Farriers' Lane

2

MICAH DRUMMOND was in his office early in the morning. Since the case which had centered on Belgrave Square that summer, and produced so much horror and scandal, and for Drummond himself, knowledge that affected every part of his life, he was no longer happy with his own thoughts. Work was something of a relief, even though it offered reminders far too often of just what a tortuous web of obligations he had unknowingly entered when he accepted membership in the secret society of the Inner Circle.

Eleanor Byam was a different matter. The only way he could keep his mind from her was to sink it in the urgent and complicated problems of other people.

He was standing near the window in the thin autumn sunlight when Pitt knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Drummond said hopefully. There was too little on his desk and what there was was stale. He had already read it and delegated it appropriately. Now all he could do was send for further reports every so often to keep him abreast of every new turn of events, which would be more interference than his officers deserved. “Come in!” he said again more sharply.

The door opened and Pitt stood in the entrance, his hair curling wildly, his jacket crooked and his cravat in imminent danger of coming undone completely. Drummond found him a remarkably reassuring sight, at once familiar and yet always on the brink of some surprise.

Drummond smiled. “Yes, Pitt?”

Pitt came in, closing the door behind him.

“I was at the theater last night.” He put his hands in his pockets and stood in front of the desk, at anything but attention. In another man Drummond might have resented it, but he liked Pitt too much to wish to reaffirm their relative positions of authority.

“Oh yes.” Drummond was surprised. It was not one of Pitt’s regular habits.

“Invitation from my mother-in-law,” Pitt elaborated. “Justice Samuel Stafford died in his box,” he went on. “I saw him taken ill and went to offer any help I could.” He pulled a silver hip flask out of his jacket pocket, a beautiful thing gleaming in the light.

Drummond looked at it, then at Pitt’s face, waiting for the explanation.

Pitt put the flask on the green leather desk top.

“There’s no medical report yet, of course, but it looked too much like opium poisoning to ignore the possibility. Justice Ignatius Livesey was there as well. He’d been in the next box and came to help too. Actually it was he who realized it might well be poison. He saw Stafford drink from the flask, so he took it from Stafford’s pocket and gave it to me, for the medical examiner to look at.”

“Samuel Stafford,” Drummond said slowly. “He’s an appeal court judge, isn’t he.” It was not a question, just an observation. “Poor man.” He frowned. “Poison? Opium? Doesn’t seem very likely.”

Pitt lifted his shoulders and there was a rueful expression in his eyes.

“No, it doesn’t, on the face of it,” he agreed. “But I made a few enquiries into what he had done during the day, and some interesting things emerged. Do you remember the Blaine/Godman case, about five years ago?”

“Blaine/Godman?” Drummond came a little closer to the desk. His face creased in thought, but apparently nothing came to his mind.

“A man crucified against a door, in Farriers’ Lane,” Pitt said.

“Oh!” Drummond winced. “Yes, of course I do. Fearful business, absolutely appalling! There was a terrible outcry. One of the most horrible cases I can remember.” He looked at Pitt with a frown. “But what has Stafford’s death in the theater last night got to do with Farriers’ Lane? The man who did that was hanged at the time.”

“Yes,” Pitt said with anger and pity in his face. He hated hanging, whatever the offense. it only compounded one barbarity with another, and human judgment was far too often fallible, mistakes too easy, knowledge too little. “Stafford was one of the judges who denied Godman’s appeal,” he went on aloud. “His sister, the actress Tamar Macaulay, has been trying to reopen the case ever since then. She believes her brother was not guilty.”

“Not unnatural,” Drummond interrupted. “People find it very hard to accept that their relatives, even their friends, can be guilty of something so horrific. Surely she was on stage, wasn’t she? She was hardly in a position to poison Justice Stafford’s flask of—whatever it is—whiskey?”

“I’ve no idea!” Pitt picked it up and unscrewed the top, putting his nose to it delicately. “Yes—it’s whiskey. Yes, she was on stage at the time he died. But she called on him earlier in the day, at his home.” He screwed the top back on and set the flask on the desk again.

“Oh!” Drummond was surprised and concerned. The picture began to look darker. “But why would she kill Stafford? How could that possibly help her brother’s cause? Or has she lost all sense of reason, and her wits as well?”

Pitt smiled. “I have no idea! I’m only telling you what happened last night, and handing over the flask to you, so you can give it to whoever is put in charge of the enquiry—if there is one.”

“Mr. Samuel Stafford.” Drummond smiled back, a charming expression that totally altered the gravity and somewhat ascetic cast of his face. “Justice of Her Majesty’s Court of Appeal. A most important person, indeed! A case worthy of your talents, Pitt! A delicate case, a most political one,” he added. “It will require careful and tactful investigation, should it prove to be murder. I think you had better take care of it yourself—definitely. Yes—delegate whatever else you have on hand at the moment, and enquire into this.” He picked up the flask from the desk and handed it back to Pitt, meeting his eyes with humor and challenge.

Pitt looked at him long and steadily, then reached out his hand and took the flask.

“Keep me informed,” Drummond commanded. “If it is murder, we’d better deal with it pretty rapidly.”

“We had better be right!” Pitt corrected fiercely. Then he smiled suddenly and widely, seeing Drummond’s shadow of anxiety. “And diplomatic!” he added.

“Get out!” Drummond grinned, not because there was anything remotely amusing in the case, murder or not, but because quite unreasonably, he felt a lift of warmth inside himself, a reassertion that the odd, the eccentric, the unruly, the honest, that which would laugh and would pity, that which was essentially human, was infinitely more important than political expediency or social rules. Unbidden, Eleanor’s face came to his mind, but with so much less pain than before, and none of the bleak hopelessness.

Pitt was surprised to have been given the case, although on reflection he should not have been. Drummond had been frank with him when Pitt had declined promotion because he did not want to sit behind a desk and tell other men how to do a job he was so eminently gifted for himself, and loved in spite of the relatively lower pay. An increase in salary would have meant so much. He would have taken it, for Charlotte’s sake, and their children, and the difference it would have made to them, but it was Charlotte who had refused, knowing how much the work meant to him.

But from that time on Drummond had said he would give Pitt all the most delicate and political cases, a sort of lateral promotion, Drummond’s way of rewarding him in spite of himself, and possibly also making the best use of his skills.

