Farriers' Lane

1

“ISN’T HE SUPERB?” Caroline Ellison whispered to her daughter Charlotte. “He conveys so much feeling with the simplest word or a gesture!”

They were side by side in the red plush box in the theater in the semidarkness. It was late autumn and since there was no heating the air was cold. By the end of the first act the press of the crowd had warmed the stalls, but up here in the first tier of boxes it was different. The movement of applause and the stamping of feet then had helped, but now the drama was tense again, and the buzz of excitement shivery.

The stage was brilliant, the actors vivid figures against the romantic, plyboard scenery. One in particular commanded Caroline’s attention: a man of just over average height, slender, with a sensitive, aquiline face full of humor and imagination, yet haunted with all the possibilities of tragedy. He was Joshua Fielding, principal actor of the company, and Charlotte was now quite certain he was the reason her mother had chosen this particular performance.

Apparently Caroline was waiting for a reply. Her face was quick and intelligent, but touched with an odd kind of vulnerability, as though Charlotte’s answer might matter to her. She had been widowed a little while now. After the first grief had come a kind of euphoria, a sense of freedom as she realized how much she might do without restraint, since she was her own mistress. She read whatever she pleased, political, contentious, even scandalous. She joined societies and discussed all manner of subjects previously forbidden, and listened to lectures from reformers, travelers and scientists, many accompanied by photographs or slides.

But perhaps now a little of the pleasure of it was wearing thin and now and again a shadow of loneliness crossed her thoughts.

“Yes, indeed, Mama,” Charlotte agreed sincerely. “He has a voice I could listen to for hours.”

Caroline smiled and returned her attention to the stage, for the time being satisfied.

Charlotte looked sideways at her husband, but Pitt’s eyes were on the occupants of a box some twenty yards away around the same tier of the balcony. One was a man in his early sixties with thinning hair, a broad brow, and at the present moment a fixed expression. He was staring at the stage. The other was a handsome, dark-haired woman, at least twelve or fourteen years younger. Her glittering jewelry caught the light as she fidgeted, turning her head, touching her hair and leaning slightly forward in her seat.

“Who are they?” Charlotte whispered.

“What?” Pitt was caught by surprise.

“Who are they?” she repeated quietly, looking past him to the other box.

“Oh—” He was a little uncomfortable. The visit to the theater was a gift from Caroline, and he did not wish to appear less than wholly involved in the play in spite of the fact it did not hold him. “A judge at the court of appeal,” he whispered back. “Mr. Justice Stafford.”

“Is she his wife?” Charlotte asked, seeking the reason for Pitt’s interest.

He smiled very slightly. “I think so—why?”

Charlotte glanced towards the box again, only moderately discreetly.

“Then why are you looking at them?” she asked him, still in a hushed voice. “Who is that in the box just beyond them?”

“It looks like Mr. Justice Livesey.”

“Isn’t he young to be a judge? He’s rather handsome, don’t you think? Mrs. Stafford seems to think so too!”

Pitt turned a little in his seat. Caroline was too absorbed in the stage to notice. He followed Charlotte’s gaze.

“Not the man with the black hair!” he said under his breath. “The one nearer. The young one is Adolphus Pryce. He is a Queen’s Counsel. Livesey is the big man with white hair.”

“Oh—well, why are you looking at them anyway?”

“I was just surprised he was so absorbed in the play,” Pitt replied with a slight shrug. “It’s rather romantic. I wouldn’t have thought it of him. But his eyes haven’t left the stage for ten minutes or more. In fact I haven’t seen him blink!”

“Perhaps he’s enamored of Tamar Macaulay?” Charlotte said with a little giggle.

“Who?” Pitt’s face creased with confusion.

“The actress!” Charlotte was exasperated and for a moment her voice rose. “Really, Thomas! Do pay attention! She is the heroine!”

“Oh—of course. I forgot her name. I’m sorry,” he apologized contritely. “Be quiet and watch the play.”

They both faced the front and were silent for nearly a quarter of an hour until a small cry from the Staffords’ box and a hasty, half-muffled activity drew their attention. Even Caroline was caused to look away from the stage.

“What is it?” she asked anxiously. “What has happened? Is someone ill?”

“Yes, it looks like it,” Pitt replied, pushing his chair back as if to rise, and then changing his mind. “I think Judge Stafford seems to be unwell.”

Indeed, Mrs. Stafford was on her feet, leaning over her husband in some agitation, attempting to loosen his collar and speaking to him in a low, urgent voice. However, he made no response except a spasmodic jerking of his limbs, not wildly, but as if he were in some distress. The same fixed, immobile expression remained on his face, as if he still could not bear to drag his attention from the stage and the figures on it playing out their own predetermined drama.

“Should we help?” Charlotte whispered doubtfully.

“What could we do?” Pitt looked worried, his face puckered. “He probably needs a doctor.” But even as he said it he pushed his chair farther back and rose to his feet. “I’d better see if she wishes someone to call for one. And they may need assistance to help him to a more private place, where he can lie down. Please excuse me to Caroline.” And without waiting any longer he slipped out of the back of the box.

Once outside he hurried along the wide passageway, counting the doors until he came to the right one. There was no point in knocking; the woman had all she could cope with in trying to help her husband without coming to open a door which would not be locked anyway. In fact it was already ajar; he simply pushed it wide and went in.

Samuel Stafford was slumped in the chair, his face very flushed. Even from the doorway Pitt could hear his labored breathing. Juniper Stafford was at the far side of the box now, leaning against the rail, her hands up to her face, knuckles white. She seemed almost paralyzed with fear. Next to Stafford, half kneeling on the floor, was Mr. Justice Ignatius Livesey.

“Can I be of help?” Pitt asked quickly. “Have you sent for a doctor, or would you like me to?”

Livesey looked around, startled. Obviously he had not heard Pitt come in. He was a big man, broad-headed with a powerful face, with short nose and fleshy jaw. It was a face of conviction and courage, perhaps uncertain temper, belonging to a man of intense and sudden moods who commanded others with ease.

