it in muslin and squeeze out any water or buttermilk.

  Gracie hesitated for a moment, working out whether Charlotte meant the original murder in Farriers’ Lane or the death two nights ago in the theater. She made the right choice.

  “Oh.” She was disappointed. It seemed too simple, not adequate to test Pitt’s skills. It offered no adventure, and certainly nothing in which she herself could help. She swallowed. “I thought as you was a little worried, ma’am. I s’pose I got it wrong.”

  Charlotte felt a pang of guilt. She was touched by a considerable anxiety, just in case it had been something to do with Joshua Fielding. If it were the Blaine/Godman case, then he was implicated, and that would distress Caroline, the more so since she had actually met him.

  “I shouldn’t like it to be the actor,” she explained. “My mother found him most pleasing, and when she met him …” She tailed off. How would she explain to the maid that her mother was enamored of a stage actor at least thirteen or fourteen years her junior? Of course it was only a superficial feeling, but still capable of causing hurt.

  “Oh, I see,” Gracie said cheerfully. She had heard how gentlemen felt about the Jersey Lily, and some of the music hall queens. “Like as she’d go to the stage door, if she was a man.” She began to sieve the flour to remove the lumps. She would leave the grating of the orange peel and nutmeg to Charlotte. That required a certain amount of judgment. “Well, maybe it weren’t ’im.”