The medical examiner was a new man whom Pitt had not met before. When Pitt went into his laboratory he was standing behind a microscope at a huge marble-topped bench, an intense expression screwing up his face, bottles, retorts and vials all around him. He was huge, as tall as Pitt, and far heavier, but probably no more than thirty-five. His bright ginger hair stood out in a shock of tight little waves, and his beard looked like a fallen bird’s nest.

“Got it!” he said with great enthusiasm. “Got it, by heaven! Come in and make yourself comfortable, whoever you are, and compose your soul in patience. I shall be with you in a moment.” He spoke in a high voice with a soft Highland Scots accent, and never once did he take his eyes from his instrument.

It would have been churlish to be offended, and Pitt did as he was requested with good humor, taking the flask out of his pocket, ready to hand it over.

Several moments of silence passed by while Pitt stared around him at the chaotic wealth of jars, slides and bottles containing all manner of substances. Then the medical examiner looked up and smiled at Pitt.

“Yes?” he said cheerfully. “And what is it I can do for you, sir?”

“Inspector Pitt,” Pitt introduced himself.

“Sutherland,” the medical examiner responded. “I’ve heard of you. Should have recognized you—sorry. What is it? A murder?”

Pitt smiled. “For the moment, a flask. I’d like to know what is in it.” He handed it over.

Sutherland took it and opened it up, holding it gingerly to his nose.

“Whiskey,” he replied, looking at Pitt over the top of it. He sniffed again. “A very moderate malt—expensive, but still very moderate. I’ll tell you what else, when I’ve had a look at it. What do you expect?”

“Perhaps opium?”

“Funny way to take it. Thought it was usually smoked. Not too difficult to get hold of.”

“Don’t think he took it intentionally,” Pitt answered.

“Murder! Thought so. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” He held up the flask and looked at it, reading the name engraved. “Samuel Stafford.” His face sharpened. “Didn’t he die last night? Heard the newsboys shouting something about it.”

“Yes. Let me know as soon as you can.”

“Most certainly. If it is opium, I’ll know by tonight. If it’s something else, or nothing, it’ll take longer.”

“The autopsy?” Pitt asked.

“It’s the autopsy I’m talking about now,” Sutherland replied quickly. “The whiskey’ll only take a moment. Not complicated. Adulterate even a moderate whiskey and it’s not hard to find.”

“Good. I’ll be back for it,” Pitt said.

“If I’m not here, there is my home,” Sutherland said vigorously. “I’ll be there from about eight.” And without adding anything further he resumed his study of the microscope. Pitt placed his card on the marble bench top, with the Bow Street station address printed on it, and set out to begin his investigation.

The first thing to determine was whether Stafford had intended to reopen the Blaine/Godman case or not. Surely if he had taken the time to go and see both Joshua Fielding and Devlin O’Neil, then he must at least have considered it. Would he have bothered to tell anyone other than Tamar herself if the matter must remain closed?

Or was Livesey right, and he intended only to prove once and for all that Godman was guilty and there could be no more question raised on the matter, or suggestions that somehow justice had miscarried? Constant doubts, however trivial or based in emotion, old loyalties and loves, still disturbed public confidence in justice and the administration of the law. When the law itself was not held in respect, then everyone suffered. It would be a natural and honorable thing for Stafford to do.

In seeking to establish Godman’s guilt, and justify the law, even to Tamar herself, had he unwittingly stumbled on some irregularity? Had he frightened someone guilty of—what? Another crime? A private sin? A complicity of some nature?

The place to begin, regrettable as it was, had to be with the widow. Accordingly he strode along the pavement past elegant ladies on their way to see dressmakers and milliners, servants on errands, petty clerks and tradesmen about their business. It was a brisk, chilly morning and the streets were clattering with noise of horses’ hooves, carriage wheels, shouts of drivers and costermongers, crossing sweepers, newsboys, running patterers singing the ballads of scandal and folk drama.

He hailed a hansom and gave the Staffords’ home address in Bruton Street, off Berkeley Square, which he had obtained from the desk sergeant in Bow Street. He sat back as the cab bowled west along Long Acre, and began to contemplate the questions to which he must find answers.

It was an unpleasant thought that if the judge’s death had nothing to do with the Blaine/Godman case, then since Stafford was not presently involved in any other plea, it might prove to be a personal matter, a private vengeance or fear, very probably to do with his family—his widow—perhaps money.

Tomorrow he would know more, at least if Sutherland found opium in the body and in the flask. But if Stafford had in fact died of some disease no one else had been aware of, if his private physician could offer some explanation, then he could happily forget the whole matter. But it was a hope that hovered beyond the edge of his mind, not a solution he expected.

The Staffords’ house was easy to find. There were dark wreaths hung on the door and black crepes over the drawn curtains on the windows. A pale-faced maid in a hat and coat came up the areaway steps and set out along the footpath on some task, and a footman with a black armband carried a coal scuttle inside and closed the door. It was a house conspicuously in mourning.

Pitt alighted, paid the cabby, and went to the front door.

“Yes sir?” the answering parlormaid asked dubiously. She regarded Pitt with disfavor. He looked like a peddler at first glance, except that he carried nothing to sell. But there was a confidence in his manner, even an arrogance, which belied any attempt to ingratiate. She was flustered and overwhelmed with the drama of events. The housemaids were all in tears, the cook had fainted twice, the butler was more than a trifle maudlin, after a long time in his own pantry with the cellar keys, and Mr. Stafford’s valet looked as if he had seen a ghost.

“I am sorry to disturb Mrs. Stafford at such a time,” Pitt said with all the charm he could muster, which was considerable. “But I require to ask her a few questions about events last night, in order that everything may be settled as quickly and decently as possible. Will you please ask her if she will see me.” He fished in his pocket and presented her with one of his cards, an indulgence which had rewarded him many times.

The maid took it, reading it for his occupation and not finding it. She put it on the silver tray used for such purposes and told him to wait while she delivered his enquiry.

He was not long in the dim hallway with its hastily placed crepes before the maid returned to conduct him to the room towards the back of the house where Juniper Stafford received him. It was expensively decorated in warm colors, with stenciled patterns around the doors lending an individual touch. A carved chaise longue had a woven rug draped on it in reds and plums, and no one had changed the bowl of late chrysanthemums on the polished table.