“Yes, send for a doctor,” he agreed quickly after only a glance at Pitt to assure himself he was a gentleman, and not merely a curious intruder. “I am not a medical man, and I fear there is little I can do.”

“Of course. I’ll send my wife to be with Mrs. Stafford.”

Livesey’s face showed acute surprise.

“You know him?”

“Only by repute, Mr. Livesey,” Pitt said with the barest smile. The man in the chair was sliding farther down and his breathing was becoming slower. Without wasting any more time Pitt went out again, and passing his own box pushed the door open.

“Charlotte, it’s serious,” he said urgently. “I think the poor man may be dying. You’d better go and be with Mrs. Livesey.”

Caroline looked around at him anxiously.

“Stay here, Mama-in-law,” Pitt answered the unspoken question. “I’m going for a doctor, if there is one here.”

Charlotte stood up and went outside with him, turning to the Staffords’ box at a run, her skirts swinging. Pitt went the other way around towards the management offices. He found the right door, knocked sharply, then went in without waiting for an answer.

Inside a man with a magnificent mustache looked up angrily from the desk where he was studying some very indiscreet photographs.

“How dare you, sir!” he protested, half rising to his feet. “This is—”

“An emergency,” Pitt said without bothering to smile. “One of your patrons, in box fourteen, is extremely ill. In fact I fear he may well be dying. Mr. Justice Stafford—”

“Oh my God!” The manager was aghast. “How appalling! What a scandal! People are so superstitious. I—”

“Never mind that,” Pitt interrupted. “Is there a doctor in the theater? If not, you had better send for the nearest one as fast as you can. I am going back to see if I can do anything.”

“Who are you, sir? Your name.”

“Pitt—Inspector Thomas Pitt, Bow Street.”

“Oh, sweet heaven! What a disaster!” The manager’s face drained of all color.

“Don’t be idiotic!” Pitt snapped. “It’s not a crime! The poor man was taken ill, and I happened to be in a nearby box with my family. Even policemen come to the theater, on occasion. Now for goodness sake, man, go and find a doctor!”

The manager’s mouth opened and closed without sound. Then suddenly he gathered up the photographs and pushed them into a drawer, slammed it closed, and was on Pitt’s heels as he went out and along the corridor.

Back in box fourteen Samuel Stafford was now lying well towards the rear, out of the gaze of the inquisitive who might prefer the real drama to the one still following its course on the stage. The actors’ discipline was sufficient to help them ignore any disturbance in the audience. Livesey had taken off his jacket and rolled it up under Stafford’s head and he was kneeling beside him, peering at him with profound concern. Juniper Stafford sat on the other seat, leaning forward, her face intent on her husband’s comatose form. His breath was even slower and the flush had gone from his skin. He looked white and clammy and he made no movement at all except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His limbs were perfectly still. Charlotte knelt beside Juniper, her arm around her, holding one of her hands.

“The manager has sent for a doctor,” Pitt said quietly, although he knew even as he said it that it would be of little use, and certainly too late.

Livesey felt for Stafford’s pulse and then straightened up, biting his lip. He looked at Pitt. “Thank you,” he said simply. His eyes expressed both the hopelessness of it and the warning not to speak in front of Juniper.

There was a very tentative rap on the door.

“Come in.” Livesey looked at Pitt, then at the door. Surely it was too soon for a doctor, unless he had been not only in the theater, but in this tier of boxes as well.

The door opened, and Pitt recognized the smooth, dark face of Adolphus Pryce, Q.C. The man was embarrassed. His eyes went first to Juniper Stafford, hunched in her seat, clinging to Charlotte, then to the figure of Samuel Stafford on the floor. Even in the poor light reflected from the dim box lamps, and up from the brilliance of the stage across the auditorium, it was only too obvious he was in an extreme stage of illness.

“What happened?” Pryce asked very quietly. “Can—can I help? Is there—” He broke off. It was perfectly. plain there was nothing anyone could do without medical skill, and possibly not even then. “Mrs. Stafford?”

Juniper said nothing but stared at him with huge, desperate eyes.

“Yes,” Charlotte said firmly. “If you would be so kind as to fetch a glass of cold water, and perhaps make sure that Mrs. Stafford’s carriage has no difficulty in reaching the door, so that when it is time to go she does not have to wait.”

“Of course! Yes, yes, naturally I shall.” Pryce seemed to be immensely grateful for something positive to do. He looked for a moment more at Juniper, then turned on his heel and went out so rapidly that he brushed past a short man with gingerish hair in wild disarray and small, plump, very clean hands.

He came in and instinctively addressed Livesey as being the presiding authority in the matter.

“I am Dr. Lloyd. The manager said—Ah! Yes, I see.” He stared down at Stafford on the floor, now scarcely breathing at all. “Oh, dear, oh dear me. Yes.” He knelt down, peering at Stafford’s face. “What is it? Do you know? Heart attack, I shouldn’t wonder.” He felt for a pulse, his face looking increasingly worried. “Mr. Justice Stafford, you say? I’m afraid I don’t care for the look of him very much.” He touched Stafford’s pallid face with his hand. “Clammy,” he pronounced, pushing out his lip. “Can you tell me what happened, sir?” This last was addressed to Livesey.

“The onset of the illness appeared quite rapid,” Livesey replied, speaking in a clear voice, but very quietly. “I was sitting in the next box, and I saw him sink forward in his seat, so I came to see if I could be of assistance. At first I thought perhaps a stomach upset, or something of the sort, but I’m afraid now it does seem to be something a good deal more grave.”

“He does not appear to have … vomited,” the doctor remarked.

“No—no, indeed,” Livesey agreed. “And of course it may in fact be his heart as you suggested, but he did not complain of pain while he was conscious, and he seems to have been in something of a stupor since quite early on, almost drowsy, one might say.”

“He was very flushed when I first came,” Pitt offered.

“Oh? And who are you, sir?” Lloyd enquired, turning around and frowning at Pitt. “I apologize, I did not observe you before. I took this gentleman to be in charge.”

“Thomas Pitt,” Pitt replied. “Inspector, with the Bow Street station.”

“Police? Good God!”

