Farriers' Lane

6

WHILE CHARLOTTE AND CAROLINE were concerned with the Blaine/Godman case, and the danger to Tamar Macaulay and Joshua Fielding, Pitt was sitting in the public omnibus returning his attention to the death of Judge Stafford, which was the core of his case. He did not know whether the Farriers’ Lane murder was the original cause of it, or if the connection were accidental, mere chance that Stafford had been enquiring into it on the day of his death, and totally misleading. Surely if he had any evidence which would justify reexamining the case, he would have told others of it, the police, his colleagues—or at the very least, left notes.

The conductor pushed his way down between the seats and crowded passengers and took their money, swaying on his feet as the vehicle stopped and started. A fat man coughed into a red handkerchief and apologized to no one in particular.

Most murders were tragically simple, involving the passions of close relationship—love, jealousy, greed, fear—or the reactions of the thief caught in the act.

The best place to begin was with the crime itself, for the time being ignore motive. Someone had placed opium in Stafford’s flask of whiskey after the time he and Livesey had both drunk from it in Livesey’s chambers. Later he had visited Joshua Fielding, Tamar Macaulay, Devlin O’Neil and Adolphus Pryce, any of whom could have touched the flask before the evening, when he had gone to the theater, drunk from it, and then fallen into a coma and died. The only people with the opportunity were those he had visited and his wife, Juniper Stafford. To consider either the clerks in his office or the servants in his house seemed absurd. No one could suggest the slightest motive for such an act.

The omnibus was stationary again, behind a large brewer’s dray. The traffic was creeping up an incline, horses straining and impatient. A carriage in front somewhere had broken a piece of harness. Footmen were scrambling about, cursing. A costermonger was shouting. Someone was ringing a bell and a carriage dog was barking hysterically. Everyone was cold and short of temper.

“It’s getting worse every day,” the man beside Pitt said angrily. “In another year or two nothing will move at all! London will be one vast jam of carts and carriages without room for a soul to take a step. Half this stuff should be taken away. Made illegal.”

“And where would you put it?” the man opposite demanded, his face creased with anger. “They’ve as much right to travel as you!”

“On the railways,” the first man retorted, straightening his tie with a tweak. “On the canals. What’s wrong with the river? Look at that damned great load there.” He jerked his hand towards the window where a wagon was passing by laden with boxes and bales twenty feet high. “Disgraceful. Send it up the river by barge.”

“Maybe it’s not going anywhere that’s on the river,” the second man suggested.

“Then it should be! Size of it!”

The omnibus moved forward with a jolt and resumed its slow progress, and the conversation was lost. Pitt returned his thoughts to the case. Motive he put aside for the moment Opportunity was obvious. How about means? He had never had occasion to enquire into the availability of opium. Like any other officer, he knew there were opium dens in parts of London, where those addicted to the substance could obtain it and then lie in tiers of narrow cots and smoke themselves into their own brief, private oblivion. And of course he also knew a little about the opium wars with China which had occurred between 1839 and 1842, and then again between 1856 and 1860. They had been begun by the Chinese attempting to take action against British merchants dealing in the opium trade. It was a black page of British history, but Pitt did not know what bearing it had on the present availability of the drug to the ordinary public in London, except that apparently the opium traders, with the mighty naval power of the Empire behind them, had won the day.

Perhaps the best thing would be to try to purchase opium himself and see how he fared. He would put off going to see Judge Livesey until later. The omnibus had stopped again for traffic, and he rose to his feet, excused himself and picked his way with difficulty past the passengers seated along the benches on both sides of the aisle, trying not to step on feet. Amid grumbles about delay, noise, clumsiness, and people who did not know where they were going, he alighted, dodging a landau driven by an ill-tempered coachman. He leaped over a pile of steaming manure and an overflowing gutter, and strode along the pavement until he should see an apothecary’s shop.

He found one within half a mile, but it was small and dark, and when he went inside the solitary young woman behind the counter, and the piles of jars and packets balanced on it, were of little help. She offered him alternative powders for toothache, the name of a dentist she recommended, or several other patent remedies for pain of one sort or another, but did not seem to know where he might obtain opium. She had a mixture adequate to give a crying baby, in order to lull it to sleep, which she thought might contain opium, but she was not sure since the ingredients were not listed on the bottle.

He thanked her and declined, then went out again to resume his search. He walked as briskly as he could through the swirls of people buying, selling, running errands and gossiping on the footpath and spilling onto the street, jostling the traffic, shouting at each other amid the clatter of hooves and wheels, the jingle of harness and whinnying of horses.

The second apothecary’s shop he found was a much larger establishment, and when he went inside the counters were clear, the shelves behind stacked with a marvelous array of colored bottles filled with every manner of liquids, crystals, dried leaves and powders, all labeled with their chemical names in Latin. Another shelf was filled with packets, and occasionally along its length there were cupboards set in, their doors ostentatiously locked. The man superintending this alchemist’s glory was small, bald headed, with spectacles halfway down his nose and a general expression of interest on his face.

“Yes sir, and what may I do for you?” he enquired as soon as Pitt was inside. “Is it for yourself, sir, or your family? You are a family man, yes?”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed, smiling without knowing why, except that there was something about being seen to belong to a family which pleased him. But the admission rather altered what he had intended saying regarding opium.

“Thought so,” the apothecary said with satisfaction. “Fancy I can judge a man pretty well by his appearance. Begging your pardon for the familiarity, sir, but it takes a good wife to turn a collar like that.”

“Oh.” Pitt had no idea anyone could tell his collar and cuffs had been taken off and turned so the worn bits were on the inside, thus prolonging the life of the garment. He put his hand up to it unconsciously, and realized his tie was crooked and thus Charlotte’s neat stitching showed. He straightened it with a faint blush.

“Now, sir, what can I do for you?” the apothecary said cheerfully.

There was little point in anything but honesty now. The sharp-eyed little man would be insulted by deviousness, and probably be aware of a lie.

“I’m a police officer,” Pitt explained, producing his identification.

“Indeed?” the apothecary said with interest. There was no shadow of anxiety in his open expression.

“I should like to know more about the availability of opium,” Pitt replied. “Not to smoke, that I know already. I am looking into the liquid form. Do you have any information you could give me?”

“Good gracious, sir, of course I have.” The apothecary looked surprised. “Easy to get as you like. Mothers use it to quieten a fractious baby. Poor souls need a little sleep, and give the child enough to keep it from crying half the night, keeping the whole house awake.” He pointed to a row of bottles on one of the shelves behind him. “Godfrey’s Cordial, sell a great deal of that. Made up of treacle, water, spices—and opium. Works very well, they say. And then there’s also Steedman’s powder. And Atkinson’s Royal Infants’ Preservative is very popular.” He shook his head. “Don’t know if it’s the name, or the mixture, but people like it. Of course in East Anglia and the fen country you can buy opium in penny sticks or in pills from just about any little corner shop you like.”

“Legally?” Pitt asked with surprise.

“Of course! Prescribed for all manner of ills.” The apothecary ticked of his fingers. “Rheumatism, diabetes, consumption, syphilis, cholera, diarrhea, constipation or insomnia.”

“And does it work?” Pitt asked incredulously.

