Farriers' Lane

9

PITT FOLLOWED LAMBERT into the hansom and sat cold and shocked beside him while they struggled through the traffic across the Battersea Bridge towards Sleaford Street and the house where Paterson had lodgings.

“Why?” Lambert said more to himself than to Pitt. He was hunched up, his collar high around his neck, half hiding his face, as though there were a bitter wind inside the cab. “Why? It makes no sense! Why kill poor Paterson? Why now?”

Pitt did not reply. The answer he thought of was that Paterson had learned, or remembered, some evidence which changed the verdict of the Farriers’ Lane case. Of course it was possible it was something else, another case, or even something personal, but that was on the edge of his mind, so faint it barely touched his thoughts.

The cab halted abruptly and the sound of shouting intruded, dislocating thought and making speech impossible.

Lambert shifted restlessly. The delay scraped his nerves raw. He leaned forward and demanded to know what it was that held them up, but no one heard him.

The cab swiveled around. A horse squealed. They jerked forward again.

Lambert swore.

Now they were moving at a steady trot.

“Why Paterson?” Lambert demanded again. “Why not me? I was in charge of the case. Paterson only did what he was told, poor devil.” His voice was harsh and his face twisted with an anger he could not control, and a deep tearing pain. He stared in front of him and clenched his fists. “Why now, Pitt? Why after all these years? The case is closed!”

“I don’t think it is,” Pitt replied grimly. “At least for Judge Stafford there was something still to be resolved.”

“Godman was guilty,” Lambert said between his teeth. “He was! Everything pointed to him. He was seen, by the urchin he gave the message to, by the men at the entrance to Farriers’ Lane, and by the flower seller. He had motive, better than anyone else. And he was a Jew. Only a Jew would have done that! It was Godman. The original trial proved it, and the appeal judges upheld it—all of them!”

Pitt did not reply. There was nothing he could say which would answer Lambert’s real question, or ease the travail inside him.

They arrived at Sleaford Street. Lambert threw open the door, almost falling onto the footpath, and leaving Pitt to pay the driver. Pitt caught up with him at the steps. The front door was already half open and there was a white-faced woman standing in the passageway, her hair screwed back in an untidy knot, her sleeves rolled up.

“Wot’s ’appened?” she answered. “Are you the p’lice? The gennelman upstairs sent out Jackie to fetch the p’lice, but “e wouldn’t say wot’s wrong.” She grabbed Lambert’s sleeve as he brushed past her. “ ’Ere! ’As ’e bin robbed? It ain’t none o’ us! We never robbed nobody! This is a decent ’ouse!”

“Where is he?” Lambert shook her off. “Which room? Upstairs?”

Now she was really frightened. “Wot’s ’appened?” she wailed, her voice rising. Somewhere behind her a child began to cry.

“Nobody’s been robbed,” Pitt said quietly, although he was beginning to feel a little sick himself. It was only a few days ago, such a short time, that he had sat in the office talking to Paterson. “Where is the man who sent for the police?”

“Upstairs.” She jerked her head. “Number four, on the first landing. Wot’s ’appened, mister?”

“We don’t know yet.” Pitt went after Lambert, who was already striding up the stairs two at a time. At the top he swung around, glanced at the doors, then banged irritably on number four and immediately tried the handle. It opened under his pressure and with Pitt at his heels he burst in.

It was a large, old room, like thousands of other bachelor lodgings, with dull wallpaper, heavy furniture, all a little worn but immaculately clean. There was little of character. It was all chosen for utility and a veneer of comfort, but no personal taste of the man who had lived here.

Ignatius Livesey was sitting in the best armchair. He was very pale, his eyes dark and a little hollow with shock, and when he rose to his feet he was not quite as in control as he had thought. His limbs trembled for a moment and he had to reach twice to grip the chair so he could steady himself.

“I am glad you have come, gentlemen.” His voice was hoarse. “I am ashamed to say that being alone here has not been an experience I have found easy. He is in the bedroom, where I found him.” He took a deep breath. “Beyond ascertaining that he is dead—a fact of which there is little doubt—I have touched nothing.”

Lambert looked at him for only an instant, then walked past and opened the bedroom door. He stopped with an involuntary gasp.

Pitt strode over. Paterson was hanging from the hook which should have supported the small, ugly chandelier now lying skewed sideways on the floor. He was held by a rope, an ordinary piece of hemp about twelve or fourteen feet long, such as any carter would use, except there was a running noose in one end. His body was stiff; his face, when Pitt moved around to see, was purplish, eyes protruding, tongue thick between his open lips.

Lambert stood motionless, swaying a little as if he might faint.

Pitt took him by the arm, having to pull hard to force him from the spot.

“Come,” he ordered sharply. “You can’t do anything for him. Mr. Livesey!”

Livesey suddenly realized he could help and started forward, taking Lambert’s other arm and guiding him to the chair.

“Sit down,” he said grimly. “Get your breath. Nasty shock for you, when you knew the poor man. Sorry I don’t carry brandy, and I doubt Paterson would have had any.”

Lambert shook his head and opened his mouth as if to reply, but no words came.

Pitt left them and went back into the bedroom. All the same questions that had teemed in Lambert’s mind were in his now, but before he addressed any of them, he must see what facts he could observe.

He touched Paterson’s hand. The body swung very slightly. The flesh was cold, the arm rigid. He had been dead several hours. He was dressed in plain dark uniform trousers and tunic, which was torn, his sergeant’s insignia ripped off. He still wore his boots. It was nearly midday now. Presumably it was what he had worn when he came home from the last duty of the day before. If he had slept here, risen in the morning and dressed ready to go out, the body would still have some warmth left, and be limp. He must have died sometime late yesterday evening, or during the night. It would almost certainly be the evening. Why should he be wearing his street clothes all night?

The hook was in the middle of the ceiling, about ten or eleven feet high, where one would expect to find a chandelier. There was no furniture near enough to it for him to have climbed on. It had taken a strong man to lift Paterson up and then let him fall from that height. He must have used the rope as a pulley over the hook. There was no conceivable way Paterson could have done it himself, even supposing he had some cause to, or believed he had.

Pitt glanced around, simply as a matter of course, to see if there were any letter, although he knew it had to be murder. Physically, suicide was impossible.

There was nothing. It was a plain, tidy, characterless bedroom. A bed with a wooden headboard occupied the far end. A sash window looked out over a narrow alley with a few sheds and what appeared to be a stable.

There was a wardrobe to the right, and some four or five feet from it a chest of drawers. There were three chairs, one padded, the other two hard seated and straight backed. All of them were upright and against the wall. Had Paterson used them to stand on they would have been under the chandelier, and probably fallen over.

