Farriers' Lane

4

THERE WAS NOTHING Pitt could do on Sunday. There were no places of business open, and he was quite certain that none of the private persons he wished to speak to would be available and agreeable even to receiving him, let alone giving him the time and attention he would need in order to gain the information, or even the impressions, he desired.

So he had a thoroughly enjoyable day at home with Charlotte, Jemima and Daniel. It was the loveliest of autumn weather, utterly windless with hazy sunshine and a soft golden light, a sense of height in the sky that made it possible to forget all London around them and imagine that beyond the wall there were trees and harvest fields.

Pitt had little time to spend in his garden, but what there was was rare and precious, and he loved it fiercely. From the moment he laid down his knife and fork from breakfast, he went out and started to dig, dressed in old trousers and with his sleeves rolled up. He lifted the dark earth and turned it with intense satisfaction, breaking the clumps, parting the tangled roots of perennials now over, and dividing them into new plants for the spring. The Michaelmas daisies were blooming in blue-and-purple towers and the asters and chrysanthemums raised shaggy heads of cerise and lilac, gold, red, white and pink. The last roses were spare and precious. It was the final cutting of the grass, and the air was filled with the smell of it, and of earth mold, and sun on damp leaves.

Seven-year-old Jemima was dressed in last year’s pinafore and was half squatting on the ground beside him, her face smeared with mud, deep in happy concentration, her fingers busy with untangling roots and getting out the weeds. A couple of yards away, Daniel, two years younger, was kneeling down listening to Charlotte trying to explain to him which leaves were chickweed and which flowers.

Pitt turned and looked over Jemima’s head and caught Charlotte’s eye. She smiled at him, hair across her brows, a smear of earth on her cheek, and he felt more totally happy than he could ever recall. There were some moments so precious the ache to hold on to them was a physical thing. He had to force himself to have faith that others as good would come, and the letting go must be easy, or they would be crushed in the very act of clinging.

By five o’clock the sun was slanting low; there were already deep shadows under the walls, and the dark earth was smooth and full of freshly planted clumps. They were all tired, filthy, and extraordinarily satisfied with everything.

Daniel fell asleep over tea, and Jemima’s head sank lower and lower as Pitt read her a bedtime story afterwards. By half past six the house was quiet, the fire lit with Pitt dozing beside it, his feet propped up on the fender, and Charlotte was absentmindedly sewing buttons on a shirt. Monday morning seemed like another world.

But duty returned sharply enough with daylight, and nine o’clock found Pitt alighting from a hansom cab in Markham Square, Chelsea, with the intention of seeking the other witness Stafford had spoken to the day he had died, and whom Pitt had not yet met, Devlin O’Neil.

He had obtained the address from Stafford’s chambers, and now paid the cabby and climbed the steps to the front door of a very substantial terraced house with wide porticoes and a brass doorknob in the shape of a griffon’s head, and a fanlight above of stained glass. The house seemed to be at least three windows wide on either side of the door, and was four stories high. If Devlin O’Neil owned this establishment then he was indeed doing very well, and had no reason to have quarreled with his friend Kingsley Blaine over a few guineas’ wager.

The door was opened by a smart maid in a dark dress and very crisp lace-trimmed cap and apron. She was cheerful and full of confidence.

“Yes sir?”

“Good morning. My name is Thomas Pitt.” He handed her his card. “I apologize if I call inconveniently early, but I would very much like to see Mr. O’Neil before he leaves on the business of the day. The matter is connected with the death of an acquaintance of his, and is somewhat urgent.”

“Oh dear! I’m sure as I don’t know who’s dead. You’d better come in, and I’ll tell Mr. O’Neil as you’re here.” She opened the door wide for him, put the card on the silver card tray, and conducted him to the morning room. It was somber, fireless, but immaculately clean, and decorated in a highly conservative and traditional style. The furniture was large, mostly carved oak, and covered with every conceivable kind of picture and ornament, trophies of every visit, relative and family event for at least four decades. The chair backs were protected by embroidered antimacassars edged with very worn crochetwork. The high ceiling was coffered in deep squares, giving the room a classical appearance belied by the ornate brass light brackets. There were no flowers on the side table, but a stuffed weasel under a glass dome. It was a very common sort of domestic decoration, but looking into its bright, artificial eyes, Pitt found it both repulsive and sad. He had grown up on a large country estate, where his father had been gamekeeper, and he could so easily visualize the creature in the wild, savagely alive. This motionless and rather dusty relic of its being was horribly offensive.

The door opened while he was still looking at the weasel, and he turned around to see the maid’s polite face.

“If you would like to come this way, sir, Mr. O’Neil will see you.”

“Thank you.” Pitt followed her back across the hallway and into a high-ceilinged square room looking onto an extremely neat garden where autumn flowers grew in paradelike rows.

The furniture inside the room was large and heavy, one sideboard reaching above eight feet high and decked with all manner of dishes, tureens and gravy boats. The curtains were swathed and looped in a wealth of fabric in wines and golds. Family photographs in silver frames covered the tops of other tables and bureaus, and there were several framed samplers on the walls.

