Farrier's Lane (29 page)

“Killed?” Boothroyd breathed in deeply. Something in his face eased out, a shadow left it, as if some fear had mercilessly been removed. “Traffic accident, was it? Getting worse in town all the time. Saw some poor devil run over by a bolting carriage just last month. Dogs got into a
fight, horse reared. Fearful mess. Lucky it was only one person killed.”

“No, I am afraid not. He was murdered.” Pitt watched Boothroyd’s face. He saw him swallow convulsively and his mouth gape. He struggled for breath. Pitt felt a compassion that was inextricably touched with revulsion. He must at least try to probe Boothroyd’s bemused memory, however little he believed in success. “Did he come out here to see you recently, sir? I am afraid I need to know.”

“I—er—” Boothroyd stared at Pitt helplessly, seeking escape, and eventually realizing there was none. “Er—yes—yes, he did come out. Colleagues, you know. Very civil of him.”

“Did he say anything about the Farriers’ Lane case, sir?” Again he watched Boothroyd’s face, the evasion and the misery in his eyes.

“Think he mentioned it. Natural. It was the last appeal we sat on together. Old memories, you know? No, I don’t suppose you do. Too young.” His eyes slid sideways. “Would you like a glass of whiskey?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mind if I do?” He stood up and lumbered over towards the three decanters on the table. He was not a heavy man, nothing like the weight of Livesey, and yet his movement was labored, as if he found difficulty with it. He poured himself a very generous portion from one of the decanters, filling the glass almost to the brim, and drank half of it still standing by the table before making his way back to his chair. Pitt could smell the aroma of the spirit as Boothroyd breathed out heavily.

“He mentioned it,” he said again. “Can’t recall what he said. Wasn’t very important, far as I know. Who killed him? Robbery?” He looked hopeful again, eyes wide, brows raised.

“No, Mr. Boothroyd. He was poisoned. I am afraid I don’t know by whom. I am still trying to find out. Did he say he planned to reopen the enquiry into the Farriers’ Lane case? Find evidence Aaron Godman was not guilty after all?”

“Good God, no!” Boothroyd said explosively. “Absolute nonsense! Whoever told you that? Did someone say that? Who said that? It’s nonsense!”

Perhaps it would have been more productive to have said yes, but Pitt’s sense of embarrassment and pity prevented him.

“No sir, not to me,” he said quietly. “I just thought it was possible.”

“No,” Boothroyd said again. “No—it was just a quick call, a matter of kindness. He was passing. Sorry I cannot help you, Mr. Pitt.” He finished the rest of his whiskey in two gulps. “Sorry,” he said again.

Pitt rose to his feet, thanked him, and escaped the dank room and its sour air, its confusion and unhappiness.

    Mr. Justice Morley Sadler was as different a man as it was possible to imagine. He was smooth faced; remnants of fair hair straggled across his head, and fair whiskers only slightly touched with gray adorned the sides of his cheeks. His clothes were highly fashionable and excellently tailored so that they hung without a wrinkle and he seemed totally in command of himself and any situation he might face. He was smiling amiably when Pitt was shown in and he rose from his desk to greet him, shook his hand and offered him a broad, leather-padded chair.

“Good day, Mr. Pitt—Inspector Pitt, is it? Good day to you. How may I be of service?” He went back to the desk and sat in his own huge, high-backed chair. “I dislike rudeness, Inspector, but I have another appointment in about twenty minutes, which I am honor-bound to keep. Obligation, you understand. One must do one’s best in all matters. Now, what is the subject upon which you wish my opinion?”

Pitt was forewarned he had little time. He came immediately to the point.

“Aaron Godman’s appeal some five years ago, Mr. Sadler. Do you recall the case?”

Sadler’s smooth face tightened. A tiny muscle flickered
in the corner of his eye. He stared at Pitt steadily, his smile fixed.

“Of course I remember it, Inspector. A most unpleasant case—but it was settled at the time. There is nothing more to add.” He glanced at the gold face of the clock on the mantel, then back at Pitt. “What is it that concerns you now, so long after? Not that wretched Macaulay woman, is it? The grief turned her mind, I am afraid. She became obsessed.” He pursed his lips. “It happens sometimes, especially to women. Their brains are not created to bear such strains. A somewhat lightly balanced creature in the first place, of a hysterical nature—an actress—what can you expect? It is very sad—but also something of a public nuisance.”

“Indeed?” Pitt said noncommittally. He watched Sadler with growing interest. The man was obviously extremely successful; the furnishings of his chambers were opulent, from the coffered ceiling to the Aubusson carpet on the floor. The surfaces were highly polished, the upholstery new.

Sadler himself looked in good health and well satisfied with his position in life. And yet mention of the case caused him discomfort. Was it merely because of Tamar Macaulay’s constant efforts to have it reexamined—with the obvious implication that the verdict was wrong, or at best questionable? It would be enough to try anyone’s patience. Pitt would feel discomfited if someone cast such doubt on a case he had investigated to a conclusion so irretrievable.

“No,” he said aloud, as Sadler was growing impatient. “No, it has nothing to do with Miss Macaulay. It is in connection with the death of Judge Samuel Stafford.”

“Stafford?” Sadler blinked. “I don’t follow you.”

“Mr. Stafford was investigating the case again, and saw the principal witnesses the day he died.”

