Farriers' Lane

11

“HARRIMORE?” Drummond said incredulously. “That doesn’t make any sense, Pitt! For heaven’s sake, why?” He stood in front of the bookcase in his office. The fire was burning strongly, its warmth spreading through the room. “He may have discovered that Blaine was deceiving his daughter, but no sane man murders over something like that! He could have stopped him easily enough, if he had just confronted him with it! After all, Blaine was dependent on him for his livelihood.” He looked at Pitt sharply. “And don’t tell me he confronted Blaine in the smithy’s yard in Farriers’ Lane and they fought over it. That’s rubbish. He could have faced him with it quite comfortably in his own home. The man lived in his house. He didn’t need to rig up an elaborate charade to get Blaine to Farriers’ Lane in the middle of the night. And you’ll have to do better than tell me Prosper Harrimore is insane. He’s a thoroughly well thought of member of the business community, at least as respectable as anyone in trade can be.”

Pitt smiled very slightly. “You’ve answered all the arguments I haven’t made,” he replied.

“What?” Drummond frowned. He was sharper tempered and slower of perception than usual. Pitt knew his heart was no longer in the pursuit.

“I said that you have answered all the reasons I did not give,” he repeated.

“Oh. So what reason do you believe Harrimore had for murdering his son-in-law? How did you come to the conclusion anyway? You haven’t told me that.”

Pitt bit his lip and felt abashed.

“That is less easy. Actually Charlotte came to the conclusion.” He looked at Drummond quickly, but did not see the impatience he expected. He drew breath and plunged on. “She had cultivated the acquaintance of Adah Harrimore, Prosper’s mother, and spent some time in conversation with her. We knew she had very deep feelings against Jews, but I assumed it dated from her belief that a Jew murdered her granddaughter’s husband in a particularly brutal and offensive way.” He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, a comfort he would not have felt possible in front of any other superior.

“A great many people felt the same who didn’t even know him. But it seems her anti-Jewish feeling dates from long before that; in fact it has been there probably from childhood. She believes Jews are unclean, that they are responsible for the crucifixion of Christ.”

“They are,” Drummond exclaimed, his eyes troubled.

“Of course they are,” Pitt retorted exasperatedly. “Almost everyone in the entire story, good, bad and indifferent, including Christ Himself, was Jewish! So were Mary, and Mary Magdalene, and the apostles. All the Old Testament prophets as well.”

“I suppose so.” Drummond frowned as if the thought were new to him. “But what has that to do with Adah Harrimore, and still less to do with Prosper?”

“She subscribes to the view, held by several people,” Pitt explained with embarrassment, “especially prize stock breeders—I came across this when I was growing up in the country—if a good bitch gets out and gets with pup to a mongrel—”

“Pitt! For God’s sake, man,” Drummond exploded. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“That the bitch is ruined,” Pitt finished. “All her litters after that will be contaminated.”

“I suppose you know what you are talking about.”

“Yes. Adah Harrimore believed that a woman who had sexual congress with a Jew was contaminated ever after. Any further children would be damaged.”

“Why should that explain Prosper Harrimore murdering Kingsley Blaine?” Drummond said impatiently.

“Because Adah’s husband betrayed her with a Jewess while she was carrying Prosper—and he was born with a deformed leg and foot,” Pitt said wearily. “She believes it was a direct result of the connection with Jews. She taught Prosper that. He blames his deformity on his father’s acts. When he saw that Kingsley Blaine was about to betray his daughter—also with child—in exactly the same way, he took violent, passionate steps to prevent it, before his grandchild was deformed, and his daughter defiled for all future children.”

“Good God!” Drummond shook his head a little. “I didn’t know that. Is there any truth in it? Can breeding stock be—be spoiled like that?”

“No,” Pitt said furiously. “It’s vicious and superstitious rubbish. But there are ignorant people who believe it, and the Harrimores are among them. Old Adah actually said so to Charlotte.”

Drummond was abashed that he had credited it, even for a moment. There was a pink flush up his cheeks.

“She admitted it?” he said with surprise.

“She admitted that Jews were unclean, in her estimation,” Pitt answered. “And that was the cause of Prosper’s deformity.”

Drummond sighed. “But you have no proof, have you?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Well, you’d better see if you can get it. I think I’ll refrain from telling anyone about Aaron Godman until we have something conclusive.”

“I’ll do what I can. I’ll go back to the theater doorman and see if he can remember anything more clearly.” He walked over to the door and was about to open it when Drummond spoke again.

“Pitt.”

Pitt turned. “Yes sir?”

“When the case is closed I am going to resign. I have already told the assistant commissioner. I am recommending you to take my place. Before you argue, it will not be entirely a desk job. You can govern for yourself a great deal of what you do.” He smiled very slightly, but there was affection in it, and respect. “You won’t have anyone to rely on as I have on you. You will need to do a lot of the investigation of more serious cases yourself, particularly the politically sensitive ones. Don’t refuse without thinking about it very carefully.”

Pitt swallowed hard. He should not have been surprised, but he was. He had thought Drummond’s mood would pass, but now he realized it had to do with Eleanor Byam, and was final.

“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly. “I shall miss you deeply.”

“Thank you, Pitt.” Drummond looked embarrassed, and pleased, and vulnerable. “I daresay I shall see you from time to time. I …” He stopped, uncertain how to continue.

Pitt smiled. “Yes sir.” He met Drummond’s eyes and knew that Drummond understood, and it was better unsaid. “I’ll go and see the doorman.”

Micah Drummond felt immensely relieved, almost light-headed, now that he had not only made the decision but also committed himself to it. He had told Pitt. There was no honorable way he could go back on it. It would not matter financially. He would have less money, of course, because he would lose his police salary. To Pitt it would be a vast improvement, but to Drummond the salary had always been pleasant but in no way necessary. He had inherited considerable means and come into the position as a gentleman—not promoted from the ranks, but appointed because of his military experience, his administrative ability, and precisely because he was a gentleman, reliable, commanding men easily, and one of the same class and nature as those who chose him.

Pitt would be an entirely different matter, but he knew from previous delicate conversations that there were those in power in the Home Office who would approve his appointment.

There would also be those who would disapprove, who would resent and distrust a man who was of working-class origins, no matter how well he spoke. He could never be one of them; that was something to which you had to be born. But it was time that men in charge of the solving of major crimes were professionals, not distinguished amateurs, no matter how respected or agreeable.

