Farrier's Lane (49 page)

“H
ARRIMORE?”
Drummond said incredulously. “That doesn’t make any sense, Pitt! For heaven’s sake, why?” He stood in front of the bookcase in his office. The fire was burning strongly, its warmth spreading through the room. “He may have discovered that Blaine was deceiving his daughter, but no sane man murders over something like that! He could have stopped him easily enough, if he had just confronted him with it! After all, Blaine was dependent on him for his livelihood.” He looked at Pitt sharply. “And don’t tell me he confronted Blaine in the smithy’s yard in Farriers’ Lane and they fought over it. That’s rubbish. He could have faced him with it quite comfortably in his own home. The man lived in his house. He didn’t need to rig up an elaborate charade to get Blaine to Farriers’ Lane in the middle of the night. And you’ll have to do better than tell me Prosper Harrimore is insane. He’s a thoroughly well thought of member of the business community, at least as respectable as anyone in trade can be.”

Pitt smiled very slightly. “You’ve answered all the arguments I haven’t made,” he replied.

“What?” Drummond frowned. He was sharper tempered and slower of perception than usual. Pitt knew his heart was no longer in the pursuit.

“I said that you have answered all the reasons I did not give,” he repeated.

“Oh. So what reason do you believe Harrimore had for murdering his son-in-law? How did you come to the conclusion anyway? You haven’t told me that.”

Pitt bit his lip and felt abashed.

“That is less easy. Actually Charlotte came to the conclusion.” He looked at Drummond quickly, but did not see the impatience he expected. He drew breath and plunged on. “She had cultivated the acquaintance of Adah Harrimore, Prosper’s mother, and spent some time in conversation with her. We knew she had very deep feelings against Jews, but I assumed it dated from her belief that a Jew murdered her granddaughter’s husband in a particularly brutal and offensive way.” He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, a comfort he would not have felt possible in front of any other superior.

“A great many people felt the same who didn’t even know him. But it seems her anti-Jewish feeling dates from long before that; in fact it has been there probably from childhood. She believes Jews are unclean, that they are responsible for the crucifixion of Christ.”

“They are,” Drummond exclaimed, his eyes troubled.

“Of course they are,” Pitt retorted exasperatedly. “Almost everyone in the entire story, good, bad and indifferent, including Christ Himself, was Jewish! So were Mary, and Mary Magdalene, and the apostles. All the Old Testament prophets as well.”

“I suppose so.” Drummond frowned as if the thought were new to him. “But what has that to do with Adah Harrimore, and still less to do with Prosper?”

“She subscribes to the view, held by several people,” Pitt explained with embarrassment, “especially prize stock breeders—I came across this when I was growing up in the country—if a good bitch gets out and gets with pup to a mongrel—”

“Pitt! For God’s sake, man,” Drummond exploded. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“That the bitch is ruined,” Pitt finished. “All her litters after that will be contaminated.”

“I suppose you know what you are talking about.”

“Yes. Adah Harrimore believed that a woman who had sexual congress with a Jew was contaminated ever after. Any further children would be damaged.”

“Why should that explain Prosper Harrimore murdering Kingsley Blaine?” Drummond said impatiently.

“Because Adah’s husband betrayed her with a Jewess while she was carrying Prosper—and he was born with a deformed leg and foot,” Pitt said wearily. “She believes it was a direct result of the connection with Jews. She taught Prosper that. He blames his deformity on his father’s acts. When he saw that Kingsley Blaine was about to betray his daughter—also with child—in exactly the same way, he took violent, passionate steps to prevent it, before his grandchild was deformed, and his daughter defiled for all future children.”

“Good God!” Drummond shook his head a little. “I didn’t know that. Is there any truth in it? Can breeding stock be—be spoiled like that?”

“No,” Pitt said furiously. “It’s vicious and superstitious rubbish. But there are ignorant people who believe it, and the Harrimores are among them. Old Adah actually said so to Charlotte.”

Drummond was abashed that he had credited it, even for a moment. There was a pink flush up his cheeks.

“She admitted it?” he said with surprise.

“She admitted that Jews were unclean, in her estimation,” Pitt answered. “And that was the cause of Prosper’s deformity.”