Devlin O’Neil stood by the window and turned to face Pitt as soon as he heard the door. He was slender, perhaps a fraction over average height, and casually but most expensively dressed in a check jacket of fine wool, and a fresh Egyptian cotton shirt. The price of his boots would have fed a poor family for a week. He was dark haired and dark eyed, with a face full of humor and undisciplined imagination, although at the moment his expression was concerned.

“Pitt, is it? Gwyneth said you’ve called about someone’s death. Is that so?”

“Yes, Mr. O’Neil,” Pitt replied. “Mr. Justice Stafford. He died very suddenly in the theater last week. I daresay you are already aware of that.”

“Ah—I cannot say that I am. I suppose I may have read it in the newspapers. Of course I’m very sorry, but I didn’t know the man.” He had a very slight accent, little more than a music in his voice which Pitt struggled to place.

“But you met with him the day he died,” he pointed out.

O’Neil looked uncomfortable, but his dark eyes did not leave Pitt’s face.

“Indeed I did, but he called on me over a matter of … I suppose you would call it business. I had never seen him before, and I never saw him again.” He smiled fleetingly. “Not what you would call a friend, Mr. Pitt.”

Pitt placed the accent. It was County Antrim.

“I apologize if I gave the wrong impression to your maid.” He smiled back. “I meant only that he was someone about whom you might have relevant information.”

O’Neil’s eyebrows shot up, high and arched. “He didn’t discuss his health with me! And I have to say, he looked very well. Not a young man, of course, and I daresay a pound or two heavy, but none the worse for that.”

“What did he discuss with you, Mr. O’Neil?”

O’Neil hesitated, then slowly his expression eased and the amusement in it was undisguised. He turned from the window and regarded Pitt curiously.

“I imagine you may know that already, Mr. Pitt, or you would not be here at all. It seems he was still interested in the death of poor Kingsley Blaine five years ago. I cannot think why, except that that unfortunate woman, Miss Macaulay, won’t let go of it. And I daresay Mr. Stafford wanted to end the talk and the questions about it once and for all. Let the dead bury the dead, and all that—don’t you agree?”

“Is that what he said?”

“Well, now, he didn’t tell me in so many words, you understand.” O’Neil walked across the room, his confidence apparent in the ease of his bearing. He sat sideways on the arm of one of the big chairs. He looked at Pitt with courteous interest. “He asked me about it all, of course. And I told him the same as I told the police, and the courts, at the time. There isn’t anything else I can say.” He waved at Pitt to sit in one of the chairs. “He was all very civil, very pleasant,” he went on. “But he didn’t say why he was asking. But then I don’t suppose it’s the way of gentlemen of his sort of position to confide in the likes of us, who are just the poor general public.” He said it all with a smile, but Pitt could imagine he was disturbed by having the matter raised again, and not knowing for what reason. It can only have been painful. If Stafford was trying to lay the matter to rest, it would not have hurt him to have said so to O’Neil. On the other hand, if Stafford had been planning to reopen the case, he might well not wish to mention that.

“Do you mind telling me what he said to you, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt sat down at last, specifically invited.

“Well, certainly I have no objection to your knowing, sir,” O’Neil replied, watching Pitt’s face closely in spite of his casual attitude. “But it would be a courtesy, you understand, if you were to tell me why. I would surely take it kindly.”

“Of course.” Pitt crossed his legs and smiled, looking directly at him. “Mr. Stafford was murdered that evening.”

“Good God! You don’t say so!” If O’Neil was not surprised he was a superlative actor.

“Very regrettable,” Pitt answered. “At the theater.”

“Indeed. And him a supreme court judge, and all. What kind of a blackguard would kill a judge, and him an old man too—or at least an old man from where you and I stand.” O’Neil pulled a face. “Was it robbery, then?”

“No—he was poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” There was a widening of surprise in his dark eyes. “Well, by all the saints—what an extraordinary thing to do. And why was he poisoned? Was it a case he was on, do you think?”

“I don’t know, Mr. O’Neil. That is one of the reasons I would very much like to know what he said to you that afternoon.”

O’Neil’s stare did not waver in the slightest. His intelligent, volatile face was far more controlled than Pitt had first thought, and yet for all the natural charm, there was nothing ingenuous in it.

“Of course you would,” he answered readily. “And so would I, were I in your position. I’ll be happy to oblige you, Mr. Pitt.” He shifted position very slightly. “He first asked me if I recalled the night Kingsley Blaine was murdered. All this was after the pleasantries had been exchanged, of course. To which I said that I most certainly did—as if I would be able to forget it, for all that I tried hard enough! Then he asked me to recount it all for him, which I did.”

“Could you recount it for me, please, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt interrupted.