Within fifteen minutes of Pitt leaving the office, Drummond collected his hat, coat and stick, and left also. By mid-afternoon it was accomplished. He had tendered his resignation, one month from that date, and it had been accepted with reluctance. And as had been implied to him earlier, he had been assured that Thomas Pitt would be appointed his successor. That had not come without a struggle, and a great deal more devious politicking than he had ever practiced before. But now he strode down Whitehall in the bitter wind with a spring in his step and his head high. He entered Parliament Street and hailed a cab, his voice ringing out in the sharp air almost like a challenge.

The cabby stopped. “Yes sir?”

He gave the man Eleanor Byam’s address and climbed in. He sat back with his heart beating. He was putting it to the test. If he asked her now there would be no answer but acceptance, or that she did not regard him in that way. There were no excuses left that it would cost him his position either professionally or socially. He turned it over and over in his mind as the cab rattled eastward through the traffic and he was hardly aware of his passage. He thought over every argument she might use, and how he would counter it, all the assurances he would give. All the while a small, sane part of his mind was telling him the words made no difference. Either she wished to accept him, in which case the arguments were unnecessary, or she did not, and then they were pointless. You cannot reason someone into loving.

Still the surface of his brain occupied itself with words. Perhaps it was a kind of anesthetic until he should arrive and the die was cast. Words were easier than feelings, less painful, in so many ways less real.

“ ’Ere you are, sir!” The cabby’s voice intruded and with a start he brought his attention back to the present and scrambled out.

“Thank you.” He paid the man generously, almost as a superstitious offering to fortune. And before he would have time to think, and doubt himself, he knocked on the door.

As before, it was opened by the surly maid.

“Oh—it’s you,” she said with a twist of her lip. “Well, you’d better come in, although what Mrs. Bridges’ll say I don’t know. This is a respectable ’ouse, and she don’t like her lodgers to ’ave callers in a reg’lar way. Least not as you’d say was followers, like.”

Drummond blushed. “Maids have followers,” he said tartly. “Ladies have acquaintances, or if seeking their hands in marriage, then suitors. If you wish to retain your position, I would remember the difference, and keep a civil tongue in your head!”

“Oh! Well, I—”

But she got no further. He brushed past her and went quickly down the bare corridor towards the back, and Eleanor’s rooms. Once there he knocked more loudly than he had intended, and after the briefest moment heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open and the maid saw him and her face flooded with pleasure, even relief.

“Oh sir, I’m so glad as you’ve come. I was so afraid you might not be back.”

“I promised you I would,” he said quietly, liking the woman enormously for her loyalty. “Is Mrs. Byam in?”

“Oh, yes sir. She don’t often go nowhere. In’t really nowhere to go.”

“Will you ask her if she will see me?”

She smiled, and kept up the fiction. “O’ course, sir. If you’ll wait ’ere.” There was no morning room or library, only a tiny anteroom, less than a hall, but he stood as she had requested while she disappeared, and came back only a moment later, her face full of hope.

“Yes sir, if you’ll come this way.” She took his hat, coat and stick and hung them up, then she led him again into the small sitting room full of Eleanor’s things. He did not even hear her leave.

Eleanor was standing by the window and he knew immediately she had not remained seated because she felt at a disadvantage. In some subtle way she was afraid of him.

Instead of anger he felt sympathy. He was afraid too, of the hurt she could do him if she refused.

“How nice to see you, Micah,” she said with a smile. “You look very well, in spite of the weather. Is the case progressing at last?”

“Yes,” he said with slight surprise. “Yes, it is. Pitt knows who did it, and why.”

Her dark eyebrows rose. “You mean it was not Aaron Godman?”

“No—no, it wasn’t.”

“Oh, the poor man.” Her voice dropped and her face was bleak with the pain she imagined. “How dreadful.” She looked out of the window at the wet walls of the next building. “I always thought hanging was barbaric. This makes it doubly so. How must his family feel?”

“They don’t know yet. We cannot prove who it was.” Drummond wanted to go over to her, but it was too soon. With an effort of will he remained where he was. “I am quite sure Pitt is right, or at least, I should say, Charlotte. It was she who came upon the answer. But there is no proof and, as yet, no evidence that would convince a jury.”

“But Godman is innocent?”

“Oh yes. The proof of that is quite good enough.”

She looked at him quickly. “What are you going to do?”

This time he smiled. “Very little. Pitt will do it.”

“I don’t understand. I know Pitt will do the actual questioning of people. I can recall enough to know that. But surely the decisions are yours?” A flicker of self-mocking humor passed across her face, and a host of memories.

“That depends when the solution comes, although I expect it will not take long from now. He is angry enough, and sad enough, to give it a passionate attention.”

“I still do not understand. You seem to be meaning something far more than you are saying.” There was a question in her voice and anxiety in her eyes. “Do you wish me to know, or …?” She left it unfinished.

“Yes, of course I do. I’m sorry.” It was ridiculous to be playing games with her, or with himself. He should have the courage to put it to the test. He breathed in deeply and let it out again. “I have given the commissioner my resignation, effective one month from now. And I have recommended Pitt to succeed me. I think he will do it better than anyone else. He will make mistakes, but he will also be more likely than any of the others to achieve something positive.”

She looked startled. “You have resigned! But why? I know you have lost a certain interest, but surely it will come back. You cannot just give up.”

“Yes, I can, when there are other things which are of more importance to me.”

She stood still, looking at him very gravely, the question in her eyes.

Now was the time. There was no point in trying to be indirect or to surprise her. “Eleanor, you already know that I love you, and that I wish to marry you. When I asked you before, you pointed out that it would cost me my career, and you said that that was the reason you refused. Now it no longer stands in the way. Marrying you could not harm me, it would only bring me the greatest possible happiness. You cannot refuse me now, unless it would not bring the same happiness to you—” He stopped, realizing he had said all he meant, so it would be clumsy to press too hard, to repeat.

She stood still, her face a little flushed, her eyes very solemn but a very slight smile about her mouth. For several seconds they both stood motionless. Then she held out her hand towards him, palm down, as if to take hold of his. It was an offer, and with a surge of joy he knew it. He was smiling, his heart beating in his throat. He wanted to sing, shout, but to have made a noise at all would have spoiled it. He strode forward and took her hand, pulling her very gently closer to him. Countless times he had longed to do this, imagined it, and now she was here. He could feel the warmth of her body through the fabric of her dress, smell her hair and her skin, more urgent and exciting than all the perfumes of lavender or roses.