Juniper looked very tired this morning, and shocked, as if the realization of her husband’s death was beginning to come to her, with all the changes in her life that it would mean. In the harsher daylight her skin looked papery and the tiny natural blemishes more pronounced, but she was still a handsome woman with excellent features and very fine dark eyes. Today she was dressed in unrelieved black, but the excellence of the cut, the perfect drape of the fabrics across the hips and the swath of the bustle made it a garment of fashion, and most becoming.

“Good morning, Mrs. Stafford,” Pitt said formally. “I am truly sorry to disturb you again so soon, but there were questions I could not ask you last night.”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I understand, Mr. Pitt. You do not need to explain to me. I have been a judge’s wife long enough to appreciate the necessities of the law. Surely they have not done the …” She hesitated to use the word, it was so ugly.

“No, not yet.” He saved her from having to say “autopsy.” “I hope for it this evening. But in the meantime I should like to confirm for myself what Mr. Stafford’s purpose was in going to see Mr. O’Neil and Mr. Fielding.” He pulled a rueful face. “I am in some confusion as to whether he did intend to reopen the Blaine/Godman case, or simply to find further evidence to convince Miss Macaulay of the futility of her crusade.”

“You are in charge of the matter, after all?” she asked, still standing, one hand resting on the back of the tapestried chair.

“I was given it this morning.”

“I am glad. It would have been harder to face someone I did not know.”

It was a delicate compliment and he accepted it as such, thanking her by expression rather than words.

She walked over towards the fire and the mantel shelf, above which was a particularly fine Dutch oil painting of cows in an autumn field, the sky warm with golden light behind them. She looked at it for a moment or two before turning to face him.

“What can I tell you, Mr. Pitt? He did not confide his intentions to me, but I assumed from what he did say that he had found some grounds on which to re-enquire into the case. If indeed he was … killed”—she swallowed, finding the word difficult—“then I have to assume it had some connection with that. It was a hideous case—bestial—blasphemous. There was terrible public outcry at the time.” She shivered and her lips tightened at the memory. “You must remember it. It was in all the newspapers, I am told.”

“Who was Kingsley Blaine?” he asked. He could still recall the sense of horror he had felt when she had spoken of Farriers’ Lane, but very little else came back to him, no details, no people behind the names.

“A fairly ordinary young man of good enough family,” she replied, standing close to the mantel and staring beyond Pitt towards the window. The curtains were drawn closed now because of the mourning of the house. “Money, of course, but not of the aristocracy. He and his friend, Devlin O’Neil, went to the theater that night. Some say they had a difference of opinion, but it proved later to be of no importance. It was only money, a small debt or something. Nothing very large.” She looked at the garnet ring on her finger and turned it slowly in the light.

“But Mr. O’Neil was suspected for a while?” Pitt asked.

“Only as a matter of course, I think,” she replied.

“But Mr. Stafford went to see him yesterday?”

“Yes. I don’t know why. Perhaps he thought he might know something. After all, he was there that evening.”

“How did Aaron Godman come into the story?”

She let her hands fall and stared towards the window again, as if she could see through the curtains to the garden and the street beyond.

“He was an actor. He was playing in the theater that night. They say he was gifted.” Her voice altered very slightly but it was an expression he could not gauge. “Blaine was having an affaire with Tamar Macaulay, and he stayed late backstage. As he was leaving someone handed him a note asking him to go and meet O’Neil at some gambling club. He never got there, because as he was passing through Farriers’ Lane, on the way, he was murdered, and crucified to the door in the stable yard—with farrier’s nails.” She shuddered and swallowed as though there were an obstruction in her throat. “They said he was pierced in the side, as Our Lord was,” she went on very quietly indeed. “One of the newspapers said that they had made a crown of old nails and placed it on his head.”

“I recall it now,” Pitt confessed. “But I had forgotten that particular horror.”

She spoke very quietly, her voice subdued, full of fear, and close, with a drawing in of her body as if the emotion were still as sharp in her as it must have been five years ago.

“It was very ugly, Mr. Pitt. It was as if something had come out of a nightmare and taken living form. Everyone I know was just as appalled as we were.” Unconsciously she included her husband. “Until Godman was hanged, we could think of little else. It intruded into everything like a darkness, as if it could come out of Farriers’ Lane and that hideous yard, and slash and crucify us all!” She shuddered as though even this room were somehow not safe.

“It is finished, Mrs. Stafford,” Pitt said gently. “There is no need to be concerned anymore, or to let it disturb you.”

“Is it?” She swung around, facing him. Her dark eyes were wide, still full of fear, and her voice had a hard, frightened edge to it. “Do you think so? Isn’t that why Samuel was killed?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “Mr. Livesey seems to think that Mr. Stafford was quite satisfied that the verdict was correct. He simply wanted to find further proof of it so even Tamar Macaulay would be convinced and let it rest. In the public good.”

She stood very still, her body stiff under its black gown.

“Then who killed Samuel?” she said quietly. “And for heaven’s sake, why? Nothing else makes any sense. And it was immediately after that woman came here, and he went to speak to O’Neil and Joshua Fielding about the evidence. Do you—do you think maybe one of them really killed Kingsley Blaine, and they are afraid Samuel knew something about it—and that he was going to prove it?”

“It is possible,” he conceded. “Mrs. Stafford, can you think of anything he may have said which would help us to find out what he knew? Even what he intended, would help.”

She was silent for several moments, her face heavy with concentration.

Pitt waited.

“He seemed to feel it was extremely urgent,” she said finally, a deep line of anxiety between her brows. “He would not have gone to Devlin O’Neil again, someone so close to the murdered man’s family, and a personal friend, unless he felt he had new information or evidence. I—I just know, from his manner, that he had learned something.” She stared at him with fierce concentration. “It is only natural that he did not discuss it with me. It would have been improper. And of course I did not know the details anyway. All I knew was what was public knowledge. Everyone was talking about it. One could not bump into a friend or acquaintance anywhere, even at the opera or the dinner table, without it creeping into the conversation after a few moments. There was terrible anger everywhere, Mr. Pitt. It was not an ordinary crime.”

“No.” Pitt thought of the dark air of fear and prejudice which would blow from the bloodstained Farriers’ Lane, even into the withdrawing rooms of London and the discreet, plush lined gentlemen’s clubs with a clink of crystal and the aroma of cigar smoke.