“If you wish. Well, it was early autumn, but I daresay you know that. Kingsley and I had decided to go to the theater.” He shrugged expressively, lifting his shoulders high and turning out his hands, palms upwards. “He was married, but I was fancy-free. For all that, he was very enamored of the actress Tamar Macaulay, and he intended to go backstage after the show and visit with her. He had a gift which he proposed to give her, and no doubt he foresaw that she would be suitably grateful for it.”

“What was it?” Pitt interrupted again.

“A necklace. Do you not know that?” He looked surprised. “Of course you do! Yes, a very handsome piece. Belonged to his mother-in-law, rest her soul. And for sure he shouldn’t have been giving it away to another woman. But then we all do foolish things at times. The poor devil’s dead and answered for it now.” He stopped for a moment, regarding Pitt with interest.

“Indeed.” Pitt felt compelled at least to acknowledge that he had heard.

“But then he and I had something of a disagreement—nothing much, you understand, just a wager on the outcome of a fight.” He grinned. “An exhibition of the noble art of pugilism, to you, Mr. Pitt. We disagreed as to who had won—and he refused to pay me, although according to the rules, the money was mine.”

O’Neil pushed out his lower lip ruefully. “I left the theater early in something of a temper, and went to a house of pleasure.” He smiled candidly, covering whatever embarrassment he might have felt. “Kingsley stayed with Tamar Macaulay, and left very late, so I gather. At least that was the testimony of the doorman. Kingsley, poor soul, was given a message, purporting to be from me, that he should meet me at a gambling club we both frequented in those days.” He winced. “The way to it led through Farriers’ Lane, and we all know what happened there.”

“Was the message written or verbal?”

“Oh, verbal—all word of mouth.”

“But you didn’t see Mr. Blaine again?”

“Not alive, no, the poor soul.”

“Was that all the judge asked you?”

“The judge?” O’Neil’s dark eyes widened. “Oh—poor Mr. Stafford, you mean? Yes, I think so. Frankly it seemed something of a waste of time to me. The case is closed. The verdict was given, and there was no real question about it. The police found the right fellow. Poor devil lost his head and ran amok.” He pulled a slight face. “Not a Christian, you know. Different ideas of right and wrong, I daresay. They hanged him—no choice. Evidence was conclusive. That must have been what Mr. Stafford had in mind to do—prove it so even Miss Macaulay would have to admit it to herself and leave off pestering everyone.”

That could so easily be the truth. Pitt had come because it was an obvious duty to retrace Stafford’s steps. Someone that day had put liquid opium into his flask, or Livesey and his friend would have been poisoned when they drank from it earlier. But he had also hoped to learn something that would tell him whether Stafford intended to reopen the case or to close it forever. Perhaps that was a forlorn hope? O’Neil had been one of the original suspects. He would hardly wish the matter raised again.

Pitt looked at where O’Neil was lounging easily in the other large chair. If he was nervous he hid it better than anyone Pitt had ever seen. He looked casual, rueful, polite; a man dealing generously with a most unpleasant subject, yielding to an obligation socially demanded of him and which he understood without resentment.

“Did he ask you anything in any way new, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt smiled bleakly, trying to keep an air as if he knew something he had not yet revealed.

O’Neil blinked. “No, not that I can think of. It all seemed to be old ground to me. Oh—he did ask if Kingsley carried a stick or a cane of any sort. But he didn’t say why he wanted to know.”

“And did Mr. Blaine carry a stick?”

“No.” O’Neil pulled a face. “He was not the kind of man to enter into a fight with anyone. It was a personal murder, Mr. Pitt. If anyone is trying to say it was a struggle, a face-to-face fight of any sort, then they’re just dreaming.” All the light vanished out of his expression and he leaned forward. “It was brutal, swift and complete. I saw the body.” He was pale now. “I was the one who went to identify him. He had no family other than his wife and his father-in-law. It seemed the decent thing that I should do. There was no other mark on him, Mr. Pitt. Just the stab wound that killed him, in his side and up to the heart … and the—the nails in his hands and feet.” He shook his head. “No—no, there was no way it was a battle involving two men both armed. He did not defend himself.”

“Did Mr. Stafford not say why he asked?”

“No—no, he didn’t. I asked him, but he evaded an answer.”

Pitt could think of no reason why Stafford should make such an enquiry. Had it something to do with the medical evidence he had questioned? He must find Humbert Yardley and ask him.

“What was Kingsley Blaine like, Mr. O’Neil?” he resumed. “I don’t have the advantage of knowing anything about him at all. Was he a large man?”

“Oh.” O’Neil was taken aback. “Well—taller than I am, but loose limbed, if you know what I mean.” He looked at Pitt questioningly. “Not an athlete, more of a … well, speak no ill of the dead—and he was a friend of mine—but more of a dreamer, you know?” He rose to his feet with some grace. “Would you like to see a photograph of him? We have a few in the house.”

“Have you?” Pitt was surprised, although it was surely not unreasonable. The men had been friends.

“But of course,” O’Neil said quickly. “After all, he lived here all his married life—which God bless him was only a couple of years.”

Pitt was surprised. There had been nothing about this in the notes he had read.

“This was Kingsley Blaine’s house?”