“It kills pain,” the apothecary replied sadly. “That’s not a cure, but when a person is suffering, it’s something. I don’t approve of it, but I wouldn’t deny a suffering person a little ease—especially if there’s no cure for what’s wrong with them. And God knows, there’s enough of that. No one gets better from consumption or cholera—or syphilis for that matter, although it takes longer.”

“And doesn’t the opium kill?”

“Babes, yes, as like as not.” The apothecary’s face pinched and his eyes were weary. “Not the opium itself, you understand? They get so they’re half asleep all the time, and they don’t eat, poor little mites. Die of starvation.”

Pitt felt suddenly sick. He thought of Jemima and Daniel, remembering them as tiny, desperately helpless creatures, so fiercely alive, and he found his throat tight and a pain inside him so he could not speak.

The apothecary was looking at him with sadness creasing his face.

“There’s no use prosecuting them,” he said quietly. “They don’t know any different. Sickly, worked to their wits’ end, and don’t know what way to turn, most of them. Have a child just about every year, counting the ones that miscarry—no way to stop it except tell their husbands no—if they’ll take no for an answer. And what man will? He has few enough pleasures, and he reckons that one’s his by right.” He shook his head. “Not enough food, not enough room, not enough anything, poor devils.”

“I wasn’t going to prosecute them,” Pitt said, swallowing hard. “I am looking for someone who poisoned an adult man by putting opium in his whiskey.”

“Some poor woman couldn’t take any more?” the apothecary guessed, biting his lip and looking at Pitt as if he knew the answer already.

“No,” Pitt said more loudly than he had intended. “A woman well past childbearing age, and a perfectly sober husband. She had a lover …”

“Oh—oh dear.” The apothecary was taken aback. He shook his head slowly. “Oh dear. And you want to know if she could have obtained the opium with which he was poisoned? I am afraid so. Anyone could. It is not in the least difficult, nor is it necessary to register one’s name for the purchase. You will be extremely fortunate to find anybody who recalls selling it to her—or to her lover, should he be the guilty party.”

“Or anyone else, I suppose,” Pitt said ruefully.

“Oh dear—the poor man had others who wished him ill?”

“It is possible. He was a man with much knowledge and authority.” Since he had voiced his suspicions of the widow, and of her intimate affairs, he chose not to name Judge Stafford. If it were Juniper, it would be public knowledge soon enough, and if it were not, she had more than sufficient grief to bear as it was.

The apothecary shook his head sadly. “Dangerous stuff, opium. Once you begin with it, there’s little stopping, and few that can manage to do without ever greater doses.” A flicker of anger crossed his mild, intelligent features. “Misguided doctors gave it to their patients in the Civil War in America, thinking it would be less addicting than ether or chloroform, especially if given by the then new invention of hypodermic syringe, into the vein rather than the stomach. Of course, they were wrong. And now they have four hundred thousand poor devils slave to it.” He sighed. “That’s one war where we both won and lost, I think. Perhaps we lost the more.”

“The American Civil War?” Pitt was confused.

“No sir, the opium war with China. Perhaps I did not make myself plain.”

“No, you didn’t,” Pitt said agreeably. “But you are perfectly correct. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Not at all. Sorry it is so little use to you. But I am afraid anyone with a few pence to spare could purchase sufficient sticks of opium to dissolve and put in the poor man’s drink, and there would be no record of it, and nothing illegal in the mere buying of it anyway.” He looked at Pitt discouragingly. “You could waste a year in going to every apothecary and corner shop within forty miles of London—or farther if the lady you suspect has the means and the opportunity to travel. As I said, opium is available with great ease all over East Anglia and the fen country, which is a mere hundred or hundred and fifty miles from London.”

“Then I shall have to return to other means of learning the truth,” Pitt conceded. “Thank you, and good day.”

“Good day, sir, and good luck in your search.”

It was not until mid-afternoon that Pitt obtained an appointment with Judge Ignatius Livesey and was shown into his chambers. It had turned colder outside and he was pleased to go into the warmth of the room with its well-stoked fire and rich carpets, the velvet curtains richly draped against the outside world, the ornate mantel speaking of solidarity, the leatherbound books, the bronze figures and Meissen china dishes adding touches of grace and luxury.

“Good afternoon, Pitt,” Livesey said courteously. “How are you proceeding in the matter of poor Stafford’s death?”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Pitt replied. “Not very fruitfully so far. It seems opium is very readily obtainable by anyone with a few pence to spare. Indeed it is much purchased by the poorest people, I am informed, in order to ease their wakeful children, and treat a number of extremely diverse illnesses, sometimes even mutually contradictory ones.”

“Is it indeed?” Livesey raised his eyebrows. “How very tragic. Public health is one of our greatest problems, coupled with ignorance and poverty. So endeavoring to trace the opium has profited you little?”

“Nothing,” Pitt corrected.

“Please sit down, make yourself comfortable,” Livesey invited. “It has turned cold outside, so my clerk informs me. It is a trifle early, but would you care for tea?”

“Yes, very much,” Pitt accepted, sitting in the large leather-cushioned chair opposite Livesey, who was at his desk.

Livesey reached out and pressed a bell on the wall near him, and a moment later a clerk appeared, enquiring what he wished. Livesey requested tea for two, and then leaned back and regarded Pitt curiously.

“And what brings you to me again, Mr. Pitt? I appreciate the civility of your telling me of your progress, or lack of it. But I imagine that is not all you came for.”

“I would like you to tell me all you can recall of the evening Judge Stafford died, sir,” Pitt asked him. “From the time you met him in the theater.”

“Of course, although I am not sure it will be helpful.” Livesey sat back in his chair and rested his hands across his stomach, his heavy face calm. “I reached the theater about twenty minutes before the performance was due to begin. It was extremely crowded, naturally. These places usually are, if the play is any good at all, and this was a popular work, and performed by a fine cast.” He smiled, an expression of indulgence and very slight contempt. “Of course there were the usual prostitutes of one degree or another, parading in the balconies and the gallery at the back, attired in a wonderful array of colors. Gorgeous, at a distance. And the men ogled them, and a good many did far more. But that is all quite customary, and no doubt you observed it yourself.”

The clerk returned with a tray set with a silver swan-necked teapot, a silver cream jug and sugar bowl with tongs, and two china cups and plates and a basin and silver strainer. Two silver teaspoons had handles set with pearl shell. Livesey thanked him absently, and as soon as he left, closing the door silently behind him, Livesey poured tea for himself and Pitt.

“I observed one or two acquaintances,” Livesey continued, looking at Pitt with mild amusement. “I believe I nodded to a couple of them, then proceeded to my box. Frequently I have guests, but on this occasion my wife was unable to come, and I had not invited anyone myself. I was alone. Which, I suppose, was one of the reasons I considered joining Stafford in the interval. As it was I merely passed some small pleasantry and left him to himself.” He sipped his tea with absentminded pleasure. It was Earl Grey, delicate and expensive.

“Why was that, sir?” Pitt sat up a little straighter.