Drummond sighed. “But you have no proof, have you?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Well, you’d better see if you can get it. I think I’ll refrain from telling anyone about Aaron Godman until we have something conclusive.”

“I’ll do what I can. I’ll go back to the theater doorman and see if he can remember anything more clearly.” He
walked over to the door and was about to open it when Drummond spoke again.

“Pitt.”

Pitt turned. “Yes sir?”

“When the case is closed I am going to resign. I have already told the assistant commissioner. I am recommending you to take my place. Before you argue, it will not be entirely a desk job. You can govern for yourself a great deal of what you do.” He smiled very slightly, but there was affection in it, and respect. “You won’t have anyone to rely on as I have on you. You will need to do a lot of the investigation of more serious cases yourself, particularly the politically sensitive ones. Don’t refuse without thinking about it very carefully.”

Pitt swallowed hard. He should not have been surprised, but he was. He had thought Drummond’s mood would pass, but now he realized it had to do with Eleanor Byam, and was final.

“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly. “I shall miss you deeply.”

“Thank you, Pitt.” Drummond looked embarrassed, and pleased, and vulnerable. “I daresay I shall see you from time to time. I …” He stopped, uncertain how to continue.

Pitt smiled. “Yes sir.” He met Drummond’s eyes and knew that Drummond understood, and it was better unsaid. “I’ll go and see the doorman.”

    Micah Drummond felt immensely relieved, almost light-headed, now that he had not only made the decision but also committed himself to it. He had told Pitt. There was no honorable way he could go back on it. It would not matter financially. He would have less money, of course, because he would lose his police salary. To Pitt it would be a vast improvement, but to Drummond the salary had always been pleasant but in no way necessary. He had inherited considerable means and come into the position as a gentleman—not promoted from the ranks, but appointed because of his military experience, his administrative ability, and precisely because he was a gentleman, reliable, commanding men
easily, and one of the same class and nature as those who chose him.

Pitt would be an entirely different matter, but he knew from previous delicate conversations that there were those in power in the Home Office who would approve his appointment.

There would also be those who would disapprove, who would resent and distrust a man who was of working-class origins, no matter how well he spoke. He could never be one of them; that was something to which you had to be born. But it was time that men in charge of the solving of major crimes were professionals, not distinguished amateurs, no matter how respected or agreeable.

Within fifteen minutes of Pitt leaving the office, Drummond collected his hat, coat and stick, and left also. By mid-afternoon it was accomplished. He had tendered his resignation, one month from that date, and it had been accepted with reluctance. And as had been implied to him earlier, he had been assured that Thomas Pitt would be appointed his successor. That had not come without a struggle, and a great deal more devious politicking than he had ever practiced before. But now he strode down Whitehall in the bitter wind with a spring in his step and his head high. He entered Parliament Street and hailed a cab, his voice ringing out in the sharp air almost like a challenge.

The cabby stopped. “Yes sir?”

He gave the man Eleanor Byam’s address and climbed in. He sat back with his heart beating. He was putting it to the test. If he asked her now there would be no answer but acceptance, or that she did not regard him in that way. There were no excuses left that it would cost him his position either professionally or socially. He turned it over and over in his mind as the cab rattled eastward through the traffic and he was hardly aware of his passage. He thought over every argument she might use, and how he would counter it, all the assurances he would give. All the while a small, sane part of his mind was telling him the words made no difference. Either she wished to accept him, in which case the arguments were unnecessary, or she did not,
and then they were pointless. You cannot reason someone into loving.

Still the surface of his brain occupied itself with words. Perhaps it was a kind of anesthetic until he should arrive and the die was cast. Words were easier than feelings, less painful, in so many ways less real.

“ ’Ere you are, sir!” The cabby’s voice intruded and with a start he brought his attention back to the present and scrambled out.

“Thank you.” He paid the man generously, almost as a superstitious offering to fortune. And before he would have time to think, and doubt himself, he knocked on the door.

As before, it was opened by the surly maid.

“Oh—it’s you,” she said with a twist of her lip. “Well, you’d better come in, although what Mrs. Bridges’ll say I don’t know. This is a respectable ’ouse, and she don’t like her lodgers to ’ave callers in a reg’lar way. Least not as you’d say was followers, like.”