“Ah no.” O’Neil was obviously amused at Pitt’s confusion. “The house belongs to my father-in-law, Mr. Prosper Harrimore. And of course my grandmother-in-law, Mrs. Adah Harrimore, lives here too.” He smiled again with total candor. “I married Kingsley’s widow. You didn’t know that?”

“No,” Pitt admitted, rising to his feet also. “No, I didn’t. Did Mr. Stafford speak to any of the rest of your … family?”

“No—no, not at all. He came later in the day, about four o’clock. I was home from a most agreeable late luncheon. He had sent a message ’round to my club. I preferred to meet him here rather than there.” He went over to the door and opened it. “Didn’t know what he wanted then, except that it was to do with Kingsley. It was not something I wished to discuss in public, or to remind my friends of, if I were fortunate enough that they had forgotten.”

“And the other members of the family were not at home?” Pitt went through and into the hall.

O’Neil followed him. “No—my wife was out calling upon friends, my grandmother-in-law was taking a carriage ride, and my father-in-law was at his place of business. He has interests in a trading emporium in the City.”

Pitt stood back for O’Neil to lead the way across the very fine hall, flagged in black and white with a magnificent stair rising to a wide gallery above. “I should be obliged to see a photograph,” he said. He had no specific idea as to what he could learn from it, but he wanted to see Kingsley Blaine; he wanted at least an impression of the man who was at the heart of this tragedy which it seemed was still so dangerously alive five years after Blaine himself was dead and Aaron Godman hanged for his murder.

“Ah well, then,” O’Neil said cheerfully, his good humor apparently returned. “I’ll show you, with pleasure.” And he opened the door and led Pitt into another larger and warmer room where a fire burned in the hearth, crackling noisily, flames leaping, and a young woman with fair brown hair and unusually high cheekbones sat on a padded stool, beside her a dark, curly-haired child of about two years old. Another child, whom Pitt judged to be about four, sat on the carpet in front of her, a thin, brightly colored book in her hands. She was quite different in appearance: Her hair was ash fair with only the slightest wave in it, and she had solemn blue eyes.

“Hello, my pretty,” O’Neil said cheerfully, patting her head.

“Hello, Papa,” she replied happily. “I’m reading a story to Mama and James.”

“Are you indeed?” O’Neil said with admiration, not questioning her truthfulness. “What is it about, then?”

“A princess,” the child answered without hesitation. “And a fairy prince.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous, sweetheart.”

“Grandpapa gave me the book.” She held it up with pride. “He said I could be a princess like that, if I’m good.”

“And so you can, my love, so you can,” O’Neil assured her. “Kathleen, my dear,” he said to the woman, “this is Mr. Pitt, who has called on a matter of business. Mr. Pitt, may I present my wife.”

“How do you do, Mrs. O’Neil,” Pitt replied courteously. So this was Kathleen Blaine O’Neil. She was pretty, very womanly, and yet there was strength in the cast of her features, not masked by the soft chin and the gentle eyes.

“How do you do, Mr. Pitt,” she said without any expression except a slight curiosity.

“Mr. Pitt is interested in photography,” O’Neil said, keeping his back to Kathleen and facing Pitt. “There are one or two good pictures in here I wished to show him.”

“Of course.” Kathleen smiled at Pitt. “Please be welcome, Mr. Pitt. I hope they are of help to you. Do you take many photographs? I expect you have met some interesting people?”

Pitt hesitated only a moment. “Yes, Mrs. O’Neil, I have certainly met some very interesting people, with quite unique faces, both good and bad.”

She continued to regard him without making any further remark.

“This is one that you might like,” O’Neil said casually, and Pitt moved over beside him in front of a large, silver-framed photograph of a young woman, who was immediately recognizable as Kathleen O’Neil, in a very formal gown. Behind her was a man of apparently the same age, tall, still with the slenderness of youth, fair, wavy hair falling slightly over his left brow. It was a handsome face, good-humored, emotional, full of an easy, romantic sensuality. Pitt did not need to ask if it were Kingsley Blaine. He would ask O’Neil later, privately, if Blaine were the father of the elder child with the fair hair, but it would only be a formality; the answer was plain.

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “An excellent picture. I am most obliged, Mr. O’Neil.”

Kathleen was regarding him with interest.

“Is it helpful to you, Mr. Pitt? He was my first husband. He died about five years ago.”

Pitt felt an abysmal hypocrite. Words raced through his mind. He should tell her he knew, but how without embarrassing O’Neil?

O’Neil came to his rescue.

“Mr. Pitt knows that, my dear,” he said to his wife. “I explained to him.”

“Oh. I see.” But obviously she did not.

The conversation was rescued by the door opening and a man coming in. He looked first at O’Neil, then at Pitt, with a question sharp in his powerful, hatchet-nosed face. He was heavily built, barrel-chested, and he walked with a pronounced limp. Briefly he glanced at the children, and there was intense pride in his eyes for that moment before he turned back towards Pitt.

“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 the 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 London.” 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.”