“Here in a private capacity,” Pitt replied coolly. “I was with my wife and mother-in-law a few boxes away. I merely came to offer my assistance, or call a doctor, when I observed that Mr. Stafford was ill.”

“Very commendable,” Lloyd said with a sniff, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Don’t want to call in the police over something like this—good heavens! It’s tragic enough as it is. Perhaps someone would be good enough to look after Mrs.—er—Stafford? There is nothing whatever she can do here, poor creature!”

“Shouldn’t I—I— Oh, Samuel!” Juniper caught her breath and pressed a handkerchief up to her mouth.

“I am sure you have already done all you could,” Charlotte said gently, taking her by the arm. “Now it is up to the doctor. And if Mr. Stafford is not awake, he will not miss you. Come with me and let me find you a quiet place to sit until they can tell us something.”

“Do you think so?” Juniper turned to Charlotte with desperate appeal.

“I have no doubt at all,” Charlotte replied, glancing momentarily at Pitt, then back to Juniper. “Come with me. Perhaps Mr. Pryce will have found a glass of water and may even have located your carriage.”

“Oh, I couldn’t just go home!”

“Not yet, of course! But if that is what the doctor says, we do not want to have to wait in line, do we?”

“No—no, I suppose not. Yes, of course, you are right!” And with a little assistance Juniper rose to her feet. After thanking Livesey for his help, and with one more glance at the motionless form of her husband, she smothered a sob and allowed Charlotte to lead her outside.

Lloyd gave a deep sigh.

“Now we may get down to business, gentlemen. I gravely fear there is nothing I can do for Mr. Stafford. He is sinking very rapidly, and I have no medicine with me. Indeed I know of none which would help his condition.” He frowned and regarded the now totally inert body of his patient. He touched Stafford’s chest again, then the pulse in his neck, and lastly his wrist, shaking his head gently all the time.

Livesey stood beside Pitt, his back to the auditorium and the stage where presumably the players were unaware of the nature of the small, dark drama which was coming to a close in one of their boxes.

“In fact,” Lloyd said after another few moments, “Mr. Justice Stafford has passed away.” He rose to his feet awkwardly, brushing down his trousers to return them to their crease. He looked at Livesey. “Naturally his own physician will be informed, and his poor widow is already aware of the situation, poor woman. I am afraid I cannot pronounce the cause of death; I really have very little idea. There will have to be an autopsy. Very distressing, but it is the law.”

“Have you no idea?” Pitt frowned. “Is it not an illness you are familiar with?”

“No sir, it is not!” Lloyd said rather testily. “It is not reasonable to expect any physician to diagnose a disease in a handful of minutes, with no history whatever, and a comatose patient—and all in the half-light of a theater box and a performance going on onstage. Really sir, you ask the impossible!”

“Not a heart attack, or an apoplexy?” Pitt did not apologize.

“No sir, not a heart attack, so far as I can see, and not an apoplexy. In fact if I did not know better, I would suspect he had taken some form of opiate, and accidentally prepared an overdose. Except, of course, men of his distinction do not take opium, and most certainly not a dose to produce this effect!”

“I doubt Mr. Justice Stafford smoked opium,” Livesey said coldly.

“I did not suggest, sir, that he did!” Lloyd snapped. “In fact I went out of my way to explain to—to Mr.—Mr. Pitt here”—he jerked his head towards Pitt—“that I believed he did not. Apart from that, one could not smoke an amount sufficient to cause death in this manner. One would have to drink a solution of opium. Really—I do not know why we discuss the subject at all!” He lifted his shoulders in a violent shrug. “I do not know the cause of the poor man’s demise. It will require an autopsy. Perhaps his own physician is aware of some condition which may explain it. For now, there is nothing more I can do, and I therefore beg you to excuse me that I may rejoin my family, who are endeavoring to have a rare evening out in each other’s company with a little civilized entertainment.”

He sniffed. “I am extremely sorry for your loss, and regret profoundly I could not prevent it, but it was too late—far too late. My card.” He produced one like a conjurer and presented it to Livesey. “Good day, sir—Mr. Pitt!” And with that he stood to attention smartly, then bustled out and closed the door behind him, leaving Pitt and Livesey alone with the body of Samuel Stafford.

Livesey looked very grave, his skin pale, his body tired and yet tense, broad shoulders sagging a little, his head forward, the dim lights strong on his thick hair. Slowly he put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a slim chased-silver hip flask. He held it out to Pitt.

“This is Stafford’s,” he said grimly, meeting Pitt’s eyes. “I saw him drink from it just after the end of the interval. It is a hideous thought, but there may be something in it which caused his illness. Perhaps you should take it and have it examined—even if only to exclude it.”

“Poison?” Pitt asked gravely. He looked down at Stafford. The more he considered the course of events he had observed, the less absurd did Livesey’s words seem. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, of course. You are quite right. It must at least be considered, even if only to prove it was not so. Thank you.”

He took the flask and looked at it, turning it over in his hands. It was very slim, very expensive, chased in silver and engraved with Samuel Stafford’s name and the date of its having been given to him, February 28, 1884; a recent gift, over five and a half years ago. It was a beautiful thing to be a vehicle of death. “I’ll have it examined, of course,” he went on. “In the meanwhile perhaps we had better find out what we can about Mr. Stafford’s evening and precisely what happened.”

“Of course,” Livesey agreed. “And arrange for the body to be taken away discreetly. I shall have to explain to Mrs. Stafford why it cannot go to his home until it has been examined for the cause of death. How very distressing for her! The whole business is most grieving. Is there any lock to this door?”

Pitt turned around and looked at it.

“No, only an ordinary latch. I’ll wait here until you can inform the management and have a constable sent. We cannot leave it open.”

“No, naturally not. I’ll go now.” And without waiting any further Livesey went out and disappeared, leaving Pitt alone just as the curtain fell to a long and enthusiastic round of applause.

When Charlotte left the box with Juniper Stafford she met Adolphus Pryce almost immediately, returning with a goblet of water held out in front of him. He looked extremely agitated and his dark eyes gazed at Juniper with something that, were it not ridiculous to think it, Charlotte would have taken for fear.