He went over to the chairs and examined them one by one. He could see no mark on any of them. But then if the man had taken off his shoes, there would be none.

He heard Livesey’s footsteps at the door and looked around.

“Have you learned anything?” Livesey said very quietly.

“Not a great deal,” Pitt replied, straightening up and glancing around the room again. Its impersonalness hurt him, as if Paterson had lived and died leaving no mark. And yet had he seen books, photographs, letters, handmade articles chosen with meaning and care, perhaps it would have hurt more. Except that there was a sense of futility, a loneliness as if someone had slipped away unnoticed, his loss seen only when it was too late. He could not have been more than thirty-two or thirty-three. He had barely begun. And now there was nothing.

Lambert’s question rang in his head. Why? Who could have done this, and why now?

“I think he was dead a long time before I got here,” Livesey said quietly. “I wish to God I had come when I got his note last night! I could have saved him.”

“He sent you a letter?” Pitt said in amazement, then immediately felt ridiculous. He should have asked Livesey what he was doing here. Appeal court justices did not normally visit police constables in their lodging houses. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I was going to ask you why you were here.”

“He sent me a note yesterday.” Livesey’s voice was still husky, as if his mouth were dry. “He said he had learned something which troubled him deeply, and he wanted to tell me about it.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He passed it over to Pitt.

Pitt read in scribbled writing which even in its haste and emotion showed the form of its copperplate letters.

My lord,

Forgive me writing you like this, but I have learned something terrible which I have to tell you, or I cannot rest with myself a night longer. I know you are a very busy man, but this is more important than anything, I swear it. I dare tell no one else.

Please answer me when I can speak to you about it,

Your humble servant,

D. Paterson, P.C.

“And you don’t know what it was that troubled him so much, or why he wouldn’t simply tell Inspector Lambert?” Pitt asked.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Livesey replied, lowering his voice still further so Lambert would not hear him in the next room. “But the suggestion implicit is not a pleasant one. I must say, poor Lambert does look very shaken. I assume it is some case Paterson is presently engaged in, and which was a great deal more serious than he at first supposed.” He winced, his heavy face looking tired and shocked. “I fear it may involve some possible misbehavior or corruption. I refuse to speculate further and possibly do someone a profound injustice.”

“Why did he choose you, Mr. Livesey?” Pitt asked, endeavoring to make his tone so courteous as to rob the words of any rudeness. “Did he know you?”

“By repute, I suppose,” Livesey replied with profound unhappiness. “Certainly to the best of my knowledge I had never met him. Of course I knew his name, because I read his evidence at the trial of Aaron Godman. Similarly, he may have known that I sat on the appeal. But not personally, no. We had never met.”

Pitt was still puzzled.

“That does not really answer the question.”

“I agree,” Livesey said, shaking his head. “It is extraordinary. I can only suppose that the poor young man discovered, or thought he had discovered, something which he dared not take to his own superiors, and he chose someone whose name he knew, with the position, and the integrity, to help him. I feel appallingly guilty that I did not come last night, when I could have saved his life.”

There was no comment Pitt could make that would be helpful. He could not deny it. To do so would be condescending, and neither of them would believe it. Livesey did not deserve that, instead he walked over to the body, still hanging from its rope, regarded the noose, then pulled one of the chairs over to see if it would give him enough height to lift the body down at last and lay it where it could rest decently until the medical examiner came and took it away.

That was something Lambert could do, send for the appropriate people Presumably Livesey had not done so. He turned to look at him.

“Do you—do you need a little help?” Livesey said, swallowing and stepping forward. “I …” He cleared his throat. “What would you like me to do?”

“I was going to ask you if you had called the medical examiner,” Pitt answered,

“No—no, I just sent the boy for the police. I thought …”

“Lambert can do that,” Pitt said quickly. “I can’t untie the rope, his weight will have pulled it tight. I’ll need a knife.”

“Er …” Livesey was beginning to look ill, as if his years had caught up with him. “I’ll go and see if the landlady has one. You’ll need to preserve the rope, I imagine. Evidence.”

“Thank you. Ask Lambert to send for the medical examiner, will you?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” And as if escaping the room and its fearful burden, Livesey turned on his heel and went out of the door. A moment later Pitt heard his steps heavy in the passage outside, and then on the stairs.

Pitt went back and stood in the room until Livesey returned with the knife.

Livesey was too shaken to touch the corpse. His face was pale and there was sweat on his brow and lip and his hands were clumsy, as if he could no longer coordinate them. Pitt held the body up as far as he could to ease the weight. Livesey cut the rope, taking several seconds to saw it through, then Pitt felt the full weight of Paterson suddenly collapse on him.

Livesey swore, his voice choking, and together they laid the body on the floor.

“There’s nothing else to do here,” Pitt said quietly, moved by pity for Livesey, and anxiety in case he could not bear the horror any longer. “Come. We’ll wait for the medical examiner in the next room.”

Two hours later Pitt had questioned the landlady, now alternately shrieking with outrage and mute with fear, and then the other tenants, and learned nothing from any of them. The medical examiner had been and gone, taking the body with him in his mortuary van, the horse stamping and blowing as it caught the smell of fear from passersby. Livesey, still pink-faced and now suddenly cold, had excused himself. Pitt and Lambert stood on the landing outside the door, the keys in the lock.

Lambert shook his head.

“I don’t understand,” he said yet again. “What on earth could he have wanted to tell Livesey? Why not us? If not me, then you?” He took the keys out of the door and gave them to Pitt. In single file they went down the stairs.

The landlady was still standing in the hall, her face haggard and eyes blazing.

“Murder!” she said furiously. “In my very own ’ouse! I always said I never should ’ave ’ad police as lodgers! Never again! I’ll take my oath on that, never again!”

Lambert swung around on her, his face white, his eyes blazing.

“A young policeman is murdered in your house, and you’ve got the impertinence to blame him! Perhaps if he’d never come here then he’d be alive today. What sort of a house do you keep anyway?”

“ ’Ow dare you?” she shrieked, her cheeks scarlet with outrage. “Why you—”

“Come on.” Pitt took Lambert by the arm and half pulled him out, still turned towards the woman, wanting to fight. The rage and the grief in him needed to lash out at someone, lay blame where he could see and hear.

“Come on,” Pitt repeated urgently. “We’ve got a lot to do!”

Reluctantly Lambert went with him. Outside the sky was overcast and it had begun to rain. Passersby were huddled into themselves, collars up, faces averted from the driving cold.