Pitt thought for a moment, and kept his voice free from the skepticism he felt. “It may be that Tamar Macaulay was the leader in the affair, the seducer, if you wish—but do you suppose she allowed Blaine to realize that?”

“I have no idea.” Lambert was contemptuous. “Does it matter?”

Pitt shifted position a little in the chair. He wished Lambert would open a window. The room was almost airless. “Well, it’s not the truth of the relationship that matters, surely, but what Blaine thought it was,” he pointed out. “If he imagined himself a hell of a fellow, having an affair with an actress, then he would have felt guilty, and wary—however ridiculous that was in fact.”

“I doubt it,” Lambert replied, his face hardening into resentment as he understood the point. “Godman was not a big man, either in height or build. Blaine was not heavy but he was tall. I don’t think it would occur to him to have any physical fear.”

Pitt shifted uncomfortably, instinctively pulling at his collar to ease it from choking him. “Well, if Blaine was a large man, and Godman quite slight, it is unlikely Godman could have carried Blaine once he was dead and lifted him up against the door while he nailed his hands and feet to it,” he reasoned. “By the way, how did he manage that? Do you know?”

The color deepened in Lambert’s face.

“No, I don’t know, nor do I care, Inspector Pitt. The kind of rage he must have been in to do such a thing, maybe he found the strength after all. They say madmen have a superhuman power when the mania is on them.”

“Maybe,” Pitt said, heavy with doubt.

“What on earth could it matter now?” Lambert demanded harshly. “It was done. And he did it—that’s beyond any question. Blaine, poor devil, was nailed up to the stable door.” His face was pale, his voice charged with emotion. “I saw him myself.” He shuddered. “Fixed there by farrier’s nails through his hands and feet—arms wide like the figure of Christ, feet together, and blood all over the place. Godman was seen coming out of the alley with blood on him. He lifted the body up somehow, probably he nailed the hands one at a time.”

“Have you ever tried to lift a dead body, Lambert?” Pitt asked very levelly.

“No—nor have I tried to crucify anyone—or ride a bicycle on a tightrope!” Lambert snapped. “But the fact that I can’t do it doesn’t mean it cannot be done. What are you trying to say, Pitt? That it wasn’t Godman?”

“No. Just trying to understand what happened—and what it could have been that Judge Stafford was thinking when he questioned all the witnesses again. He was apparently concerned with the medical examiner’s report. I wonder if it had to do with that.”

“What makes you think it had anything to do with that? Did he say so?” Lambert demanded.

“He said very little. Wasn’t the medical evidence the ground for the appeal?”

“Yes, but there was nothing in it. The appeal was denied.”

“Perhaps that was what troubled Stafford,” Pitt suggested.

“Then it is a legal point, not evidential,” Lambert stated with absolute certainty. He leaned forward a little, again concentrating on Pitt’s face, his expression hard, brows drawn together. “Look, Pitt, it was a very difficult case to investigate, not for the evidence—that was plain enough, and there were witnesses—but because of the atmosphere. My men were as horrified as the general public—more so. We saw the actual body, for God’s sake. We saw what that monster did to him—poor devil.”

Pitt felt an instant constriction. He had seen corpses, and felt the wrench of horror and pity, imagined the fear, the moment when death came, and the insanity of hatred that must have been there in the killer’s face—or the terror they felt which drove them, and however briefly lost them their reason and something of their humanity.

Lambert must have seen the thought in his eyes.

“Can you blame them if they found it hard?” he said quickly.

“No,” Pitt agreed. “No, of course I can’t.”

“And the deputy commissioner was onto us every day, sometimes several times a day, demanding we find whoever did it, and that we find proof of it.” He shivered even in the hot room, and his face pinched into an expression of pain. “You don’t know what it was like! He told us every day what the newspapers were saying, how there were anti-Jewish riots in the streets, slogans daubed on walls, people throwing stones and refuse at Jews, synagogue windows smashed. He went on about it as if we hadn’t heard it for ourselves. He said we had to clear it up within forty-eight hours.” His lips curled. “Of course he didn’t tell us how! We did everything we could—and I’ll swear to that, Pitt. And we did it right! We interviewed everyone in the area—the doorman who took the message from the boy—”

“What boy?” Pitt interrupted.

“Oh—Godman gave some street urchin the message to give to Blaine,” Lambert explained. “By word of mouth—nothing written. At least he was clear and sane enough for that. Presumably Godman waited in the shadow at the far side of the street until he saw the theater lights go off and Blaine come out, then sent the urchin over to give the message right then. That way he’d be sure it reached him. Then Blaine turned and went north into Soho. We have the doorman’s testimony of all that. And presumably Godman followed him, eventually cutting ahead of him and catching him in Farriers’ Lane, where he killed him.”

“Planned?” Pitt asked curiously. “Do you suppose he knew the farrier’s nails were there? Or was that opportunism?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lambert replied with a shrug. “The fact that he lured Blaine there with a message purporting to come from Devlin O’Neil shows that he intended no good. It’s still a premeditated murder.”