“My dear—Mrs. Stafford,” he said jerkily. “Is there anything at all I can do to be of service to you? Your coachman has been told and he will bring your carriage to the front the moment you wish it. How is Mr. Stafford?”

“I don’t know,” Juniper answered in a voice that caught in her throat. “He … looked … very ill! It was so—sudden!”

“I’m so sorry,” Adolphus said again. “I had no idea he was in poor health—none at all.” He held out the goblet of water.

Juniper’s eyes met his on a long, painful look. She took the goblet with both hands, the light catching on her rings. Her gorgeous dress now seemed ridiculously out of place. “No—of course not,” she said hastily. “Neither—neither had I! That is what is so absurd.” Her voice rose to a high, desperate pitch and broke off. She forced herself to drink a sip of the water.

Adolphus stared at her. Charlotte might not have been there at all for any awareness he showed of her. All his intense emotion was centered on Juniper, and yet he did not seem to know what else to say.

“The doctor will do all that can be done,” Charlotte said. “It would be best if we were to find a quiet place where we can await the outcome, don’t you think?”

“Yes—yes, of course,” Adolphus agreed. Again he looked at Juniper. “If … if there is anything, Mrs. Stafford? At least, please let me know … how he is.”

“Of course I will, Mr. Pryce. You are most kind.” Juniper looked at him with a sort of desperation. Then clinging to Charlotte’s arm she turned and walked away towards a small private room off the foyer where refreshments had been taken only an hour earlier. The manager stood in the doorway, wringing his hands and making inarticulate sounds of general anxiety.

It seemed an age to Charlotte that they sat there. Occasionally she took the goblet from Juniper, then handed it back, making small, meaningless remarks and trying to be of comfort without giving any foolish promises of a happy ending she believed could not possibly be.

Eventually Ignatius Livesey came. His face was very grave and Charlotte knew the instant she saw him that Stafford was dead. Indeed when Juniper looked up, the hope died out of her before she spoke. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, the tears brimming over and running down her cheeks.

“I am extremely sorry,” Livesey said quietly. “It pains me to have to tell you that he has gone. The only comfort I can offer you is that it was quite peaceful and he will have felt no pain or distress except momentarily, and that was so short as to be forgotten in an instant.” He filled the doorway, a figure of judicial calm, a stability in a dreadfully changing world. “He was a very fine man who served the law with great distinction for over forty years, and he will be remembered with honor and gratitude. England is a better place, and society wiser and more just because of his life. That must be of great comfort to you, when this time of grief has lessened, and it will lessen with time. It is a legacy not every woman may boast, and you may justly be proud.”

She stared at him. For a moment she tried to speak. It was painful to observe. Charlotte longed to help her.

“That is most generous of you,” she said to Livesey, gripping Juniper’s hand and holding it hard. “Thank you for coming on what must be a most difficult errand. Now perhaps if there is nothing more to do here, you would be kind enough to send a message so Mrs. Stafford’s carriage may be brought. I imagine the doctor will take care of—of arrangements here?”

“Indeed,” Livesey acknowledged. “But …” His face shadowed. “I regret the police may wish to ask a few questions, because it was so sudden.”

Juniper found her voice; perhaps surprise was momentarily greater than grief.

“The police? Whatever for? Who— I mean, why are they here? How do they even know? Did you …?”

“No—it is quite fortuitous,” Livesey said quickly. “It is Mr. Pitt, who came to your assistance.”

“What questions?” Juniper glanced at Charlotte, looking confused. “What is there to ask?”

“I imagine he will wish to know what Samuel ate or drank in the last few hours,” Livesey replied gently. “Perhaps what he had done during the day. If it is possible for you to compose yourself sufficiently to give him answers, it will help.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to say something, a protest of sorts, but no words came to her that were not futile. Stafford had died suddenly and without any cause that could be identified. It was unavoidable that there should be some formal investigation. Livesey was right; the sooner it could be settled, the sooner some sort of natural grief could begin, and then in time the start of healing.

The door opened and Pitt came in, closely followed by Adolphus Pryce.

Juniper looked up quickly, but at Pryce; then as if by an effort of will, away again.

“Mr. Pitt?” she said slowly. “I understand you are from the police. Mr. Livesey tells me you need to ask me some questions about … about Samuel’s death.” She took a deep breath. “I will tell you whatever I can, but I don’t know anything that could help you. I had no idea he was ill. He never gave me the slightest indication …”

“I understand that, Mrs. Stafford.” Pitt sat down without being asked, so that he was looking directly at her, instead of obliging her to stare up at him. “I am deeply sorry to have to trouble you at this most painful time, but if I were to leave it until later, you may by then have forgotten some small detail which would provide an answer.” He looked at her closely. She was very pale and her hands were shaking, but she seemed composed, and still suffering too much shock to have given way to weeping or the anger that so often follows bereavement.

“Mrs. Stafford, what did your husband eat for dinner before he came to the theater?”

She thought for a moment. “Saddle of mutton, horseradish sauce, vegetables. Not a heavy meal, Mr. Pitt, and not an overindulgence.”

“Did you have the same?”

“Yes—exactly. A great deal less, of course, but exactly the same.”

“And to drink?”

She drew her brows down in puzzlement. “He took a little claret, but it was opened at the table and poured straight from the bottle. It was in excellent condition. I had half a glass myself. He did not take too much, I assure you! And he always drank very moderately.”

“What else?”

“A chocolate pudding, and a fruit sorbet. But I had some also.”

Pitt caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see Livesey touching his hip pocket.

Pitt continued grimly. “Did your husband carry a hip flask, Mrs. Stafford?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “Yes—yes, he did. A silver one. I gave it to him some four or five years ago. Why?”

“Did he fill it himself?”

“I imagine so. I really don’t know. Why, Mr. Pitt? Do you … do you wish to see it?”

“I already have it, thank you. Do you know if he drank from it this evening?”

“I didn’t see him, but it is most likely he did. He—he liked a small—” She stopped, her voice shaking and uncertain. She required a moment or two to regain her composure.

“Can you tell me what he did during the day, Mrs. Stafford, all that you know.”