Gently he kissed her, then more powerfully, then at last with total passion, and she answered him with a completeness he could not have dreamed.

Gracie also had made a decision. She was going to help solve this case, and she knew how; not exactly—that would have to wait until she learned a little more—but certainly she knew how she would begin, and what she intended to accomplish. She would find this wretched boy from the streets who refused to tell Pitt about the man who had given him the message for Kingsley Blaine at the theater door. From what the mistress had said, Aaron Godman, poor soul, had looked very little indeed like Mr. Prosper Harrimore. For a start, Harrimore had been twice his age, and twice his height! The boy could not be such a fool as not to have noticed such a thing, if he put his mind to thinking about it, and remembering.

It would take a little time, a day or two at least, and it would not be easy to make an excuse that would be believed. But she had been a good liar in the past and no doubt could be again, in the right cause. She had already learned the boy’s name from Pitt, and thus how to find him.

“Please, ma’am,” she said with downcast eyes, “me mam’s in a spot o’ difficulty. May I ’ave a day orf ter go an ’elp ’er? I’ll try an’ be back as soon as I can; if I can sort everythin’ terday, can I go termorrer? I’ll get up at five an’ do all the fires and the kitchen floor afore I go. An’ I’ll be back in the evenin’ ter do the veges and the dishes after dinner, an’ the beds an’ things. Please, ma’am?”

The only thing that struck guilt into her heart was the look of concern on Charlotte’s face, and the readiness with which she gave her permission. But it was a good cause. Now please heaven she could find this miserable boy and shake some sense into him!

She hurried out before any more questions could be asked, and set to her present chores with a will.

The following morning she was as good as her promise. She rose at five, stumbling in the dark and shivering with cold. She crept down the stairs to riddle the ashes in the kitchen fire, clean it out, black the grate, lay it and light it and fetch up the coal; then the parlor fireplace, black it and lay it. Next she filled the pail with water and scrubbed the kitchen table, then the floor, and by seven she had swept the parlor and passage as well and left everything ready for breakfast.

By quarter past seven, just before daylight, she let herself out of the front door before Charlotte came down to put on the kettle. Once she was out in the street, the gray dawn still lit by the yellow of the lamps, she hurried towards the main thoroughfare and the omnibus stop where she could begin her journey to Seven Dials.

She was not completely sure what she intended to do, but she had been with Charlotte more than once when she had gone detecting. It was a matter of asking the right questions of the people who knew the answers, and most important, of asking them in the right way. Which was why she was better suited to this particular task than either Charlotte herself or even Pitt. She would meet Joe Slater as an equal, and she was convinced she would understand him better. She would know if he were lying, and possibly even why.

It was a windless day, but bitterly cold. The pavements were slippery with it, and the chill ate into the bones through thin shawls and stuff dresses. Her old boots were little protection from the icy stones.

When the omnibus stopped she alighted with several others and looked around her. It was only a hundred yards to the place Pitt had mentioned, and she walked smartly. It was a narrow street and all along the left side were barrows and stalls selling small goods, mostly of fabric and leather. She knew very few of them were new; nearly all were remade from old fabric, the good parts cut out and used again. The same was true of the shoes. The leather was unpicked, recut and restitched.

Now she must begin to look for Joe Slater. Slowly, as if searching for a bargain, she moved along the lines of rickety barrows and benches made of planks of wood, or even goods set out over the stones of the curb. She did not feel the guilt that Pitt did when seeing the pinched faces, hollow, anxious eyes, thin bodies shivering in threadbare clothes. She had tasted poverty too thoroughly herself. Its familiar smells and sounds settled over her, making her wish she could turn and go back to the omnibus and leave it all behind. There was a warm kitchen at home in Bloomsbury, and hot tea at eleven o’clock, sitting with her feet by the stove, and the odor of clean wood and flour and laundry.

The first half dozen sellers were middle-aged, or women, and she kept on going, eyes averted so she did not get drawn into haggling. When she finally found a youth she looked at him carefully before speaking.

“Yer want summink, or yer just ’ere ter stare?” he demanded irritably. “Do I know yer?”

Gracie shrugged and half smiled at him. “I dunno—do yer? Wot’s yer name?”

“Sid. Wot’s yours?”

“D’yer know Joe Slater?”

“Why?”

“Cos I wanter buy summink orf ’im, o’ course,” she snapped.

“I got plenty that’s good. Want a new pair o’ boots? I got boots abaht your size,” he said hopefully.

Gracie looked at the array of boots in front of him. She would have liked a new pair. But what would Charlotte say if she wore ones like these, remade from old leather, other people’s castoffs? Maybe she wouldn’t notice. Who looked at boots under a long skirt? And all Gracie’s skirts were on the long side because she was so small.

“Mebbe …” she said thoughtfully. “ ’Ow much?”

He held up a light brown pair. “One and fivepence ha’penny, fer you.”

“One and twopence three farthings,” she said immediately. She would not have dreamed of paying the first price asked.

“One and fourpence farthing,” he replied.

“One and tuppence three farthings, or forget about it,” she said. They were very nicely shaped boots, and a good color. There was only one piece of leather on them that looked really scuffed. She made as if to turn away.

“All right! One and threepence,” he offered. “You can go a farthing.”

She fished in her large pocket and brought out her purse. She counted out two sixpences and a threepenny piece but kept them in her hand.

“Where can I find Joe Slater?”

“In’t them boots good enough for yer?”

“W’ere is ’e?” Her fingers closed over the money.

“Leather aprons, ’bout ten stalls down.” He held out his hand for the money.

She gave it to him, thanked him and took her boots.

She found Joe Slater approximately where Sid had told her. She regarded him discreetly for several minutes, judging what she would say to him, how to begin. He was a lean, scrawny youth with fair hair and careful gray eyes. She liked his face. Of course it was a swift judgment, and she was very prepared to change it if it proved necessary, but so far there was a quality in his features which pleased her.

She made up her mind. She lifted her chin, straightened her back and walked over to him, her eyes bright and very direct.

“You Joe Slater?” she asked cheerfully, her voice conveying her own certainty that he was.

“ ’Oo are you?” he said with mild suspicion. One had to be careful.

“I’m Gracie ’Awkins,” she replied with total candor. “I want ter talk to yer.”

“I’m ’ere ter sell, not talk ter bits o’ girls,” he said. But there was no abruptness in his voice, and his expression was not unpleasant.