“What?” Lambert demanded between his teeth. “Who murdered poor Paterson? We haven’t even found out who killed Judge Stafford! We don’t know why! Do you know, Pitt?” He dodged off the pavement into the running gutter, then back on again. “Have you even got an idea? And don’t tell me Godman wasn’t guilty—that doesn’t make any sense. If he wasn’t, why would anybody rake it all up now? They’ve got away with it. It was the perfect murder. Godman is hanged and the case is closed.”

“What else was Paterson working on?” Pitt asked, matching his pace to Lambert’s as they walked along Battersea Park Road to a place where they could find a hansom back to the station.

“An arson case. A couple of robberies,” Lambert answered. “Nothing much. Nothing anyone would kill him over. Garotte him in a dark alley, maybe; or stick a knife into him if he went to make an arrest. But not go to his house and string him up on a rope. It’s insane. It’s that damn Macaulay woman. She’s out on a rampage of revenge.” He stopped in his stride, turning to face Pitt, his eyes brilliant and wretched. “She’s insane! She’s coming after the people she holds to blame for her brother’s hanging!”

“She’s not doing it alone,” Pitt said, trying to keep calm. “No woman by herself strung up Paterson. He’s a big man and was in good health.”

“All right then,” Lambert snapped. “She had help. She’s a clever woman, beautiful, and has got that sort of personality. Some poor devil fell in love with her, and she’s got ’im so obsessed he helped her do that.” He was talking too fast and Pitt could hear the hysteria rising in his voice. “Or maybe ’e did it for her,” he went on. “Go and find him, Pitt. Prove it! Paterson was a good man. Far too good to die for the likes of her! You do that! Prove it!” And he snatched himself away from Pitt’s outstretched hand and strode along the wet pavement towards the Battersea Bridge, and the carriages and cabs clattering back and forth along it.

Pitt began the long and tedious job of investigating the murder of Constable Paterson. The medical examiner’s report said that death had been caused by strangulation brought about by hanging, exactly as it had appeared. He had died some time the previous evening; his guess was that it had been earlier rather than later.

As a matter of course Pitt checked where Judge Livesey had been at that time, and was not surprised to learn that he had attended a dinner given by several of his colleagues and had been observed by at least a score of people for all of the relevant time. Not that Pitt had for a moment thought he might have been guilty; it was simply a matter of routine to check.

His mind was far more taken up with wondering what Paterson could possibly have learned that he wished so desperately to communicate with the judge. Did it concern the Farriers’ Lane case, as they had instinctively supposed, or was it something quite different?

He left Lambert to pursue the physical evidence: the witnesses who might have seen someone going into the lodging house; where the rope had come from; any signs of an intruder, a footprint, a scrap of cloth; anything at all that indicated a struggle.

He himself went searching for meaning, motive for such an apparently senseless act. If it lay in a case Paterson had been working on currently, or in some part of his personal life, then it was Lambert who would have the background to find it. But if it lay in the Farriers’ Lane case, then it was only in pursuing that that the answer could be learned.

Had Paterson tried to contact anyone other than Judge Livesey? Might he have tried one of the other judges also? It was too late for Stafford, he was already dead. Sadler had retreated from all responsibility and would have given no answer. Boothroyd was too involved in his conspicuous philanthropy, his seeking for friends and influence, to have taken any part in such a wildly unpopular cause as reopening the Farriers’ Lane case.

That left Judge Oswyn, or perhaps the other lawyers in the case. Aaron Godman’s solicitor, and his barrister who had pleaded for him at the trial. Surely they would have been the natural people with whom to begin, if indeed there were anything new, anything that pointed to a different verdict, or an accomplice.

Why Livesey? Did he imagine him to have some integrity or power others did not?

Pitt began by seeking an appointment with Judge Granville Oswyn in his chambers, and was pleasantly surprised to be granted it almost immediately.

The room was large, sprawling and untidy, full of books, some in cases, some in piles covering tables and heaped on stools. There were several big plush armchairs, none matching anything, but all forming a comfortable whole. Old theater playbills decorated one of the walls, political cartoons by Rowlandson another. Oswyn was a man of interesting and catholic tastes. A beautiful bronze of a hunting dog stood on the bookcase, and there was a jasper-and-rock crystal paperweight on the desk.

Oswyn himself was a large, genial man in clothes that fitted him ill. He had the sort of face that seemed somehow familiar, even though Pitt knew perfectly well they had never met. A smile illuminated his features as though he were genuinely pleased to see Pitt.

“My dear fellow, come in, come in.” He rose from his seat behind the desk and waved at the best chair. “Do sit down. Be comfortable. What can I do for you? I have no idea, but do tell me.” He sat in his chair again, still smiling.

There was no point whatever in being devious, and no advantage to surprise.

“I am investigating the death of Judge Stafford,” Pitt began.

Oswyn’s face darkened. “Very nasty affair,” he said with a frown. “Very nasty indeed. Can’t think why. Honorable man. Hadn’t thought he had an enemy in the world. Seems I was wrong.” He leaned back and crossed his legs carefully. “What can I tell you that you don’t already know?”

Pitt sat back a little.

“He was reinvestigating the Farriers’ Lane case, you know?”

Oswyn’s face lost its geniality, and a flicker of anxiety crossed his eyes.

“No, I didn’t know. Are you sure you are not mistaken? There really was nothing else to pursue. We went through it very thoroughly at the appeal.” He looked at Pitt with concern crossing his face, leaning back and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, making a steeple out of his fingers. “He was far more likely just trying to satisfy that poor Macaulay woman. She would not let it drop, you know. Very sad. Devoted to her brother, and simply would not believe it. But there was no basis for doubt, you know. None at all. Everything was correct at the time.”

“What were the grounds for the appeal, sir?” Pitt asked, as if he had had no idea.

“Oh—medical. A formality really. Had to have something.”

“And did you treat it like that—as a formality?”

Oswyn’s face was aghast and he dropped his hands instantly. “Good heavens, no! Of course not. A man’s life was at stake, and even more, the whole principle of British justice. Must not only be done, but be seen to be done, and to the satisfaction of everyone. Or else justice ceases to be upheld, and then it works for no one. Oh, we examined the case in minute detail. There was no flaw in it, none at all.” He screwed up his eyes, looking at Pitt anxiously.

“Did Judge Stafford mention it to you lately?” Pitt felt his way, seeking for the question which would probe between the certainties of the obvious answers.

Oswyn hesitated only minutely, a moment of indecision, but it was there, and Pitt saw it. Oswyn smiled, understanding the expression in Pitt’s eyes, knowing he had seen.

“Well, yes, he did say something.” He shrugged. “But it was—not serious, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” Pitt said unhelpfully. “How could such a matter not be serious?”