“What he did?” She looked doubtful. “Well, yes, if you wish. But I don’t understand why—”

“It is possible that he was poisoned, Mrs. Stafford,” Livesey said gravely, still standing near the door. “It is a most distressing thought, but I am afraid we must face it. Of course the medical examiner may find some disease of which we are unaware, but until that time we have to act in a way that takes account of all possibilities.”

She blinked. “Poisoned? Who would poison Samuel?”

Pryce fidgeted from one foot to the other, staring at Juniper, but he did not interrupt.

“You can think of no one?” Pitt drew her attention back again. “Do you know if he was presently engaged in a case, Mrs. Stafford?”

“No—no, he was not.” She seemed to find it easier to speak while her mind was concentrating on practical details and answers to specific questions. “That woman came to see him again. She has been pestering him for several months now. He seemed most upset by her, and after she left, he went out almost immediately.”

“What woman, Mrs. Stafford?” Pitt said quickly.

“Miss Macaulay,” she replied. “Tamar Macaulay.”

“The actress?” He was startled. “Do you know what she wanted?”

“Oh yes, of course.” Her eyebrows rose as if the question were unexpected. She had assumed Pitt would know. “About her brother.”

“What to do with her brother, Mrs. Stafford?” Pitt asked patiently, reminding himself she was desperately newly bereaved, and should not be required to make sense as others might. “Who is her brother? Is he presently lodging an appeal?”

A flicker of hard, almost bitter humor lit her face for a moment.

“Hardly, Mr. Pitt. He was hanged five years ago. She wishes—wished Samuel to reopen the case. He was one of the judges of his appeal, which was denied. It was a very terrible murder. I think if the public could have hanged him more than once, they would have.”

“The Godman case,” Livesey put in behind Pitt. “The murder of Kingsley Blaine. I daresay you recall it?”

Pitt thought for a moment. A vague recollection came back to him, of horror and outrage, articles in the paper, one or two very ugly incidents in the street, Jews being mobbed. “In Farriers’ Lane?” he said aloud.

“That’s right,” Juniper agreed. “Well, Tamar Macaulay was his sister. I don’t know why they had different names, but actors aren’t ordinary people anyway. You never know what is real with them, and what is not. And of course they are Jews.”

Pitt shivered. There seemed a sudden coldness in the room, as if a breath of hate and unreason had come in through the open door, but Livesey had closed it. He looked at Charlotte and saw in her eyes a shadow of fear, as if she too had felt something new and dark.

“It was a very shocking case,” Livesey said quietly, his voice grave and with an edge of anger in it. “I don’t know why the poor woman didn’t leave it alone and let it die in everyone’s memory, but some compulsion drives her to keep on raising it, trying to get it reopened.” His face was dark with distaste, as if he would step back from the useless pain of it, did not duty prevent him. “She had some lunatic idea it would clear his name.” He lifted his heavy shoulders a fraction. “Whereas, of course, the truth is the wretched man was as guilty as the devil, and it was proved beyond any doubt at all, reasonable or unreasonable. He had his day in court, and his appeal. I know the facts, Pitt, I sat on the appeal myself.”

Pitt acknowledged the information with a nod, and turned back to Juniper.

“And Miss Macaulay came to see Mr. Stafford again today?”

“Yes—early in the afternoon. He was very disturbed by it.” She took a deep breath and steadied herself, gripping Charlotte’s hand. “He went out immediately after, saying he must see Mr. O’Neil, and Mr. Fielding.”

“Joshua Fielding, the actor?” Pitt asked. For some reason he deliberately avoided Charlotte’s eyes, Caroline’s face in the theater painfully clear in his mind with all its tense excitement.

“Yes,” Juniper agreed, nodding very slightly. “He was part of the company at the time—and of course he still is. You saw him tonight. He was a friend of Aaron Godman’s, and I believe for a while a suspect—before they knew who it was, of course.”

“I see. And who is O’Neil? Another member of the company?”

“Oh no! No, Mr. O’Neil was a friend of Kingsley Blaine, the murdered man. He was very respectable!”

“Why did Mr. Stafford wish to see him?”

She shook her head very slightly. “He was a suspect—in the very beginning. But of course that did not last long. I have no idea why Samuel wanted to see him. He didn’t discuss it with me, I only knew because he was so distressed I asked him where he was going, and he just said to see Mr. O’Neil and Mr. Fielding.”

Adolphus Pryce shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat.

“Er—I—I know that to be true, Mr. Pitt. Mr. Stafford also came to see me today. He had already spoken to both Fielding and O’Neil.”

Pitt looked at him with surprise. He had forgotten Pryce was there.

“Indeed? Did he discuss the matter with you, Mr. Pryce?”

“Well, yes—and no. In a manner of speaking.” Pryce stared at him fixedly, as if he were with difficulty avoiding letting his eyes stray somewhere else. “He asked me some further questions about the Blaine/Godman case—that is how we referred to it, Blaine being the victim, and Godman the offender. I was the prosecuting counsel, you know. It was really a very clear case. Godman had motive; the means were to hand for anyone, and the opportunity. In fact he was observed by several people in the immediate vicinity, and did not deny it.” A look of apology flickered across his face. “And of course he was a Jew.”

Pitt felt a hardness inside him settle like a stone. He did not even try to keep the anger out of his eyes.

“What has that to do with it, Mr. Pryce? I can see no connection whatever!”

Pryce’s delicate nostrils flared.

“He was crucified, Mr. Pitt,” he said between his teeth. “I would have thought the connection was appallingly obvious!”

Pitt was stunned. “Crucified?” he blurted.

“To the stable door, in Farriers’ Lane,” Livesey put in from his position still close to the door. “Surely you remember the case. It was written about extensively in every newspaper in London. People spoke of little else.”

A sharper recollection came back to Pitt. He had been working on another case himself at the time, and had no spare moments to read newspapers or listen to the recounting of events other than those of his own case, but this had rocked the entire city.

“Yes.” He frowned, embarrassed to be so caught out. “I do recall hearing of it, but I was in Barking on an investigation of my own. One can become very absorbed …” He smiled twistedly. “In fact I don’t even know the details of the Whitechapel murders last year, I was so busy with a double murder in Highgate.”

