Farrier's Lane (37 page)

Pitt looked at him as closely as he could without appearing to stare. Juniper had been filled with fears. Pryce seemed completely confident. Was it simply greater self-mastery, or had he a good conscience, and no slightest thought that it might have been she who had poisoned Stafford?

Deliberately Pitt tried to break the calm.

“I take your point, Mr. Pryce. But of course I have to consider the alternative as well. Very possibly it had nothing to do with the Farriers’ Lane case, but was a personal matter.”

“I suppose that is possible,” Pryce said carefully, but the tone of his voice had altered very slightly. He did not ask in what way. He was not as easy to rattle as Juniper.

“I regret the necessity for being so blunt, Mr. Pryce,” Pitt continued. “But I am aware of your relationship with Mrs. Stafford. For many men that would be a motive.”

Pryce breathed in and out slowly before replying. He uncrossed his ankles.

“I daresay, but not for me. Is that what you came here to ask?”

“Among other things,” Pitt conceded with a slight shrug. “Are you telling me that you were not tempted? You must have wished Judge Stafford … gone? Or have I misjudged the depth of your feeling for Mrs. Stafford?”

“No.” Pryce picked up a stick of sealing wax and played with it absently, his eyes avoiding Pitt’s. “No, of course not. But no depth of feeling excuses murder.”

“What does it excuse?” Pitt asked, still courteously, even though his words were harsh.

“I am not sure that I understand you,” Pryce said guardedly, but his confidence was gone. His fingers were fiddling nervously with the sealing wax and he was breathing more rapidly.

Pitt waited, refusing to help or to dismiss the subject.

“Love.” Pryce moved a little in his chair. “It explains a great deal, of course, but it excuses nothing, nothing of any moment. Of course it doesn’t.”

“I agree, Mr. Pryce.” Pitt kept his eyes on Pryce’s face. “Not deceit, seduction, the betrayal of a friend, adultery—”

“For God’s sake!” Pryce snapped the wax. His face was white. He sat back, rigid, struggled for something to say, and then was suddenly limp. “That’s—that’s true,” he admitted quietly, his voice a little hoarse. “And you will never know how I regret it. I have been excessively foolish, lost all sense of judgment and allowed myself to be led—” He stopped, looking up swiftly and meeting Pitt’s eyes. “But it is still not murder.”

Again Pitt said nothing, but looked unwaveringly back at Pryce.

Pryce took a long, slow breath, his face almost white, but a little of his composure regained. The effort had been tremendous.

“Of course I appreciate you have to consider the possibility. Logic demands it. But I assure you, I had no part in his death. None whatever. I …” He bit his lip. “I don’t know how I can prove that, but it is the truth.”

Pitt smiled. “I had not expected you to confess to it, Mr. Pryce—any more than Mrs. Stafford.”

Pryce’s face was suddenly tight again, and his body stiff in his chair.

“You have said the same to Mrs. Stafford? That’s …” Then he stopped, as if new thoughts crowded his mind.

“Naturally,” Pitt replied calmly. “I have been led to believe that her feeling for you is very deep. She must often have wished for her freedom.”

“Wishing is not …” Pryce’s fists clenched. He took a deep breath. “Of course. It would be ungallant of me to say I did not hope so—and untrue. We both wished she were free, but that is a far cry from committing murder to make it so. She will have told you the same.” He stopped, waiting for Pitt’s reply.

“She denied it,” Pitt agreed. “And denied, of course, that you would have had anything to do with it either.”

Pryce turned away, laughing very slightly, a husky, nervous sound.

“This is ridiculous, Inspector. I admit—Mrs. Stafford and I have a relationship that—that—was improper—but not”—this time he did not look at Pitt—“not a mere dalliance, not just …” He stopped and then started again. “It is a very deep emotion. It is some people’s tragedy that they fall truly in love with someone when it is impossible they can marry. That is what has happened to us.” His words were very formal, and Pitt had no idea whether he believed them without shadow, or if he were saying what he hoped was true.

“I am quite sure,” Pitt said, aware he was turning the knife. “Otherwise you would hardly have risked your reputation and your honor by having an affaire.”

Pryce lifted his eyes sharply and glared at him.