“He went to the smoking room,” Livesey said, shaking his head a little and smiling. “A very public place, Mr. Pitt. The area where gentlemen may retire together to smoke, if they wish to, or to escape feminine company for a few minutes, and possibly to gossip with one another, or transact a little business, if they find it appropriate. There were a great many people there, some of whom I found tedious, and I did not wish to spoil my evening. I looked in, but did not remain.”

“Did you notice if Mr. Pryce was there?”

Livesey’s face darkened. “I follow your thoughts, Mr. Pitt. Most regrettable, but I fear now beyond the point where a man of any sense could avoid them. Yes, he was there, and he spoke with Stafford. That much I saw. But I cannot say that I observed any opportunity for him to have touched the flask.” His steady eyes did not leave Pitt’s face. “Personally, I did not see Stafford drink from it. I doubt he necessarily took it out during the interval at all. I think it more likely he drank from it quietly, in the darkness and the privacy of his own box. That is what I should do, rather than be seen to drink from my own flask in a public place, where refreshment could be purchased.” He regarded Pitt with a sad smile, a comment on the weakness of a man not unlike himself, and for whom he felt a certain pity now. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Pitt conceded, sipping his own tea also. It made excellent sense. He had never carried a flask—it was an utterly alien thought—but if he had done so, he would have drunk from it discreetly, in the privacy of a theater box, not in the public smoking room. “How was his manner?”

“Thoughtful,” Livesey replied after a moment’s consideration, as if reliving a memory. He frowned. “Somewhat preoccupied. I think Pryce would say the same, if he were in a temper to have noticed.”

Pitt hesitated, considering whether to be obscure or direct: He settled for candor.

“You think he might have poisoned Stafford?”

Livesey drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. “I regret it, but it seems a distinct possibility,” he replied, watching Pitt through half-closed eyes. “If it is beyond doubt that someone did.” He drank a little from his tea again.

“Yes, it is beyond doubt—at least reasonable doubt,” Pitt answered. “It is not a dose any man would take either to dull pain or treat any disease, nor for the mind to escape the trials and disappointments of reality. Nor would one take opium by accident.” He took a little of his own tea, not quite sure if he really liked it. The thick curtains muffled the sounds of the street. He could hear the clock ticking on the bookcase.

“The only alternative is suicide,” he went on. “Can you think of any reason whatever why Judge Stafford should take his own life—publicly, in his box in the theater, leaving no note and at such distress to his wife? It would be an extraordinary way to do such a thing—even supposing he wished to.”

“Of course,” Livesey agreed, pulling a small face. “I’m sorry. I was trying to avoid what is unavoidable. Of course he was killed. I am exceedingly grateful it is not my task to find out by whom, but I shall naturally do what I can to assist you.”

He shifted his weight a trifle in his seat and regarded Pitt across folded hands. “No, Samuel Stafford’s manner seemed to me to be unexceptional. He was courteous but detached. Which was his natural way.” He pursed his lips. “I found nothing unusual in him, certainly no sense of strain or impending disaster. I cannot believe he feared death, or expected it, and least of all that he planned it.”

“And you did not see him drink from the flask?”

“No. But as I have said, I did not remain in the smoking room.”

“Mr. Livesey, have you any idea at all as to whether Mr. Stafford was aware of his wife’s relationship with Mr. Pryce, or even suspected it?”

“Ah.” Livesey’s face darkened and his expression was heavy with sadness and distaste. “That is a much harder question. And it would be natural for you to ask me if knowledge of such a thing would make him despairing enough to take his life. I cannot answer the first question; knowledge is sometimes a very subtle thing, Mr. Pitt, not a matter of yes or no.” He looked at Pitt carefully, as if weighing his perception. “There are many levels of awareness,” he went on, his diction precise, his choice of words exact. “It is unquestionable that he knew his wife was distinctly cool towards him. That part of their relationship was mutual. He retained a regard for her, a respect that had become habit over the years, but he was not enamored of her anymore—if he ever was.” He breathed in deeply. “He required that she behave with decorum and fulfill the role of a judge’s wife that society expected of her—and to the best of my knowledge, this she did.” The frown deepened in his heavy face. The subject obviously was unpleasant to him, and he spoke with feeling. “But he did not require, and indeed did not wish, that she should involve him in profound emotions, or give him a constant companionship.”

His eyes did not leave Pitt’s face, and Pitt did not move. “Like many marriages which have been most suitable, and not unpleasant over the years, there was no sense of passion in it, no possessiveness of one another. Had she behaved in-discreetly he would have been angry with her. Had she openly flouted all the rules of society and become a scandal, he would have put her away, either by sending her to the country or, if she had proved utterly willful, as a last resort, and if she had justified such an extreme step, by divorcing her. That would have been an embarrassment which he would have sought to avoid.”

He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “But that did not happen. Had he simply been aware that she was”—his lip curled—“giving her favors to another man, he would have looked the other way and affected not to be aware. Indeed, he may have endeavored to do so to such a degree that it touched no more than the periphery of his consciousness. It is not an uncommon arrangement, especially among those who have been married for some time, and grown”—he searched for a word that was not too indelicate—“a little used to one another.”

“Then it is unlikely, in your judgment, sir, that he would have been thrown into despair by the discovery that his wife was having an affaire with Mr. Pryce?” Pitt asked.

“It is inconceivable,” Livesey replied with candor, his eyes wide.

“If he really was … complacent in the matter,” Pitt pressed, “why would Mrs. Stafford do something so extreme as to murder him?”

A weary and bitter humor flashed across Livesey’s face and was gone. “Presumably her passion for Mr. Pryce is frantic,” he answered, “and not satisfied by a mere affaire. With Stafford dead, she would be a widow of considerable means, and free to marry Pryce. I imagine in your work, Inspector, you have come across many relationships which began as infatuation, and have ended in sordidness and eventually crime? Unfortunately it is a tale that I have witnessed far more often than I care to, usually selfish, a little shabby, and deeply tragic. It afflicts all ages and classes, I regret to say.”

Pitt could not argue. “Yes,” he agreed reluctantly. “Yes, I have.”

“Possibly Pryce was losing some of the heat of his desire,” Livesey continued. “And she feared losing him to a younger woman. Who knows?” He lifted his shoulders a fraction. “The whole matter is dark, and totally tragic. Were poor Stafford not dead, I would have considered it so improbable I should have dismissed the possibility. But he is dead, and we must face the logical conclusions. I regret I cannot say anything more helpful—or less stark in its outcome.”

“You have been most helpful, sir.” Pitt rose to his feet. “I shall enquire into the nature of this sorry affair and learn all I can about it.”

“I do not envy you.” Livesey reached for the bell and rang it to summon the clerk. “You might begin with my wife, who is both observant and discreet. She was well acquainted with Juniper Stafford, but she will tell you the truth, without gossiping further to damage reputations unnecessarily.”

“Thank you, sir,” Pitt said with sincere gratitude. “That will be a most excellent place to begin.”

He accepted Livesey’s advice, and began after luncheon in the early afternoon, straightening his tie, pulling his jacket a little more to the square, and moving several small articles from one pocket to another to balance them and lessen the bulges, giving his boots a hasty brush on the backs of his trousers and running his fingers through his hair, the last of these efforts making things considerably worse than before. This time he took a hansom, not the public omnibus, and alighted in the highly fashionable Eaton Square and presented himself at the front door of number five. The bell was answered by a smart footman, who was tall and slender with excellent legs, well displayed by the silk stockings of his livery.