“I hardly think a Christian would have crucified anyone.” Pryce was still determined to defend himself. “That is why being a Jew was relevant.”

“Is O’Neil a Jew?” Pitt asked sarcastically.

“Of course not! But no one seriously suspected him for long,” Pryce replied with an edge to his voice. “Fielding and Miss Macaulay were the other main suspects.”

“It is all quite beside the point,” Livesey interrupted with impatience. “Godman was guilty, and it is unfortunate his sister cannot accept the fact and leave the case to sink into oblivion, where it belongs.” He shook his head and his lips tightened. “It can help no one at all to keep on raking it up. It will change nothing. She is a very foolish woman.”

Pitt turned back to Juniper. “Do you know of anyone else Mr. Stafford saw today, or anywhere he went?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, that is all he spoke of. Then he came home. We had dinner a little earlier than usual—quite a light meal really.” She swallowed with difficulty. “And then we came to the theater—here …”

Charlotte held her hand tightly, still sitting very close to her. She looked at Pitt.

“Is there really anything more you have to know tonight, Thomas? Would it not be possible for Mrs. Stafford to go home now and pursue whatever else there may be in the morning? She is exhausted.”

“Yes, of course.” Pitt stood up slowly. “I am extremely sorry to have had to speak of it at all, Mrs. Stafford, and I hope it may all prove to have been unnecessary.” He held out his hand. “May I offer my deepest sympathy.”

“Thank you.” She took his hand, not merely to bid him good-bye, but with his assistance, to rise (somewhat heavily) to her feet.

“I’ll come with you to your carriage,” Charlotte offered.

Pryce came forward suddenly, holding out his arm, his face tight with emotion.

“Please—permit me! May I help you, Mrs. Stafford? You need someone to make sure you are not harassed or crowded on the way, and to support you. I should deem it an honor.”

Her eyes were wide, almost feverish. She hesitated, as if to make some protest; then the practicality of it became apparent and she took a step towards him.

“You have been most kind, Mrs. Pitt,” Pryce added, looking at Charlotte with sudden courtesy and a fragment of what was probably a characteristic charm. “But please allow me to be of some service, and yourself to remain with your husband.”

“That is most generous of you,” Charlotte accepted with relief. “I confess, I had completely forgotten about my mother, who is our hostess here. She may still be in our box, waiting for us.”

“Then it is settled.” Pryce offered Mrs. Stafford his arm. After a brief farewell, they went out together, she leaning upon him and he gently supporting her.

“Oh dear.” Livesey pursed his lips. “A hard business, very hard. But I am sure you have handled it correctly, Mr. Pitt. And you, Mrs. Pitt, have been most considerate with your sympathy and kindness.” He sighed. “However, I know there may be worse to come, if indeed his death was not natural. Let us pray that our fear is unnecessary.”

“I don’t think even God can change what is already done,” Pitt said dryly. “What time did Mr. Stafford come to see you, sir?”

“Immediately before luncheon,” Livesey replied. “I was to dine with a colleague, and was about to leave my chambers when Stafford came in. He stayed only a few moments—”

“Was he there in connection with the Blaine/Godman case?” Pitt interrupted.

A look of distaste crossed Livesey’s broad face. “Not primarily, although he did mention it. It was regarding another matter, which is naturally confidential.” He smiled very slightly. “But I can be of some assistance, Inspector. Just before leaving he took a small sip from his flask, and so did I. As you can see, I am in excellent health. So we know beyond question that the flask was untainted at that time.”

Pitt looked at him in silence, digesting the information and its implications.

Livesey made a small gesture of amusement, a downward curling of his lips. “Corroborated, Inspector. My colleague, John Wentworth, an eminent Queen’s Counsel, had arrived for our luncheon engagement. I am sure if you wish it he will confirm what I have said.”

Pitt let out his breath quickly. “I did not doubt you, sir. I was considering the gravity of the conclusions which that obliges, should there prove to be poison in the flask.”

“Indeed.” Livesey’s face darkened. “Exceedingly unpleasant, I fear, but perhaps unavoidable nonetheless. I do not envy you your task, sir.”

At last Pitt also smiled. “Not mine, Mr. Livesey. I shall hand it over to my superiors tomorrow morning, if indeed it is a case at all. I was merely responding because I was here at the time. It would be irresponsible to ignore the opportunity to gather evidence, against eventuality.”

“Commendable, and as you say, your duty.” Livesey inclined his head. “And now if you will excuse me, I believe I can be of no further assistance. It has been a long and extremely unpleasant evening. I shall be relieved to find my carriage and take my leave. Good night to you.”

“Good night, Mr. Livesey. Thank you for your help.”

Charlotte returned to the box to find Caroline still there. Somehow after the reality of the tragedy its plush seats and cozy luxury, its view of the blank stage, seemed absurdly trivial. Caroline was facing the door, her expression one of anxiety. She rose to her feet as soon as Charlotte arrived.

“What has happened? How is he?”

“I am afraid he is dead,” Charlotte replied, closing the door behind her. “He never regained his senses, which is perhaps a blessing. What is far worse is that the other judge, Mr. Livesey, seems to think it may have been poison.”

“Oh, dear heaven!” Caroline was aghast. “You mean, he took his …” Then realization struck her. “No—you don’t, do you? You mean he was murdered!”

Charlotte sat down and took Caroline’s hand to draw her down again too.

“Yes, it seems a strong possibility. And I am afraid there is worse, much worse …”

“What?” Caroline’s eyes were wide. “What in heaven’s name would be worse than that?”

“Tamar Macaulay visited him today, about a very dreadful case for which her brother was hanged, about five years ago.”

“Hanged? Oh, Charlotte! How tragic. But whatever could Mr. Stafford have done about it?”

“Apparently she still believes he was innocent, in spite of all the evidence, and she wanted Stafford to reopen the case. Mrs. Stafford said Tamar had pestered him for a long time, and he was quite upset by it. After she left he went out very hastily and told Mrs. Stafford he was going to see the other principal suspects in the case.”

“And you think one of them murdered him?” Caroline concluded with distress. “And that—that was what we saw: We saw him murdered?”