“It wasn’t, I assure you!” There was an urgency in her now, as if she thought he doubted her. “I have never known such a public fury over a crime—other than the Whitechapel murders, of course. And even so, there was an element of blasphemy in this which outraged people in quite a different way. Even gentle and pious people could not wait for him to be hanged.”

“Except Tamar Macaulay,” he observed.

She winced. “It is an abominable thought that she may have been right, is it not?”

“Indeed!” he said with a sudden surge of feeling. “In many ways far worse than the original crime.”

She looked uncomprehending.

“The murder of Kingsley Blaine was the murder of one man,” he explained with a bitter smile. “The murder, if you like, of Aaron Godman was the slow, judicial passion incurred by the fear and rage, and misjudgment, of a nation and what purports to be the justice system it practices. To have criminals is a sad fact of humanity. To have laws which, when tested to their limit, exact an irretrievable punishment from an innocent person, in order to assuage our own fears, is a tragedy of a far greater order. We all consented to it; we are all tainted.”

She looked very pale, her eyes hollow, skin tight on her throat.

“Mr. Pitt, that is—that is simply dreadful! Poor Samuel; if he feared that, no wonder he was so disturbed.”

“He was disturbed?”

“Oh yes, he has been anxious about the case for some time.” She looked down at the rich carpet. “Of course I was not sure to begin with whether it was simply that he was afraid Miss Macaulay was going to revive the subject in the public mind again and try to bring the law into disrepute. And of course that would have caused him great concern.” She met Pitt’s eyes. “He loved the law. He had given most of his life to it, and he held it in reverence above all things. It was like a religion to him.”

He hesitated; the next thought that came to the edge of his mind was difficult to put to her without being offensive.

She was staring at him, waiting for his response, her eyes still haunted by fear.

“Mrs. Stafford,” he began awkwardly, “I hardly know how to ask you, and I do not wish to be insulting, but—but is it possible he—he intended to protect the reputation of the law—in people’s eyes …” He stopped.

“No, Mr. Pitt,” she said quietly. “You did not know Samuel, or you would not need to ask. He was a man of total integrity. If he had further evidence that convinced him Aaron Godman might not have been guilty, he would have made it public, whatever the risk to the reputation of the law, or of any individual barrister or the original trial judge, or indeed to himself. But if he had such evidence, he would surely already have made it known. I think perhaps he had only a suspicion, and now he is—gone—we may never know what it was.”

“Except by retracing his steps,” Pitt replied. “And if it is necessary, then I shall do that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pitt.” She forced herself to smile. “You have been most considerate, and I have every faith you will handle the whole matter in the best way possible.”

“I will certainly try,” he replied, conscious already that his findings might be far from what she could wish or foresee, it would not be easy to learn what Samuel Stafford had discovered so long after the event, and which had caused someone such terror they had again resorted to murder. He looked at her handsome face with its dark brows and well-proportioned bones, and saw the calmness in her eyes for the first time since he had seen her in her theater box watching the stage, before Stafford was taken ill. He felt guilty, because she placed a trust in him he doubted he would be able to honor.

He bade her good-bye with haste, because it embarrassed him, and after a brisk walk, took a hansom cab east again to the chambers of Adolphus Pryce, Q.C. They were in one of the larger Inns of Court, close by the Old Bailey, and the oak-paneled office was bustling with clerks and juniors with inky fingers and grave expressions. An elderly gentleman with white whiskers and a portentous air came up to him, peering at him over the top of his gold-rimmed pince-nez.

“And what may we do for you, sir?” he enquired. “Mr. er …?”

“Pitt—Inspector Thomas Pitt, of the Bow Street station,” Pitt supplied. “I am here in connection with the death last night of Mr. Justice Stafford.”

“Terrible news.” The clerk shook his head. “Very sudden indeed. We had not even heard the poor gentleman was ailing. Such a shock! And in the theater. Not the most salubrious place from which to depart this vale of tears, dear me, no. Still, what cannot be changed must be endured the best we can. Most unfortunate. But …” He coughed dryly. “In what way does that involve these chambers? Mr. Stafford was an appeal court judge, not a barrister. And we have no case presently before him, of that I am quite sure; it is my business to know.”

Pitt changed his mind about his approach.

“But you have had in the past, sir?”

The clerk’s white eyebrows rose. “But of course. We have tried cases before most of the justices of the bench, both in the Old Bailey and in appeal. So, I imagine, has every other reputable chambers in London.”

“I have in mind the case of Aaron Godman.”

Suddenly there was a hush as a dozen quill pens stopped moving and a junior with a ledger in his hands stood motionless.

“Aaron Godman?” The clerk repeated the name. “Aaron Godman! Oh dear, that is some time ago now, at least five years. But you are perfectly correct, of course. Our Mr. Pryce prosecuted that one, and secured a conviction. It went to appeal, I believe before Mr. Stafford, among others. There are usually five judges of appeal, but you will know that.”

The junior with the ledger continued his journey and the pens began to move again, but there was a curious air of listening in the room although no one turned or looked at Pitt.

“Do you by any chance recall who they were?” he asked.

“Not by chance, sir, by memory,” the clerk replied. “Mr. Stafford himself, Mr. Ignatius Livesey, Mr. Morley Sadler, Mr. Edgar Boothroyd and Mr. Granville Oswyn. Yes, that is correct. I believe Mr. Sadler has retired from the bench now, and I heard Mr. Boothroyd had moved to the Chancery division. Surely the case is no longer of any interest? As I recall, it was denied at appeal. There really were no grounds for opening up the matter again, none at all. Dear me, no. The trial was conducted with perfect propriety, and there was most certainly no new evidence.”

“You are speaking of the appeal?”

“Of course. What else?”

“I had heard that Mr. Stafford was still interested in the matter, and had interviewed several of the principal witnesses again in the last few days.”

Again the writing stopped and there was a prickly silence.

“Indeed? I had not heard that!” The clerk looked quite taken aback. “I cannot imagine what that would mean. However, it did not concern these chambers, Mr.—er … Mr. Pitt, you say? Quite so—Mr. Pitt. We prosecuted the case, we did not defend. That, as I recall, was Mr. Barton James, of Finnegan, James and Mulhare, of Fetter Lane.” He frowned. “Although it is most odd that Mr. Stafford should be enquiring in the matter. If indeed there is some new evidence come to light, I would have thought Mr. James should take it up—if it is of any importance?”