“I in’t stoppin’ yer sellin’,” she pointed out. Now came the lie, at least the first one. “I works for a lady in the thee-ayter wot yer could ’elp, if yer cared to.”

“Wot’s in it fer me?”

“I dunno! Nuffink fer me, that’s certain. But I reckon as fer you it could be summink good. She in’t poor, and she in’t mean.”

“So why me? Wot does she want me ter do for ’er?” He screwed up his face in considerable doubt. “You ‘avin’ me on?”

“I got better things ter do wif me time than come traipsin’ down ’ere lookin’ fer someone I never ’eard of afore, just ter ’ave yer on!” She laughed sharply and with derision. “It ’as ter be you, cos yer the only one wot knows.”

“Knows wot?” In spite of himself he was interested.

“The face of a man wot killed someone. Murdered ’im pretty ’orrible, an’ got the wrong man ’anged fer it.”

His expression pinched and a closed, angry look came into his eyes.

“Yer mean ’im wot was murdered in Farriers’ Lane, don’t yer? Well, I already told the rozzers all I know an’ I in’t sayin’ no more ter no one. The rozzers send yer ’ere after me? Gawd, won’ them bastards never leave me alone?” Now there was real bitterness in him and his body was stiff, his hands clenched tight.

“Oh yeah?” she said sarcastically, angry with herself for having spoiled the mood, and with him. “I’m part o’ the rozzers, I am. I only look like this w’en I’m out on a case. Really I’m six foot ’igh and strong as an ox. A real rozzer, I just left me uniform at ’ome terday.”

“Oh, very smart tongue,” he sneered. “So you in’t a rozzer. Why d’yer want ter know about ’im, eh? It’s all over, and in’t nuffink ter me now. The bleedin’ rozzers ’ave ’ounded me like a rat ever since then. First they tried ter tell me I saw a man as I didn’t. They near broke me arms.” He hunched his shoulders experimentally to see if it still pained. “ ’Urt fer munfs after, they did. Then w’en the trial came up they ’ounded me again. I argued wif ’em an’ they told me as they’d put me in the Coldbath Fields fer thievin’.” He scowled. “D’yer know ’ow many folks dies in there o’ gaol fever? Fousands! Put me on the treadmill, one of them cockchafers—w’ere yer can’t breathe fer suffocation, and if yer don’t keep on walking them steps yer fall over, an’ the ’ole thing ’urts yer privates terrible. I in’t tell-in’ nobody nuffink about that night, not fer you nor yer lady in the thee-ayter. Now go away and bother someone else. Garn!” He flapped his hand, dismissing her, and glared out of narrow, angry eyes.

For a moment she was stumped. She did not argue; she knew enough of the police from the wrong side of the law to believe what he said. She had had uncles and a brother who had been hounded, and a distant cousin who had been sent to prison. She had seen him when he had come out, slow-witted, wasted by gaol fever, his joints aching, his walk shambling and uncertain from the agony of the cockchafer.

“Gam,” he said again, more sharply. “I can’t tell yer nuffink!”

She stepped back a bit, disconcerted, but not defeated, not yet.

A customer came and haggled for several minutes before finally buying an apron, then another one came, argued, and bought nothing. For over an hour Gracie stood and watched, getting colder and colder, her hands becoming stiff holding the new boots.

Joe left and went to a barrow on the next street to get himself an eel pie. Gracie followed him, and bought herself one as well. It was hot and tasted delicious.

“There in’t no use yer followin’ me,” Joe said when he saw her. “I in’t tellin yer nuffink! Nor I certainly in’t goin’ ter no rozzers.” He sighed, licking the juice off his lips. “Listen, yer stupid lump! The rozzers swear they got the right geezer. They ’ad ’im arrested and tried! The toffs were ’appy wif it! They argued ’round an’ ’round, like they always do. They said ’e were guilty, they’d done right ter nab ’im, and they ’anged the poor swine.” He took another bite of his pie and went on with his mouth full. “If yer think they’re goin’ ter say now as they was wrong, on the word o’ some nobody orf the street, then yer daft enough fer Bedlam, an that’s a fact.” He swallowed. “Yer mistress is dreamin’ an she’ll only ’urt ’erself, an’ you too, if you’ve got no more sense than to listen to ’er.”

“It weren’t ’im wot done it,” Gracie began.

“ ’Oo cares?” he cut across her angrily. “Listen, you idjut! It don’t matter ’oo done it. Wot matters now is ’oo’s made ter look bad cos they ’anged the wrong bloke. They in’t goin’ ter say as they did that—no matter wot.” He jerked his hand in the air with his pie in it. “Think abaht it, if yer’ve got anyfink in yer ’ead at all besides sawdust. Which o’ them toffs is goin’ ter say as they ’anged the wrong bloke? None o’ them—and yer can lay money on that.”

“They won’t ’ave no choice,” she said fiercely, biting into her own pie. “The p’lice already knows as it weren’t the man they ’anged. They’ve got proof. An’ they know ’oo it were—they just can’t get proof o’ that neither.”

“I don’t believe yer.”

“I don’t tell lies,” Gracie said furiously, filled with indignation because this was not a lie but the absolute truth. “An’ yer got no right to say as I do. Yer just ’aven’t got the guts ter stand up to ’em and say wot yer know.” She tried to fill her expression with utmost contempt, but having her mouth half full got in her way.

“Yer damn’ right I in’t,” he agreed. “An’ fer why? Because it won’t do no good. Now you go back ter yer mistress and tell ’er ter ferget it. Garn!”

“I in’t goin’ nowhere till yer come an’ look at this geezer wot really done it.” She took another huge bite of her pie. “An’ then yer say as if it were ’im wot spoke to yer outside the thee-ayter. An’ we should find them geezers wot was ’anging ’round the end o’ Farriers’ Lane that night, an’ find out wot they really saw, not wot the rozzers told ’em they saw.”

“Wotcher mean ‘we’?” His voice rose to a squeak. “I in’t goin’ anywhere. I ’ad more’n enough o’ the rozzers w’en the murder ’appened—I don’t need ter go lookin’ fer ’em now.”

“O’ course you as well,” Gracie said exasperatedly, swallowing the bite of pie. “In’t no point me goin’ by meself. I weren’t there. I din’t see ’im.”

“Well, I in’t goin’.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“The geezer wot really done it is still out there,” she protested.

“Don’t matter ter me. Now go away an’ leave me alone, won’t yer?”

“No. I in’t goin’ ter leave yer till yer come wif me an’ ’ave a real look at this geezer, an’ say if ’e were the one or not.”