“Yes. But Mama, the other suspects were a man called O’Neil—and Joshua Fielding.”

Caroline stared at her, her eyes hurt, her face full of confusion.

“Joshua Fielding,” she repeated, blinking. “Suspected of murder? Who? Who was killed?”

“A man called Blaine. Apparently it was a very shocking case. He was crucified.”

“What?” Caroline could not grasp what she had said. “You mean—no, you can’t! It’s …”

“Against a door,” Charlotte went on. “They hanged Tamar’s brother, but she has never believed him guilty. I’m sorry.”

“But why Joshua Fielding? Why should he kill this man? What reason could he have?”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Stafford just said that the judge went to see both Mr. Fielding and Mr. O’Neil after Tamar called on him today.” She gave a harsh little laugh. “Or it must be yesterday, by now.”

“What is Thomas doing?”

“Finding out all he can, so that when he hands it over to whoever will look into the case—if, of course, it is poison and there is a case—so that they have all they can to begin with.”

“Yes. I see.” She shivered. “I suppose it would be remiss not to act. I had no idea when you married a policeman of some of the extraordinary things we should find ourselves doing.”

“Nor I,” Charlotte said frankly. “But some of them have been wonderful, some terrifying, some tragic, and many most deepening of experience, and I hope of wisdom and understanding. I pity those women who have nothing to do but stitch embroidery, flirt, gossip and try to think of something to do which could be called charitable and yet not impair their reputations or get their fingers dirty!”

Caroline pulled a slight face, but did not voice the argument in her mind. She knew Charlotte well enough to appreciate the pointlessness of it, and a small part of her had a sneaking desire to dabble in such adventures herself, not that she would have admitted it.

A few moments later the door opened and Pitt stood in the entrance, his face grave. His eyes went first to Caroline.

“I’m sorry, Mama-in-law,” he apologized. “But it seems as if it may be a case for the police, and since no one else is here now, I should go and see two of the actors. Stafford visited both of them earlier in the day. They may have some connection—or at least know something that explains what happened.”

Charlotte rose to her feet quickly, absentmindedly straightening her skirt.

“We’ll come with you. I don’t want to wait here, do you, Mama?”

“No.” Caroline stood up beside her. “No. I’d far rather come with you. We can wait somewhere where we shall not intrude.”

Pitt stepped back and held the door open for them. Hastily they passed through, then walked along the corridor with him to the stage door, which apparently he had found. The manager was waiting for them, shifting from foot to foot, his face creased with anxiety.

“What has happened, Mr. Pitt?” he said as soon as Pitt was close enough he did not need to raise his voice. “I know the judge is dead, but why do you need to see Miss Macaulay and Mr. Fielding? What can they possibly do to help?” He put his hands in his pockets and then pulled them out again. “I don’t understand, really I don’t! I want to be of assistance, naturally—but this is beyond comprehension.”

“Mr. Stafford visited with them earlier in the day,” Pitt replied, his hand on the door to the stage.

“Visited with them?” The manager looked appalled. “Not here, Inspector! Certainly not here!”

“No,” Pitt agreed as they walked in single file along the narrower passageway towards the room where Fielding and Tamar Macaulay had been asked to wait. “Miss Macaulay called upon the judge in his home. That at least we know.”

“Do we! Do we?” the manager demanded. “I know nothing about it at all!” He stopped and flung open the door. “There you are! I wash my hands of the whole affair! Upon my soul, as if this wasn’t bad enough! A judge dying in his box during the performance—and now the police! Anyone would think we were doing the Scottish play! Well go on, go on! You’d better do whatever it is you have to!”

“Thank you.” Pitt accepted with only the slightest twist of irony. He held the door just long enough for Charlotte and Caroline to pass through, then closed it with a very slight bow, just as the manager came to it.

Inside the room was calm and comfortable. Half a dozen easy chairs were scattered about over a carpeted floor. There was a small stove in one corner and a kettle on it. The walls were almost covered with past playbills and posters. Some were lists of actors, others quite elaborate and beautiful evocations of glamour. Looking at them one could almost hear the music begin, see the lights dim. Pitt recognized the faces of Henry Irving, Sarah Bernhardt, Ellen Terry, Herbert Beerbohm Tree, the young Italian actress Eleanora Duse and Mrs. Patrick Campbell.

But the room was unimportant. The figures that dominated everyone’s attention were standing side by side with a grace which was in all probability so practiced as now to be quite unconscious. Joshua Fielding was exactly as he had appeared through the lens of the opera glasses, except there was more humor in his face. Tiny lines around his mouth were less exaggerated than the gestures he had used to convey the same sense of wit and rueful amusement. He was perhaps less handsome. At a few yards’ distance his nose was not quite straight, his eyes uneven, one brow different from the other. Yet the very imperfection of it was more immediate, and thus more lastingly attractive than the flawless stage appearance, which lacked a certain humanity.

Tamar Macaulay, on the other hand, was surprisingly different from her stage presence. Or perhaps neither Caroline nor Charlotte had looked at her so closely. She was smaller and leaner. The extreme femininity she had projected was part of her art, not a natural quality; and the intense vitality, almost lightness of character she played had been set aside with her costume. In repose she was motionless, all her strength inward. Yet her face was one of the most compelling Charlotte had ever seen. There was power of the mind in it and startling intelligence. She was extremely dark, her skin was sallow and her hair black, and yet she had the extraordinary gift of being able to portray anything from ugliness to dazzling beauty. She could never have been lush, warm or voluptuous; but in Charlotte’s mind at least, she could have been anyone from Medusa, the Gorgon, to Helen of Troy, and been utterly convincing as either. With the power of personality behind her dark face, Charlotte could have looked at it and believed that men fought an eleven-year war and ruined an empire over her.

Pitt betrayed nothing so fanciful in his manner. He began with an apology.

“I am sorry to have had to ask you to remain,” he said with a tight smile. “You must be tired at the end of so long a day. However, I daresay you have been informed that Mr. Justice Stafford died in his box during the performance this evening.” He looked at Joshua, then at Tamar.

“I knew he was ill,” Joshua replied, looking away from Caroline and at Pitt.