“Miss Macaulay, Godman’s sister, appealed personally to Mr. Stafford,” Pitt explained.

“Oh dear, yes indeed. A most tenacious young woman-most misguided.” The clerk shook his head. “Unfortunate. An actress person, I believe. Most unfortunate. Well, sir, what is it that we may do for you?”

“May I see Mr. Pryce, if he is available? He was at the theater yesterday evening, and Mr. Stafford also called upon him earlier in the day. He may be able to give us some information which will throw further light upon Mr. Stafford’s death.”

“Indeed. He was a personal friend of Mr. and Mrs. Stafford; possibly Mr. Stafford confided some concern for his health. He has a client with him at the moment, but I do not believe he will be long. If you care to take a seat, sir, I will inform him that you are here.” And with that he bowed very slightly, a stiff gesture, rather like a black crow that was about to peck and changed its mind. Pitt watched him walk away between the desks and files and high-backed stools where young men sat bent over books, scribbling industriously. Not one of them looked up as he passed.

It was over a quarter of an hour before the clerk returned to say that Mr. Pryce was free now, and conducted Pitt to his heavily ornate office, where carved oak chests and bookcases held a library of law books, and the mellow gleam of polished wood reflected the warmth of the fire. Two well-curtained windows looked out onto a small shaded courtyard. The single tree was already bright with autumn colors and the grass was sorely in need of clipping.

Sunlight fell across a very formal desk, leather inlaid and furnished with onyx and crystal inkwells, and a stand for pen, seals, knife, tapers and sand. A dossier, tied in ribbon, still sat on one polished corner of the wood.

Adolphus Pryce looked agitated. He was extremely fashionably dressed in black frock coat, pin-striped trousers and exquisitely cut waistcoat. He had a natural grace and a posture which made his clothes look even more expensive than they probably were.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” he said with an attempt at a smile, but it died on his lips almost before it was born. He looked as if he had slept little. “Withers tells me you have come about poor Stafford. I am not sure what else I can tell you, but of course I am more than happy to try. Please—be seated.” He waved his hand towards the large green leather upholstered chair near Pitt.

Pitt accepted, leaning back and crossing his legs as if he intended to remain for some time. He saw the look of concern deepen in Pryce’s face as he too sat down.

“Mr. Stafford came to see you yesterday,” Pitt began, not sure how best to draw the information he wanted, indeed not sure if Pryce possessed it. “Can you tell me what that concerned? I realize you cannot break confidence with a client, but Mr. Stafford himself is dead, and the Godman case is in the public domain.”

“Of course,” Pryce leaned back a little and placed his fingertips together thoughtfully. “Actually he came entirely about the Godman case. Of course we exchanged a few pleasantries.” His discomfort returned for a moment. “We—we have known each other for some time. But his reason for calling was his concern, indeed his intention to act, with regard to that case.”

“To act? He told you so?”

“Yes—yes, indeed.” Pryce stared at Pitt very fixedly. He was a man of considerable charm and poise, aristocratic features and sufficient individuality to remain unmistakable in the memory.

“To reopen the appeal?” Pitt pressed. “Upon what grounds?”

“Ah—that he did not say, at least not specifically.”

“Why did he come to you, Mr. Pryce? What did he wish you to do?”

“Nothing. Oh, nothing at all.” Pryce lifted his shoulders very slightly. “It was really something of a courtesy, since I had been the original prosecuting counsel. And I suppose he may have wondered if I had had any doubts myself.”

“If he intended to reopen the appeal, Mr. Pryce, he must either have found some breach of correct conduct in the original trial or else some new evidence, surely? Or there would be no grounds for raising the matter yet again.”

“Quite. Quite so. And I assure you the original trial was perfectly properly conducted. The judge was Mr. Thelonius Quade, a man of the utmost integrity, and more than sufficient skill to not make an error by mischance.” He sighed. “It seems therefore an inevitable conclusion that Mr. Stafford had found some new evidence. He did intimate to me that it had to do with the medical testimony at the original trial, but he did not say what. He also implied that there was something else he felt was unresolved, but he did not elaborate.”

“Medical evidence from the autopsy on Blaine?”

“I presume so.” Pryce’s eyebrows shot up. “But I suppose it is possible he meant some examination of Godman, although what that could have to do with it, I have no idea.”

Pitt was surprised. “What medical evidence was there to do with Godman?”

“Oh—most disturbing. He was in a very poor shape when he came to trial. Several most unpleasant bruises and lacerations about the face and shoulders, and a serious limp.”

“A fight?” Pitt was startled. No one had suggested self-defense; it had not even occurred to him. “Did Barton James not mention it during the trial?”

“Not at all. The defense put forward was that of not guilty—that it was not Godman but another person, or persons, unknown. There was not the slightest suggestion that Blaine and Godman fought and Blaine died as a result of it.” His face tightened with revulsion. “And really, Mr. Pitt, it would be hard to countenance why Godman should have nailed the wretched man to the stable door. That is macabre—quite shocking! I think any jury in the land would find that indefensible, regardless of any provocation whatsoever!”

“Is that what you would have done, had you been defending him instead of prosecuting, Mr. Pryce?” Pitt asked. “Would you have claimed it was not your client at all, and kept silent about any struggle?”

Pryce chewed his top lip thoughtfully. “I find it hard to say, Mr. Pitt. I think on the whole I would have used self-defense; it would have had a better chance than not guilty. Godman was seen in the area very close to the time of the murder. He was identified by a flower seller, and he did not deny having been there; he simply said it was half an hour earlier than in fact it was. Others actually saw him coming out of the entrance of Farriers’ Lane, what must have been moments after the murder, and with blood on his clothes.”

“And yet Mr. Barton James chose to put forward a complete denial!” Pitt was astounded. It was incomprehensible. “Did Mr. Stafford wish to reopen the case on grounds of incompetence of the original defending counsel? Surely, one can hardly rectify the case now. The only people who could possibly tell us if there was a fight, and what happened, are Blaine and Godman, and they are both dead.”

“Precisely,” Pryce agreed ruefully. “I am afraid it is all speculation, and I can think of no way in which it will ever be anything more.”