But Oswyn had had time to think now. His answer came with assurance. “It was a nuisance. The poor Macaulay woman was still troubling him, trying to find someone to believe her and reopen the matter. And Stafford, poor devil, was the man she was directing her efforts towards.” He shrugged and smiled, attempting to look at ease. “He merely mentioned that. It was an embarrassment. Surely you can understand that, Inspector?” He laughed very slightly, but there was no nervousness in it, and no humor.

“In case there had been an omission, or an error?” Pitt asked.

“No!” Oswyn leaned forward, banging his hand down on the surface of the desk. His face was a little pink, his eyes earnest. “There was no …” He shook his head. “There was no error. The matter was very simple.” He stared at Pitt earnestly. “The appeal was raised on the grounds of the medical evidence. Yardley said originally that he thought the wound that killed Blaine had been caused by some sort of dagger. Then on examination he admitted that it could have been a particularly long farrier’s nail.”

“Farriers’ nails only come in certain lengths,” Pitt argued. “They have to go into horses’ hooves. There’s a limit to how long they can be, even though they are clipped off.”

“Yes, of course.” Oswyn waved the thought away impatiently. “All right, then an ordinary nail. The man is a surgeon, not a blacksmith. Perhaps it was just a loose piece of metal ’round the yard. The point is, it did not have to have been a dagger.”

“Were there any nails like that, or longer pieces of metal ’round the yard?” Pitt asked. “Surely a bloodstained piece would have been easy enough to find.”

Oswyn looked startled. “I have no idea. For heaven’s sake, man, we sat on the appeal. That was weeks after the trial, which itself was weeks after the crime. Every man and his father could have been through the yard by then, and probably had.”

“So whatever the weapon was, it was never found?”

“I suppose not. Perhaps it was one of the nails he used to hang him up by.” With an effort he lowered his voice. “But whatever it was, Inspector, it is far too late now to shed any light on it. Poor Stafford could hardly have been investigating that, could he?” He had scored a point of logic and he knew it.

“Nevertheless,” Pitt argued. “If Yardley changed his mind, then there was an element of uncertainty in the evidence. It seems to have been considered sufficient to take it to appeal.”

“A desperate measure.” Oswyn screwed up his face, his broad, mobile mouth rueful. “A man will try anything to avoid the rope, and who is to blame him?”

“Do you remember P.C. Paterson?” Pitt changed the subject abruptly.

“P.C. Paterson?” Oswyn repeated the name thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“He was the constable who carried out a great deal of the investigation.”

“Oh yes. Wasn’t he the one who found the final proof? The flower seller who saw Godman in Soho Square just after the crime. Good piece of work. Hero of the moment, Paterson. Why?”

“He was murdered on Tuesday night.”

Oswyn’s surprise and his sorrow both looked acutely real.

“Oh dear—I’m so sorry! What a damned shame. Very promising young officer.” He shook his head. “Dangerous trade, policing. But then of course you know that.”

“It was not in the course of duty, sir. He was murdered in his own home. Hanged, to be precise.”

“Good God!” Oswyn was totally stunned. The blood fled from his skin, leaving it pasty white, and all the sense of well-being and geniality that had been so much a part of him vanished. “How dreadful—how—Who was it?”

“We have no idea so far.”

“No idea! But surely—” He stopped abruptly, confused and profoundly unhappy. “You cannot think it had anything to do with Kingsley Blaine! I mean …” Instinctively his hand went up to his throat and he pulled at his collar, loosening it a fraction. “Why, for God’s sake?”

“That is what I am trying to determine, sir.” Pitt watched him closely. “I had questioned Paterson in some detail regarding his original investigation of the case. I am wondering if something I said prompted him to an act, a word to someone which may have resulted in his murder.”

Oswyn passed a hand over his brow, temporarily hiding his face from Pitt. “Are you trying to say that Godman was not guilty, and someone else is, and that person is now murdering anyone who appears likely to reopen the case? That makes little sense, Inspector. Have you been attacked?”

“No,” Pitt admitted. “But then I am still as confused as I was at the beginning. I have discovered no evidence at all to suggest Godman was not guilty. In fact the more I learn, the more certain it seems he was.”

Oswyn breathed in deeply and shook himself a little as if suddenly immensely relieved. “Indeed.” He swallowed hard. “Indeed. A tragic and extremely ugly case, but settled at the time.” He bit his lip. “I have been a servant of the law all my life, Inspector. I should—er—I should hate to think we could have made such a mistake. It would—jeopardize much that I believe to be of immeasurable value to the British people. Indeed, it is a model for the world.” He sounded oddly pompous, as if he did not entirely mean it. “A great deal of the law of the United States of America is based upon our common law. I suppose you were aware of that—yes, of course you were. The law is above us all, more important than any individual.”

“Surely the law can only be measured by how it deals with the individual, Mr. Oswyn?”

“Oh. I think that is too—too sweeping a statement, too simplistic, if you will forgive my saying so? There are profound issues at stake—” He stopped suddenly, his face pink. “But that does not help you in your quest to find out who murdered Mr. Stafford, or this unfortunate constable. How can I possibly help you?”

“I am not sure that you can,” Pitt conceded. “The last thing he did before he was killed was send a letter to Judge Livesey saying that he had learned something terrible and wished to tell him as soon as possible. Unfortunately—” He stopped. The color had fled again from Oswyn’s face and he looked ill.

“He—er …” Oswyn stammered. “He—he wrote to Livesey? What—what was it he had learned? Did he say? Do you know?”

Pitt was about to say no, then changed his mind.

“The letter was to Judge Livesey. It was he who found him, when he went the following day.”

“But what was in the letter?” Oswyn said urgently, leaning forward across the desk towards Pitt. “Livesey must have—”

“That is why I have come to see you, sir,” Pitt said, speaking the truth, and knowing a lie would be understood. “The Farriers’ Lane case—”

“I don’t know! I thought Godman was guilty. I still do.” There was a beading of sweat on his lip now. “I cannot say differently. I know nothing, and speculation would be totally irresponsible.” His voice was rising a little and threaded with anxiety again. “A man in my position cannot start making wild suggestions about miscarriages of justice. I have responsibilities—I can think …” He took a deep breath and let it go. “I owe—debts of obligation to the law I have served. I have duties. Of course if you have evidence, that would be different.” He stared at Pitt, his eyes wide and troubled, demanding an answer.

“No. No evidence yet.”

“Ah.” Oswyn let out his breath in a long sigh. “Then when I can help you, please come back and let me know.”

It was a polite dismissal and Pitt accepted it. He could learn nothing more from Oswyn anyway. There were no facts, only a profusion of impressions.

“Thank you, sir.” He rose to his feet. “Yes, certainly I will. As soon as I have found out exactly what that letter meant.”

“Yes—yes, of course.”