“Yes sir?” He had just the right touch of superciliousness that verged on the offensive without ever quite toppling over into it. He was employed in a very superior household, and would make certain that callers were aware of that.

“Good afternoon,” Pitt said with a smile he did not feel, but it gave him the considerable satisfaction of unnerving the man. People did not smile at footmen. He smiled even more widely, showing his teeth. “My name is Thomas Pitt.” He produced his card and placed it on the proffered silver tray. “Mr. Justice Livesey was kind enough to suggest that Mrs. Livesey might be able to provide me with some information which I require in the cause of justice. Would you be good enough to ask her if she will receive me, to that end?”

The footman’s composure was severely shaken. Who on earth was this impertinent fellow who stood on the steps smiling from ear to ear with a confidence he had no right to? Possibly the judge really had sent him? He would like to have packed him off with some very well chosen words, but he dared not. Society was definitely declining and values going to the dogs.

“Yes sir,” he said sourly. “I will certainly ask, but I cannot say what the answer will be.”

“Of course not,” Pitt agreed reasonably. “At least not until you do ask!”

The footman snorted, turned on his heel and disappeared, leaving Pitt on the step. There was a bootboy standing at the far side of the hall staring uncomfortably, to see that Pitt did not dart in and steal the ornaments or the sticks in the hall stand.

The footman reappeared after only a few moments, replaced the card tray on the hall table, and came to Pitt, regarding him with displeasure.

“Mrs. Livesey is at home and will see you, if you will follow me?” He held out his hand for Pitt’s hat and coat.

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, passing them over. He was not especially surprised. Curiosity was frequently more powerful than social niceties, particularly with wives of a certain level in society, who had too little to occupy their time, and even less to fill their minds. Anything unexpected or new had a value purely for that reason.

The house was solid, old-fashioned and extremely comfortable. The room to which Pitt was shown was large, with windows along one side, and yet at first glance it did not seem large. The huge mantel dominated one wall and was flanked by bookcases to the ceiling. Dark upholstered armchairs were supplemented by very beautiful upright chairs with carved wooden backs like church windows. Everywhere there were omaments, tapestries, potted plants, but the single most interesting feature was a transitional light fixture depended from the center of the ceiling. It was designed to function both with electricity and with gas, the arms for gas pointing upwards, the bulbs for electricity down. It was only the second one Pitt had ever seen.

Mariah Livesey herself was a handsome woman with thick gray-white hair with a heavy wave most becomingly swept back off her brow. Her features were well proportioned and agreeable. In fact looking at her Pitt thought she was quite probably better looking now than in her youth, when she might well have been comparatively ordinary. Years of comfort and security of status had given her an ease of manner, and expensive clothes of refined taste had given her distinction. She regarded him with barely concealed curiosity.

“Yes, Mr. Pitt? My footman tells me my husband advised you to come to me for some information. Is that correct?”

“Yes ma’am,” Pitt replied, standing upright, but not in any way to attention. “I left his chambers very shortly before luncheon and he suggested I should begin my search with you. It is a most delicate matter, which clumsily handled would ruin a lady’s reputation, perhaps quite unjustifiably. He said that you would be both candid and discreet.”

Her eyes were bright with interest, and there was the faintest flush in her cheeks.

“Indeed? How generous of him. I shall endeavor to live up to all that he has said of me. What is your enquiry, Mr. Pitt? I had not realized I knew anything of such a matter.”

“I am investigating the death of Mr. Justice Stafford.”

“Oh dear.” Her face darkened. “A dreadful thing—quite dreadful. Please sit down, Mr. Pitt. We cannot discuss this in a few moments. Although I really cannot think that I would be of assistance to you. I know nothing about it at all.”

“Not knowingly, I’m sure, or you would already have informed us,” Pitt agreed, sitting in the large chair opposite her. “But you are acquainted with both Mr. and Mrs. Stafford, and you no doubt move in the same circles in society.”

Her face showed complete surprise. “Surely you cannot be suggesting someone from their social acquaintance killed him? That is absurd! You must have misunderstood something my husband said, Mr. Pitt. That is the only possible explanation.”

“I am afraid that is not possible.” Pitt shook his head, smiling at her sadly. “He was quite plain. If you will permit me to ask you a few questions?”

“Of course.” She looked puzzled.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stafford had been married for some considerable time?” he asked.

“Oh yes, at least twenty years, probably longer.” Her voice lifted in surprise.

“How would you describe their relationship?”

Her confusion increased. “Oh—amiable, I should say. There was certainly never any animosity between them, so far as I am aware. If you are thinking of a quarrel, I have to tell you I find it very difficult to believe, if not impossible.” She shook her head a little to emphasize the point.

“Why do you say that, Mrs. Livesey?” he pressed.

“Well …” She looked at him with some concentration. Her eyes were neither blue nor gray, but full of perception. He judged she was not a clever woman, but one with considerable judgment of others within her own social knowledge, and an excellent sense of what was fitting.

“Yes? I would greatly value your candor, ma’am.”

She hesitated only a moment more, he thought weighing words rather than debating whether to answer him or not.

“It was not a relationship in which either party had sufficient depth of emotion to quarrel,” she said at length. He thought from her expression she was measuring her words carefully. “It had long since declined to a more comfortable state,” she went on, “where respect and usage had replaced any acute involvement in each other’s day-to-day lives. Juniper always behaved discreetly, and fulfilled her social obligations. She is an excellent hostess, handsome to look at, well dressed, exceedingly well mannered.” A slight flicker crossed her face and there was a momentary tightness in her mouth. It occurred to Pitt that she was focusing herself to say things which she believed only grudgingly.

“And to the best of my knowledge, Samuel Stafford was an honorable man, not given to any excesses either personal or financial,” she continued, her expression relaxing a little. “She was always well provided for. If he—if he had any other … women in his life … he was so discreet about them I for one had no idea.” She looked at Pitt, waiting for his comment.

“Indeed. That is what I had heard elsewhere,” he agreed. “What about Mrs. Stafford’s other relationships?”

“Oh—well—I suppose you mean Mr. Pryce?” She colored uncomfortably, though it was impossible to say whether it was embarrassment or guilt because she was mentioning it at all.

“Was there any other?” he enquired.

“No! No, of course not!” The color in her cheeks deepened.

“When did she first meet Mr. Pryce, do you know?”

She sighed and stared out of the window. “I think she had met him several years ago, but the acquaintance was slight, so far as I am aware. They have come to know each other far, far better in the last year and a half.” She stopped abruptly, uncertain how much more to say. She was aware she had spoken unbecomingly vehemently, afraid she had betrayed something in herself, as indeed she had. She looked at Pitt with a furrow between her brows, waiting.

“In your opinion, Mrs. Livesey, what is Mrs. Stafford’s feeling for Mr. Pryce?” he said gravely. “Please be honest with me. I shall not quote you to anyone; the information is simply so I may learn the truth. In the interest of justice, I have to know.”

She bit her lip, considering for a moment before launching into her answer, her voice quick and hard. “She was infatuated with him. She did her best to be discreet, but to one who knows her as well as I do, it was quite apparent.”