“And yet you say Mr. Stafford seemed to feel there was some purpose in pursuing it,” Pitt pointed out. “By the way, why was Godman supposed to have killed Blaine? What motive had he?”

“Oh—sordid.” Pryce wrinkled his brow very slightly. “He was a Jew, you know, as naturally was his sister. Blaine was having an affaire with her, or so it was alleged. He was unquestionably pursuing her with some vigor, and on that very night had given her a necklace of considerable value which his mother-in-law had owned.” His face shadowed. “A very foolish thing to do, and in execrable taste. Well, Godman profoundly resented Blaine’s attentions to his sister, being aware that of course he had no intention whatever of marrying her—quite apart from the fact that she was a Jewess, and an actress, Blaine himself was already married.”

“And Godman felt so violently on his sister’s behalf?” Pitt was surprised. Having met Tamar Macaulay, he found it hard to picture her as a romantic victim, in need of her brother’s protection. But then love can make fools of even the most forthright people, and strength of character or purpose was no protection whatever; indeed sometimes the most powerful could be the most deeply hurt.

“Quite.” Pryce nodded. “It was a matter of family honor, and religious and racial honor as well. Just as we would be appalled if one of our daughters were to become involved with a Jew, so it seems they are equally horrified if one of theirs becomes involved with a gentile.” He tipped his chair a little farther back. “I suppose with a little imagination we might see their point of view. Anyway, that is why Godman killed Blaine—and he certainly would not be the first one to have knifed the seducer of his sister.”

“No,” Pitt agreed. “Not by a long, long way. But that was not used as a defense, was it?”

Pryce smiled. “I doubt society would have accepted Miss Macaulay’s virtue as adequate cause to justify murder, Mr. Pitt. I regret that would have been laughed out of court.”

“Is her reputation so stained?”

“Not at all. It is the reputation of actresses in general from which she would suffer. And I do not think a gentile jury would view with any kindness the excuse that he did not wish her to accept the favors of a gentile lover, as being tainting to her pure Jewish blood.” He pulled a sour face. “If every man who had courted a beautiful Jewess were to be crucified, we should need more crosses than they had in Rome—and the existence of our forests would be in jeopardy!”

“Yes.” Pitt pushed his hands into his pockets. “Altogether an extremely ugly case, and calling for no public sympathy at all. I am surprised that Miss Macaulay rose above the storm and still commands an audience in the theater.”

Pryce shrugged. “I think she had a thin time of it for a while. But once Godman was hanged—and no one ever claimed she had had any part in it—then the public was satisfied, and chose to forgive her.” He reached forward absently and his long fingers touched the smooth surface of the jasper inkstand. “And perversely, there were many who secretly admired her loyalty to her brother, even while at the very same moment they lusted to hang him from the highest gibbet in the land. Had she turned on him, they would have branded her a traitor.” He let go of the stand. “It seemed she really did believe him innocent, and the public chose to believe her equally innocent of anything more than falling in love with a man who would never have married her.”

“She lost her lover and her brother in one act,” Pitt said grimly.

“It would seem so,” Pryce agreed.

“But you said she accepted a valuable piece of jewelry from him—a family heirloom?”

“She says she wore it that evening, for supper, and then insisted he keep it.”

“And did he keep it?” Pitt asked.

Pryce looked surprised. “I have no idea. It was not found on his body. Perhaps Miss Macaulay disposed of it, to lend truth to her story. To the best of my knowledge it has never been seen since.” His face quickened with hope. “Perhaps Stafford had learned something about that. That would make far more sense than some purely medical evidence about Godman which can never be verified. Indeed, that is quite a viable idea.”

“Who knew about the necklace?” Pitt asked, his mind racing over possibilities, new threads that Stafford might have followed till he came close to a truth as yet unguessed, and frightened someone into murder. “It cannot have been long from the time he gave it to her until Godman left the theater.”

“No—it was not,” Pryce agreed quickly. “It was testified to by Miss Macaulay’s dresser, Primrose Walker. She saw Blaine give it to her, and say that it had been in his family for years; in fact it had belonged to his mother-in-law. Miss Macaulay says that is why she gave it back to him, but unfortunately for her, there is no evidence to support that. Unless, of course, Stafford found something.”

“Would he not have told you?”

“Not necessarily. I was prosecuting counsel, Mr. Pitt, not defense. He may well have intended to tell Barton James as soon as he was certain of his own facts. Indeed he did mention that he intended to call upon James in the very near future.” He looked at Pitt with gravity, but there was a growing keenness in his face. “That would explain a great deal, which otherwise seems very odd.” He stopped, as if he feared he might have said too much, and waited for Pitt’s reply.

“Did the police not remark the absence of the necklace at the time?” Pitt questioned, still turning over the facts in his mind.

“No, not that I recall,” Pryce said slowly. “At least they may have done so, but it did not appear in evidence in the trial. Miss Macaulay claimed that she returned it to Blaine, and I think they merely disbelieved her, assuming either that she kept it—it was quite valuable—or that she said that in order to help her brother’s defense.”

“Did it?”

Pryce shrugged ruefully. “Not in the slightest. As I said, she was not believed. Perhaps we owe her an apology.” His face reflected regret, even a touch of pain. “I am afraid I implied that she was of dubious reputation in that regard, and that she would say anything to try to cast doubt on her brother’s guilt. Not an unreasonable assumption in the circumstances, but perhaps not true, for all that.” He winced. “It is a very ugly thought, Mr. Pitt, that one may have used one’s skill to hang an innocent man. The argument that it is one’s profession is not always satisfying.”

Pitt felt an instinctive sympathy with him, and wounding memories of his own came sharply to mind. He liked Pryce, and yet there was something that disturbed him, something very faint, too amorphous to name.

“I understand,” he said aloud. “I face the same.”

“Of course. Of course,” Pryce agreed. “I wish I could tell you more, but that is all I know. I doubt Mr. Stafford knew any more, or he would surely have mentioned it.” He stopped, a shadow in his eyes, for all the easy composure of his bearing. “I—eh—I’m sorry. He was a personal acquaintance.”