Pitt realized his omission. “I am sorry. May I present Mrs. Caroline Ellison, and my wife, Mrs. Pitt. I preferred not to leave them standing outside.”

“Of course.” Joshua bowed very slightly, first to Caroline, who blushed self-consciously, then to Charlotte. “I regret the circumstances of our meeting. I can offer you little comfort or refreshment.”

“I knew he had been taken ill,” Tamar said, returning them to the matter in hand. Her voice was low and of unusual timbre. “I did not know he had died.” Her face pinched with sadness. “I am very sorry. I have no idea how we can be of help.”

“You called upon him at his home earlier in the day?”

“Yes.” She added nothing, no explanation. She had an extraordinary repose, even delivering such a bald reply.

“And I saw him later, in my lodgings,” Joshua added. “He seemed perfectly well then. But is that really what you wished to ask?” He looked very relaxed, hands in his pockets. “Surely Mrs. Stafford is the one to tell you anything you need to know. Doesn’t his own physician know his condition?”

Pitt corrected the misapprehension. “I am not a physician, Mr. Fielding. I am an inspector with the police.”

Joshua’s eyebrows rose and he straightened up, taking his hands out of his pockets. “With the police? I’m sorry—I thought he was taken ill. Was it an injury? Good heavens—in the theater?”

“No, it looks as if it may have been poison,” Pitt said carefully.

“Poison?” Joshua was incredulous and Tamar stiffened. “How do you know?” Joshua asked.

“I don’t,” Pitt replied, looking from one to the other of them, “But the symptoms were alarmingly like those of opium poisoning. I should be irresponsible were I not to allow the possibility, and learn what I can, tonight, while memories are sharp and recent, before I hand the matter over to whoever will handle it when the medical report comes in.”

“I see.” Joshua bit his lip. “And you have come here because both Tamar and I saw him during the day, and you suspect us?” His face was tight, full of hurt. Almost unconsciously he put out his hand and touched Tamar’s arm. It was a protective gesture, although she looked in some ways the stronger of the two. Her face was fiercer, less vulnerable than his.

Watching her, Charlotte thought of the little she had heard of the Godman case, and the appalling loss of her brother. She wondered what Aaron Godman had been like. If he resembled her, Charlotte could imagine how people might have feared him, and believed him at least capable of a passion that could have ended in murder!

“Among many others.” Pitt did not prevaricate. “But it is also possible you may provide some observation which will simply guide us to the truth.”

“You mean implicate someone else,” Tamar said coolly. “We have been through a murder investigation before, Inspector Pitt. We cherish no illusions that it will be a pleasant affair, or that the police will rest before they have found evidence to satisfy a court of someone’s guilt.”

Charlotte was acutely aware of how exact was her use of words. The wound of her brother’s conviction was far from healed.

“It is ours to present the evidence, Miss Macaulay,” Pitt replied without anger or criticism in his face. “Not to decide on it—thank God. But I have never knowingly provided anything which I did not believe to be true. I am aware that you feel your brother was wronged, and that it was in connection with that case that you visited Mr. Stafford today.”

“Of course.” Her amusement was genuine, if bitter. “I have no other reason for seeking his acquaintance. I am aware that actresses have a certain reputation. In my case it is not warranted. And I know no reason to suppose it was in Mr. Stafford’s either.” There was savage laughter in her eyes, a mockery of Stafford and of herself and all people suppressed of emotions. “He was a somewhat humorless man,” she went on. “Lacking in imagination, and in the unlikely event he were to pursue a romance, I think he would be more discreet than to choose an actress with whom to do it!”

Charlotte looked at Pitt’s face and saw the imagination take flight in him. Tamar was a woman a man might fall in love with, even passionately, but not a woman with whom he would have an affaire. She was the stuff of dreams, even of visions, not a pleasant pastime, a little laughter and sensuality away from the duties of marriage or the loneliness of a bachelor life. Charlotte could not imagine her as a comfortable woman, and she believed Pitt did not either.

“I do not leap to conclusions, Miss Macaulay.” Pitt’s voice cut across her thoughts. “Even when they seem on the firmest of ground.”

A smile flashed across Tamar’s face and vanished.

“And you, Mr. Fielding?” Pitt turned to Joshua. “Did Mr. Stafford come to sec you about this case?”

“Yes, of course. I gathered from what he said that he was considering reopening it after all.” He sighed heavily. “Now we have lost that chance. We have not managed to persuade anyone else to consider it at all.”

“Did you see him alone, Mr. Fielding?”

“Yes. I imagine that there is no point in my telling you what happened, since there is no one to verify it.” Joshua shrugged. “He simply asked me about the night Blaine was killed, and made me rehearse everything I know all over again. But he said he was off to see Devlin O’Neil—that was Blaine’s friend, with whom he quarreled that evening—over money, I think.”

“Did he have this with him?” Pitt pulled the silver flask out of his pocket and held it forward.

Joshua regarded it curiously. “Not that I saw, but then one doesn’t usually carry such a thing where it is visible. Why? Is it poisoned?”

Tamar shrank a little into herself and looked at it with distaste.

“I don’t know,” Pitt replied, putting it away again. “Have you seen it before, Miss Macaulay?”

“No.”

Pitt did not argue.

“Thank you. I expect whoever is in charge tomorrow will speak to you again. I’m sorry to have had to distress you this way.”

Joshua shrugged gently, a smile crossing his face and disappearing.

Pitt bade them good-night and after the briefest exchange Charlotte, Pitt and Caroline took their leave. Outside the night was dark; the theater lights were dimmed now, only the ordinary street lamps like luminous pearls in a faint fog that was gathering in gauzy wraiths in the air. Carriage wheels hurried along the damp streets and hooves clattered sharply on the wet stone.

Had Stafford planned to reopen the case of murder for which Aaron Godman had been hanged? Was that why he had been killed? Tamar Macaulay wanted it reopened. Who wanted it kept closed—enough to murder?

Or was it something entirely different: a different person, a different fear—or hate?

Charlotte walked a little faster and linked her arm in Pitt’s as he looked for a hansom to take them home.