“Yer can’t foller me ’round!”

“I can.”

“Look.” He was exasperated. “I can’t do nuffink fer yer. An’ I go places as it in’t right for yer to come. Nah go away!”

“I in’t goin’ till yer comes an’ ’as a look at this geezer.”

“Well, yer goin’ ter wait a long time.” And with that he turned his back and began talking to a potential customer, making a considerable show of ignoring Gracie.

Gracie followed him back to his stall, and then stood clasping her coat closer around her and waited, watching. It was cold and her feet were so chilled she had lost feeling in them. But she was certainly not going to give up, if she had to follow him until he went to bed.

Late in the afternoon Joe tidied his stall and locked his few goods away for the night, then left. Gracie came to attention and followed after him. Twice he turned around, caught sight of her, and glared, at the same time waving his hand to shoo her away. She made a face back at him and continued to follow.

He went into a public house and pushed his way to the counter, and she went in after him, wriggling and following through people to find a place beside him, luxuriating in the warmth after the biting cold outside.

“Go away,” Joe said furiously, glaring at her.

Half a dozen people turned to look at him, then at Gracie.

“Not till yer come an’ look at the bloke wot did it,” she replied stubbornly, sniffing as the sudden warmth made her nose run.

“Don’t yer never give up?” he whispered. “I told yer—they won’t believe me, whatever I say. I’d be wastin’ me time. Don’t yer ’ave no wits at all?”

She did not bother to argue her intelligence.

“You just come an’ look at this bloke. If it were ’im, they’ll believe yer.”

“Yeah? Why’s that then?” Skepticism was deep in his thin face.

She was not going to tell him Pitt knew Harrimore was guilty. He might not understand the necessity for proof. Nor could she easily explain how she knew such a thing.

“I can’t explain everything to yer.” She sniffed again.

“Yer don’t know.”

“Yes, I do so. An’ I’m still goin’ ter foller yer till yer ’ave a real look at ’im. The rozzers won’t bovver yer, if that’s wot yer scared of.”

“Don’t yer talk down ter me like that, yer miserable little article,” he said furiously. “Yer’d be scared too, if’n yer ’ad two wits to rub tergether. You any idea wot them rozzers can do, if they takes a real nasty to yer? And they do, if yer says as their evidence in’t no good. Ask me—I know!”

“You don’t ’ave ter tell the rozzers, not ter begin wif,” she said triumphantly. “Jus’ come and look at ’im, and tell me.” He turned away and she pulled at his sleeve. “An’ I swear I’ll leave yer alone. If’n yer don’t, I’ll come wif yer everyw’ere.”

“No rozzers?” he said warily.

“I swear it.”

“Then I’ll meet yer ’ere at six, and we’ll go an’ look at ’im. Now leave me alone to ’ave a pint in peace.”

“I’ll wait outside for yer.” She sniffed again.

“Gawd, woman. I said I’ll come.”

“Yeah—and mebbe I believe yer, an’ mebbe I don’t.”

“Go on outside then. And stop sniffing!”

As a show of goodwill Gracie withdrew reluctantly out into the biting cold again. She waited patiently in the dark and the slow drizzle, watching carefully in case he should try to slip out past her.

But half an hour later she saw his thin form and pale face with a surge of relief as if he had been a long-standing friend. She darted forward, nearly slipping on the slick stones and finding her feet were totally numb. She was cold to the bone.

“Yer ready now, then?” she said eagerly.

He looked at her sideways with disgust, and she knew with a funny little sinking inside her that he had hoped she had given up and gone. She grunted with determination, and a full intention of showing how she did not care. This was entirely a matter of business. Who cared what he thought of her?

Wordlessly they walked side by side along the narrow footpath, freezing paving stones gleaming under the lamps as they passed from one pool of light to another. Dim halos of rain ringed each one, and beside them in the street wheels splashed and hissed on the wet road. Carriages loomed out of the darkness and disappeared into it again.

“Can’t yer keep up?” Joe demanded, then immediately gripped her hand and held it hard, keeping her close to him as they passed groups of people, some huddled around braziers of hot chestnuts or other food, others pressing into the half shelter of doorways.

“We gotter get an omnibus,” Gracie said breathlessly. “It’s up west. ’e’s a toff.”

“W’ere west?” he demanded.

“Chelsea—Markham Square.”

“Then we’ll go on the train,” he replied.

“Wot train?”

“The underground train. Ter Sloane Square. In’t yer never bin on the underground train?”

“I never ’eard of it.” Then she realized how ignorant that made her sound. “Me mistress goes by ’ansom, or in someone’s carriage,” she added. “We don’t ’ave no need o’ trains unless we’re goin’ away.”

“In’t you grand,” he said sarcastically. “Well, if yer got money fer an ’ansom I’ll be very ’appy ter ride wif yer.”

“Don’ be daft.” She dismissed the suggestion with equal scorn. “So we’ll go in the train. ’Ow much?”

“Depends ’ow far we go—but not much. Penny or so,” he replied. “Now save yer breath an’ keep up wif me.”

She trotted along beside him for what seemed like miles, carrying her new boots under her arm, but it was probably not much more than a mile and a half. Then they went down flights of steps into a cavernous railway station where the trains ran like moles through tunnels, roaring and clanking in a manner which would have terrified her if she had had time to think about it, and not been far too excited, and too determined to match Joe for wits, courage and any other quality he cared to think of.

She did not like the sensation of sitting in a carriage as it hurtled through a tunnel, and had to concentrate very hard on thinking of something else, or she might have shrieked as she was bumped from side to side, knowing how far she was from daylight and fresh air. She looked sideways at Joe once or twice, and found he was looking at her, so she turned away again quickly. But her heart was thumping with pleasure, and the fear did not matter so much.

At last they came out at Sloane Square station and set out to walk again, this time according to Gracie’s instructions, until in a fine, cold rain they came to Markham Square and stopped under the trees at the far side of Prosper Harrimore’s house.

“All right, then,” Joe said with exaggerated patience. “Now wot? Wot if ’e don’t come out again ternight? W’y should ’e? Only fools and them as ’as no ’omes comes out an’ stands in the rain.”

Gracie had already thought of that. “So we gotta get ’im out, ain’t we?”

“Oh yeah? An’ ’ow yer goin’ ter do that?”

“I’m goin’ ter knock on the door.”