“Coincidence,” Sadler said, lifting both his hands from the desk top and waving them as if to dismiss the matter. “I assure you, Samuel Stafford was far too levelheaded a man to be rattled by a persistent woman. He knew as well
as we all did that there was nothing to look into. Everything possible had been done by the police at the time. An extremely ugly case, but dealt with admirably by everyone concerned: police, the court at the original trial, and by appeal. Ask anyone with knowledge of the events, Mr. Pitt. They will all tell you the same.” He smiled widely and glanced again at the clock. “Now if that is all, I have an appointment with the Lord Chancellor this evening, and I must prepare for it. I have the opportunity to do him some small service, and I am sure you would not wish me to be remiss in it.”

Pitt remained seated. “Of course not,” he said, but he did not make any move to leave. “Did Judge Stafford come to see you within the last week or two of his life?”

“I saw him, naturally! That occurs in the normal course of our duties, Inspector. I see a great many people, barristers, solicitors, other judges, diplomats, members of both the House of Lords and the House of Commons, members of the royal family, and of most of the great families of the nation, at some time or another.” He smiled frankly, meeting Pitt’s eyes.

“Did Mr. Stafford mention the case to you?” Pitt said doggedly.

“The Farriers’ Lane case, you mean?” Sadler’s pale eyebrows rose. “Not that I recall. There would be no reason to. The matter has been closed some five years or more. Why do you wish to know, Inspector, if I may ask?”

“I wondered upon what grounds he was considering reopening it?” Pitt replied, taking a gamble.

Sadler’s face paled and his wide mouth hardened.

“That is quite untrue, Inspector. He was not. If he had been, I am sure he would have told me, considering my own part in the appeal. You have been misinformed—mischievously so, I have to say.” He looked at Pitt steadily. “I assure you, he made no mention of the matter, none at all. Now, if you will excuse me, I am expecting my next appointment, a man of considerable distinction who wishes to refer to me a most delicate issue.” He smiled widely, a fixed gesture. He rose to his feet and held out his hand.
“Good day to you, Inspector. I am sorry I cannot be of any assistance.”

And Pitt found himself ushered out into the anteroom without protest, and unable to think of anything further to say.

7

F
OR SEVERAL DAYS
Pitt had continued trying to trace the love affair between Juniper Stafford and Adolphus Pryce without telling Charlotte more of it than a few brief details.

She thought on many occasions of the whole case, but her mind turned more towards the original murder in Farriers’ Lane, and the question of whether it was conceivable that Aaron Godman had been innocent. And if he were, then who could have been guilty? Joshua Fielding?

What had been his relationship with Tamar Macaulay? Was he the father of her child? Or had it been Kingsley Blaine? If Joshua had still been in love with her, that would have been a motive. Perhaps he saw her feelings for Blaine and realized she was slipping away from him, and in a furor of jealousy murdered Blaine?

What had really happened in the theater dressing room that night? Kingsley Blaine had given Tamar a valuable necklace, a family piece which should have belonged to his wife. No one had seen it since. Had she given it back to Blaine? If she had, who had taken it from him?

Was that what Judge Stafford had investigated, and for which he had been killed? It was only a possibility. Pitt still seemed to be pursuing Juniper and Adolphus Pryce. But the
fear sat like a chill weight in Charlotte’s mind, because of Caroline.

And even if Joshua Fielding were totally innocent, that was hardly the problem solved. Caroline, who had always been so sensible, so obedient to all that society expected, so full of decorum, was behaving like a giddy girl! Charlotte bitterly resented Grandmama’s remarks about her mother’s being a fool, but they touched a nerve of real fear. Just how far was Caroline going? Was this simply a little romance, a concern for the welfare of someone she liked? Or could she be light-headed enough to feel something more?

And if she did, how would she cope with it? Would she realize its complete unsuitability, the fact that it would be ruinous to have anything but the briefest and most totally discreet romance—surely not an affaire? Not Caroline! She was fifty-three, and had grandchildren! She was Charlotte’s mother! The very thought of it made Charlotte feel upset and curiously lonely.

If it looked like getting out of hand, should she send for Emily? Emily would know what to say, how to prevail upon Caroline’s sense of proportion—even of survival.

But perhaps before taking such a radical step Charlotte should make absolutely sure what the situation was. She might be panicking quite unnecessarily. It was almost certainly nothing so absurd.

She would visit Caroline again and put the matter to her candidly. Caroline would understand her concern.

All this she thought lying awake in the darkness, and when morning came she saw Pitt off without even asking him where he was going, or what time he expected to be home. Not that they were questions he could answer, but it had been her habit to ask, simply as a demonstration that she cared.

Then she informed Gracie that she was going out on a matter of business to do with the murder in Farriers’ Lane, with the implicit promise that when she came back she would tell her whatever she learned.

Gracie smiled happily and set about scrubbing the
kitchen floor with a vigor and enthusiasm quite out of proportion to her interest in the task.

Charlotte took the omnibus to Cater Street and arrived shortly after ten o’clock, not a suitable time for calling. She found Caroline busy sorting linen for the housemaid, and Grandmama still not emerged from her bedroom, where she was customarily served her breakfast on a tray.

“Good morning!” Caroline said with surprise and a slight frown of concern. She was dressed in plain brown stuff, with no trimmings but a cotton lace collar, and her hair wound loosely and with no fashionable curls or braids. She looked younger than usual, and prettier. Charlotte had not seen her so informally for several years, and she was taken aback by how comely she looked, how good her features and her skin. Without the additions of fashion, expensive clothes and elaborate hair she was more individual, softer, less like every other woman in society of middle years. Words rose to her lips to say so, then she thought perhaps it would be tactless.