“Doorman’s evidence?” Pitt asked.

“And the urchin.”

“Go on.”

“We also have the evidence of the layabouts who were hanging ’round the entrance of Farriers’ Lane and saw Godman come out. When he passed under the street lamp they saw the blood on his coat. Of course at the time they simply thought he was a drunk, staggering ’round, and thought the blood was from some injury he had done himself, falling over, bloody nose, or whatever. They didn’t care.”

“He was staggering?” Pitt asked curiously.

“I suppose so. He was probably exhausted after his exertion, and more than a little mad.”

“But he had composed himself so totally he could stop and make jokes by the time he reached the flower seller two streets away.”

“Apparently,” Lambert said irritably. “He was quite in control by then. The evidence was very specific. It was that really which hanged him.” His voice was defensive again and he sat rigid in his chair. “He’s a very good man, Paterson, the sergeant who found that.”

“The flower seller?”

“Yes.”

“May I speak with him?”

“Of course, if you wish, but he’ll only tell you what I have.”

“What about the coat with the blood on it?”

“He got rid of it somewhere between the end of Farriers’ Lane and Soho Square, where he met the flower seller. We never found it, but that’s hardly surprising. Any sort of coat wouldn’t lie around in a London street for long. If no one kept it for themselves they’d sell it to the old clothes dealers for the price of a week’s lodgings—or more.”

Pitt knew that was true. A good gentleman’s coat would fetch enough for a month in a penny gaff, and bread and soup besides. It could be the difference between life and death for someone. A little blood would be nothing at all.

“And the necklace?” he asked.

“The necklace?” Lambert was surprised. “For heaven’s sake, man, no doubt she kept it. It was worth quite a lot, according to the dresser, who knew a diamond when she saw it. I suppose being an actress’s dresser she saw quite a lot of the imitation, and the real.” There was an inflection in his voice, a shadow across his face that showed his contempt for artifice, professional or amateur. He made no distinction between illusion designed to entertain, or to convey a deeper truth, and the merely bogus intended to deceive.

“Did you look for it?” Pitt asked.

“Yes, of course. But she’d have a hundred places to hide it if she wished. It wasn’t stolen; we could hardly institute a police search. She could simply have taken it to the nearest hock shop until the outcry died down.”

“Has she ever been seen with it since?”

“I’ve no idea!” Lambert’s voice rose in exasperation. “Blaine is dead and Godman’s hanged. Who’s to care?”

“Blaine’s widow. Apparently it should have been hers.”

“Well, I daresay she had larger losses to grieve over,” Lambert snapped. “She was a very decent woman, poor creature.”

Pitt kept his temper with difficulty, and only because it was in his own interest. A quarrel would achieve nothing, and in truth, he was finding Lambert difficult to like, even though not hard to sympathize with. It must have been a wretched, panicky, overwhelming time with public hysteria and superior officers crowding him, looking over his shoulders at every act, and demanding impossible results.

“What about the weapon?” Pitt asked.

Lambert’s face tightened again. “Not conclusively. There were half a dozen long farrier’s nails used to crucify him. The medical examiner concluded it was probably one of them.”

“May I see Sergeant Paterson now?” Pitt asked. “I think you have told me all I need to know. I can’t think of anything else you could have done, and I doubt anyone on the Stafford case will. The evidence against Godman seems conclusive so far. I don’t know what Stafford could have been looking into. No one found the necklace or the coat. No one has changed their testimony. You haven’t seen the flower seller again, or the urchin who gave the message to Blaine?”

“No, as you say, there’s nothing.” Lambert was mollified. “Sorry,” he said, slightly apologetically. “I suppose I was rather uncivil.” He forced a half smile. “It’s a bad memory, and this Macaulay woman keeping on raising the issue and insisting we got the wrong man is pretty hard to take. If Stafford was trying to silence her once and for all, I wish to God he had succeeded!”

“Perhaps I can,” Pitt said with an answering smile.

Lambert sighed, relaxing at last, his eyes lighting. “Then I wish you good luck. I’ll get Paterson for you.” And he rose to his feet and walked past Pitt, leaving him alone while he went out into the corridor and Pitt heard his footsteps receding.

Immediately Pitt rose to his feet and opened the window, gasping in the cold air with relief. He half closed it again after a moment and returned to his seat just as the door opened and a uniformed sergeant appeared, tunic immaculate, buttons gleaming. He was in his early thirties, of roughly average height and build, but his face was unusual. His nose was long and very aquiline, his mouth rather small, but the plainness of his features was redeemed by very good dark eyes and a fine head of hair waving back from a broad brow.

“Sergeant Paterson, sir,” he announced himself, and stood upright, not quite at attention, but in an attitude of respect.

“Thank you for coming,” Pitt said evenly. “Sit down.” He waved his arm towards Lambert’s chair.

“Thank you, sir,” Paterson accepted. “Mr. Lambert said you wanted to speak to me about the Blaine/Godman case.” His face shadowed, but there was nothing evasive in it.