“An’ o’ course ’e’s goin’ ter answer it ’isself—’is footmen ’ave all got the night off,” he said wearily. “Yer the daftest woman I ever met, an’ that’s say in’ a lot w’ere I come from.”

“Yeah, well I don’t come from w’ere you come from,” she said quickly, although it was probably not true. “You jus’ watch ’im.” And with that she marched across the street, boots under her arm, and up the steps of the Harrimore house and knocked on the door.

She did not really know much about the houses of the well-to-do, only the little bits she had overheard from Charlotte, and what she had gathered from her newfound art of reading. However, she had fully expected the door to be opened by a footman, so she was not taken by surprise when it was.

“Yes, miss?” he said, eyeing her with disgust. He was about to suggest she go to the servants’ entrance, thinking her a relative of one of the maids, although even they should not have received callers at this hour. When she spoke, her words came out in a rush, her heart beating so it nearly choked her.

“Please, sir, I got a message for Mr. ’Arrimore, personal like, an’ I darsen’t give it ter no one else.”

“Mr. Harrimore does not take messages from the likes of you,” the footman said stiffly. “If you give it to me, I’ll tell him.”

“That in’t no good,” she said quickly, shifting the boots around to hold them more firmly. “I were told special, no one but Mr. ’Arrimore ’isself. I’ll wait ’ere, an’ you go an’ tell ’im as it’s ter do wif a lad ’e met outside a thee-ayter, five year ago, an’ give a message ter. You tell ’im that, an’ ’e’ll come ter see me.”

“Nonsense! Be off with you, girl.”

She remained where she was.

“You go an’ tell ’im that—then I’ll go.”

“You go now!” He waved his hand briskly. “Or I’ll send for the police. Come ’ere botherin’ decent folk with your tales and messages!” He made as if to close the door.

“You don’t want the police ’ere,” she said with desperation. “That family’s ’ad enough o’ police an’ tragedy. You jus’ go an’ give ’im that message. It ain’t yer place ter decide for ’im ’oo ’e sees an’ ’oo ’e don’t. Or do yer think yer ’is keeper?”

It may have been her argument, or it may have been only the force of her personality and the determined look in her small, fierce face, but the footman decided against debating any further on the step, closed the door firmly and took the message inside.

Gracie waited, swallowing on a dry mouth, body shaking with cold and with tension. She held the boots in her arm; her hands were too cold to feel. Only once did she turn around to make sure Joe was still there on the opposite side of the street, well in the shadows, but peering towards Harrimore’s door.

It was several moments before at last it opened and a very large man stood staring at Gracie. He seemed to tower over her and to fill the entire doorway. His hatchet nose and sweeping brow were highly unusual, his deep-set eyes angry and full of surprise.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “I’ve never seen you before, and I don’t know what you are talking about a thee-ayter. Who put you up to this?”

Gracie backed away a step, thoroughly frightened.

He frowned, and came farther out of the doorway towards her.

She backed again and slipped on the wet marble, slithering backwards onto the pavement, and the only reason she did not fall flat on her back was that Joe had crept across the street and was there to catch her.

Harrimore stood transfixed, his face blank with dawning horror.

“Sorry, mister,” Joe said, staring up at Harrimore, his eyes devouring his features, his own face white. He gulped, his voice cracking. “She’s a bit touched, like,” he blurted. “She can’t ’elp it. I’ll take ’er ’orne. Good night, mister.” And before Harrimore could stop him he grabbed Gracie’s arm and dragged her away, plunging off the curb, running across the street and into the shadow of the alley on the far side. He stopped and swung her around, still holding her hand.

“That’s ’im,” he said between gasps. “That’s the geezer wot give me the message fer Mr. Blaine that night. Geez! ’e must ‘a’ bin the one wot killed ’im, and nailed ’im up like a cross. Gawd Almighty, wot are we goin’ ter do?”

“Tell the p’lice!” Her heart was racing, bumping inside her so hard she could scarcely get the words out. She had succeeded! She had detected a murderer!

“Don’ be daft,” Joe said furiously. “They didn’t believe me before, they in’t goin’ ter now, five years after, w’en they already ’anged the other poor sod.”

“There’s a new rozzer on it now, cos o’ Judge Stafford bein’ poisoned,” she argued, clinging onto the boots. “ ’E’ll believe yer, cos ’e already knows it weren’t Godman wot done it.”

“Yeah? An’ ’ow do you know that?”

“Cos I do.” She was not yet ready to admit to lying about who she worked for.

Suddenly he stiffened, his body rigid, shaking, and she could feel his terror like a charge of electricity. She swung around and saw the huge shadow of Prosper Harrimore outlined against the yellow haze of the street lamps. She could feel the breath strangle in her throat and her knees so weak she nearly crumpled where she stood.

With a cry Joe yanked her around so hard it wrenched her shoulder, and she almost dropped the boots. He started to run, half dragging her after him, the heavy, uneven steps of Prosper following close.

They ran down the alley to the far end, swinging around the corner into the lighted footpath again, Gracie clasping her long skirts to keep from tripping, then across the empty street and into the opposite alley, ducked into a dark areaway and crouched down beside the steps like two frightened animals, hearts thumping, blood pounding, faces and hands ice cold.

They dared not move at all, certainly not raise their heads to look, but they heard Prosper’s heavy, bumping tread pass along the pavement above them, then stop.

Joe put his hand over Gracie’s, holding her so hard had she not been numb with cold it would have hurt.

Slowly Prosper’s footsteps moved on, stopped again, then receded a little way into the distance.

Wordlessly Joe climbed to his feet, pulling her after him, and went back up the steps, looking from right to left all the time. Prosper was standing about a hundred yards away, turning slowly.

“Come on,” Joe whispered, and set off running along the pavement in the other direction.

But Prosper had heard them and swung around. He could run surprisingly swiftly for a man with such a limp.

They passed the next alley, but went down the one after, dodging rubbish bins, tripping over an old barrow and scrambling up again, out into the street beyond, and then back into a mews, past stables where a single light cast a yellow pool. Startled horses whinnied and snorted.

Gracie and Joe scrambled over a gate, Gracie tripping on the top, banging her legs and getting tied up in her long, wet skirts. Joe half dragged her through a garden, tripping over plants and borders, fighting their way through bushes, branches snapping back in their faces, only just avoiding thick, prickly holly. Gracie still clung to her boots. They ran over a gravel drive which sounded like an avalanche of rocks to their pounding hearts.