“I appreciate your feelings.” Pitt spoke because the situation seemed to require it. He did not often feel himself awkward or at a loss for words. He had faced others’ bereavements so often that, although he had never ceased to care, he had learned what to say. There was something in Pryce that confused him, as, on reflection, there was in Juniper Stafford. Perhaps it was no more than a very natural eagerness to have the solution found as soon as possible, scandal avoided, ugly or stupid speculation, so that people might remember Stafford with honor and affection, and the hideous fact of murder could recede into something apart, a tragedy to be dealt with by the law.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Pryce.” Pitt rose to his feet. “You have been most generous, and given me much to consider. There were undoubtedly aspects of the Blaine/Godman case that Mr. Stafford would have been justified in pursuing, and evidence to suggest that was what he intended. If the medical examiner’s report requires it, I shall follow them myself.”

Pryce rose also, offering his hand.

“Not at all. Please let me know if I can be of any further service, if you need to know anything more about the original case.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Pryce saw him to the door, opening it for him, and the dutiful clerk conducted him through the office to the street.

However, when Pitt went to see Mr. Justice Livesey in his chambers in the early afternoon, he met with a totally different response. Livesey received him graciously; indeed he seemed to have been expecting him. His rooms were very spacious, full of autumn sunlight reflecting on polished, inlaid furniture, a bureau of exquisite marquetry in tropical woods, wine-colored leather upholstered chairs, two vases of chrysanthemums. Two magnificent bronzes stood on a low bookcase and a marble mounted clock sat on the mantel.

“I am afraid that is absolute nonsense,” Livesey said with a smile in answer to Pitt’s first remarks on the case. He leaned back in his great chair and regarded Pitt tolerantly. “Stafford was an intelligent and deeply responsible man. He was learned in the law, and he understood his duty towards it. A judge, particularly a judge of appeal, has a uniquely important position, Mr. Pitt.” His face was composed in an expression of quiet, profound confidence. “We are the last resort of the convicted to obtain mercy, or redress of a harsh or mistaken judgment. Similarly we are the final voice of the people in sealing a verdict forever. It is a monumental responsibility and we cannot afford error. Stafford was aware of that, as we all are.”

He looked at Pitt with a growing smile touching his mouth. “I don’t know why people say that without the law we would be no better than savages. We would be far worse. Savages have laws, Mr. Pitt—usually very strict laws. Even they understand that no society can function without them. Without law we have anarchy, we have the devil stalking the earth, picking us off one by one, the weak and strong alike.” He pursed his lips. “We are all vulnerable at times. It is not only justice; in the end it is survival itself.”

His steady eyes did not waver from Pitt’s face. “Without law, who will protect the mother and child who are tomorrow’s strength? Who will protect the geniuses of the mind, the inventor, the artist who enriches the world but has not the power of money or physical ability to defend himself? Who will protect the wise who are old, and might fall victim to the powerful and foolish? Indeed who will protect the strong from themselves?”

“I have served the law all my adult life, Mr. Livesey,” Pitt replied, meeting his gaze. “You have no need to persuade me of its importance. Nor do I doubt Mr. Stafford’s service to it.”

“I am sorry,” Livesey apologized. “I have not explained myself well. You are unfamiliar with the Godman case, which was unusually ugly. If you knew it as well as I, you would also be quite certain that it was dealt with justly and correctly at the time.” He shifted his massive weight a little in his chair. “There was no flaw in the verdict, and Stafford knew that as well as the rest of us. He was disturbed because Tamar Macaulay would not let the matter drop.” His face darkened. “A very foolish woman, unfortunately. Obsessed with the idea that her brother was not guilty, when it was plain to everyone else that he was. Indeed there was no other serious suspect.”

“Not the friend …” Pitt had to stop to recollect his name. “O’Neil? Did he not quarrel with Blaine that evening?”

“Devlin O’Neil?” Livesey’s eyes widened; they were an unusually clear blue for a man of his years. “Certainly they had a disagreement, but quarrel is too large a word for it. There was a difference over who had won or lost a trivial wager.” He waved a heavy, powerful hand, dismissing it. “The sum involved was only a few pounds, which either of them could well afford. It was not an issue over which a man murders his friend.”

“How do you know?” Pitt asked, equally pleasantly.

“I was one of the judges of appeal,” Livesey said with a slight frown. “Naturally I studied the evidence of the trial very closely.” Pitt’s question perplexed him; the answer seemed so obvious.

Pitt smiled patiently. “I appreciate that, Mr. Livesey. I meant whose testimony do we have for it? O’Neil’s?”

“Of course.”

“Not proof of a great deal.”

A shadow of darkness and surprise crossed Livesey’s face. Obviously he had not considered it in that light.

“There was no cause to doubt him,” he said with a trace of irritation. “The difference of opinion was observed by others, and told to the police when they investigated the murder. O’Neil was asked to explain it, which he did—to everyone’s satisfaction, except, apparently, yours.”

“Or possibly Mr. Stafford’s; he wished to see O’Neil again.”

“That does not mean that he doubted him, Mr. Pitt.” He lifted his broad shoulders a little. “As I have already said to you, Stafford had no intention whatever of reopening the Blaine/Godman case. There are no grounds to question any part of it. The conduct of the original trial was exemplary, and there is no new evidence whatever.” He smiled, drumming his fingers on the leather desk top. “Stafford had no new evidence. He spoke to me yesterday himself. His intention was to prove Godman’s guilt yet again, beyond even Tamar Macaulay’s ability to question.” He looked at Pitt fixedly. “It is for everyone’s benefit, even Miss Macaulay herself, that she should at last accept the truth and allow herself to turn her attention to her own life, her career, or whatever she counts of value. For the rest of us, we should stop doubting the law and calling into question its efficacy or integrity.”

“He told you this?” Pitt asked, uncertainty in his mind, weighing what Juniper Stafford had said, and Pryce. “As late as yesterday?”

“Not entirely yesterday,” Livesey said patiently. “Over a period of time, and yesterday he did not change any part of it. He reaffirmed it, both by what he said and what he omitted to say. There was no change in his mind, and he certainly had discovered nothing new.”

“I see.” Pitt spoke only to acknowledge that he had heard. In truth, he did not see at all. Pryce had seemed so certain Stafford intended to reopen the case, and why should he have any interest in wishing Pitt to believe that, were it not true? Pryce had prosecuted, and seemed to feel a certain responsibility for the conviction. He would not want it overturned now.