“In what ways?”

“Oh, the edge in her manner, her dress, the things in which she developed an interest.” She laughed abruptly as if now she had begun she could not stem the tide of her feelings. “The things in which she lost all interest. The gossip she no longer cared to hear, the trivia which a year ago would have fascinated her, now she ignored. She began to behave as if she were far younger than in truth she was.” The pinkness deepened in her cheeks. “When a woman is in love, Mr. Pitt, other women know it. The signs are not especially subtle, and they are also quite unmistakable.”

Pitt felt uncomfortable without being certain why.

“And did Mr. Pryce, in your judgment, return this feeling?” He made a mental note to ask Charlotte if she thought she would notice such things about another woman.

“I cannot say quite why I believe so, but I do, quite definitely.” The edge returned to her voice. “His courtesy towards her had a sharply personal quality. There was a look in his eyes which was unmistakable. All woman desire to see that look in a man’s face some time in their lives.” She smiled very slightly as she said it. “It is better than all the diamonds or the perfumes in the world, and headier than champagne to the mind. Yes, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Pryce came to return her feelings.”

“Came to?” He searched her face and saw the emotion and the anger in it before she masked it. “Do I understand you to mean that her feeling preceded his?”

She did not evade his eyes. “If you mean did she pursue him, Mr. Pitt, yes, I regret to say it, but she did. One weekend in particular, we were all houseguests in the country. I could not fail to be aware of it.”

“I see.” He shifted his position on the large chair. “Mrs. Livesey, can you tell me what a man and a woman in such a position might be able to do about it, what their options would be? And the penalties for being indiscreet?”

“Of course. Their options, if they were to remain in society, are very slight,” she said decisively. “Either they behave with entire moral correctness, and do not see each other except where it is unavoidable, and then only when there are suitable other persons present …” Her shoulders stiffened. “People are quick to malice, you know? You cannot defy all social conventions and remain unscathed.” She was still watching Pitt, judging his understanding. “Or else they give in to their passions, but do it at the houses of mutual friends, on weekend house parties, and similar occasions, but with sufficient discretion that no one is forced to be aware of it.”

“That is all?”

“All?” She frowned. “What else could there be?”

“What about marriage?”

“Juniper Stafford is already married, Mr. Pitt.”

“Divorce?” he suggested.

“Unthinkable. Oh—” Her face looked suddenly bleak. “Are you imagining that either Juniper or Mr. Pryce may deliberately have poisoned Judge Stafford?”

“Do you not find it possible?”

She thought for several moments before replying very quietly. Now the preoccupation with society and all the small protocols and jealousies was gone.

“Yes—yes, it is possible. I …”

Pitt waited.

“I hate to say such a thing,” she finished lamely. She looked acutely uncomfortable. “Juniper is not … wise, in her emotions.”

“Do you believe Mr. Stafford was aware of the relationship?” Pitt asked.

Mrs. Livesey pushed out her lips. “Oh—oh, I doubt it. It is not the sort of thing men notice, unless they are predisposed towards jealousy. And he was decidedly not of such a nature. One can tell.” Again she looked at him to see if he understood. “He did not watch her, or seem aware of whom she was with. There are differences in behavior that are not apparent to a man, unless he too is in love. Had they been newly married—perhaps …” She tailed off unhappily.

“Do you suppose other women of her acquaintance were more observant?”

“Undoubtedly,” she replied with a rueful smile. “Adolphus Pryce is a most attractive man, and unmarried. He is the center of much attention. His smallest act will be remarked and analyzed. A considerable number of feminine eyes are upon him.”

“Then Mrs. Stafford will not be popular,” Pitt observed with a mixture of humor and pity.

“Hardly,” she agreed vehemently, then was instantly self-conscious and rushed into explanation. “There are not sufficient eligible gentlemen to go around. For one woman to have two is a breach of all fairness.”

Pitt looked at her broad figure and aging face and wondered what thoughts for Adolphus Pryce, or his like, had passed through her mind. How much did she resent the passions that Juniper had indulged in herself—and inspired in him?

“You did not say anything to Mr. Stafford which might have led him to realize his wife’s regard for Mr. Pryce?” he asked aloud. “Even inadvertently, and in sympathy for his situation, perhaps?”

The anger lit her eyes, then was dimmed again as he explained himself.

“I did not,” she said decisively. “I find it is best to refrain from any interference in other people’s affairs. It never helps.”

“No, I imagine not,” he agreed.

He had probably learned all he could from her. The affaire had lasted between a year and two years, and was discreet, but not unknown, certainly to other women. There was every possibility some busy tongue had told Judge Stafford, but if so he was not likely to have reacted violently or with great distress. Every new piece of information brought him back either to Juniper or Adolphus Pryce, or conceivably to both of them.

“Thank you, Mrs. Livesey,” he said politely, forcing himself to smile. “You have been of great assistance to me. I hope you will keep the matter as discreet as you have so far. It would be an evil thing to malign Mrs. Stafford’s reputation, or Mr. Pryce’s, if it turns out they are quite innocent of any part in the judge’s death. There are plenty of other possibilities; this is merely one it is unfortunately my duty to explore.”

“Of course,” she said hastily. “I quite understand, I assure you. I shall treat it with the utmost confidence.”

He hoped she did, and was as wise as her husband believed, but as he rose and took his leave, Pitt was not entirely sure. There was an unhappiness in her which hungered for something beyond her reach. And he knew she had no love for Juniper Stafford. How much of her assessment of Samuel Stafford was actually her knowledge of her own husband?

The next person he sought was Judge Granville Oswyn, one of the other five appeal judges who had sat on the case of Aaron Godman. His opinion of that matter might help to clarify it further, and as a colleague of Samuel Stafford, he might have been aware of his personal relationships. Pitt needed to know if Stafford was aware of his wife’s infatuation, and if he cared perhaps more than Livesey or Mrs. Livesey believed. Perhaps it was a futile search, but he must make it.

But when he arrived in Curzon Street at Judge Oswyn’s house he was informed by the parlormaid who answered the door that the judge was traveling on business, and was not expected home until the following week, and Mrs. Oswyn was calling upon acquaintances. However, she was due to dine out this evening, so no doubt would be home before long, and if Mr. Pitt cared to wait, he might do so in the morning room.

Pitt did care to wait. He had nothing else to pursue of greater importance, and spent an agreeable forty-five minutes with a pot of tea in the comfortable morning room, until he was summoned again and conducted to the soft sepia-and-gold withdrawing room where Mrs. Oswyn eyed him with mild interest. She was a faded woman with fair brown hair, a plump figure, a face which had probably been pretty in her youth and was now lit by an amiability of character which had mellowed it until it held a gentleness which was remarkable.

“My maid tells me you are engaged in enquiring into the death of Mr. Justice Stafford?” she said with arched eyebrows raised. “I cannot think of any way in which I might assist you, but I am perfectly ready to try. Please be seated, Mr. Pitt. What is it you think I might tell you? I knew him, of course. My husband sat on the court of appeal with him on many occasions, so we were socially acquainted with both Mr. Stafford and his wife, poor creature.”

