Farriers' Lane

8

PITT RETURNED AGAIN to Juniper Stafford. All he had learned about her, and her relationship with Adolphus Pryce, still left him uncertain whether he suspected her or not. Perhaps his reluctance was purely emotional, because he had been there as she watched her husband die. He had not believed her guilty then; all his thought had been of pity for her. He had never doubted her grief. He had heard no false note in it.

Was it vanity that made it so hard for him to change his mind, or was there a sound instinct, some observation a little below conscious level, which told him her grief was real? Or was it that he wanted Aaron Godman to have been innocent? That was an ugly thought. It would bring tragedy to everyone involved except Tamar Macaulay, the real and believable tragedy of dishonor.

He stood outside the Staffords’ house, raised the door knocker and let it fall. There were still black crepes on the windows, the curtains half drawn. There was a desolate air about it, a weariness.

The door opened and a footman with a black armband looked at him enquiringly.

“I am sorry to disturb Mrs. Stafford,” Pitt said with more authority than he felt. “But there are some further questions I need to discuss with her regarding the judge’s death.” He produced his card. “Will you ask her if she will see me?”

“Yes sir,” the footman said with obedience devoid of feeling.

Five minutes later Pitt was in the chilly morning room when Juniper Stafford came in. She was wearing black, but it was beautifully cut, fashionable and gleaming. She wore jet jewelry discreetly set with seed pearls at her ears and throat, and there was a glow to her skin, a faint flush. Her eyes were soft and alive. He was surprised, and instantly he knew the truth of Livesey’s statement that she was in love.

“Good morning, Mr. Pitt,” she said with a slight smile, stopping just inside the door. “Have you made any progress?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Stafford,” he replied soberly. “I regret it is very slight. Indeed, the more I learn of the matter, the less does it point to any solution.”

She came farther into the room and he was aware of a subtle perfume about her, elusive, less sweet than lavender. She moved with a rustle of silk like a breath in leaves, and yet her gown looked like barathea. If she grieved for Samuel Stafford, it was an emotion overpowered by that other emotion which so elated her and made the blood run more swiftly and high in her cheeks. Even so, that did not necessarily mean any guilt in her husband’s death.

“I don’t know what else I can tell you to help.” She was looking at him very directly. “I know almost nothing of his cases, only what the general public can read. He did not discuss them.” She smiled, her eyes puzzled. “Judges don’t, you know. It is not an ethical thing to do. And I doubt any man would discuss such things with his wife.”

“I know that, ma’am,” he conceded. “But women are very observant. They understand a lot that is not said, especially about feelings.”

She shrugged very slightly in acknowledgment. “Please sit down, Mr. Pitt.”

She sat first, gracefully, a little sideways on one of the large chairs, her skirts falling naturally in a sweeping arc around her. The art of being totally feminine came to her so easily she attended to such details without conscious thought.

Pitt sat opposite her.

“I should be most grateful if you would tell me everything you can remember about the day your husband died,” he requested.

“Again?”

“If you please. Perhaps with hindsight you may see something new, or I may understand the relevance of something I did not grasp the first time.”

“If you think it will be helpful.” She looked resigned. If there were anxiety in her he could not see it, and he searched her smooth face for anything beyond sadness and confusion at the memory.

Detail by detail she retold him exactly what she had said the first time: their rising; breakfasting; Stafford’s spending some time in his study with various letters; Tamar Macaulay’s visit; the raised voices, not in anger but in vehemence of feeling; then her departure; and very shortly afterwards, Stafford’s departure also, saying he wished to interview again the people concerned in the Farriers’ Lane murder. Juniper had not seen him after that until he returned in the evening, deep in thought, preoccupied and speaking only briefly, telling her nothing at all.

They had dined together, eating the same food from the same serving dishes, then changed into formal dress and left for the theater.

During the interval Stafford had excused himself and gone to the smoking room, and returned to his box only just in time for the curtain going up again. What had happened after that, Pitt was as aware of as she.

“Surely it must be someone involved in the Farriers’ Lane case, Mr. Pitt?” she said with a frown. “It is repugnant to accuse anyone, but in this case it seems unavoidable. Poor Samuel discovered something, I have no idea what, and when they realized that, they—they murdered him. What other possibility is there?”

“Everything I have been able to learn indicates the verdict in that case was perfectly correct,” he replied. “The conduct of the case may have been hurried, and there undoubtedly seems to have been far too much ugly emotion, but the outcome remains unaltered.”

For the first time there was a spark of anxiety in her dark eyes. “Then there must be some fact which Samuel discovered, something deeply hidden. After all,” she argued, “it took him many years to find it. Even the court of appeal failed to, so it cannot be easy. It is hardly surprising you have not learned it in so short a time.”

“If he had been sure of it, Mrs. Stafford, would he not have told someone?” he asked, meeting her gaze. “He had more than adequate opportunity. He saw Judge Livesey alone that day, and yet said nothing about it.”

Again there was that faint flush on her cheeks, the merest pinkening of the skin.

“He spoke to Mr. Pryce about it.”

“That is what Mr. Pryce says,” Pitt agreed.

She took a deep breath, hesitated at the edge of saying something, and then changed her mind. She looked down at her hands in her lap, then up at Pitt again.

“Perhaps Judge Livesey is lying.” Her voice was husky and the color was now deep in her skin.

“Why should he do that?” Pitt asked levelly.

“Because his reputation would be in jeopardy if the appeal were wrong after all.” Now her words were hasty, falling over each other as if her tongue would not obey her. “It was a very infamous case. He gained immensely in stature for his handling of it, the dignity and sureness of his dispatch. People felt safer because of his presence on the bench. Forgive me, Inspector, but you do not understand what it means for a judge of appeal to go back on his considered verdict. He would be admitting he was wrong, that he did not discover all the facts of the case; or worse, that his assessment of them was incorrect, and unwittingly connived at a terrible injustice. I doubt there would be any official censure, but that is hardly what matters. It is the public shame, the loss of all confidence in him which would be so appalling. His judgments would never stand in the same way again; even his past cases would not have the weight they used to.”

“But surely that would apply to Judge Stafford equally, if the verdict were overturned for a reason they could have known at the time?” Pitt reasoned. “And if it were something they could not have known, then they were in no way at fault.”

She was about to argue, certainty in her face and patience to explain to him. Then confusion overtook it. “Well, I—I suppose so. But why should Mr. Pryce lie about it? He was prosecuting counsel. It was his duty to obtain a conviction if he could. He is in no way to blame if the defense was inadequate or the judgment faulty.”

He watched her closely. “There is always the possibility it had nothing to do with the Farriers’ Lane case, Mrs. Stafford.”

She blinked, the shadow of fear plain in her eyes now.

“Then he would have even less reason to lie,” she argued.

“Unless the motive were personal.” He hated doing this. It was like an animal toying with its prey. For all the gravity of the crime, he felt no satisfaction in the end of the chase. He could not feel the anger that would have made it easy. “I am aware, Mrs. Stafford, that Mr. Pryce is deeply in love with you.” He saw the color fade from her skin, leaving it pallid, and the alarm in her eyes. Were there no guilt, no fear for him—or perhaps for herself—then such a remark would have made her blush. “I am afraid his motive is all too clear,” he finished.

