Farrier's Lane (11 page)

“I cannot believe that he did it!” Caroline said very quietly, a fierceness in her voice, an intense determination. “There is some other answer.” She looked up quickly, all the indecision and awkwardness vanished from her. “What can we do to help? What could we find out? Whom do we know?”

Charlotte was startled. Did Caroline realize she had spoken as if she herself intended to become involved? Was it a slip of the tongue?

“We?” Charlotte could not help smiling.

Caroline bit her lip. “Well—you, I suppose. I have no idea how to—detect …”

Charlotte could not decide whether her mother was trying to excuse herself from taking any part or was seeking to be reassured that she could, in fact, be of use. She looked both vulnerable and determined. There was a vitality to her, a most odd mixture of fear and exhilaration.

“Do you know anyone?” Caroline persisted.

“No,” Charlotte said quickly. “I never knew anyone; it is Emily who knows people. But we could attempt to make someone’s acquaintance, I suppose.”

“We must do something,” Caroline said vehemently. “If the wrong person was hanged once—then left to themselves the police may do the wrong thing again. Oh! I’m so sorry! I did not mean to imply Thomas. Of course it will be different with Thomas in charge. But all the same …”

Charlotte smiled broadly and picked up her rapidly cooling cup of tea.

“That is all right, Mama. You had better not say anything further—you are only digging yourself deeper. Thomas is not infallible—he would be the first to say so.” She sipped her tea. “And I would be the first to defend him to the death if anyone else said so. But I really know very little about this case, except what you know yourself. Apparently
it was perfectly horrifying. Do you recall it? It was five years ago.”

“Certainly not. Your father was alive, and I never read the newspapers.”

“Oh. Well, I assume you did not know the Blaines, or anyone connected with them—and I am perfectly sure that when Papa was alive you did not know anyone on the stage.”

Caroline blushed deeply and sipped her tea.

“I don’t suppose Great-Aunt Vespasia did either,” Charlotte said, trying to smother the laughter out of her expression. “At least not lately. Actors, I mean.”

Caroline’s eyebrows shot up, missing the humor entirely. “Do you think Lady Cumming-Gould would have known actors? Oh, I think that most unlikely. She is very well bred indeed.”

“I know,” Charlotte conceded, straight-faced with difficulty. “Well, enough not to need to care what other people thought. She would have known anyone she wished—discreetly, perhaps. But that doesn’t help us. She is over eighty now. The actors she may have known are no use to us. They are probably dead. But she may just possibly have known someone who knew Kingsley Blaine—or knew of him. Perhaps I should ask her?”

“Oh, would you?” Caroline said eagerly. “Would you please?”

The prospect was very appealing. Charlotte had not seen Great-Aunt Vespasia for some time. She was not Charlotte’s aunt at all, but Emily’s by marriage to her first husband, but both Charlotte and Emily cared for her more than anyone else except most immediate family, and quite often more even than those.

“Yes,” Charlotte said with decision. “I think that would be an excellent idea. I’ll make arrangements to go tomorrow.”

“Oh—do you think it can wait?” Caroline looked crestfallen. “Had you better not go today? It will surely not be easy. Had we not best begin as soon as possible?”

Charlotte looked down at her stuff dress, then at the oven.

“Gracie can take the cakes out,” Caroline said quickly, at last showing awareness of the increasingly delicious aroma. “And she will be here when the children return from school, should you be held up. Or I will wait, if that would set your mind at rest. You can take my carriage, which is outside. That would be excellent. Now go upstairs and change into a suitable gown. Go on!”

Charlotte did not need a second tempting. If Caroline wished it so much, and was willing to remain here, then it would be churlish not to accede to her wishes.

“Certainly,” she agreed, and without hesitation left the kitchen and went upstairs to find a suitable gown and inform Gracie of the change of plans.

“Oh,” Gracie said with excitement lighting her face. “You are going to work on the case. Oh ma’am—I was ’opin’ as you would!” She brushed her hands on the sides of her apron. “If’n there’s anything I can do …?”