He looked at her expression and thought he saw in it a pity which was more profound than the mere words which anyone might have said of a woman who was so recently widowed.

“You feel for her deeply?” he asked, meeting her eyes.

She waited some moments before replying, perhaps judging how much he already knew. She made up her mind.

“I do. Guilt is a most painful feeling, especially so when it is too late to make amends.”

He was startled, not only at the thought, but at her extraordinary frankness.

“You think she was in some way responsible for his death?” He tried to retain his composure.

She looked amazed and a little abashed. “Good gracious, no! Most certainly not! I do beg your pardon if I allowed that impression. She was obsessed with Adolphus, and he was with her, but she was not in the slightest way responsible for Samuel’s death. Whatever makes you think such a fearful thing?”

“Someone is responsible, Mrs. Oswyn.”

“Of course,” she agreed, folding her hands in her lap. “One cannot pretend murder does not happen, much as one would like to. But it would not be poor Juniper who did such a frightful thing. No, no, not at all! She is guilty of having been unfaithful to him, of feeling an unlawful passion, a lust, if you will, and of indulging it instead of mastering it. That is guilt enough.”

“Was Mr. Stafford aware of her indulgence?”

“Oh, I think he knew perfectly well there was something.” She regarded him steadily. “After all, one cannot be completely blind, even though there are times when one would prefer to, for one’s own comfort. But he chose not to look at it too closely. It would have done no good.” She regarded Pitt steadily out of round, soft eyes. “He would not see what was better unseen; and when it was all over, it would have been so much easier to forgive and forget if he had never known the details. Very wise man, Samuel.” She shook her head a little. “Now Juniper, poor woman, will never find that forgiveness, and when this dies—as I daresay it will, these passions usually do—then she will be left with nothing but the guilt. It is all very sad. I told her so—but when one is in love with such obsessive emotion, such a hunger, one does not listen.”

Pitt was taken by surprise. There was a naïveté in her face, almost an innocence, and yet she spoke of violence and adultery as a child might speak of things whose names it had heard, but whose meaning it did not grasp. Her perception of character in spite of her innocence startled him, as did her ability to pity.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, she will feel a grief which will be difficult to recover from, because there will be so much guilt in it. Unless—”

“No,” she interrupted firmly. “I do not believe she killed him. Nor do I believe it was Mr. Pryce. He is a foolish man, infatuated, and he has lost his honor over a woman, which means he is weak. But he would not stoop so low as to murder his friend—even for that.” She looked at Pitt gravely. “I will not believe it for a moment. He is foolish, as are many men, but she is considerably to blame. A woman may nearly always rebuff quite graciously and still make her disinterest plain. But she did the very opposite. They will both pay for it, mark my words.”

Pitt did not contradict her. From what he had observed, he was inclined to think she might well be correct.

“Do you not think they will marry, Mrs. Oswyn, now that they are free to?”

“Possibly, Mr. Pitt, but they will not be happy. Poor Samuel’s death has spoiled that for them, if it were ever possible. But you will have to look elsewhere for whoever killed him.”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, you will,” she said with absolute certainty. “I suppose you are already looking into that wretched affair in Farriers’ Lane? Yes, naturally you are. I would not be surprised if it had something to do with that. Samuel could not let the matter rest, you know? He came here to speak to Granville more than once. Granville tried to persuade him to let the matter drop, that there was nothing else to learn, and certainly nothing good to accomplish. But Samuel would not be persuaded.”

Pitt sat upright. “You mean Judge Stafford intended to reopen the case? Are you sure?”

“Well now.” She unfolded her hands. “I didn’t say I was sure, you understand? I simply knew that he discussed it with Granville, my husband, several times, and they argued over the matter. Samuel wished to pursue it, and Granville did not. I do not know if Granville managed in the end to persuade him of the futility of it, or if he still wished to continue.”

“Judge Oswyn did not believe there was anything further to be learned? No miscarriage of justice?” Pitt pressed.

“Oh no, not at all,” she denied with conviction. “Although he was not happy about the case. He always felt there was a certain haste, and a great deal of emotion which was extremely distasteful. But that did not alter the correctness of the verdict, and that was what he told Samuel.”

“You don’t know what reason Judge Stafford had for pursuing the case?” Pitt leaned forward, looking at her intently. “You don’t know if he had discovered anything new, any evidence?”

“Dear me, no. My husband never discussed anything of that nature with me. It is not at all suitable, you know? Not at all.” She shook her head, dismissing the idea out of hand. “No. I am afraid I have no idea what they said, only that it was to do with the case, and that it was most heated in tone.”

Pitt was thrown back in confusion. He had dismissed the Farriers’ Lane murder from his calculations, and now it seemed he was premature. Or was it simply that this woman was not in touch with reality, refusing to believe that people she knew and who were friends could be guilty of more than the regrettably common sins of adultery and deceit? He looked at her more closely, and met her gentle eyes, so knowing of her own immediate world and so sublimely ignorant of anything beyond it.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Oswyn,” he said with great courtesy. “You have been most helpful, and most generous with your time.”

“Not at all, Mr. Pitt,” she replied, smiling at him sweetly. “I hope you are successful in your quest. It must be very difficult.”

“Sometimes.” He rose to his feet, excused himself and bade her good-bye.

Pitt went to Micah Drummond’s office to discuss the matter with him, but Drummond was out and not expected back until the next morning, so it was not until then that Pitt was able to see him. It was a chilly day with a heavy dampness in the air that drove through the wool jacket which had been sufficient the evening before, and he was glad to be in Drummond’s warm office with the fire burning.

Drummond stood in front of it warming the backs of his legs. He had obviously not been in long himself. His thin face was grave and he looked at Pitt expectantly but with no lift of interest.

“Morning, Pitt,” he said solemnly. “Any news?”

Pitt changed his mind, not about what he would say but rather how he would say it.

“No sir. I am pursuing Mrs. Stafford and Mr. Pryce to learn all I can about their relationship, but I still haven’t found anything that would seem to be adequate motive to have killed Stafford.”

“Love,” Drummond said sharply. “You don’t need to look any farther than that. Or if you wish to be more accurate, amorous obsession. For God’s sake, Pitt, more crimes have been committed from lust than anything else except possibly money. What on earth is your problem with seeing that?”

“Society is full of similar affairs and obsessive lusts,” Pitt replied, determined not to give ground. “Very few of them end in murder, and those that do are usually where someone has been deceived and found it out suddenly, and then killed the offenders in the heat of the emotion.”

“Why do you keep on arguing the point?” Drummond screwed up his face, staring at Pitt. “Of course that is the cause of many of them. But it is also not unknown for two lovers to kill the husband or wife who stands in the way of their union. Why do you not believe that that is what happened here?” He moved around from the fire as he became too hot. He sat in one of the armchairs and waved at Pitt to sit in the other.

“It may have,” Pitt said grudgingly. “But it seems so … hysterical. Stafford wasn’t standing in their way. He was apparently close to complacent about the affair.”

“He knew about it?” Drummond said sharply. “Are you sure?”