“Oh no!” she cried out almost involuntarily, her body tightening, her hands clenched in her lap. “I mean—I …” She bit her lip. “It would be foolish now to deny that Mr. Pryce and I have …” She stared at Pitt fiercely, trying to measure how much he knew, what he was merely guessing. “That we have an affection for each other. But it …”

He waited for her to deny that it had been an affaire. He watched the struggle in her face, the fear mounting, the attempt to weigh what he would believe, and then the defeat.

“I confess, I wished that I were free to marry Mr. Pryce, and he had given me reason to suppose he felt the same.” She gulped at the air. “But he is an honorable man. He would never have resorted to such—such wickedness as to have … killed my husband.” Her voice rose in desperation. “Believe me, Mr. Pitt, we loved each other, accepted that it was impossible it could ever be anything more than a few snatched moments—which you may disapprove of.” She shook her head fiercely. “Most people may, but it is not a crime like murder—it is a misfortune which afflicts many of us. I am not the only woman in London who found her true love with a man not her husband!”

“Of course not, Mrs. Stafford. But neither would you be the only woman in the center of a crime of passion, were it so.”

She leaned forward urgently, demanding his attention. “It is not so! Adolphus—Mr. Pryce—is not … he would never …”

“Be so overcome by his passions as to resort to violence to be with the woman he loved,” he finished for her. “How can you be sure of that?”

“I know him.” She looked away. “That sounds absurd, doesn’t it? I realize before you say so.”

“Not absurd,” Pitt said quickly. “Just very usual. We all of us believe those we care for are innocent. And most of us believe we know people well.” He smiled, knowing he spoke for himself as well as for her. “I suppose half of falling in love is a feeling that we understand, perhaps uniquely. That is a great deal of what that closeness is, the idea that we have found something noble, and perceived it as no one else does.”

“The words seem to come to you easily.” She looked down at the hands clenched in her lap. “But all the explanation does not make it untrue. I am sure Adolphus did not murder my husband. You will not shake me from that.”

“And I imagine he is equally sure you did not,” Pitt replied.

This time she jerked her head up to stare at him as if he had struck her.

“What? What did you say? You—oh, dear God—did you say all this to him? Did you make him think I …”

“That you were guilty?” he finished for her. “Or that you had blamed him?”

Her face was white, her eyes brilliant with a sudden and hectic fear. Was it for Pryce or for herself?

“Surely you are not concerned he would think such a thing of you?” he went on.

“Of course not,” she snapped. And in that instant they both knew it was a lie. She was terrified Pryce would think it was she; the humiliation and the horror were hideously obvious.

She swung around, away from him, concealing her face. “Have you been to Mr. Pryce?” she said again, barely controlling her voice.

“Not yet,” he replied. “But I shall have to.”

“And you will try to put it in his mind that I murdered my husband, in a desire to be free so that I might marry him.” Her voice was shaking. “That is monstrous! How dare you be so—to portray me as—so—insatiable …” She stopped, tears of anger and fear in her eyes. She started again. “He would think …”

“That you may have?” he finished for her. “Surely not, if he knows you as you apparently know him.”

“No.” With great difficulty she was regaining mastery of herself again, at least of her voice. “I was going to say he would think that I was very immodest, taking too much for granted. It is for a man to speak of marriage, Mr. Pitt, not a woman!” Now her cheeks were white, with two spots of color high on the bones.

“Are you saying that Mr. Pryce never spoke to you of marriage?” he asked.

She gulped. “How could he? I am already married—at least I was. Of course he didn’t!” She sat very straight, and again he knew she was lying. They must have talked of marriage often. How could they not? Her chin came up a little higher. “You will not maneuver me into blaming him, Mr. Pitt.”

“You are very sure, Mrs. Stafford,” he said thoughtfully. “I admire your confidence. And yet it leaves me with a profoundly ugly thought.”

She stared at him, waiting.

“If it was one of you, and you are so certain it was not Mr. Pryce …” He did not need to finish.

Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to laugh, and choked.

When she had recovered, she was unable to say the words of denial. “You are mistaken, Mr. Pitt,” she said instead. “It was not one of us. I swear it was not me. Certainly I wished at times I were free, but wished, that is all. I would never have hurt Samuel!”

Pitt did not speak. He looked at her face, the fine beads of sweat on her lip, no more than a gleam, the pallor of her skin, almost bloodless.

“I—I felt so sure. No, I still cannot believe that Adolphus would …”

“His emotion was not strong enough?” he said gently. “Was it not, are you really sure of that, Mrs. Stafford?”

He watched the expressions chase each other across her face: fear, pride, denial, exultancy, and fear again.

She looked down, avoiding his probing gaze.

She could not bear to deny his passion; it was a denial of the love itself. “Perhaps not,” she said falteringly. “I could not bear to think I was guilty of provoking such a …” Her head came up sharply, her dark eyes bright and bold. “I had no knowledge of it. You must believe me! I still only half credit it. You will have to prove it to me beyond any doubt whatsoever or I will still say you are mistaken. Only I know, before God, it was not I.”

There was no pleasure in victory. He rose to his feet.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stafford. Your candor has been a great help to me.”

“Mr. Pitt …” Then again she found no words. What she wanted to say was pointless. To deny Pryce’s guilt was too late. She had already committed herself and there was no retreat. “The footman will show you out,” she finished lamely. “Good day.”

“Good day, Mrs. Stafford.”

His interview with Adolphus Pryce was conducted in Pryce’s office, and began comfortably enough with Pitt sitting in the large easy chair which was provided for clients. Pryce himself stood by the window with his back to the bookcase, a slender figure of innate grace.

“I don’t know what else to add, Inspector,” he said with a slight shrug. “Of course I know opium is sold in all sorts of general shops, so one supposes it may be purchased fairly easily. I have never used it myself, so it is only a deduction on my part. But surely that applies to anyone? To the unfortunate members of Aaron Godman’s circle as much as to me, or anyone else Judge Stafford met that day?”

“Indeed,” Pitt agreed. “I asked only as a formality. I never imagined it would produce anything of value.”

Pryce smiled and moved a little away from the window, swinging his chair around behind his desk and sitting down in it, his legs elegantly crossed.

“So what can I tell you, Inspector? All I know of the Farriers’ Lane case is a matter of public record. I believed at the time it was Aaron Godman, and I have not learned what it is that made Judge Stafford doubt it. He said nothing specific to me.”

“Do you not find that surprising, Mr. Pryce?” Pitt asked as ingenuously as he could. “Considering your own part in the case.”