“That’s right,” Pitt agreed. He did not owe the sergeant an explanation, but he gave it anyway. “A murder I am investigating seems to have some connection. Mr. Lambert has told me a great deal, but I would like to hear from you what you learned about Godman’s movements that night.”

Paterson’s face reflected his emotions transparently. Even the memory of it brought back the anger and the revulsion he had felt then. His body was tense, his shoulders knotted and his voice changed as he began his answer.

“I was one of the first to get to the yard in Farriers’ Lane. Blaine was quite a big man, and young.” He stopped, his face tight with pity, and it was painfully apparent that he could recall every detail. He took a deep breath and continued, his eyes on Pitt’s face, watching to see if he understood anything of the real horror of it. “ ’E’d been dead for quite a while. It was a cold night, only a little above freezing, and ’e was stiff.” His voice shook and he controlled it only with an effort. “I’d rather not describe ’im, sir, if you don’t need to know.”

“I don’t,” Pitt said quickly, sorry for the man.

Paterson swallowed. “Thank you, sir. Not that I ’aven’t seen corpses before—too many of ’em. But this was different. This was a blasphemy.” His voice thickened as he said the word and his body was rigid.

“Have you any ideas as to how a slight man like Godman could have got him up like that?” Pitt asked.

Paterson engaged his mind, leaving his emotions aside. His brow furrowed in concentration. “No sir. I wondered about that myself. But there was never any suggestion that anyone ’elped him. ’E was definitely alone, so far as we know. ’E came out of Farriers’ Lane by ’imself. Not the sort of thing you do with anyone else. I reckon Godman must’ve known ’ow to lift people. Maybe it’s part of his art as a actor. Like firemen.”

“Possibly,” Pitt agreed. “Go on. How did you trace his movements after he left Farriers’ Lane?”

“Just patience, sir. Asking people all ’round, street peddlers, crossing sweepers, costers and the like. Found a flower seller who saw ’im very plain. She was under a streetlight in Soho Square, and ’e stopped and spoke to ’er. And there’s no question it was ’im, ’e admitted it ’isself. ’E said it was quarter past midnight. She thought that was right at first, then when we questioned ’er closer, she agreed it was actually quarter to one, and she got it wrong the first time. Apparently ’e tried to tell ’er it was quarter past midnight. There’s a clock just over there, above one of the ’ouses, and she ’eard it strike. It gives just one bell on each quarter, and two at ’alf past, not like most, which do three at the quarter before.”

“Did it matter?” Pitt asked doubtfully. “You didn’t know what time Blaine was killed, did you? Exactly? Surely the layabouts at the end of Farriers’ Lane didn’t know the time.”

“No,” Paterson agreed. “But we knew close, because we knew what time Blaine left the theater, which was after quarter past midnight. If Godman had been at the flower seller’s then and ’eadin away from Farriers’ Lane, he couldn’t possibly ’ave delivered the message or killed Blaine in the stable yard, cos ’e took a cab straight after that, an’ the cabby swore ’e took ’im right from Soho Square to ’is ’ouse in Pimlico, which is miles away. And at that time ’e got ter Soho Square an’ the flower seller, ’e’d already got rid o’ the coat. We never could shift the cabby on that. ’E’d picked up other fares straight after ’oo knew the time exact.” Paterson’s face creased with disgust, almost as if he had smelled something which made him feel sick. “It was a good attempt at an alibi, and if the flower seller’d believed what ’e said and ’e’d stuck to it, it might ’a worked.”

“But she didn’t?”

“No—she didn’t actually look at the clock ’erself. It was behind ’er, she only ’eard it ring and accepted ’is word that it were quarter past and not quarter to one. And o’ course there were the layabouts at the end o’ Farriers’ Lane.”

“That sounds like good work, Sergeant,” Pitt said sincerely.

Paterson flushed. “Thank you, sir. I was never on a case I cared about more.”

“Did Godman ever admit it, when you arrested him, or later?”

“No, he never did,” Paterson said bleakly. “ ’E always claimed he was innocent. ’E looked astounded when we went for ’im.”

“Did he struggle—put up a fight?”

Paterson avoided Pitt’s eyes for the first time.

“Well—yes, ’e—er—’e cut up a bit rough. But we had the better of him.”

“I imagine,” Pitt said with a sudden discomfort. “Thank you, Sergeant. I can’t think of anything more to ask you.”

“Does that ’elp you with your case, sir?”

“I don’t think so. But it clarifies it. At least I know all I can about the Blaine/Godman affair. I think maybe my case has nothing to do with it except coincidence. Thank you for being so frank.”

“Thank you, sir.” Paterson stood up and excused himself. Since there was nothing else to learn here, Pitt went to the desk sergeant at the front, thanked him for his civility, and went out into the windy street. It was just beginning to rain and a small boy in a lopsided cap was sweeping horse manure out of the road so two women in large hats could cross without soiling their boots.