It was the next morning before Pitt could make arrangements to see Ebenezer Moorgate, the solicitor who had handled Aaron Godman’s case. He preferred to meet Pitt not in his chambers, which he shared with several others, but in a public house some mile and a half away. It was a small place, crowded with petty clerks, small tradesmen and idlers. Ale was slopped in the sawdust on the floor, and the smell of boiled vegetables mixed with that of stale beer, dirt, and too many people.

Moorgate looked out of place in his smart suit with its clean white shirt and stiff wing collar, and his well-barbered face. He had an ale mug in his hand, but he had not touched it.

“You are late, Inspector Pitt,” he said as soon as Pitt pushed his way through the throng and joined him at a small table in the corner. “Although I fail to see the purpose of this meeting. The case you refer to was over a long time ago. We appealed—and lost. It can only cause more grief, quite uselessly, to open it up again.”

“Unfortunately it is not an old case anymore, Mr. Moorgate. Two more people are dead.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Moorgate said guardedly, his fingers clasping his mug more tightly. “It cannot have anything to do with the case. That’s nonsense, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

“Judge Stafford, and now Constable Paterson.”

“Paterson?” Moorgate’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know about that. Poor fellow. But it is coincidence. Tragic, but chance. Has to be.”

“He wrote to Judge Livesey just before he was murdered, saying he had something urgent to tell him—urgent and dreadful.”

Moorgate swallowed. “You did not say he had been murdered.”

At the next table a man turned around, his face full of curiosity. Beyond him another man stopped talking and stared.

Moorgate licked his lips. “What are you suggesting, Pitt? That someone from the Farriers’ Lane case is murdering people? Why? Revenge for Godman? That’s preposterous.” His voice rose a pitch higher and he was speaking more rapidly, unaware of the stir he was causing. “From what you say, it seems to me that Paterson may have discovered who murdered Stafford! Or thought he did. Obvious, don’t you agree? Could have been the Macaulay woman. Loss of her brother, all the scandal and such an appalling end, turned her mind.” He was staring at Pitt fixedly. “Known lesser things than that to drive a woman mad. Poison is a woman’s method, more often than not. Would have thought you could prove it.” He looked angry and faintly accusing.

“Possibly,” Pitt agreed. “Although since Stafford appeared to be considering reopening the case, I cannot see her motive. He was the one person she would most wish to remain alive.”

“Nonsense!” Moorgate dismissed it with a flick of his free hand. “Absolute nonsense, my dear fellow,” he repeated. “There is nothing to reopen it for. I am very familiar with it, you know. I was the instructing solicitor at the time. If ever I saw a hopeless case, that was it. Did all we could, of course. One has to. But there was never any chance!” He shook his head sharply. “Wretched fellow was guilty as the devil.”

Suddenly he remembered his ale and took a sip of it, looking around at the considerable number of people now staring at him. “Miss Macaulay could not accept it. Quite often takes the family like that. Natural, I suppose. But Stafford probably told her so that day, and I daresay in her disappointment and frustration she killed him. She would view it as a kind of betrayal. Very intense woman, you know, very emotional. I suppose actresses are like that—lightly balanced. No fit occupation for a woman—but then no gentlewoman would take it up, so there you are.”

“She didn’t kill Paterson,” Pitt said with an unreasoning distaste that surprised him.

“Are you sure?” Moorgate did not bother to conceal his skepticism.

“Quite sure,” Pitt said sharply. “He was hanged from the ceiling, in his own lodgings. No woman on earth could have accomplished that. It must have been a powerful man to do it. Just as it took a powerful man to lift Kingsley Blaine up and hold him while he nailed his wrists to the stable door.”

Moorgate winced and put down his ale mug as if it had turned suddenly sour and undrinkable. Now every man within twenty feet of them was silent and staring.

“Let me understand you, Inspector. Just what are you suggesting?” Moorgate said with considerable anger and a pink color rising up his cheeks.

“The facts suggest, Mr. Moorgate, not I,” Pitt replied calmly.

“They suggest a personal quarrel to me.” Moorgate swallowed. “Had he a love affair of some sort? Perhaps a jealous husband is involved.”

“Who hanged him?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Is that your usual experience, Mr. Moorgate?”

“I have no ‘usual experience,’ ” Moorgate said coldly. “I am a solicitor, not a barrister. And please keep your voice down. You are making a spectacle of us! Murders are rare in my practice. And I have very little idea of what jealous husbands or lovers do when they find they are betrayed.”

“Something hot-blooded or physically violent,” Pitt replied with a twisted smile, aware of the crowd around them. It was not his voice which had aroused their interest. “Shoot if they have a gun,” he went on. “Stab if a knife is available, which is not hard to find. If a spontaneous fight breaks out, then they strike, or even throttle. To go to a man’s home taking a length of hemp, and then remove the chandelier, presumably either before he arrives, or while you have him unconscious, or bound, then string him up by the neck and hang him till he is dead—”

“For God’s sake, man!” Moorgate exploded furiously. “Have you no decency at all?”

“Calls for a great degree of premeditation and cold-blooded planning,” Pitt finished relentlessly.

“Then it was some other motive,” Moorgate snapped. “Regardless, it was nothing to do with any case of mine, and I cannot help you.” He put his ale down at last, slopping on the table to his intense annoyance. “I should advise you to look very closely into the wretched man’s personal life, if I were you. Perhaps he owed money. Usurers can be violent if they are cheated. I really have no notion, but it is your task, not mine, to discover the truth. Now, if there is nothing further, I must return to my chambers. I shall shortly have clients awaiting me.” And without concerning himself with whether Pitt had any further questions or not, he rose to his feet, knocking the table and slopping the ale mug still further. He inclined his head stiffly, and took his leave.

Barton James, the barrister for the defense, was a very different man, taller, leaner, of a more distinguished and assured appearance. He received Pitt in his chambers and enquired courteously for his health, then invited him to be seated.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Pitt?” he said with interest. “Does it concern the death of poor Samuel Stafford?”

“Indirectly, yes.” Pitt had decided to be more circumspect this time, at least to begin with.

“Indeed?” James raised his eyebrows. “In what way can I assist? I knew him, of course, but only very slightly. He was an appeal judge; it is some time since he sat at trial. I have not pleaded before him for fifteen or sixteen years.”

“But you took one of your most celebrated cases to appeal before him.”

“Several,” James agreed. “That does not constitute a relationship. I am not aware of knowing anything at all which has relevance to his death. But by all means, ask me what you wish.” He sat back, smiling agreeably. His manner was assured, his voice excellent. Pitt could imagine him commanding a courtroom, holding a jury with the power of his personality. How hard had he pleaded for Aaron Godman? What passion or conviction had he used on his behalf?