“Not if he was still only suspicious,” Pryce said, his voice cultured and reasonable. If he felt any anxiety he was masking it. Pitt could have sworn the subject was causing him no personal concern, only the professional interest that was his duty. “I would expect him to wait until he had irrefutable evidence before reopening such a notorious case,” Pryce went on, “and calling into question a verdict already reached by the original court, and later by five justices of appeal.” He leaned a little farther backwards in his chair. “Perhaps you are not aware of just how deep the feeling was at the time. It was profoundly ugly. A lot of reputations were at stake, possibly even the reputation of English justice itself. No, I am quite sure Mr. Stafford would have to have been very certain indeed of his evidence before he would have mentioned it to anyone at all. Even in the utmost confidence.”

Pitt looked at him as closely as he could without appearing to stare. Juniper had been filled with fears. Pryce seemed completely confident. Was it simply greater self-mastery, or had he a good conscience, and no slightest thought that it might have been she who had poisoned Stafford?

Deliberately Pitt tried to break the calm.

“I take your point, Mr. Pryce. But of course I have to consider the alternative as well. Very possibly it had nothing to do with the Farriers’ Lane case, but was a personal matter.”

“I suppose that is possible,” Pryce said carefully, but the tone of his voice had altered very slightly. He did not ask in what way. He was not as easy to rattle as Juniper.

“I regret the necessity for being so blunt, Mr. Pryce,” Pitt continued. “But I am aware of your relationship with Mrs. Stafford. For many men that would be a motive.”

Pryce breathed in and out slowly before replying. He uncrossed his ankles.

“I daresay, but not for me. Is that what you came here to ask?”

“Among other things,” Pitt conceded with a slight shrug. “Are you telling me that you were not tempted? You must have wished Judge Stafford … gone? Or have I misjudged the depth of your feeling for Mrs. Stafford?”

“No.” Pryce picked up a stick of sealing wax and played with it absently, his eyes avoiding Pitt’s. “No, of course not. But no depth of feeling excuses murder.”

“What does it excuse?” Pitt asked, still courteously, even though his words were harsh.

“I am not sure that I understand you,” Pryce said guardedly, but his confidence was gone. His fingers were fiddling nervously with the sealing wax and he was breathing more rapidly.

Pitt waited, refusing to help or to dismiss the subject.

“Love.” Pryce moved a little in his chair. “It explains a great deal, of course, but it excuses nothing, nothing of any moment. Of course it doesn’t.”

“I agree, Mr. Pryce.” Pitt kept his eyes on Pryce’s face. “Not deceit, seduction, the betrayal of a friend, adultery—”

“For God’s sake!” Pryce snapped the wax. His face was white. He sat back, rigid, struggled for something to say, and then was suddenly limp. “That’s—that’s true,” he admitted quietly, his voice a little hoarse. “And you will never know how I regret it. I have been excessively foolish, lost all sense of judgment and allowed myself to be led—” He stopped, looking up swiftly and meeting Pitt’s eyes. “But it is still not murder.”

Again Pitt said nothing, but looked unwaveringly back at Pryce.

Pryce took a long, slow breath, his face almost white, but a little of his composure regained. The effort had been tremendous.

“Of course I appreciate you have to consider the possibility. Logic demands it. But I assure you, I had no part in his death. None whatever. I …” He bit his lip. “I don’t know how I can prove that, but it is the truth.”

Pitt smiled. “I had not expected you to confess to it, Mr. Pryce—any more than Mrs. Stafford.”

Pryce’s face was suddenly tight again, and his body stiff in his chair.

“You have said the same to Mrs. Stafford? That’s …” Then he stopped, as if new thoughts crowded his mind.

“Naturally,” Pitt replied calmly. “I have been led to believe that her feeling for you is very deep. She must often have wished for her freedom.”

“Wishing is not …” Pryce’s fists clenched. He took a deep breath. “Of course. It would be ungallant of me to say I did not hope so—and untrue. We both wished she were free, but that is a far cry from committing murder to make it so. She will have told you the same.” He stopped, waiting for Pitt’s reply.

“She denied it,” Pitt agreed. “And denied, of course, that you would have had anything to do with it either.”

Pryce turned away, laughing very slightly, a husky, nervous sound.

“This is ridiculous, Inspector. I admit—Mrs. Stafford and I have a relationship that—that—was improper—but not”—this time he did not look at Pitt—“not a mere dalliance, not just …” He stopped and then started again. “It is a very deep emotion. It is some people’s tragedy that they fall truly in love with someone when it is impossible they can marry. That is what has happened to us.” His words were very formal, and Pitt had no idea whether he believed them without shadow, or if he were saying what he hoped was true.

“I am quite sure,” Pitt said, aware he was turning the knife. “Otherwise you would hardly have risked your reputation and your honor by having an affaire.”

Pryce lifted his eyes sharply and glared at him.

“There are some circles in society where such a thing is ignored,” Pitt continued relentlessly, “if it is discreet enough, but I doubt the law is one of them. Surely judges’ wives, like Caesar’s, should be above suspicion?”

Pryce stood up and walked over to the window, his back to Pitt. For several seconds he did not reply, then when he spoke his voice was thick.

“Judges’ wives are human, Inspector. Were your acquaintance with the gentry deeper than a passing ability to quote the odd thought or two from Shakespeare, you would not need me to tell you that. We may have slightly different codes of behavior from one social class to another, but our emotions are the same.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Pryce? That your passion for Mrs. Stafford drove you to put opium into Samuel Stafford’s flask?”

Pryce swung around. “No! No—I did not kill him! I did not harm him in any way at all—or contribute to it. I—I have no knowledge of it—before, or since.”

Pitt kept his face a mask of disbelief.

Pryce swallowed hard, as if choking. “I am guilty of adultery, but not of murder.”

“I find it hard to believe that you have no knowledge as to who is,” Pitt replied, although that was not true.

“I—I—What are you waiting for me to say?” Pryce was gasping between words as if he had to force himself to speak. “That Juniper—Mrs. Stafford—killed him? You’ll wait forever. I’ll not say it.”

But he had said it, and the irony of it was in his eyes. The thought had been in his mind, and found its way to his lips.

Pitt rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Pryce. You have been most candid. I appreciate it.”

Pryce’s face reflected self-disgust.

“You mean I have allowed you to see that I am both shallow in my defense of Mrs. Stafford and that I am afraid for her? I still do not believe she had any part in her husband’s death, and I will defend her to the limit of my ability.”

“If she did, Mr. Pryce, then the limit of your ability will be very rapidly reached,” Pitt answered, going to the door. “Thank you for your time.”

“Pitt!”

Pitt turned, his face questioning.

Pryce swallowed hard and licked his lips. “She is a very emotional woman, but I really don’t—I don’t …” He stopped, honesty preventing him from making a plea for her after what he had already confessed.

“Good day,” Pitt said quietly, and went out into the cold corridor.

“No sir, I doubt it,” he said later in the day to Micah Drummond.

Drummond stood in front of the fire in his office, his feet spread a little, his hands behind his back. He regarded Pitt with a frown.

“Why not? Why not now, more than before?”

Pitt was sitting far back in the best chair, his legs sprawled comfortably.