“There are some circles in society where such a thing is ignored,” Pitt continued relentlessly, “if it is discreet enough, but I doubt the law is one of them. Surely judges’ wives, like Caesar’s, should be above suspicion?”

Pryce stood up and walked over to the window, his back to Pitt. For several seconds he did not reply, then when he spoke his voice was thick.

“Judges’ wives are human, Inspector. Were your acquaintance with the gentry deeper than a passing ability to quote the odd thought or two from Shakespeare, you would not need me to tell you that. We may have slightly different codes of behavior from one social class to another, but our emotions are the same.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Pryce? That your passion for Mrs. Stafford drove you to put opium into Samuel Stafford’s flask?”

Pryce swung around. “No! No—I did not kill him! I did not harm him in any way at all—or contribute to it. I—I have no knowledge of it—before, or since.”

Pitt kept his face a mask of disbelief.

Pryce swallowed hard, as if choking. “I am guilty of adultery, but not of murder.”

“I find it hard to believe that you have no knowledge as to who is,” Pitt replied, although that was not true.

“I—I—What are you waiting for me to say?” Pryce was gasping between words as if he had to force himself to speak. “That Juniper—Mrs. Stafford—killed him? You’ll wait forever. I’ll not say it.”

But he had said it, and the irony of it was in his eyes. The thought had been in his mind, and found its way to his lips.

Pitt rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Pryce. You have been most candid. I appreciate it.”

Pryce’s face reflected self-disgust.

“You mean I have allowed you to see that I am both shallow in my defense of Mrs. Stafford and that I am afraid for her? I still do not believe she had any part in her husband’s death, and I will defend her to the limit of my ability.”

“If she did, Mr. Pryce, then the limit of your ability will be very rapidly reached,” Pitt answered, going to the door. “Thank you for your time.”

“Pitt!”

Pitt turned, his face questioning.

Pryce swallowed hard and licked his lips. “She is a very emotional woman, but I really don’t—I don’t …” He stopped, honesty preventing him from making a plea for her after what he had already confessed.

“Good day,” Pitt said quietly, and went out into the cold corridor.

    “No sir, I doubt it,” he said later in the day to Micah Drummond.

Drummond stood in front of the fire in his office, his feet spread a little, his hands behind his back. He regarded Pitt with a frown.

“Why not? Why not now, more than before?”

Pitt was sitting far back in the best chair, his legs sprawled comfortably.

“Because when I saw her, to begin with she defended him,” he replied. “She was sure he could not possibly have
done it. I don’t think she had really considered him. Her emotions would not permit it. Then when I told her the unlikelihood of Aaron Godman being innocent, and there being any motive for anyone in the Farriers’ Lane case wanting to kill the judge, she could no longer avoid the inevitable thought that it was either herself or Pryce.” He looked at Drummond. “Her immediate fear was that it was Pryce. I saw it in her face the moment she first thought it.”

Drummond looked down at the carpet thoughtfully.

“Is she not clever enough to lead you to think precisely that?”

“I don’t believe even Tamar Macaulay could act well enough to look as she did,” Pitt said honestly. “Acting is broad gestures, movements of the hands and body, tones of voice, inflections; not even the most brilliant can make the blood drain from the face.”

“Then perhaps it
was
Pryce?” Drummond said, almost hopefully. “Maybe he grew impatient waiting. An affaire was not enough for him, he wanted marriage.” He shrugged. “Or he grew nervous of a continued illicit relationship. She might have been growing indiscreet, or pressing
him
for more attentions?”

“So he resorted to murder?” Pitt said with a touch of sarcasm. “Pryce does not seem like a hysterical man to me. Unwise in his passions, ungoverned, selfish, allowing an obsession with a woman to destroy his moral judgment, certainly; but not to the degree where he would throw everything away and gain nothing. He knows the law better than to imagine he could succeed.”

“Why not?” Drummond interrupted. “Is it such a long step from adultery and the betrayal of a man who trusted him, who was his friend, to killing that man?”

“Yes, I think it is,” Pitt argued, leaning forward. “But quite apart from that, Pryce is a barrister. Adultery is a sin, but it is not a crime. Society may shun you for a while if you are too blatant about it. They hang you for murder. Pryce has seen that happen too often to ignore it.”