With an effort he brought his mind back to the present, and the slow building up to the questions that mattered.

“Thank you, Mr. James. You see, it is not only the murder of Mr. Stafford I am investigating, but there seems to be another murder linked to it.” He saw James’s eyes widen. “That of Constable Paterson.”

“Paterson? Is that the young officer who was on the Farriers’ Lane case?” James asked, a tiny muscle flicking on his brow.

“Yes.”

“Oh dear. Are you quite sure it is connected? Policework can be very dangerous, as I am sure you do not need me to tell you. Might it not be a coincidence? The Farriers’ Lane case was closed some five years ago. Oh, I know Miss Macaulay keeps trying to arouse interest in it again, but I am afraid she is in a hopeless cause. It is only her devotion to her brother which drives her. She has no hope of success.”

“You are quite certain he was guilty?”

James shifted minutely in his seat. “Oh indeed, quite certain. I am afraid there was no doubt.”

“Did you think so at the time?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did you think so at the time?” Pitt repeated, watching James’s face, the long patrician nose, the mouth on the verge of humor, the careful eyes.

James pushed out his lower lip in a rueful expression.

“I would like to have thought him innocent, of course, but I confess, as the case proceeded it became more and more difficult.”

“You believed the verdict a true one?”

“I did. So would you, had you been there, Mr. Pitt.”

“But you lodged an appeal.”

“Naturally. It was what Godman wished, and his family. It is natural to try every possible step, however slight the chance of success, when a man is to be hanged. I warned them of the unlikelihood of its being granted. I held out no false hopes, but nevertheless, of course I did my best. As you know, it was refused.”

“The grounds were insufficient?”

James shrugged. “The medical examiner, Humbert Yardley—a very reliable man, no doubt you know him?—did seem to change his mind about the weapon. It is not like him to do that. Possibly with the horror of the whole affair—it was a spectacularly gruesome crime, as you must know—he may temporarily have lost his customary cool-headedness.” He leaned back in his chair again, his face a trifle puckered. “It was an outrage in a very extraordinary sense, you know. The man was not only murdered, but crucified. The newspapers made banner headlines. All sorts of very deep and violent emotions were roused. In some quarters there were anti-Jewish riots. Pawnshops were broken into and vandalized. Men who were known to be Jewish were attacked in the streets. It was all extremely ugly.”

He smiled with bitter humor. “I was even subjected to considerable abuse myself for defending him. I had the expensive and embarrassing experience of being pelted with rotten fruit and eggs when passing through Covent Garden. Thank God it wasn’t Billingsgate!”

Pitt hid a smile. He had walked by the fish market on a warm day. “Did you ever think him innocent, Mr. James?”

“I assumed him innocent, Mr. Pitt. That is my duty. Not the same thing. But my own thoughts are irrelevant.” He looked at Pitt gravely. “I did the best for him I could. And I do not believe any barrister in the land would have obtained an acquittal. The evidence was overwhelming. He was actually seen not half a mile from the spot, at the relevant time, and quite clearly, by someone who knew him by sight. Then there was the evidence of the street urchin who delivered the message for him which brought Blaine through Farriers’ Lane, and of the idlers who saw him leave the lane, covered with blood.”

“Did the urchin identify him?” Pitt said quickly. “I thought he was uncertain.”

James pushed out his lips thoughtfully. “Yes—I suppose stretching a point, he was. And if you stretch the point even further, so were the idlers. And quite literally, they may have exaggerated the blood. It is hard to know what a man sees at the time, and what his imagination paints in afterwards, with the knowledge of hindsight.” He shook his head, smiling again. “But the flower seller knew him by sight, and had no doubt at all. He actually stopped and spoke to her, which shows either an extraordinary cool head or an arrogance that amounts to the insane.”

“And you have no doubt as to his guilt,” Pitt pressed.

James frowned. “You speak as if you do. Have you discovered something not available to us at the time?”

It was an interesting choice of words. He had taken care to guard against the implication that he could have been remiss. Discreetly, by implication rather than openly, he was defending himself.

“No,” Pitt replied cautiously. “Not that I am certain of. But it seems an unavoidable conclusion that Paterson may have reconsidered his investigation, after I questioned him about it, and in doing so discovered something, or realized a different interpretation for it. His letter to Livesey spoke—”

“Letter to Livesey?” James was startled and suddenly alarmed, his body stiff, his voice tight. “Judge Ignatius Livesey?”

“Yes—did I not mention it?” Pitt affected a blindness he did not feel. “I apologize. Yes, before Paterson was murdered—incidentally, he was hanged, with a noose, from the chandelier hook in the middle of the ceiling of his room.” James’s face was pinched with disgust and increasing distress. “Before he was murdered,” Pitt went on, “he wrote a letter to Judge Livesey, saying that he had discovered something appalling and must tell him as soon as possible. It was poor Livesey who found him, the morning after. Unfortunately he could not get there that evening.”

James remained silent for several moments, his face grave. Eventually he came to some decision.

“You did not tell me that. It puts a very different and very ugly complexion upon things.” He shook his head slightly. “I am afraid I can think of nothing whatever that might be of use to you, indeed, nothing even remotely relevant.”

“Neither Paterson nor Judge Stafford communicated with you in the matter?”

“Paterson certainly did not. I have not spoken to him since the trial.” He shifted very slightly in his chair. “Stafford did call on me, some weeks ago. Miss Macaulay had been writing to him, as she did to numerous people, attempting to generate interest in the case. She still hopes to clear Godman’s name, which of course is quite impossible, but she will not accept that.” His voice was growing more rapid. “She had progressed beyond reason on the subject. But I did not take any of it seriously. I was already aware of her … obsession. It was to be expected she might harass Stafford. I am surprised he took any notice, but she is a most … eloquent woman, and has a type of appeal which is difficult for some men to resist.”

“What did Judge Stafford wish you to do, Mr. James? Forgive me for asking, but he cannot tell me, and it may help to learn who killed him.”

“Much the same as you are asking, Inspector. And I regret I can help neither of you. I know nothing I did not know, and say, at the time.”

“Is that all? Are you certain?”

“Well.” James was still uncomfortable, but he did not evade the question. “He asked about Moorgate, the instructing solicitor, his reputation and so on.” He looked embarrassed. “Poor Moorgate has declined more than a little since then. I have no idea why. But he is still perfectly adequate, and at that time he was an excellent professional man.”

“But like you, he believed Godman guilty,” Pitt added.

James’s face darkened. “On the evidence in hand—still uncontested—there was no other reasonable conclusion to draw, Mr. Pitt. And you yourself have not produced anything yet to refute it. I have no idea who murdered Stafford, or Paterson; and I agree it does suggest itself that their connection with the Farriers’ Lane case has some part in it. But I have no idea what. Have you?”