“Because when I saw her, to begin with she defended him,” he replied. “She was sure he could not possibly have done it. I don’t think she had really considered him. Her emotions would not permit it. Then when I told her the unlikelihood of Aaron Godman being innocent, and there being any motive for anyone in the Farriers’ Lane case wanting to kill the judge, she could no longer avoid the inevitable thought that it was either herself or Pryce.” He looked at Drummond. “Her immediate fear was that it was Pryce. I saw it in her face the moment she first thought it.”

Drummond looked down at the carpet thoughtfully.

“Is she not clever enough to lead you to think precisely that?”

“I don’t believe even Tamar Macaulay could act well enough to look as she did,” Pitt said honestly. “Acting is broad gestures, movements of the hands and body, tones of voice, inflections; not even the most brilliant can make the blood drain from the face.”

“Then perhaps it was Pryce?” Drummond said, almost hopefully. “Maybe he grew impatient waiting. An affaire was not enough for him, he wanted marriage.” He shrugged. “Or he grew nervous of a continued illicit relationship. She might have been growing indiscreet, or pressing him for more attentions?”

“So he resorted to murder?” Pitt said with a touch of sarcasm. “Pryce does not seem like a hysterical man to me. Unwise in his passions, ungoverned, selfish, allowing an obsession with a woman to destroy his moral judgment, certainly; but not to the degree where he would throw everything away and gain nothing. He knows the law better than to imagine he could succeed.”

“Why not?” Drummond interrupted. “Is it such a long step from adultery and the betrayal of a man who trusted him, who was his friend, to killing that man?”

“Yes, I think it is,” Pitt argued, leaning forward. “But quite apart from that, Pryce is a barrister. Adultery is a sin, but it is not a crime. Society may shun you for a while if you are too blatant about it. They hang you for murder. Pryce has seen that happen too often to ignore it.”

Drummond dug his hands deep into his pockets and said nothing. His mind was not engaged in it as Pitt’s was, and Pitt knew it. He had come because it was his duty, and he needed Drummond’s authority to pursue the Farriers’ Lane case.

“Added to that,” he went on, “when I went to him and pressed the point that he was the most obvious person to suspect, he became frightened and directed me towards her.”

For the first time Drummond’s expression betrayed a deep emotion. His lips curled in disgust and his eyes were full of pain.

“What a tragic spectacle,” he said very quietly. “Two people who were in love, trying to deflect suspicion from themselves by each placing it on the other. It proves their supposed love was no deeper than infatuation, come quickly and dying as soon as self-interest raises its head. You have proved it was appetite, lust.” He stared at the fire. “You have not proved it was not strong enough to provoke murder. Self-preservation is answer enough. Many a criminal will betray his accomplices to save himself.”

“That is not what I said,” Pitt retorted a trifle more sharply. He was finding it difficult that Drummond’s mind lacked its usual accuracy. “Pryce began by being quite sure it would not have been Mrs. Stafford, then suddenly he realized it could have been. He was afraid for himself, certainly, but for the first time he was afraid for her—not that she would be blamed wrongly, but that she might actually have done it.”

“Are you sure?” Drummond drew his brows down. “You seem to be saying that in fact neither of them did it. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, it is.” Pitt controlled his impatience with difficulty. “They are guilty of self-indulgence, of mistaking obsession for love and deceiving themselves it excused everything, when it excuses nothing. Ungoverned hunger is understandable, but there is nothing noble in it. It is selfish and ultimately destructive.” He leaned farther forward, staring at Drummond. “Neither of them truly cared for the well-being of the other, or they would never have allowed passion to dictate behavior.” He looked at Drummond’s face. “I sound pompous, don’t I?” he admitted. “But the justification makes me so angry! If they had ever been honest they wouldn’t have destroyed so much, and in the end been left with nothing.”

Drummond stared into the distance.

“I’m sorry.” Pitt straightened up. “I have to go back to Farriers’ Lane.”

“What?” Drummond looked up at him sharply.

“If it isn’t Juniper Stafford or Pryce, then I have to go back to Farriers’ Lane,” Pitt repeated. “It was someone he saw that day, because the flask was all right when Livesey and his luncheon companion drank from it. Which leaves only those involved in the case.”

“But we’ve been over that,” Drummond argued. “Everything we’ve looked at still leads to Godman being guilty, and if he was, why should anyone kill Stafford because he wanted to open up the case again? And there is no proof that he did want to. Livesey said he didn’t.”

“Livesey said he had no knowledge that he did,” Pitt corrected. “I accept Livesey believes the case is closed, but that does not mean Stafford found nothing that day. He may well have wished to keep it to himself until he had proof.”

“Of what?” Drummond demanded exasperatedly. “That someone other than Godman killed Blaine? Who, for heaven’s sake? Fielding? There’s no evidence. There wasn’t at the time and can you think of what anyone, let alone Stafford, could find now?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “But I want to reinvestigate the entire case. I have to, if I am going to find out who killed Stafford.”

Drummond sighed. “Then I suppose you had better do it.”

“With your authority? Lambert won’t like it.”

“Of course he won’t. Would you?”

“No. But once I had wondered whether I was wrong in the first place, I would have to know.”

“Would you?” Drummond said wryly. He moved away from the fire towards his desk. “Yes, of course with my authority, but you’ll still have to be diplomatic if you hope to achieve anything. It is not only Lambert who will not like it! You are treading on a lot of toes. The assistant commissioner has been onto me to get the murder of Stafford solved as quickly as possible, and to do it without raking up the Farriers’ Lane case and causing a lot of public unease and questioning of the original verdict. There are enough people trying to cause unrest as it is. We mustn’t give them the ammunition to undermine the law any further. The Whitechapel murders did the police a lot of harm, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Pitt agreed quietly. He was very well aware of the resignations that matter had caused, and the questions in the Houses of Parliament, the public resentment of a police force paid for from taxes. There were still many people, some of considerable influence, who believed that a police force was a bad idea and would willingly have gone back to sheriffs and the Bow Street runners.

“And the Home Secretary has been down as well,” Drummond went on, looking at Pitt and chewing his lip. “He doesn’t want a lot of scandal.”

Pitt thought of the Inner Circle, but he said nothing. Drummond was as helpless as he was to fight against that. They might guess who belonged; they would not know unless favors were called for, and then it was too late.

“For God’s sake be careful, Pitt,” Drummond said urgently. “Be sure you are right!”

“Yes sir,” Pitt agreed obediently, rising to his feet. “Thank you.”

Pitt found Lambert early in the morning, still looking a little sleepy and far from pleased to see him.

“I can’t tell you anything more,” he said before Pitt asked.

“I assumed if you knew anything you would have said so at the time,” Pitt replied. He hoped he sounded casual, not condescending, but the thought flickered through his mind to wonder if Lambert were of the Inner Circle as well. But regardless, he hated checking another man’s work as if he expected to find an error of such magnitude, but he felt no alternative. He looked at Lambert’s rumpled, angry face. In his place he would have resented it, but as he had told Drummond, he would also have wanted to know. The uncertainty would have been worse, the lying awake at night turning it over and over in his mind till every mistake possible seemed real and guilt marred everything, confidence waned, all other decisions seemed flawed.