“I shall surely tell you,” Charlotte promised. “Regardless, I shall tell you all I discover, if I discover anything at all. For now I am going to call upon Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, to see if I can enlist her help.” She knew Gracie admired Great-Aunt Vespasia intensely. Vespasia had been one of the leading beauties of her day, and had all the unconscious dignity and charm of total confidence, a biting wit, and an utter disregard for convention. Gracie had met her when she had called upon Charlotte and sat in the kitchen, fascinated by the impedimenta of washday, which she had never seen before. To Gracie she was a creature of magical dimensions.

“Oh ma’am, that’s a wunnerful idea.” Gracie applauded, her face shining. “I’m sure she’ll ’elp, if anyone can.”

    It was an hour later that Charlotte arrived in Gadstone Park and was admitted by Vespasia’s parlormaid, a girl Pitt had found in a workhouse in a previous case, and recommended to Vespasia. Then the girl had looked like a shadow; now the color had returned to her skin and her hair
was a shining coil on her head. She had learned Vespasia’s preferences well enough to know that Charlotte was to be admitted at any time. She did not call on trivial social issues, only if there was some urgent adventure afoot, or some extremely interesting story to relate.

Vespasia herself was sitting in her private withdrawing room, not a reception room for visitors but a smaller, quietly furnished room full of light and boasting only three chairs, upholstered in cream brocade and with carved woodwork. A close-haired black-and-white dog lay on the floor in a patch of sun. She appeared to be something like a lurcher, a cross between whippet and general collie, with perhaps a touch of spaniel in the face. She was highly intelligent, but lean, built for running, and irregularly marked.

As soon as Charlotte came in she wagged her long tail and moved closer to Vespasia.

“Charlotte, my dear, how pleasant to see you,” Vespasia said with delight. “Don’t mind Willow, she doesn’t bite. She’s a complete fool. Martin’s bitch got out and this is the result! Neither fish nor fowl, nor good red herring. And they were hoping to have a litter that would make good carriage dogs. They said the bitch is ruined, which of course is a lot of nonsense. But you can’t convince people.” She patted the little dog affectionately. “All this little creature does is stand in every puddle God made and jump about like a rabbit.”

Charlotte bent and kissed Vespasia’s cheek.

“Well, sit down,” Vespasia ordered. “I assume since you have come unheralded and at a most unusual hour that you have something remarkable to say?” She looked hopeful. “What has happened? Nothing tragic, I see from your face.”

“Oh.” Charlotte felt abashed. “Well, it is—for those concerned …”

“A case?” Vespasia’s clear, almost silver eyes were bright under her arched brows. “You are about to meddle, and you wish my assistance.” There was a smile on her lips, but she was not unaware that no matter how bizarre or testing of the intelligence and the wits, a case meant also
fear and loss to someone, and the far deeper tragedy of a life perverted and twisted out of all the happiness it might have had. Since chance had forced her acquaintance with Thomas Pitt, she had seen a darker side of life, a poverty and despair she had not perceived from her own glittering social circle, even in the political crusades for which she worked so hard. She had enlarged her own capacity for pity, and for anger.

None of this was necessary to explain between them. They had shared too much to need such words.

Charlotte sat down, and the little dog came over to her, sniffing gently and wagging her tail. She patted its soft head absently.

“Judge Stafford,” she began. “At least it is half …”

“Half?” Vespasia was nonplussed. “You are half concerned with his death, poor man. The obituary said he had died suddenly in the theater. Watching a romance, a somewhat trivial work to be the last earthly engagement of so distinguished a luminary of the bench. Now that I come to think of it, the cause of his demise was conspicuously absent from the comments.”

“It would be,” Charlotte said dryly. “He drank liquid opium in his whiskey.”

“Oh dear.” Vespasia’s highly intelligent face was filled with a curious mixture of emotions. “I assume it was not accidental, or self-inflicted?”

“It could not have been accidental,” Charlotte replied. “Whatever sort of an accident would that be? But I admit no one has suggested suicide.”