Pitt drew in his breath. He wanted to say “of course,” but if he overstated his case he would only have to withdraw later, and then Drummond would wonder what else he had exaggerated. “Livesey’s wife said he was uninterested, and Judge Oswyn’s wife said she was sure Stafford knew, in essence, but he preferred not to know the details. As long as Juniper Stafford was discreet, and caused no public embarrassment, he was prepared to tolerate it. He was most certainly not passionately jealous. She was emphatic about that.” He was about to add that Stafford had been close to sixty, then he realized that Drummond was probably over fifty himself, and the remark would be tactless.

“Yes?” Drummond asked, sensing that Pitt had withheld something.

“Nothing.” Pitt shrugged. “Simply that apparently Stafford was not an emotional man. It was a civil relationship, amiable, but not close, and now somewhat staled by habit. Anyway, it was not Stafford who killed either his wife or her lover. Stafford was the victim. They had no need to kill him—he did not endanger their affaire.”

“Perhaps they wanted to marry?” Drummond said with something of an edge to his voice. “Perhaps an affair was not enough for them? Maybe a stolen moment here and there was far too little for the emotion and the need they felt for each other? Would it be enough for you, Pitt, if you loved a woman intensely?”

Pitt tried to imagine himself in such a situation. He would hate the deceit, the knowledge through everything that any time together would always be bounded by partings, uncertainty, and the need to lie.

“No,” he admitted. “I would always want more.”

“And resent the husband?” Drummond went on.

“Yes.” Pitt admitted that too.

“Then you can understand why a man as in love as Adolphus Pryce might eventually descend to murder.” Drummond’s face puckered with distaste. “It is an abysmal thing to have to uncover, and I am not surprised you are looking for some other answer, but you cannot evade the truth, or your duty towards it. It is not like you to try.”

Pitt opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again without speaking.

Drummond rose to his feet and went over towards the window. He looked down at the street, the drays clattering by, a coster shouting at a barrow boy who was stuck in his path. It was raining steadily.

“I understand your getting tired of it,” he went on with his back to Pitt. “I do myself. I am not sure how much longer I shall continue. Perhaps it wants a sharper mind, a man with more knowledge of crime—in a practical sense—than I have. You’ve always mentioned that you prefer detection in the street to commanding other men, but in serious cases you could do both …” He left it in the air, undefined.

Pitt stared at him, thoughts whirling in his mind, doubts as to what Drummond meant, whether it was just idle complaint because it was a cold, dark day and the case depressed him, or if he really were thinking of retiring to some other pursuit, perhaps out of reach of the tentacles of the Inner Circle and its oppressive, insatiable secret demands. Or if it were all really to do with Eleanor Byam. After the scandal if Drummond were to marry her, he would no longer be able to maintain the social position he now held, and very probably not the professional position either. Pitt felt powerful and conflicting emotions. He was sorry for Drummond, and yet he was surprised how much he found he wanted the post. His pulse was beating faster. There was a new energy inside him.

“That’s a judgment I could not make until I reached that situation.” Pitt chose his words very carefully. He must not betray himself. “And that is not so today.” He made an effort to keep his voice level. “I’ll go back to the Stafford case. Thank you for your advice.” And before Drummond could say any more, he excused himself and went out.

In spite of having agreed with Drummond about Adolphus Pryce, Pitt still chose to go and see the other judges in Aaron Godman’s appeal and the Farriers’ Lane murder. Livesey he had seen already, Oswyn was out of London for the time being, but it was not difficult to find the address of Mr. Justice Edgar Boothroyd, even though he had now retired from the bench.

It took Pitt all morning on the train and then an open dog cart ride in the blustery wind before he finally arrived at the quiet, rambling old house just outside Guildford. An aged housekeeper showed him into a wood-paneled sitting room which in better weather would have opened onto a terrace and then a lawn. Now the wind was blowing dead leaves across the unkempt grass, fading chrysanthemum heads hung shaggy in the flower beds, and starlings squabbled on the stone path, snatching up pieces of bread someone had left for them.

Judge Boothroyd sat in a large armchair by the window, his back to the light, and blinked uncertainly at Pitt. He was a lean man gone to paunchiness, his waistcoat creased over his stomach, his narrow shoulders hunched forward.

“Pitt, did you say?” he asked, clearing his throat almost before he had finished speaking. “Perfectly willing to oblige, of course, but I doubt there’s anything I can do. Retired, you know. Didn’t they tell you that? Nothing to do with the bench anymore. Don’t know anything about it now. Just attend to the garden, and a spot of reading. Nothing much.”

Pitt regarded him with a sense of unhappiness. The room had a stale feeling about it, as if in some way it had been abandoned. It was fairly tidy, but the order in it was sterile, placed by an unloving hand. There was a silver tray with three decanters on the table by the window, all of which were close to empty, and there were smudges on the salver as of a fumbling hand. The curtains were drawn back crookedly and one tie was missing. There was no sweetness in the air.

“It is not a current case, sir.” Pitt added the title to give the man a respect he wanted to feel for him, and could not. “It goes back some five years.”

Boothroyd did not look at him. “I’ve been retired about that long,” he replied. “And my memory is not particularly clear anymore.”

Pitt sat down without being invited. Closer to him, he could see Boothroyd’s face more clearly. The eyes were watery, the features blurred not by age but by drink. He was a profoundly unhappy man, and the darkness inside him permeated the room.

“The Farriers’ Lane case,” Pitt said aloud. “You were one of the judges of appeal.”

“Oh.” Boothroyd sighed. “Yes—yes, but I cannot recall much of it now. Nasty case, but not—not much to argue about. Had to go through the motions, that’s all.” He sniffed. “I really don’t have anything to say on the matter.” He did not ask why Pitt wanted to know, and it was a curious omission.

“Do you remember the point on which the appeal was raised, sir?”

“No—no, I don’t, not now. Sat on a lot of appeals, you know. Can’t remember them all.” Boothroyd peered at him, frowning. For the first time his attention was focused, and there was a crease of anxiety across his brow.

“It must have been one of your last cases.” Pitt tried to bring back his recollection, but even as he said it, he knew he had little chance. Not only was Boothroyd’s mind dimmed, fuddled by time and unhappiness and, Pitt suspected, drink, but he had the powerful impression that he did not want to remember. What had happened to the man? He must have been learned, his bearing commanding, his mind incisive once. He must have been able to weigh the evidence, the points of law, and make fine decisions. Now he looked as if all interest in life had gone, his self-respect, his dignity, his ability to reason impersonally. Yet Pitt doubted he was more than sixty-five at the most.

“Possibly,” Boothroyd said, shaking his head. “Possibly it was. Still don’t remember it. A medical point, I think, but I can’t tell you more than that. Or it might have been something to do with a coat—or a bracelet or something. Don’t know. Don’t recall it.”

“Did Judge Stafford come out to visit you lately, sir?”

“Stafford?” Boothroyd’s face fell oddly slack, his eyes staring at Pitt, something close to fear in their shallow watery gaze. He swallowed. “Why do you ask?”

“I am afraid he was killed,” Pitt replied, unexpectedly brutal. The words slipped out before he weighed them. “I’m sorry.”

“Killed?” Boothroyd breathed in deeply. Something in his face eased out, a shadow left it, as if some fear had mercilessly been removed. “Traffic accident, was it? Getting worse in town all the time. Saw some poor devil run over by a bolting carriage just last month. Dogs got into a fight, horse reared. Fearful mess. Lucky it was only one person killed.”