He looked at Lambert again, sitting uncomfortably in his chair. “Don’t you need to know?” he said frankly.

“I do know.” Lambert avoided his eyes. “The evidence was conclusive. I have enough present-day cases without investigating past ones that are closed.” He looked up, guilt and anger in his face. “We were a trifle hasty in the way we handled it, I give you that. I wouldn’t say every decision is the one I would make if I had it to do again, with more time for judgments, and nobody hounding me day and night for an arrest. But then I daresay you’d conduct a few of your cases differently if you had a second chance. Beginning with the Highgate case.”

“I would,” Pitt said quietly, remembering the second death with a sick unhappiness. “But I still intend to go over the Farriers’ Lane case. I don’t want to do it without you, but I will if you force me.” He met Lambert’s unhappy eyes. “If you are certain you were essentially correct, all I can do is prove that.” He leaned forward. “For heaven’s sake, man, I’m not trying to find fault with your procedure! All I want is to make sure of the facts. I know what it is like to work under pressure with the newspapers demanding an arrest in every issue, people shouting at you in the streets, the assistant commissioner breathing heavily and sending for reports every day, and the Home Secretary facing questions in the House of Commons.”

“Not like this case, you don’t,” Lambert said bitterly, but he looked slightly mollified.

“May I see the files and ask Paterson to help me find the witnesses again?” Pitt asked.

“You can speak to Paterson, but I can’t spare him to go ’round with you. He’ll tell you what he remembers. You’ll get the names from the files, and where they are now you’ll just have to find out. Not that it will do you any good,” he added, rising to his feet. “You’ll never find the layabouts who saw him come out of the lane. They’re probably half of them dead by now. The doorman’ll just say the same, and the urchin, who is the only one who really saw him, is totally unreliable, even if you can get hold of him. Still, the flower seller’s all right, and I’ll get Paterson for you.”

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted.

Lambert went to the door and pulled it open. He called for a sergeant and told him to fetch the files on the Farriers’ Lane case, then he came back into the room, looking at Pitt with a frown.

“If you find anything—I’d like you to tell me.”

“Of course.”

The sergeant came in before any further speech was necessary, and Pitt thanked him and took the files away to read in the small room Lambert had provided.

He had read Joshua Fielding’s statement, and Tamar Macaulay’s, and was halfway through the theater doorman’s when Sergeant Paterson came in. He looked anxious but there was no anger yet in him, no sense of having been offended.

“You want to see me, sir?”

“Yes, please.” Pitt indicated the chair opposite him and Paterson sat on it reluctantly, his face still full of questioning.

“Tell me again everything you remember of the Farriers’ Lane case,” Pitt asked him. “Begin with the first you heard of it.”

Paterson sighed very slightly and began.

“I was on duty early. A constable sent a message that the blacksmith’s boy in the Farriers’ Lane smithy had found a dreadful corpse in his yard, so I was sent straight ’round to see what was what.” His eyes were on Pitt’s face. “Sometimes we get reports like that, and it turns out to be a drunk, or someone died natural. I went straightaway, and found P.C. Madsen standing at the entrance to Farriers’ Lane, white as a sheet and looking fit to be buried hisself.”

His voice was a tight monotone, as if he had said this several times before and still hated it just as much. “It was barely daylight even then, and he took me back through the alley to the stable yard by the smithy, and as soon as I got into the yard and turned ’round, there it was.” He faltered and then continued. “Nailed up to the stable door like, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, like Christ as you see in crucifixes, with great nails through ’is ’ands an’ feet—and through ’is wrists. I suppose that was to ’old the weight of ’im.” Paterson’s own face was white and there was a beading of sweat on his lip. “I’ll never forget that as long as I live. It was the most awful thing I ever saw. I still don’t know ’ow anybody could do that to another ’uman being.”

“According to the medical examiner, he was already dead when they did that,” Pitt said gently.

Two light pink spots burned on Paterson’s cheeks. “Are you saying that makes it any better?” he said thickly. “It’s still blasphemy!”

Pitt thought about all the arguments that it was not blasphemy to a Jew, and knew they would mean nothing to this angry young man, still outraged five years after by the violence of act and of mind that he had seen. So much hatred had wounded him unforgettably.

“I know,” he agreed. “But at least there was less pain. He may actually have died quite quickly—which is some comfort to those who loved him.”

“Maybe.” Paterson’s face was tight, his body stiff. “I don’t see as it makes no difference to what kind of a monster’d do something like that. If you’re trying to say that excuses anything, I think you’re wrong.” He shuddered as memory brought back all the anger and fear. “If we could’ve ’anged ’im twice, I would ’ave.”

Pitt did not comment. “How do you think Godman, or whoever it was, managed to nail him up like that?” he asked instead. “A dead body is extremely awkward to carry, let alone prop up and hold while you nail it by the hands—or wrists.”

“I’ve no idea.” Paterson screwed up his face, looking at Pitt with a mixture of puzzlement and disgust. “I often thought about that and wondered myself. I even asked ’im, when we ’ad ’im. But ’e just said it weren’t ’im.” His lips curled with contempt. “Maybe madmen do ’ave the strength o’ ten, like they say. Fact is, ’e did it. Unless you’re sayin’ there was someone else ’elped ’im? Is that what you’re looking for—an accomplice?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt replied. “Tell me, what happened then? Kingsley Blaine was quite a big man, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, near six foot, I should think. Taller’n me. I couldn’t ’ave lifted ’im, dead weight, and ’eld ’im up.”

“I see. What did you do next?”

Paterson was still tense, his face white and strained.

“I sent the P.C. to get Mr. Lambert. I knew it were too big for me to deal with on my own. Waiting for ’im to come back was the longest ’alf hour o’ my life.”

Pitt did not doubt it. His imagination pictured the young man standing in the slowly broadening daylight on the gleaming cobbles, his breath pale in the chill air, the cold forge unlit by the terrified boy, and the ghastly corpse of Kingsley Blaine still crucified to the door, the wounds in his hands wet and red.

Paterson must have been seeing it in his mind’s eye again. His face was sickly and his mouth pulled askew with the effort of his self-control.

“Go on,” Pitt prompted. “Mr. Lambert came, and then the medical examiner, I imagine?”

“Yes sir.”

“Had the farrier’s boy touched anything?”

Paterson’s face would have been comical in any other circumstance. Now it merely added the urgently ludicrous and human to the tragic.

“God no, sir! Poor little devil was out of ’is mind wi’ fear. Fit for Bedlam, ’e was. He wouldn’t ’ave touched that corpse if ’is life ’ad rested on it.”

Pitt smiled. “No, I imagine not. Who took him down?”

Paterson swallowed. He looked so white Pitt was afraid he was going to be sick.