It was a challenge.

“No,” Pitt said quietly. “Not yet.” He pushed his chair a fraction backwards. “But I intend to. Paterson was only thirty-two. I mean to know who hanged him by the neck—and why.” He rose to his feet.

James rose also, still courteous. He held out his hand.

“I wish you good fortune, Mr. Pitt. I look forward to hearing of your success. Good day to you.”

“Just one other thing.” Pitt hesitated. “Godman was severely beaten while he was in custody. Do you know how that happened?”

A spasm of acute distaste passed over James’s features.

“He said that one of the police beat him,” he replied. “I have no proof whatsoever, but I believed him.”

“I see.”

“Do you.” It was a challenge, and there was definite anger in it. “I did not mention it at the time because I could not prove it, and it would only have alienated the jury even further that he seemed to be maligning the forces of order, and thus indirectly the public in general. Besides which, it was irrelevant to the fact.” There were two spots of pink in James’s cheeks. “It would not have altered the verdict.”

“I know that,” Pitt said honestly. “I just wanted to know, for myself. It explains a little of Paterson’s attitude.”

“It was Paterson?” James demanded.

“I think so.”

“How very ugly. I presume you have automatically thought of revenge?”

“Not Tamar Macaulay. Not the way Paterson was killed. It had to have been a man of considerable strength.”

“With Fielding’s help? No? Well, it is a possibility you must consider. Thank you for your candor, Inspector Pitt. Good day to you.”

“Good day, Mr. James.”

Pitt reported to Micah Drummond, not because he expected any comment from him, and certainly not any specific help, but because his duty required it.

“Whatever you think appropriate,” Drummond said absently, staring at the rain lashing against the window. “Is Lambert being difficult?”

“No,” Pitt replied honestly. “The poor devil was extremely shaken by Paterson’s death.”

“It is a dreadful thing to have a junior killed,” Drummond said with tight lips. “That is an experience you have not yet faced, Pitt. If you do, you will have more sympathy for Lambert, I promise you.” He kept his face to the streaming glass. “You will feel just the same grief, self-doubt, even guilt. You will reexamine everything you said or did to find some fault in your orders, some oversight, anything that you could have done differently, and avoided it. You will lie awake and agonize, feel sick about it, even wonder if you are fit to have command.”

“I don’t have command,” Pitt said with a thin smile, not because he cared about it but because he could hear the weariness in Drummond’s voice, and the knowledge of Lambert’s pain.

“What did the medical examiner say?” Drummond asked. “Hanging, just as it seemed?”

“Yes,” Pitt replied carefully. “That’s all, just hanging. That is what killed him.”

Drummond turned around at last, frowning. “What do you mean, just hanging? That’s enough to kill anyone. What more did you expect?”

“Poison, strangling, a blow to the head …”

“Whatever for, for heaven’s sake? You hardly need to poison a man and then hang him.”

“Would you stand still while someone put a noose around your neck, threw it over the chandelier hook and hauled you up by it?” Pitt asked.

Several expressions flashed across Drummond’s face: comprehension, anger, impatience with himself, and then curiosity.

“Binding on his wrists?” he asked. “Ankles?”

“No—nothing. It requires some explanation, doesn’t it?”

Drummond’s frown deepened. “Where are you going next? You had better do something. I’ve had the assistant commissioner down here again. Nobody wants this thing dragged on any longer.”

“You mean they don’t want the Farriers’ Lane case opened up any further,” Pitt said bitterly.

Drummond’s face tightened. “Of course not. It’s extremely sensitive.”

“I’ll follow Paterson’s last few days, from the time I spoke to him until he died,” Pitt answered the urgent question.

“Let me know what you find.”

“Yes sir, of course.”

Lambert was little use. As Drummond had expected, he was still deeply shocked at the death in such a manner of one of his own men. He had questioned everyone in the lodging house, everyone in the street, all the men who had worked with Paterson or known him personally. He was no nearer finding who killed him.

But he did report to Pitt the record of Paterson’s police duties for the last week of his life, and after tedious piecing together of testimony, times, places, Pitt realized there were considerable gaps in the account of his days when no one knew where he had been.

Pitt guessed he had gone to retrace his entire original investigation of the Farriers’ Lane murder.

He began his own pursuit of Paterson by going back to the theater doorman. It was curiously dead at this time of the day; no color, only the gray daylight, no laughter and the shiver of expectancy before a performance, no actors or musicians entertaining the crowds, just women with mops sitting on the steps with the dregs of a cup of tea, reading the leaves.

Pitt found Wimbush in his small room just inside the stage door entrance.

“Yes sir. Mr. Paterson came back again.” Wimbush screwed up his eyes in thought. “That’d be about six days ago, or maybe five.”

“What did he say to you?”

“All about the murder o’ Mr. Blaine, sir. Jus’ like you did. An’ I told ’im just the same as I told you.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothin’. ’e just thanked me, and then went orf.”

“Where to, do you know?”

“No sir, ’e din’t say.”

But Pitt did not need the doorman to tell him. He spoke to Tamar Macaulay’s dresser, who told him the same. Paterson had seen her, and asked all the old questions. She had given him the same replies.

Pitt left the theater and turned north, towards Farriers’ Lane. It was late afternoon on a cold, gray day with the pavements gleaming wet from the rain and the wind chasing rubbish along the gutters.

He passed beggars, street traders, peddlers and those with nothing to do but stand around huddled against the cold, looking for a place to shelter for the night, doorways to sleep in. A brazier with a one-armed man selling roasted chestnuts was a welcome glow in the gloom, and a small island of warmth. There were a dozen men standing around it.

It reminded Pitt of the men who had been idling near Farriers’ Lane on the night Kingsley Blaine was murdered. He knew their names. They were there on the original records he had read in the beginning. He had read it again, to remind himself.

There was little chance of finding any of them now. They could have moved to other areas, found a better way of life, or a worse one. They could be ill, or dead, or in prison. Mortality was high, and five years a long time.

Had Paterson bothered to look for them? Or for the urchin, Joe Slater?

Surely he would have gone to the flower seller first? If she was still there.

And yet as he was within a few hundred yards, Pitt found himself drawn to Farriers’ Lane.

He quickened his pace, striding over the wet cobbles with urgency, as though he might miss something if he hesitated. He turned the last corner and saw ahead of him, far on the left side, the narrow opening of Farriers’ Lane, a black slit in the wall. He slowed his step. He wanted to see it, and at the same time it repelled him. His stomach clenched, his feet were numb.