And yet if Stafford had had no intention of reopening the case, why should anyone kill him?

Perhaps they had not, and it was some obscure disease with poisonlike symptoms, and either he was unaware of it himself or he had chosen not to tell his wife, possibly not realizing how serious it was.

Livesey seemed to seize Pitt’s thoughts. The judge’s face was grave, all the impatience washed away as if it had been trivial, a momentary and shallow thing. Now he was returned to reality, which concerned him.

“If he was not reopening the case, why should anyone kill him?” Livesey said quietly. “A justified question, Mr. Pitt. He was not reopening the case, and even if he were, there is no one with anything to fear from it, except Tamar Macaulay herself, because it would have reawakened the public to her brother’s disgrace and raised the whole matter in people’s minds again. She cannot wish that, when there is no hope of exoneration.” He smiled without humor or pleasure, only an awareness of the loss and wasted tears.

“I think the poor woman has been so steeped in her own crusade for these many years it has gained its own impetus, apart from any reality. She has lost sight of the truth of the case,” he continued. “She is no longer thinking of evidence, only of her own desire to vindicate her brother. Love, even family love, can be very blind. We so easily see only what we wish to, and with the person absent, as happens with the dead, there is nothing to remind us of reality.” His lips tightened. “The vision consumes. It has become like a religion with her, so important to her she cannot let go. She is a little intoxicated with it. It has taken the place of husband and child with her. It is really very tragic.”

Pitt had seen such obsession before. It was not impossible to believe. But it did not answer the question of who had killed Stafford, if he had been killed.

“Do you think Stafford told her as much?” he asked, looking up at Livesey.

“And she killed him in rage because he had disappointed her?” Livesey bit his lip, frowning. “It strains the credulity, to be candid. She is obsessed, certainly, but I do not think she is so far unbalanced as to do that. It would have to be proved beyond question before I could accept it.”

“Then what?” Pitt asked. “Mrs. Stafford said he was presently involved in no other appeal. Revenge for some old matter?”

“On a judge of appeal?” Livesey shrugged. “Unlikely—in the extreme. I have heard convicted men make threats against witnesses, the police officer who arrested them, against prosecuting counsel or their own defense counsel, if they believed them inadequate—even against the trial judge, and once against the jury—but never against the judges of appeal! And there are at least five of us on any case. It seems farfetched, Mr. Pitt.”

“Then who?”

Livesey’s face darkened.

“I regret to say this, Mr. Pitt, but I have no alternative. It would seem there is little left but his personal life. Most murders are committed either in the course of a robbery or they are domestic, as I am sure you are already aware.”

Pitt knew it.

“What reason would Mrs. Stafford have for wishing her husband dead?” he asked, watching Livesey’s face.

Livesey raised his eyes from the desk and sighed heavily.

“I dislike intensely having to repeat this. It is shabby and an unworthy thing to say of a colleague or his family. But Mrs. Stafford’s relationship with Mr. Adolphus Pryce is a great deal closer than it would at first appear.”

“Improperly so?” For an instant Pitt was surprised, then small memories came back to his mind: a glance, a quick color in the face, an eagerness, an odd awkward moment, self-consciousness where there was no understandable cause.

“I regret to say it—but yes,” Livesey confessed, his eyes on Pitt’s face. “I had not thought it more than a rash affaire, a season’s lust which would wear itself out as such passions often do. But perhaps it is deeper than that. I do not envy you, Mr. Pitt, but I fear you may be driven to investigating such a possibility.”

It answered many questions, unpleasant as it was.

Livesey was watching him.

“I see you have thought of that also,” he observed. “If Adolphus Pryce tried to convince you that Stafford was reopening the Blaine/Godman case, you may readily appreciate why. Naturally both he and Mrs. Stafford would prefer you to believe it was some guilty and fearful party to that case who had committed the crime of murdering her husband, rather than have you investigate either of them.”

“Of course.” Pitt felt unreasonably oppressed by it. It was foolish. He knew that what Livesey said was true. Now that he saw it, he knew he had been careless not to have noticed the small signs before. He stood up, pushing his chair back a little. “Thank you very much for sparing me time this afternoon, Mr. Livesey.”

“Not at all.” Livesey rose also. “It is a very grave matter, and I assure you I shall give you any assistance within my power. You have only to tell me what I can do.”

And with that Pitt excused himself and left, walking slowly, heavy in thought. It was already late, the sun was low behind the rooftops and a slight mist gathered in the damp streets, smoke smearing gray across the pale color of the sky and the smell of it rank as people stoked their fires against the chill of the evening.

Perhaps the medical examiner would have the results of the autopsy. Or at least he might know if there was poison in the flask. This whole case might disappear, a hasty judgment, a fear not realized. He quickened his pace and strode out along the pavement towards the main thoroughfare and the chance of finding a hansom.

The light was still on in the medical examiner’s office, and when Pitt knocked on the door he was commanded to enter.

Sutherland was in shirtsleeves, his hair standing on end where he had run his fingers through it. He had a pencil behind each ear, and another in his fingers, the end chewed to splinters. He jerked up from the papers he had been staring at, and regarded Pitt with ferocious interest.

“Opium,” he said simply. “The flask was full of it. More than enough to kill four men, let alone one.”

“Is that what killed Stafford?” Pitt asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. You were quite right, opium poisoning. Easily recognizable, if you know what you are looking for, and you told me. Nasty.”

“Could it have been accidental, intended just as …”

“No,” Sutherland said firmly. “One doesn’t take opium in whiskey like that. It should be smoked. And anyone who took it regularly would know perfectly well that a dose that size would kill. No, Mr. Pitt, it was intended to be precisely what it was: lethal. You have a murder, unquestionably.”

Pitt said nothing. It was what he had feared, and yet a small part of him had still kept hope that it might not be so. Now it was conclusive. Mr. Justice Samuel Stafford had been murdered—not apparently over the Blaine/Godman case. Was it Juniper Stafford and Adolphus Pryce? One of them—or both? As simple and as ugly as that?

“Thank you,” he said aloud to Sutherland.

“I’ll write it all out,” Sutherland replied, screwing up his face, “and send it to the station.”

“Thank you,” Pitt repeated, and saw the look of rueful understanding in Sutherland’s expression. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Sutherland picked up his pencil again and continued scribbling on the paper in front of him.