“I did, sir, with the medical examiner. The nails was put in so ’ard it took a crowbar to get ’em out. We borrowed it from the forge. The smithy ’isself were in by then. Looked terrible ill, ’e did, when ’e saw what ’ad appened. ’E sold up and went back to the village wot ’e came from.” He shivered. “Never bin a forge since then. Brickyard now, for all it’s still called Farriers’ Lane. Maybe in a few years it’ll be Brick Lane.”

Pitt hated to bring him back to the subject he would so obviously rather forget, but he had no choice.

“What did the medical examiner tell you then, before he looked at him properly? You must have asked him.”

“Yes sir. ’E said the man, we didn’t know ’is name then, that was before we—we looked in ’is pockets. I know I should ’a done that straightaway, but I couldn’t bring meself to.” He looked at once defiant and savagely apologetic. Pitt could imagine the tumult of emotions inside him. “ ’E said as ’e’d been killed before ’e were nailed up,” Paterson went on. “As ’is ’ands ’adn’t bled much, nor ’is feet. It was the wound in ’is side wot killed ’im.”

“Did he say what he thought caused that?” Pitt interrupted.

“Well, yes, ’e made a guess,” Paterson said reluctantly. “But after ’e said as ’is guess were wrong.”

“Never mind, what was his guess then? What did he say?”

“ ’E said ’e thought it were probably a knife o’ some sort, a very long thin one, like a dagger, the Italian ones wi’ them narrow blades.” Paterson shook his head. “But afterwards, when ’e’d ’ad a proper look, ’e said it was more probably one o’ them farrier’s long nails, like ’e were nailed to the door with.”

“Did he say what time he had died?”

“Midnight or around. ’E’d been dead quite a while. Even though it were cold, ’e could be sure it weren’t in the last two or three hours. It were about ’alf past six by then. ’E said it must ’a bin before two in the morning.” Paterson’s face tightened with impatience. “But we know what time, sir, because o’ the evidence o’ the theater doorman, and the men ’anging around the end o’ Farriers’ Lane what saw Godman come out after ’e’d done it.”

“You didn’t know that then,” Pitt pointed out.

“No.”

“What did you learn from the corpse?”

“ ’E were a gentleman,” Paterson began, his whole body rigid as he recalled the picture to his mind. “That were plain from ’is clothes, ’is ’ands—’e’d never done any ’ard work. ’Is clothes were expensive, and ’e’d been at some sort o’ party because ’e were all dressed up, black tailcoat, frilled shirt, gold studs, silk scarf, all that. And an opera cloak.” He shivered again. “First thing we did was start looking for people who’d been around the area all night Found some beggars and drunks who’d been sleeping on the street at the south end o’ Farriers’ Lane and started askin’ them.” He relaxed a fraction as he moved from the corpse to the circumstances. “They’d been up ’alf the night ’round a bit of a fire in the roadway, chestnut brazier, or something, drinking like as not. They said they’d seen this gent go into Farriers’ Lane about ’alf past midnight, tall gent with a top ’at, fair ’air, as much as they could see of it, but it fell over ’is face a bit. No one followed ’im in. I asked ’em that in partic’lar, and they were quite sure. So ’ooever did that to ’im were waiting there for ’im.” Paterson shuddered convulsively.

“Go on,” Pitt prompted him. He could see it in his mind’s eye, as he knew Paterson could. He did not want him dwelling on it again or the emotion would cripple his thought. “How did they describe the man they saw coming out of Farriers’ Lane? I assume there was only one?”

“Oh yes!” Paterson said fiercely. “There weren’t another for an hour or more. God knows ’ow ’e felt when ’e ’eard what ’e’d passed! This one were kind o’ furtive, they said.”

“Did they?” Pitt asked, amazement lifting his voice. “That sounds like an unusual word for such men to use.”

“Well”—Paterson colored very slightly—“what they said actually was that he looked scared, like ’e’d rather not be seen. He came to the end o’ the alley, out o’ the shadows, stood still for a moment to see who was passing, then put ’is shoulders back and walked fairly quickly along the footpath, not looking to right nor left.”

“And where were they standing?”

” ’Round a brazier, ’alf in the gutter.”

“Yes, but which side of the street? Did Godman actually pass them?”

“Oh—no. Opposite side, but close to Farriers’ Lane entrance. They saw ’im clear enough,” Paterson insisted.

“Opposite side of the street, after midnight, a group of layabouts and drunks! Is there a lamp near the end of the lane?”

Paterson’s expression tightened. “About twenty yards. ’E passed under it. Right under it!”

“How did they describe him?” Pitt went on. “Tall, short, thin, large? What did they say? How was he dressed?”

“Well …” Paterson pulled a face. “They said he seemed fairly large, but ’e was dressed in an ’eavy overcoat, dark, but it could have been undone and that would ’ave made ’im look a bit bigger. They weren’t that close, and they didn’t pay particular attention. Why should they?”

“What about the blood? Your report mentions blood, and there must have been a lot. You can’t commit a murder like that without blood all over the place.”

Paterson winced and looked at Pitt with loathing. “They said they saw the dark stain, but they reckoned as ’e’d bin in a fight, or got a bloody nose.”

“So there was really no description,” Pitt pressed.

“No,” Paterson admitted grudgingly. “Not close, but good enough. It weren’t like there was more ’n one man come out o’ the lane all the time they were there. And there’s a light in that yard. No innocent man’d ’ave come out ’o that place an’ jus’ walked away!”

“No,” Pitt conceded. “That has to be true. What did you do after that?”

“The medical examiner told us who ’e was,” Paterson continued. “ ’E found ’is name on some things in ’is pockets, and there was the stub of a theater ticket too, for that night. So we knew where ’e’d been until an hour or so before ’e was killed. Naturally we went there.”

“Who did you see?”

“Well, the only ones who could tell us much were Miss Macaulay’s dresser, a Miss Primrose Walker, and the doorman, don’t remember ’is name now …”

“Alfred Wimbush,” Pitt supplied. “What did they say?”

“The doorman said as Mr. Blaine came to the theater pretty regular, like, and always visited backstage with Miss Macaulay afterwards,” Paterson recounted. “Quite often ’e’d stop for a bite o’ supper. She didn’t say nothing, but it were pretty obvious as they were fond o’ each other, putting it at its best.” There was a very slight sneer in his voice and Pitt ignored it with difficulty. “She was very badly shook by it,” Paterson said more gently. “Took it ’ard. She said Mr. Blaine ’ad been there that evening, an’ ’ad stayed late with ’er. Later she admitted ’e’d given ’er a very ’andsome necklace which ’e said ’ad been in ’is wife’s family fer years. An’ Miss Macaulay ’ad said she’d wear it for supper, but then ’e ’ad to take it back, as keeping it weren’t right. Least that’s what Miss Walker said, but it don’t look as if he did take it back, cos it weren’t on ’im when we found ’im.”

“So Kingsley Blaine stayed late with Miss Macaulay, and left when?”