Pitt saw Micah Drummond in the middle of the afternoon. It was raining hard, beating on the windows and streaming down in rivulets, making them so opaque it was impossible to see anything more than the dim blur of buildings beyond. Drummond sat behind the desk in his office and Pitt sat restlessly in the chair in front. The afternoon was darkening early and the gas hissed gently in the brackets on the wall.

“What have you learned about Stafford?” Drummond asked, tilting his chair back a trifle.

“Nothing,” Pitt replied bluntly. “I’ve spoken to his widow, who not unnaturally says she thinks he was killed because he was going to reopen the Blaine/Godman case. And Adolphus Pryce says the same.”

“I notice you say ‘says she thinks,’ ” Drummond observed. “A very careful choice of words. You doubt her?”

Pitt pulled a face. “Their relationship with each other is a great deal more intimate than proper.”

Drummond winced. “Surely not murder? There’s no sense in it. They may be immoral, although you have no proof of that. But there is a great distance between falling in love with a married woman and murdering her husband. They are civilized people, Pitt.”

“I know.” Pitt did not argue as to whether civilized people did such things or they were confined to barbarians, whether by race or social class. It was not what Drummond meant, and he knew it. “I spent rather more time pursuing the details of the Blaine/Godman case,” he said instead. “Trying to find out exactly what Stafford could have been intending to do.”

“Oh dear.” Drummond sounded weary. His face puckered with distaste. “Surely he was only trying to settle the matter once and for all. I looked into it myself. Godman was guilty, and you can’t do any good by raking it up again. Unfortunately poor Stafford was killed before he could show Miss Macaulay how mistaken she was, which is a tragedy, not only for her but for the reputation of the law in England.” He shifted in his chair a fraction and frowned at Pitt. “The woman is a little mad, which moves me to pity, but she is doing a considerable amount of damage. For heaven’s sake, Pitt, don’t, even inadvertently, give her the idea that there is the slightest chance that you will reopen the case.”

“I am investigating the death of Samuel Stafford,” Pitt said very directly, meeting Drummond’s eyes. “I’ll go wherever that takes me, nowhere else. But I spoke to O’Neil, and his family, who are not suspect, of course; and to Charles Lambert, who conducted the original investigation. As far as I can see there is nothing which Stafford could have taken any further.” He shook his head a little. “Even if he found any of the missing physical evidence, which would be very unlikely after all these years, it still wouldn’t prove anything different. It was a sordid tragedy at the time, and an ugly part of history now. I suppose I could go and see the other appeal judges, in case Stafford confided anything in them …”

“I wouldn’t,” Drummond said sharply. “Leave it alone, Pitt. There’s nothing in it but old pain, and new doubt which is totally unjustified. You will call into question the professional integrity and skill of good men, who don’t deserve that.”

“I’ll just see one or two of the other judges, in case—”

“No! I’m telling you, Pitt—leave it alone.”

“Why?” Pitt said stubbornly. “Who wants us to leave it alone?”

Drummond’s face tightened. “The Home Secretary,” he replied. “If it gets out you are looking into it again there’ll be a lot of stupid speculation. People will assume there is some doubt about the conviction—which is not true—and there will be another public outcry.” He leaned forward across the desk. “Feeling was very high indeed at the time. If it looks as though we are going to say we may have got the wrong man, or there could be some kind of a pardon, it will raise a storm of protest and a great deal of anti-Jewish feeling. And it’s not fair to Tamar Macaulay. You’ll give her hope which is completely unfounded. For heaven’s sake, let the wretched man remain buried in whatever obscurity he can find—and his family learn to live in peace!” Pitt said nothing.

“Pitt?” Drummond said urgently. “Listen to me, man!”

“I heard you, sir.” Pitt smiled bleakly.

“I know you hear me. I want your word that you understand and will obey me.”

“No, I’m not sure that I do understand,” Pitt said slowly. “Why would the Home Secretary mind my looking into the case, if that’s what Stafford was doing before he died? He must have had some reason—he wasn’t a whimsical or irresponsible man. I want to know what that reason was.”

Drummond’s face darkened. “Well, I want you to find out who killed him. And that looks regrettably more and more like a personal matter. I have no idea who—or why—and you have no time to meddle in old cases when you should be out looking for some enmity that was deep enough to inspire murder. Perhaps he knew of some other crime, something he did not live to report to the authorities.” Drummond’s face brightened. “Maybe he learned of something, and as soon as he had proof he was going to tell us—but the criminal, whoever it was, realized he knew and killed him before he could speak to anyone?”

Pitt made a polite face which was acutely expressive of his total disbelief.

“Well, go out there and find out,” Drummond said tartly.

Pitt stood up. He was not angry. He knew the pressures on Drummond, he knew the secret, iron-hard chain of the Inner Circle, and he both hated and feared it. He had felt its power before, and he knew Drummond rued the day he had joined, when innocence blinded him to even the possibility that men of his own class and breed would seek and use such power.

“Yes sir,” he said quietly, turning and going towards the door.

“Pitt?”

Pitt smiled, and ignored him.