Joe stopped suddenly, holding Gracie close to him, but their own breathing was too loud for them to know whether they could hear Prosper’s footsteps behind them or not.

“People,” Gracie gasped. “If we could find a street wif people we’d be safe. ’e wouldn’t dare do nuffink to us in front o’ people.”

“Yeah ’e would,” Joe said bitterly. “ ’E’d yell “Thief!’ an’ tell everyone we’d nicked ’is watch or summink, an’ they’d ’elp ’im.”

She knew immediately that was true.

“C’mon,” he said urgently. “We gotta go east. If we get inter our own patch ’e’ll never find us.” And he set off again, this time walking rapidly with Gracie, breathless, running every now and then to keep up, still clutching her boots under her arm and her skirt bunched up to keep from falling over it. By the time they were back in the street, they realized they had left Prosper behind.

“Bloomsbury,” she said when she could catch her breath. “We gotter get ter Bloomsbury, then we’ll be safe.”

“Why?”

“That’s w’ere me master lives. ’e’ll fix it,” she gasped.

“Yer said before as it were yer mistress.”

“So it is—but the master’s the one ter take care o’ Mr. ’Arrimore. C’mon. Don’t argue wif me. We gotter get an omnibus ter Bloomsbury!”

“Yer got money?” he demanded, stopping and glaring backwards over his shoulder.

“Course I ’ave. An’ I can’t run no further.”

“Never mind, yer won’t ’ave ter,” he said softly. “Yer not bad, fer a girl. C’mon. We’ll get an omnibus at the next place fer stoppin’ one.”

She gave him a huge smile, overwhelmed with relief.

Without warning he leaned forward and kissed her. His lips were cold, but he was very gentle and after a moment the warmth came through with a sweetness that ran inside her like singing and fire, and she kissed him back, dropping the boots on the pavement.

Then suddenly he drew away, blushing furiously, and stalked off, leaving her to pick up the boots and run behind him. She caught up at the corner of the thoroughfare where the omnibuses ran past.

Half an hour later they stood in Charlotte’s kitchen, shivering cold, wet through, scratched, dirty, clothes torn, but safe.

Joe was appalled when he recognized Pitt and realized he was right in the camp of the enemy, but it was too late to retreat, and the blessed warmth removed the last of his instinctive horror.

“Where in the name of heaven have you been?” Charlotte demanded furiously, her voice thick with fear and relief. “I was worried sick about you!”

Pitt put his hand on her shoulder and the pressure of it silenced her.

“What happened, Gracie?” he asked levelly, standing in front of her. “What have you been doing?”

Gracie took a deep breath and looked directly at him. She was overwhelmingly relieved to be safe, she was in awe of Pitt, she knew she would have to face Charlotte some time, and she was also proud of herself.

“Joe and me went to see Mr. ’Arrimore, as killed poor Mr. Blaine, sir. And Joe took a real good look at ’im, an’ ’e knows it were ’im that night, sir, and ’e’ll swear to it in court.”

Joe opened his mouth to argue, then regarded Gracie’s determined little figure and thought better of it.

Pitt looked at him enquiringly. “Is that true? Was it Mr. Harrimore you saw that night?”

“Yes sir, it were,” Joe answered dutifully.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yessir. An’ ’e knew it too. It were plain in ’is face, an’ ’e followed us. Came after us more’n a couple o’ miles, ’e did. Reckon as if ’e’d caught us we’d ‘a’ bin nailed ter some stable door too.” He shuddered at the thought, as if a bitter cold had struck him even in the warm kitchen.

Charlotte opened her mouth to say something, but instead told Gracie to take off her wet boots and put them in front of the grate. Then she went to put the kettle to the front of the stove and got some bread and butter and jam.

“And you will swear to it now?” Pitt pressed.

Joe glanced at Gracie. “Yeah—if I ’ave ter.”

“Good.” Pitt turned to Gracie. “You have been very clever, and very brave,” he said solemnly.

She flushed with pleasure, her frozen feet tingling.

“You have done an excellent piece of detective work,” he added.

She stood if possible even straighter, staring up at him.

“And you have also lied to Mrs. Pitt as to where you were going and why, put your life in danger, not to mention Joe’s life, and very possibly given yourself pneumonia. And if you ever do it again I shall discipline you to within an inch of your life. Do you understand me, Gracie?”

But he had not said the one thing she really feared—that she would be dismissed. He had very carefully not said that.

“Yes sir,” she said with an attempt at meekness which failed utterly. “Thank you, sir. An’ I won’t do it again, sir.”

He grunted doubtfully.

The kettle started to whistle and Charlotte made the tea and brought it to the kitchen table along with the bread and jam.

Joe ate almost before it was on his plate, and Gracie sat holding her steaming mug in her cold fingers, its warmth aching through her as life came back to her hands. She smiled across at Joe, and he smiled back for a moment before looking away.

“I had better find some dry clothes for you.” Charlotte looked dubiously at Joe. “Although I don’t know where from. And you will go to your bed,” she said to Gracie. “I’ll tell you when you can get up again.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Pitt sat on the edge of the table.

“Will you go an’ arrest ’im, sir?” Gracie asked.

“Of course.”

“In the morning?”

“No,” Pitt replied with distaste, hunching his shoulders and standing down off the table. “Now, before he takes alarm and runs off.”

“You’re not going alone!” Charlotte’s voice was sharp with fear.

“No, of course not,” he assured her. “But don’t wait up for me.” He kissed her quickly, bade good-night to Gracie and Joe, and went out of the kitchen door and along the hallway to collect his coat, hat and scarf.

It was the best part of an hour before Pitt and two constables took a hansom to Markham Square. It was late, bitterly cold, with a steady drizzle soaking everything, glistening on the footpaths and making hazy swirls of rain around the street lamps. Wet leaves clogged the gutters on the more gracious avenues and only a stray carriage disturbed the silence. Curtains were drawn and light escaped in a few thin cracks.

Pitt lifted the heavy knocker on the door. One constable stood by the areaway steps, just in case Harrimore should choose to come out that way and attempt to escape. The other was posted at the mews entrance.

After a considerable time a footman opened the door and regarded Pitt’s looming shape suspiciously.

“Yes sir?”

“Good evening. My name is Pitt, from the metropolitan police. I require to speak to Mr. Prosper Harrimore.”

“I’m sorry sir, but Mr. ’Arrimore has retired for the night. You’ll ’ave to come back in the morning.” He made as if to close the door again.

Pitt stepped forward, to the man’s alarm.

“That won’t do.”