“No, I am afraid not. He was murdered.” Pitt watched Boothroyd’s face. He saw him swallow convulsively and his mouth gape. He struggled for breath. Pitt felt a compassion that was inextricably touched with revulsion. He must at least try to probe Boothroyd’s bemused memory, however little he believed in success. “Did he come out here to see you recently, sir? I am afraid I need to know.”

“I—er—” Boothroyd stared at Pitt helplessly, seeking escape, and eventually realizing there was none. “Er—yes—yes, he did come out. Colleagues, you know. Very civil of him.”

“Did he say anything about the Farriers’ Lane case, sir?” Again he watched Boothroyd’s face, the evasion and the misery in his eyes.

“Think he mentioned it. Natural. It was the last appeal we sat on together. Old memories, you know? No, I don’t suppose you do. Too young.” His eyes slid sideways. “Would you like a glass of whiskey?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mind if I do?” He stood up and lumbered over towards the three decanters on the table. He was not a heavy man, nothing like the weight of Livesey, and yet his movement was labored, as if he found difficulty with it. He poured himself a very generous portion from one of the decanters, filling the glass almost to the brim, and drank half of it still standing by the table before making his way back to his chair. Pitt could smell the aroma of the spirit as Boothroyd breathed out heavily.

“He mentioned it,” he said again. “Can’t recall what he said. Wasn’t very important, far as I know. Who killed him? Robbery?” He looked hopeful again, eyes wide, brows raised.

“No, Mr. Boothroyd. He was poisoned. I am afraid I don’t know by whom. I am still trying to find out. Did he say he planned to reopen the enquiry into the Farriers’ Lane case? Find evidence Aaron Godman was not guilty after all?”

“Good God, no!” Boothroyd said explosively. “Absolute nonsense! Whoever told you that? Did someone say that? Who said that? It’s nonsense!”

Perhaps it would have been more productive to have said yes, but Pitt’s sense of embarrassment and pity prevented him.

“No sir, not to me,” he said quietly. “I just thought it was possible.”

“No,” Boothroyd said again. “No—it was just a quick call, a matter of kindness. He was passing. Sorry I cannot help you, Mr. Pitt.” He finished the rest of his whiskey in two gulps. “Sorry,” he said again.

Pitt rose to his feet, thanked him, and escaped the dank room and its sour air, its confusion and unhappiness.

Mr. Justice Morley Sadler was as different a man as it was possible to imagine. He was smooth faced; remnants of fair hair straggled across his head, and fair whiskers only slightly touched with gray adorned the sides of his cheeks. His clothes were highly fashionable and excellently tailored so that they hung without a wrinkle and he seemed totally in command of himself and any situation he might face. He was smiling amiably when Pitt was shown in and he rose from his desk to greet him, shook his hand and offered him a broad, leather-padded chair.

“Good day, Mr. Pitt—Inspector Pitt, is it? Good day to you. How may I be of service?” He went back to the desk and sat in his own huge, high-backed chair. “I dislike rudeness, Inspector, but I have another appointment in about twenty minutes, which I am honor-bound to keep. Obligation, you understand. One must do one’s best in all matters. Now, what is the subject upon which you wish my opinion?”

Pitt was forewarned he had little time. He came immediately to the point.

“Aaron Godman’s appeal some five years ago, Mr. Sadler. Do you recall the case?”

Sadler’s smooth face tightened. A tiny muscle flickered in the corner of his eye. He stared at Pitt steadily, his smile fixed.

“Of course I remember it, Inspector. A most unpleasant case—but it was settled at the time. There is nothing more to add.” He glanced at the gold face of the clock on the mantel, then back at Pitt. “What is it that concerns you now, so long after? Not that wretched Macaulay woman, is it? The grief turned her mind, I am afraid. She became obsessed.” He pursed his lips. “It happens sometimes, especially to women. Their brains are not created to bear such strains. A somewhat lightly balanced creature in the first place, of a hysterical nature—an actress—what can you expect? It is very sad—but also something of a public nuisance.”

“Indeed?” Pitt said noncommittally. He watched Sadler with growing interest. The man was obviously extremely successful; the furnishings of his chambers were opulent, from the coffered ceiling to the Aubusson carpet on the floor. The surfaces were highly polished, the upholstery new.

Sadler himself looked in good health and well satisfied with his position in life. And yet mention of the case caused him discomfort. Was it merely because of Tamar Macaulay’s constant efforts to have it reexamined—with the obvious implication that the verdict was wrong, or at best questionable? It would be enough to try anyone’s patience. Pitt would feel discomfited if someone cast such doubt on a case he had investigated to a conclusion so irretrievable.

“No,” he said aloud, as Sadler was growing impatient. “No, it has nothing to do with Miss Macaulay. It is in connection with the death of Judge Samuel Stafford.”

“Stafford?” Sadler blinked. “I don’t follow you.”

“Mr. Stafford was investigating the case again, and saw the principal witnesses the day he died.”

“Coincidence,” Sadler said, lifting both his hands from the desk top and waving them as if to dismiss the matter. “I assure you, Samuel Stafford was far too levelheaded a man to be rattled by a persistent woman. He knew as well as we all did that there was nothing to look into. Everything possible had been done by the police at the time. An extremely ugly case, but dealt with admirably by everyone concerned: police, the court at the original trial, and by appeal. Ask anyone with knowledge of the events, Mr. Pitt. They will all tell you the same.” He smiled widely and glanced again at the clock. “Now if that is all, I have an appointment with the Lord Chancellor this evening, and I must prepare for it. I have the opportunity to do him some small service, and I am sure you would not wish me to be remiss in it.”

Pitt remained seated. “Of course not,” he said, but he did not make any move to leave. “Did Judge Stafford come to see you within the last week or two of his life?”

“I saw him, naturally! That occurs in the normal course of our duties, Inspector. I see a great many people, barristers, solicitors, other judges, diplomats, members of both the House of Lords and the House of Commons, members of the royal family, and of most of the great families of the nation, at some time or another.” He smiled frankly, meeting Pitt’s eyes.

“Did Mr. Stafford mention the case to you?” Pitt said doggedly.

“The Farriers’ Lane case, you mean?” Sadler’s pale eyebrows rose. “Not that I recall. There would be no reason to. The matter has been closed some five years or more. Why do you wish to know, Inspector, if I may ask?”

“I wondered upon what grounds he was considering reopening it?” Pitt replied, taking a gamble.

Sadler’s face paled and his wide mouth hardened.

“That is quite untrue, Inspector. He was not. If he had been, I am sure he would have told me, considering my own part in the appeal. You have been misinformed—mischievously so, I have to say.” He looked at Pitt steadily. “I assure you, he made no mention of the matter, none at all. Now, if you will excuse me, I am expecting my next appointment, a man of considerable distinction who wishes to refer to me a most delicate issue.” He smiled widely, a fixed gesture. He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Good day to you, Inspector. I am sorry I cannot be of any assistance.”

And Pitt found himself ushered out into the anteroom without protest, and unable to think of anything further to say.