He stopped opposite it. As Paterson had said, the street lamp was about twenty yards away. The wind was whining in the eaves of the roofs above him and rattling an old newspaper along the road. The half-light was dimming and the gas in the lamps had already been lit. Still Farriers’ Lane was a dark gulf, impenetrable.

He stood roughly where the idlers had been that night and stared across the street. He could have seen a figure quite clearly, the darkness of a man walking would have been unmistakable. But unless he had stopped and faced him, under the light, he could not have seen his face.

He stepped out across the street and with faster beating pulse and a catch in his throat, went into Farriers’ Lane.

It was narrow, smooth underfoot, but he could see almost nothing ahead of him except the outline of the last wall before the stable yard. There must be a light there; its glow was unmistakable even from the first yard or two. He imagined Kingsley Blaine having come this way as a shortcut to the club where he expected to meet Devlin O’Neil. Had he even thought of anyone as he stepped out of the uncertain light of the street into the shadows of the lane? Had the attack come as a complete surprise?

Pitt’s footsteps rang on the stones, urgent, sharp with fear. The mist caught in his throat and his breath was uneven. He could see the lamp on the wall now illuminating the yard ahead of him. It had been a smithy. Now it was a brickyard. He walked out into it, slowly, trying to imagine what it had been like that night. What had Kingsley Blaine seen? Who had been waiting there for him? Aaron Godman, the slender, mercurial actor dressed for the theater, a white silk scarf gleaming in the stable lamp, a long pointed nail in his hand? Or a dagger which no one had ever found? Surely that hardly mattered? It would be easy enough to lose such a thing, wouldn’t it? Of course the police had searched and found nothing. All it needed was a drain.

Or had it been someone else? Joshua Fielding? Even Tamar herself—helping, urging him on.

That was a hideous thought and without knowing why he thrust it away from him.

He stood still, staring around him. That must be the old stable over to the left. Half a dozen boxes. One door was different from the others, newer.

He felt a little sick, the sweat cold on his body.

He turned and went back into the darkness of the alley, almost at a run. He burst out into the street again breathlessly, his heart beating in his throat, then stopped abruptly and stood for a minute. Then he walked on back towards Soho Square where the flower seller had her position.

He was traveling so rapidly now he bumped into people as he passed, his feet clattering on the pavement, his breath rasping.

The flower seller was there, a short, fat woman wrapped in a rust brown shawl. Automatically she pushed forward a bunch of mixed flowers and went into her singsong patter.

“Fresh flowers, mister? Buy a posy o’ fresh flowers fer yer lady, sir? Picked today. Look, still fresh. Smell the country air in ’em, sir.”

Pitt fished in his pocket and took out a threepenny piece.

“Yes, please.”

She did not ask if he wanted change, she simply clasped the coin and gave him two bunches of flowers, her face lighting up with relief. It was getting colder with the darkness and it seemed she had had a poor day.

“Been here long?” Pitt asked.

“Since six this morning, sir,” she replied with a frown.

A couple passed by on the way to a party, her long skirts wet from the pavement, his silk hat gleaming.

“I mean have you had this place for many years?” Pitt asked the flower seller.

“Oh. Yeah, ’bout fourteen.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Then it was you who saw Aaron Godman after the Farriers’ Lane murder?”

Somewhere over the far side of the square a horse squealed and a coachman swore.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but what’s that ter you?” she asked, squinting narrowly at him.

“Did you already know Mr. Godman?”

“I seen ’is picsher.”

“What was he wearing that night, do you remember?”

“Coat, o’ course, that time o’ night. What else would ’e be wearin’?”

“Top hat? White silk scarf?”

“Go on wi’ yer! ’e were an actor, not a toff—poor devil.”

“You sound sorry for him.”

“Wot if I were? That bastard Blaine did ’is sister up proper, poor bitch. ’Anged the poor soul anyway.”

“Was he wearing a white scarf?”

“I already told yer, ’e were dressed for workin’!”

“No scarf. Are you sure?”

“Yeah! ’Ow many times do I ’ave ter tell yer? No scarf!”

“Have you seen Constable Paterson lately?”

“An’ if I ’ave?”

Pitt reached into his pocket and produced a sixpence. “I’ll have some more flowers.”

Wordlessly she took the sixpence and handed him four bunches. He had to put them half in his left-hand pocket to hold them all. A couple of gentlemen in evening dress passed him, top hats gleaming, and looked at him with amusement.

“Have you seen Paterson in the last few days?” he said again.

“Yeah. ’e came ’ere day afore yesterday,” she replied. “Asked me all the same questions again, ’e did. An’ I answered ’em the same. Then the clock struck.” She jerked her head backwards towards the building behind her. “An’ ’e asked me about that.”

“What about it? Wasn’t that the clock that told you he was here at a quarter to one?”

“That’s what Mr. Paterson said to me. ’e were positive it were. Couldn’t shake ’im. In the end I could see as it must ’ave bin. But first off I said as it were quarter past midnight, as that’s wot I thought it were! Yer see …” She squinted at him, making sure he was giving her his full attention. “Yer see, it’s a funny kind o’ clock, that. It don’t ring once fer the quarter past, twice fer the ’alf, an’ then three times for the quarter to, like most, but only once at the quarter to as well. ’e said it must ’a bin quarter past, cos of ’ow much I’d sold. But I first thought it were quarter to one, cos w’en that clock’s bin cleaned, like it ’as now, it rings funny. Makes a kind o’ whirring sound on the quarter to. Didn’t do it that night.” She opened her eyes very wide and suddenly frightened. “That means it were a quarter past midnight, don’t it?”

“Yes …” Pitt said very slowly, a strange almost choking feeling welling up inside him, excitement, horror and amazement at once. “Yes, it does mean that, if you are sure. Quite sure? Did you see him take the hansom?”

“Yeah—from that corner there.” She pointed.

“You sure?”

“ ’Course I’m sure! I told Mr. Paterson that an’ ’e looked sick. I thought ’e were goin’ ter pass right out in front o’ me. Poor bastard looked fit to drop dead ’isself.”

“Yes.” Pitt took out the rest of the change from his pocket and offered it to her, about two shillings and nine-pence halfpenny.

She stared at it incredulously, then put out her hand and grabbed it, pushing it deep into her pocket, holding her hand there.

“Yes, he would,” Pitt said quietly. “If Aaron Godman bought flowers from you at quarter past midnight, and took a hansom cab straight home to Pimlico, then he could not have been the one who murdered Kingsley Blaine in Farriers’ Lane at half past.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head fractionally. “Come ter that, I don’t suppose ’e could, poor little swine! Still, ’e’s ’anged now—can’t bring ’im back. God rest ’im.”