“It’ll ’ave to do, sir! I told you, Mr. ’Arrimore ’as retired!”

“I have two constables with me,” Pitt said grimly. “Don’t oblige me to make a scene in the street.”

The door swung wide and the footman retreated, his face pale. Pitt followed him into the hall, beckoning to the constable by the area steps to follow him.

“You had better waken Mr. Harrimore and ask him to come downstairs,” he said quietly. “Constable, go with him.”

“Yes sir.” The constable obliged reluctantly and the footman, looking acutely unhappy, went up the broad wooden staircase.

Pitt waited at the bottom. Once or twice his eyes wandered around the walls looking at paintings, finely carved doorways, an elegant dado, but every few moments he looked back at the stair again. He saw the sticks in the hall stand and went over to them, examining them one by one. The third was beautifully balanced, with a silver top. It was a moment or two before he realized it was also a sword. Very slowly, feeling a little sick, he pulled it out. The blade was long and very fine, its steel gleaming in the light. It was clean all but for a tiny brown mark around the band where the blade met the hilt. The blood would have run down the shaft when he put it down to crucify Blaine.

He was facing the dining room door when he heard the sound above him and looked up sharply. Devlin O’Neil stood with his hand on the newel post at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a dressing robe and looked anxious.

“What brings you here at this time of night, Inspector? Don’t say there’s been another murder.”

“No, Mr. O’Neil. I think you had better be prepared to look after your wife, and your grandmother-in-law.”

“Has something happened to Prosper?” He started down rapidly. “The butler told me he went out some time ago, and I didn’t hear him return. What was it? A street accident? How badly is he hurt?” He missed his step a little on the last stair and stumbled into Pitt, only catching himself by snatching at the newel at the bottom.

“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Neil,” Pitt went on, and some sense of real tragedy in his voice must have struck O’Neil. His face lost every vestige of color and he stared at Pitt without speaking. “I am afraid I have come to arrest Mr. Harrimore,” Pitt went on. “For the murder of Kingsley Blaine, five years ago, in Farriers’ Lane.”

“Oh God!” O’Neil slid as if his legs had buckled beneath him, and sat in a heap on the bottom stair, his head in his hands. “That’s—that’s—” Perhaps he had been going to say “impossible,” but some recollection or instinct stopped him, and the words died in his throat.

“I think you had better have the footman fetch you a stiff brandy, and then be prepared to look after Mrs. Harrimore and your wife,” Pitt said gently. “They are going to need you.”

“Yes.” O’Neil swallowed and coughed. “Yes—I’ll do that. Would you be kind enough to—no, I’ll do it myself.” And rather awkwardly he climbed to his feet again and stumbled across the hall to pull the bell rope.

He had just let it go when Prosper appeared at the top of the stairs, followed right on his heels by the constable. He looked bewildered, as though walking in his sleep. He came down slowly, holding on to the rail for support.

“Mr. Harrimore …” Pitt began. He looked at Harrimore’s face. It was curiously dead; only his eyes were frantic, full of darkness and pain. “Mr. Harrimore,” Pitt repeated quietly. He hated this even more than first telling the bereaved. “I am arresting you for the murder of Kingsley Blaine, five years ago, in Farriers’ Lane, and of Judge Samuel Stafford, and of Police Constable Derek Paterson in his home. I would advise you to come without resisting, sir. It will distress your family more than is necessary, and it will be hard enough for them as it is.”

Prosper stared at him as if he had not heard, or not understood.

Adah was coming down the stairs, clinging to the banister, her face ashen, her long gray hair over her shoulders in a thin braid, a shawl hanging open to show the thick fabric of her nightgown.

At last Devlin O’Neil came to life. He moved from where he had been standing by the bell rope and came towards the stairs.

“You shouldn’t be here, Grandmama-in-law,” he said gently. “Go back up to bed. I’ll come and tell you what’s happened. You go back and keep warm now.”

Adah waved her hand at him absently, as if to shoo him away. Her eyes were on Pitt.

“Are you taking him?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Yes ma’am. I have no alternative.”

“It’s my fault,” she said simply. “He did it, but it’s my fault, my guilt before God.”

Devlin O’Neil made as if to grasp at her, but she brushed him off, still staring at Pitt.

“Is it?” Pitt stared back at her tormented face. He did not need to know, but he knew she was going to tell him, and that the compulsion was beyond her to stop. Half a century of guilt and agony had to find release.

“I knew he was defiled before he was born,” she said. “You see my husband lay with a Jewess, and then with me while I was carrying him. I knew what would happen. I tried to get rid of him.” She shook her head. “I tried everything I knew—but I failed. He was born anyway—but deformed, twisted, like you see. I didn’t know he killed Kingsley, but I feared it. It was history all over again, do you see?” She stared at him, searching his face to be certain he understood.

“Yes,” Pitt said very quietly, sick with the misery of it. “I see.” He imagined Adah as a young woman, betrayed, bitter, believing without question the superstition she had been taught, hating the child inside her and terrified of the contamination she truly believed in, alone in some bathroom trying desperately to abort the baby in her womb.

He touched her arm, holding her. “There is nothing you can do now. Go back to bed. It’s over.”

She turned and looked at Prosper and for a moment their eyes met. Neither of them spoke. Then like a very old woman she did as Pitt had bidden her, and climbed back up the stairs, her feet leaden, her back bowed. Never once did she look behind her.

“I did not kill Judge Stafford,” Prosper said, staring at Pitt. “I swear by God, I did not. Nor did I kill Paterson. And I can prove it.”

It was a moment before Pitt fully comprehended what he had said, and that he meant it.

“But you killed Kingsley Blaine.”

“Yes—God help me. He deserved it!” His face came to life at last, his mouth twisted with anger and pain. “He was betraying my daughter with that Jewess. And doing to my grandchildren what my father did to me.” Suddenly the hatred vanished, leaving him wide-eyed. “But I did not kill Stafford! I never saw him within weeks of the day he died. And I didn’t kill Paterson. I was at a friend’s house all evening, and there are twenty men and women who will swear to that.”

Pitt’s mind was whirling. If Prosper had not killed Stafford, or Paterson, then who had—and why? For heaven’s sake—why?

Wordlessly he took Prosper by the arm and the constable fell in beside him on the right, and they walked to the front door past Devlin O’Neil, still stunned, his robe slack, oblivious of the cold. The constable opened the front door, and the three of them stepped outside back into the rain, Pitt carrying the sword stick.