“About midnight, or a minute or two after, say five past,” Paterson replied. “Wimbush told us that. ’E saw Mr. Blaine go out and closed the door after ’im. He said Blaine was scarcely out onto the footpath when a young lad came running across the street from the far side and latched on to ’im, telling ’im a message, something about meeting someone at a club to patch things up. Blaine seemed to understand it, said yes ’e would, turned ’is collar up and went off towards Farriers’ Lane—or in that direction, up north towards So’o.”

“Did the doorman see who gave the boy the message?” Pitt asked.

Paterson shrugged very slightly. “A figure, not much more. Said ’e thought it were someone fairly large, but then ’e changed ’is mind and weren’t sure whether it was because ’e were standing in the shadow. Certainly the doorman didn’t see ’is face.”

“So as far as he knew, it could have been Aaron Godman, or almost anyone else?” Pitt said.

“Anyone of more or less average height,” Paterson agreed. “But then if it was Godman, he would be careful not to be seen, wouldn’t ’e?” He raised his eyebrows. “Because ’e would know the doorman would recognize ’im, and remember.”

“That’s true. You found the boy. What did he say?”

Paterson looked less certain. “Like I said, ’e weren’t a very good witness. Just a street urchin, begging, stealing, surviving ’ow ’e could. ’Ated the police, like all ’is kind.” He sniffed and shifted a little in the seat. “ ’E said the man what gave ’im the message was old, then young. Said ’e were big, then ordinary. Frankly, sir, I don’t think ’e knew. All ’e cared about was the sixpence the fellow gave ’im. ’E did say ’e ’ad a Jewish nose, and seemed very excited. But then ’e would be. ’E were planning to murder a man.”

“Was he always uncertain, or did he change his mind?” Pitt asked, watching Paterson’s face.

Paterson hesitated. “Well … ’E changed ’is mind, but honestly, I don’t think ’e ever knew. ’E were un’elpful right from the start. That sort is. Don’t know the truth from lies ’alf the time.”

“Did he identify Aaron Godman?”

“No, not definite. Said ’e couldn’t be sure. But then ’elpin’ the police don’t come natural to them.”

“What put you onto Godman? Why not O’Neil, or Fielding?”

“Oh, we considered them, right enough.” Paterson’s voice had a hard edge to it now and his face was full of anger. “And I admit it often crossed my mind that Mr. Fielding might ’a known more than ’e ever said. But it was proved fair and square that it was Godman as did it.”

“Wasn’t there a quarrel between Blaine and O’Neil?”

“Yes, and according to some gentlemen we found who overheard it, it was pretty bad at the time, but the sort of ’eated quarrel young gentlemen ’ave when they’re a bit the worse for champagne and think their honor’s been questioned.” He looked at Pitt irritably, as if Pitt were raising the issue beyond reason. “It was all over a wager, and only a few pounds at stake. Which might seem a lot to you an’ me, but to the likes o’ them it weren’t much. Nobody but a madman would murder ’is friend over a few pounds.” His lips pulled crooked with the memory, and once again rage and horror overtook his momentary annoyance with Pitt. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you didn’t see that body. A man would ’ave to be insane with ’ate to do that to anyone. That weren’t caused by no quick temper over a wager—’ooever did that ’ad ’ated long and deep before it came to that night.”

Pitt did not argue. The fierceness in Paterson’s voice and the sick memory in his eyes stifled it before it came to his tongue.

“O’Neil is married to Blaine’s widow, you know,” he said instead.

“I know that,” Paterson said between his teeth. “And don’t think I ’aven’t wondered since if ’e ’ad that in ’is mind before Blaine was dead,” he went on sharply. “ ’E may ’ave. That don’t mean to say ’e killed Blaine. No sir, Godman did that.” His face set hard and there was a flicker of loathing in his blue eyes. “Blaine were playing fast and loose with ’is sister. Got ’er with child, and promised to marry ’er, which ’e never intended to,” he said bitterly. “And when Godman found that out ’e lost ’is ’ead. You know Jews don’t like us touching their women any more’n we like it when they touch ours. They think we’re not as good as they are—sort o’ lesser, if you like. They’re the chosen race o’ God, and we’re not.”

His body stiffened and he shook himself a little. “They think Christ was a blasphemer, and they crucified ’im. I guess some of ’em anyway still ’ate us. An’ Godman was one of ’em. And when ’e found out what ’ad ’appened to ’is sister ’e just went mad.” He shivered and let out his breath sharply, staring at Pitt.

Pitt could feel the emotion in the room, the air still charged with it. Suddenly he perceived, as he had not before, what it had been like in the original investigation, the horror that had soaked everything, the fear of violence and madness, and then the anger. It reached out and touched him now like a sick coldness. He had been trying to understand with his mind. He should have used his imagination, his instinct.

“Why are you so sure it was Godman?” he asked as calmly as he could, but he heard his own voice shake. “Apart from the motive.”

“ ’E were seen,” Paterson answered immediately, his shoulders square, his chin up. “Positively. No shadows, no doubt. ’E stopped to buy flowers, the arrogant bastard! Sort of a celebration o’ what ’e’d done!” His voice was thick with fury. “ ’E stood right under the light. Anyway, the woman knew ’im. Seen ’is face on a poster and recognized ’im straightaway. In So’o Square, less than half a mile from Farriers’ Lane, and a few minutes after it ’appened. ’E lied. Said it were thirty minutes earlier.”

“I see. Yes, you found the flower seller, didn’t you? Good piece of work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What was O’Neil doing at the time of the murder?”

“Gambling at a club about a mile and a half away.”

“Witnesses?”

Paterson lifted one shoulder. “More or less. ’E could ’ave stepped out, but ’e’d ’ave been seen when ’e got back. There must ’ave been blood all over the place after a killing like that.” Again his face mirrored his horror and the outrage he still felt even now.

“And Fielding?”

“Went ’ome. No proof, o’ course.” Paterson shrugged. “But no reason to suspect ’im, since Godman was definitely alone. The men at the end o’ Farriers’ Lane swore to that. Fielding may’ve known about it, or guessed afterwards, but ’e definitely weren’t there at the time.”

“Thank you. That’s all very clear.”

“Is that all, sir?”

“I think so.”

Paterson stood up.

“Ah—just one more thing,” Pitt added quickly.

“Yes sir?”

“When Godman came to court he was badly bruised, as if someone had beaten him. Who was that?”

Paterson flushed a hot, dull red. “I—er—well, ’e weren’t an easy prisoner.”

Pitt raised his eyebrows very high. “He resisted?”

Paterson stammered and then fell silent.

“Yes?” Pitt asked again.

Paterson’s face set hard. “If you’d seen what ’e did to Blaine, sir, you wouldn’t ask, cos you’d feel the same.”

“I see. Thank you, Paterson. That’s all.”

“Yes sir.” Paterson stood to attention sharply, then turned on his heel and went out.

Over the next two days Pitt patiently followed Paterson’s footsteps. He found Primrose Walker, Tamar Macaulay’s dresser, very easily. She was still in the company, and still working at the same task. She repeated what she had said originally, that Kingsley Blaine had visited Miss Macaulay frequently, and on that night he had given her a gift of an expensive necklace. She described it quite closely: a diamond scroll set with turquoise. She said Miss Macaulay had accepted it reluctantly, and only to wear that evening, then to return it. Had Miss Walker seen her return it? No, of course not. She did not attend the champagne supper. She could add nothing more.