Drummond blushed. “Maids have followers,” he said tartly. “Ladies have acquaintances, or if seeking their hands in marriage, then suitors. If you wish to retain your position, I would remember the difference, and keep a civil tongue in your head!”

“Oh! Well, I—”

But she got no further. He brushed past her and went quickly down the bare corridor towards the back, and Eleanor’s rooms. Once there he knocked more loudly than he had intended, and after the briefest moment heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open and the maid saw him and her face flooded with pleasure, even relief.

“Oh sir, I’m so glad as you’ve come. I was so afraid you might not be back.”

“I promised you I would,” he said quietly, liking the woman enormously for her loyalty. “Is Mrs. Byam in?”

“Oh, yes sir. She don’t often go nowhere. In’t really nowhere to go.”

“Will you ask her if she will see me?”

She smiled, and kept up the fiction. “O’ course, sir. If you’ll wait ’ere.” There was no morning room or library,
only a tiny anteroom, less than a hall, but he stood as she had requested while she disappeared, and came back only a moment later, her face full of hope.

“Yes sir, if you’ll come this way.” She took his hat, coat and stick and hung them up, then she led him again into the small sitting room full of Eleanor’s things. He did not even hear her leave.

Eleanor was standing by the window and he knew immediately she had not remained seated because she felt at a disadvantage. In some subtle way she was afraid of him.

Instead of anger he felt sympathy. He was afraid too, of the hurt she could do him if she refused.

“How nice to see you, Micah,” she said with a smile. “You look very well, in spite of the weather. Is the case progressing at last?”

“Yes,” he said with slight surprise. “Yes, it is. Pitt knows who did it, and why.”

Her dark eyebrows rose. “You mean it was not Aaron Godman?”

“No—no, it wasn’t.”

“Oh, the poor man.” Her voice dropped and her face was bleak with the pain she imagined. “How dreadful.” She looked out of the window at the wet walls of the next building. “I always thought hanging was barbaric. This makes it doubly so. How must his family feel?”

“They don’t know yet. We cannot prove who it was.” Drummond wanted to go over to her, but it was too soon. With an effort of will he remained where he was. “I am quite sure Pitt is right, or at least, I should say, Charlotte. It was she who came upon the answer. But there is no proof and, as yet, no evidence that would convince a jury.”

“But Godman is innocent?”

“Oh yes. The proof of that is quite good enough.”

She looked at him quickly. “What are you going to do?”

This time he smiled. “Very little. Pitt will do it.”

“I don’t understand. I know Pitt will do the actual questioning of people. I can recall enough to know that. But surely the decisions are yours?” A flicker of self-mocking humor passed across her face, and a host of memories.

“That depends when the solution comes, although I expect it will not take long from now. He is angry enough, and sad enough, to give it a passionate attention.”

“I still do not understand. You seem to be meaning something far more than you are saying.” There was a question in her voice and anxiety in her eyes. “Do you wish me to know, or …?” She left it unfinished.

“Yes, of course I do. I’m sorry.” It was ridiculous to be playing games with her, or with himself. He should have the courage to put it to the test. He breathed in deeply and let it out again. “I have given the commissioner my resignation, effective one month from now. And I have recommended Pitt to succeed me. I think he will do it better than anyone else. He will make mistakes, but he will also be more likely than any of the others to achieve something positive.”

She looked startled. “You have resigned! But why? I know you have lost a certain interest, but surely it will come back. You cannot just give up.”

“Yes, I can, when there are other things which are of more importance to me.”

She stood still, looking at him very gravely, the question in her eyes.

Now was the time. There was no point in trying to be indirect or to surprise her. “Eleanor, you already know that I love you, and that I wish to marry you. When I asked you before, you pointed out that it would cost me my career, and you said that that was the reason you refused. Now it no longer stands in the way. Marrying you could not harm me, it would only bring me the greatest possible happiness. You cannot refuse me now, unless it would not bring the same happiness to you—” He stopped, realizing he had said all he meant, so it would be clumsy to press too hard, to repeat.