“They wouldn’t,” Vespasia said dryly. “Such people as Samuel Stafford are not supposed to commit suicide. It is a crime, my dear. We can scarcely try people for it, of course, but it is still a very serious offense on the statute books, and we all know a suicide is buried in unconsecrated ground and the punishment is delivered in the world to come—so it is believed.” Suddenly her face was filled with a wild anger and pity. “I have even known unfortunate girls in despair dragged back from the brink of death and revived sufficiently to be hanged for it. God forgive us. Is there any
reason to suppose Samuel Stafford might have done such a thing?”

Charlotte blinked and took a deep breath to smother the emotions inside her. “None at all,” she replied. “And there seem to be several reasons why various people might have wished him dead.”

“Indeed. Who? Is it something unbearably tedious, like money?”

“Not at all. His wife is said to be having an affaire, and either she or her lover may have wished him dead. They both had the opportunity to put something in his flask that day. But the matter which brings me to you is much darker.”

Vespasia’s eyes widened. “Is it? That seems quite dark enough to me. I thought you were going to ask me if I were acquainted with Mrs. Stafford. I am not.”

“No—are you acquainted with anyone related to Kingsley Blaine?”

Vespasia thought for a moment, giving it her entire concentration.

“No, I am afraid the name Blaine means nothing,” she said finally, her disappointment apparent.

“Godman?” Charlotte made a last attempt, although she really held no hope at all that Vespasia would have any acquaintance with Aaron Godman, except across the footlights.

Vespasia frowned, understanding coming very slowly.

“My dear Charlotte—you don’t mean that abysmal affair in Farriers’ Lane? What in heaven’s name could that have to do with Mr. Justice Stafford’s death in the theater two nights ago? That was all over in ’eighty-four.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Charlotte said very quietly. “At least it may not have been. Mr. Stafford seems to have been looking into it again.”

Vespasia frowned. “What do you mean, ‘seems to have been’?”

“There is a difference of opinion,” Charlotte explained. “What is indisputable is that the day he died he was visited by Tamar Macaulay, the sister of Godman, and after she left
he went and saw Adolphus Pryce, the barrister who prosecuted the case, Mr. Justice Livesey, who was another of the judges who heard the appeal with him, and Devlin O’Neil and Joshua Fielding, two of the original early suspects.”

“Good heavens.” Vespasia’s face was intent, all amusement or doubt fled from it. “Then what question is there?”

“Whether he intended to reopen the case, or merely to prove even more totally that the original verdict was correct.”

“I see.” Vespasia nodded. “Yes, I can quite understand how that might raise a great many questions as to who wished him to leave the matter, and if he would not, which seems very plain, then to force the conclusion by killing him.”

Charlotte swallowed. “The matter is further complicated because my mother has made the acquaintance of Mr. Fielding, and is involved in his cause.”

“Indeed.” A very faint gleam flickered in Vespasia’s eyes, but she made no remark. “Then you wish to become … involved?” She hesitated only momentarily before the word. She sat up a little straighter. “I regret I do not know, even on nodding terms, Mrs. Stafford or Mr. Justice Livesey, or indeed Mr. Pryce. No doubt I should have little difficulty in scraping an acquaintance with Mr. Fielding, but it would now seem that that is redundant.” She did not even look at Charlotte as she said it, but her gentle amusement was palpable, like a warmth between them. “But I do have the acquaintance of the judge of the original trial.” She hesitated minutely. “A Mr. Thelonius Quade.”

“Oh, do you?” Charlotte was too pleased to have caught the inflection in Vespasia’s voice, and only realized its import later. “Do you know him well enough to call upon him? Could you raise the subject, or—or would it be … indelicate?”

A shadow of a smile curled Vespasia’s lips.

“I think it might be accomplished without indelicacy,” she replied. “Do I conclude correctly that there is some haste in the matter?”

“Oh yes,” Charlotte agreed. “I think you do—thank you, Aunt Vespasia.”

Vespasia smiled, this time with pure affection. “You are welcome, my dear.”

    One could not call upon a judge in the middle of the day and expect him to have time to indulge a purely social acquaintance. Accordingly Vespasia wrote a short note:

She sealed it and rang the bell for her footman. When he came she gave him the note with instructions to take it immediately to the chambers of Mr. Justice Thelonius Quade in the Inner Temple, and to await such reply as there might be.