Drummond dug his hands deep into his pockets and said nothing. His mind was not engaged in it as Pitt’s was, and
Pitt knew it. He had come because it was his duty, and he needed Drummond’s authority to pursue the Farriers’ Lane case.

“Added to that,” he went on, “when I went to him and pressed the point that he was the most obvious person to suspect, he became frightened and directed me towards her.”

For the first time Drummond’s expression betrayed a deep emotion. His lips curled in disgust and his eyes were full of pain.

“What a tragic spectacle,” he said very quietly. “Two people who were in love, trying to deflect suspicion from themselves by each placing it on the other. It proves their supposed love was no deeper than infatuation, come quickly and dying as soon as self-interest raises its head. You have proved it was appetite, lust.” He stared at the fire. “You have not proved it was not strong enough to provoke murder. Self-preservation is answer enough. Many a criminal will betray his accomplices to save himself.”

“That is not what I said,” Pitt retorted a trifle more sharply. He was finding it difficult that Drummond’s mind lacked its usual accuracy. “Pryce began by being quite sure it would not have been Mrs. Stafford, then suddenly he realized it could have been. He was afraid for himself, certainly, but for the first time he was afraid for her—not that she would be blamed wrongly, but that she might actually have done it.”

“Are you sure?” Drummond drew his brows down. “You seem to be saying that in fact neither of them did it. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, it is.” Pitt controlled his impatience with difficulty. “They are guilty of self-indulgence, of mistaking obsession for love and deceiving themselves it excused everything, when it excuses nothing. Ungoverned hunger is understandable, but there is nothing noble in it. It is selfish and ultimately destructive.” He leaned farther forward, staring at Drummond. “Neither of them truly cared for the well-being of the other, or they would never have allowed passion to dictate behavior.” He looked at Drummond’s face. “I sound
pompous, don’t I?” he admitted. “But the justification makes me so angry! If they had ever been honest they wouldn’t have destroyed so much, and in the end been left with nothing.”

Drummond stared into the distance.

“I’m sorry.” Pitt straightened up. “I have to go back to Farriers’ Lane.”

“What?” Drummond looked up at him sharply.

“If it isn’t Juniper Stafford or Pryce, then I have to go back to Farriers’ Lane,” Pitt repeated. “It was someone he saw that day, because the flask was all right when Livesey and his luncheon companion drank from it. Which leaves only those involved in the case.”

“But we’ve been over that,” Drummond argued. “Everything we’ve looked at still leads to Godman being guilty, and if he was, why should anyone kill Stafford because he wanted to open up the case again? And there is no proof that he did want to. Livesey said he didn’t.”

“Livesey said he had no knowledge that he did,” Pitt corrected. “I accept Livesey believes the case is closed, but that does not mean Stafford found nothing that day. He may well have wished to keep it to himself until he had proof.”

“Of what?” Drummond demanded exasperatedly. “That someone other than Godman killed Blaine? Who, for heaven’s sake? Fielding? There’s no evidence. There wasn’t at the time and can you think of what anyone, let alone Stafford, could find now?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “But I want to reinvestigate the entire case. I have to, if I am going to find out who killed Stafford.”

Drummond sighed. “Then I suppose you had better do it.”

“With your authority? Lambert won’t like it.”

“Of course he won’t. Would you?”

“No. But once I had wondered whether I was wrong in the first place, I would have to know.”

“Would you?” Drummond said wryly. He moved away from the fire towards his desk. “Yes, of course with my authority, but you’ll still have to be diplomatic if you hope to
achieve anything. It is not only Lambert who will not like it! You are treading on a lot of toes. The assistant commissioner has been onto me to get the murder of Stafford solved as quickly as possible, and to do it without raking up the Farriers’ Lane case and causing a lot of public unease and questioning of the original verdict. There are enough people trying to cause unrest as it is. We mustn’t give them the ammunition to undermine the law any further. The Whitechapel murders did the police a lot of harm, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Pitt agreed quietly. He was very well aware of the resignations that matter had caused, and the questions in the Houses of Parliament, the public resentment of a police force paid for from taxes. There were still many people, some of considerable influence, who believed that a police force was a bad idea and would willingly have gone back to sheriffs and the Bow Street runners.

“And the Home Secretary has been down as well,” Drummond went on, looking at Pitt and chewing his lip. “He doesn’t want a lot of scandal.”