It was only a formality that Pitt had asked her. It was a foregone conclusion in his mind that she would repeat what she had said before, and it would support Tamar Macaulay, and thus Aaron Godman. The only thing that slightly surprised Pitt was that when speaking of Kingsley Blaine her face had softened and it was obvious her memory of him was gentle. Even now there was no dislike in her, no sense that he had betrayed her mistress.

And Wimbush, the theater doorman, also repeated his original evidence. He was a small, lugubrious man with a long nose.

“No, I didn’t see ’im proper,” he replied when Pitt asked him about the man on the far side of the street who had sent the boy over with the message. “Jus’ looked like a big geezer in the shadow o’ the wall opposite.”

“Can you remember anything about him?” Pitt pressed. “Close your eyes and imagine it again. Go through your mind, exactly as it happened. You were standing at the doorway, making sure everyone left so you could lock up. Kingsley Blaine came out. Was he the last?”

“Oh, yes sir.”

“What about Miss Macaulay?”

“She come out a few minutes before,” Wimbush replied. “Mr. Blaine went back for ’is gloves wot ’e left on the table. I got Miss Macaulay an ’ansom and she was gone before Mr. Blaine came back. I said good-night to ’im, an’ ’e were about ter go and look for a cab ’isself, when this skinny little lad, about eleven or twelve years old, come scarperin’ across the street an’ pulled at ’is sleeve. I were about to tell ’im ter clear orf, when ’e said as ’e’d got a message from a Mr. O’Neil, and to say as ’e were sorry about the quarrel they’d ’ad, and Mr. Blaine were right after all. An’ would Mr. Blaine meet ’im at Dauro’s Club right away and they’d make it up.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “So Mr. Blaine said yes ’o course ’e would, thanked the lad an’ gave ’im a couple o’ pence, then ’e set orf along the path towards Farriers’ Lane, poor devil. And that’s the last I ever saw of ’im alive.”

“And the man who sent the message? Did he look like Mr. O’Neil to you?”

Wimbush pulled a face. “Can’t say as ’e did. I can’t say as it looked like Mr. Godman neither. It were just a shape in the shadow, big like, with an ’eavy coat on. But I’ll tell you this—either it were a toff or someone got up to look like one.”

“So everyone assumed it was someone who knew Mr. Blaine,” Pitt said as civilly as he could. He should not have been disappointed, but he was.

“Yer asked me what I remembered,” Wimbush said with injured sensibility. “I told yer, ’e were a toff. Top ’at, silk scarf. I remember seein’ the light on it—all white ’round ’is neck.”

“Did Mr. Godman have a top hat and a silk scarf?”

“Not unless ’e were goin’ somewhere special.” Wimbush’s lips curled in a smile heavy with contempt. “ ’E were ’ere to work. Even gents don’t go to work in top ’ats and silk scarves.”

“And that night?” Pitt said, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. Lambert would already have asked this, even if Paterson had not.

“No ’e didn’t,” the doorman replied. “But then you’ll just say as ’e got one out o’ the dressers’ room or summink. That’s what they said before. Although why ’e should do that no one bothered wi’ askin’! Just make ’im more like to be noticed, I’d say. Them rozzers don’t think like ordinary folks.” He cleared his throat as if he were about to spit, then glanced at Pitt’s face and changed his mind.

“Did you see Mr. Godman leave that night?”

“No, I didn’t. Wish I ’ad. Leastways I spec’ I saw ’im, but I didn’t take any special notice.”

“I see. Thank you.” He must remember to ask if Godman had had a scarf on when he was arrested.

He spoke to Tamar Macaulay again, but she repeated what she had said before, and he found himself embarrassed for the cruelty of having to remind her of an act which had robbed her at once of both her brother and the man she loved. Her dark face was unreadable as she stood in the dust of the stage wings, the bare boards drafty, the huge canvas backdrops hanging on their pulleys over their heads, the limelight dead. He could see her only in the yellow glare of a gas bracket on the passageway towards the dressing rooms. Some theaters were already lit with electricity, but this was not one of them.

He looked across at the strength in her, the hollows of her eyes, the perfect balance of nose, cheek and jaw which gave her face its power. Her tenderness, her laughter, would be worth waiting for, worth earning. How had Kingsley Blaine ever imagined he could play with such a woman and then expect to walk away freely? He must have been a fool, a daydreaming, irresponsible and complete fool. She would be capable of a passion fierce enough to crucify. Did she defend her brother so intensely, and at such cost to herself, because she believed Blaine had deserved it? And would she have done it herself, had she the physical strength? Was it guilt which drove her now?

“Miss Macaulay,” he said aloud, breaking the eerie half silence of their island of unreality. All around them the theater was alive with sounds of preparation. “If it was not Mr. Godman killed Kingsley Blaine, who was it?”

She turned and faced him with a sudden flash of humor. In the half-light it was exaggerated, and oddly without malice.

“I don’t know. I suppose Devlin O’Neil.”

“Over the quarrel about a wager?” Pitt allowed his disbelief to show.

“Over Kathleen Harrimore,” she corrected. “Perhaps the passion sprang from his feeling for her, and the knowledge that Kingsley was betraying her with me.” A shadow of remorse passed over her face and unmistakable pain. “And it may have crossed his mind that Kathleen stood to inherit Prosper Harrimore’s estate, which is very considerable. And of course to have an excellent and assured living in the meantime.” She turned around to meet his eyes. “You think it is vicious of me to accuse him? I don’t think that it is—you asked me who else. I don’t believe it was Aaron. I never will.”

Pitt did not argue. There was nothing else to say. He thanked her and took his leave to seek the urchin who was the one person who had seen the murderer’s face, albeit in the shadows, and had heard his voice.

But although he searched every avenue he could think of, through police records, the general knowledge of the constables in Lambert’s station, his own contacts in the streets and the fringes of the semicriminal underworld, he had no success. There were whispers, false trails, information that turned out to be untrue, or too late. Joe Slater apparently did not wish to be found.

It was on the third day, gray and cold with a knife-edge wind out of the east, before Pitt at last found him in Seven Dials, next to a stall selling secondhand boots. He was gangling, thin and fair-haired, his face wary and full of suspicion.

“I don’t remember,” he said flatly, his eyes narrow. “I said all I know when yer asked me afore! Now leave me alone! Yer ’anged the poor sod! Wot else d’yer want? I dunno nuffink more!”

And that was all Pitt could get from him. He refused to discuss it again. He was angry, bitterness deep in his face.

Pitt was going up the steps into the police station when he met Lambert coming down, his face white, his eyes hollow with shock. He stopped abruptly, almost bumping into Pitt.

“Paterson’s dead,” he said thickly, stumbling over his tongue. “Hanged! Someone hanged him! Judge Livesey just found him!”