Farrier's Lane (53 page)

12

C
AROLINE WAS ECSTATIC.
It was all over, and Joshua was freed from any suspicion whatever. He was guilty of nothing, and it had been proved. The anxiety was ended, even the smallest fear niggling at the back of the mind. The relief was overwhelming. She wanted to laugh aloud, to cry, to run and shout.

She looked at Charlotte’s face and saw the shadows in her eyes, the conflicting emotions tearing at her.

“What?” she said quickly, her mind confused. “What else? There is something you haven’t told me. What is it?”

“What are you going to do now?” Charlotte asked. They were standing in the withdrawing room in Cater Street. It was early morning and the fire was still only just burning up and there was little heat in it.

“I’m going to tell Joshua, of course,” Caroline replied, still puzzled. “And Tamar, naturally.”

“I didn’t mean right this minute …”

“Then what?”

“I—I mean about Joshua. There is no need to worry about him now.” She stopped, uncertain how to continue.

“I have no idea,” Caroline answered very quietly. “That depends upon him. I shall enjoy each day, and let the one after take care of itself. And Charlotte, my dear …”

“Yes?”

“That is all I am prepared to say on the subject, either to you or to Grandmama.”

“Oh.”

“And now I am going to order the carriage and go and tell Joshua and Tamar the news. You may come if you wish.”

“Yes—yes, I will tell Tamar. I would like to do that.”

“Of course. I think you should.”

    It was too early to find anyone at the theater, so Charlotte and Caroline went to the house in Pimlico. They were let in by a surprised Miranda Passmore, but as soon as she saw their faces she knew the news was good. She threw open the door and ushered them in, taking Caroline by the arm and calling loudly for her father.

“Is Miss Macaulay in her rooms?” Charlotte asked, caught up in the happiness of the moment in spite of her own reservations about Caroline and Joshua.

“Yes, I’m sure. She wouldn’t have gone out this early. You want to tell her yourself? You should. It is all over, isn’t it?” Miranda swung around to face them. “I didn’t even ask you, but I can see you’ve discovered something wonderful. He was innocent, wasn’t he?” Her words tumbled over each other. “Can you prove it at last? You can—can’t you?”

Charlotte found herself smiling, unable to deny such pleasure.

“Yes—and better than that, last night they arrested the man who really did it.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous!” Miranda did a little twirl around on the spot out of sheer joy, then clasped Charlotte in a spontaneous hug. “That’s wonderful! You are brilliant! You’d have liked Aaron, he was a bit like you—impulsive and full of ideas. Come, you must tell Joshua too.” This last was to Caroline. “He’ll be in his rooms as well, probably having breakfast. Come on up.”

Charlotte left Caroline outside Joshua’s door. She did not need to hear Caroline’s voice lifted in excitement and happiness, the relief in him, the thoughts and memories of a
dead friend, the sense of victory, and the sorrow that all of it was so dreadfully, disastrously late.

She went on up behind Miranda to Tamar’s rooms and knocked on the door.

Tamar opened it after a moment, looked first to Miranda’s shining face, then at Charlotte.

“It’s over,” Charlotte said quietly. “They arrested Prosper Harrimore last night, and he did not even deny it. All the world will know Aaron was innocent.”

Tamar stood motionless, simply staring at Charlotte, searching her face to make absolutely sure she could not be mistaken, then as she believed it the tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She lifted her hands, and then let them fall.

Charlotte forgot everything about decent restraint, good manners and all rules of etiquette and threw her arms around her, holding her tightly and finding her own eyes stinging. Caroline was forgotten. If she too was in Joshua’s arms and they laughed or cried or clung to each other, it did not matter, at least for now.

    Pitt felt far from happy. To have solved the murder in Farriers’ Lane reversed an old and bitter injustice, but it could not help Aaron Godman now. Nothing could undo his suffering or retrieve his loss. It was a small balm to the living, but any redress of wrong was worth fighting for, even when it would cause the guilt and the questions that this would, including the ruin of several reputations.

But he had expected it also to solve the murders of Samuel Stafford and Constable Paterson. And it had not. Apart from the fact that he believed Harrimore, it took him only an hour to ascertain that it was physically quite impossible for him to have committed either crime. His time was fully and unequivocally accounted for.

So who had killed Stafford, and why?

Was it conceivable that it was not anyone they had so far suspected? No one in the theater had any motive that he could imagine. If Stafford had indeed been considering reopening the Farriers’ Lane case, then it was supremely in
their interest that he should remain alive. None of them was guilty. That was now undisputed.

He was forced to think again of Juniper and Adolphus Pryce. But they had each feared it was the other.

Who did that leave?

No one.

He could think of no alternative but to go back once more and retrace Stafford’s actions all that last day, speak again to anyone who had seen him, cross-check every piece of evidence and see if he could draw anything new from it.

He set out for the police station where he had gone to tell Drummond that he had ascertained that Harrimore could not be guilty of Stafford’s death or Paterson’s. The day was crisp and cold. A weak sun shone fitfully through the drifting clouds of smoke from countless chimneys, and the paving stones were slippery with ice. Fresh horse manure in the street steamed gently in the freezing air.

He did not expect to learn anything from those involved with the case of Kingsley Blaine. It seemed after all as if Stafford’s death had no connection with it except that of coincidence. O’Neil would have more tragedy than any man could deal with today, and Pitt would certainly not intrude on him unless it were a matter of crisis. And neither had he any wish to see Joshua Fielding or Tamar Macaulay. They would be celebrating the end of five years’ nightmare. Nothing would bring back the dead, but at last the shame was gone. And although it had had nothing to do with Pitt at all—far from it, he had been the one to resolve it—still he felt implicated because he represented the law to them. He was a member of the police who had unwittingly wronged them so irretrievably.

He paced along the footpath deep in thought, narrowly avoiding bumping into people. The clatter of wheels and hooves, the cries of coachmen, costers and crossing sweepers passed over him in a sea of sound he ignored. When the early afternoon newspapers carried word of Harrimore’s arrest all London would know of it. His mind was filled with the furor it would cause. He even wondered if he should go and tell Lambert himself. But how could he phrase it? Simply
to announce it would sound like self-praise, and criticism that Lambert had been tragically wrong. To express sorrow or sympathy would be unforgivably condescending. Lambert would be bound to think he had come in order to savor his victory.

No. Let him read it in the newspapers and nurse his defeat alone. Perhaps privacy was the best he could offer.

That was something Paterson would be spared, poor devil. He would not have to face the public embarrassment. Although what was that, compared with the private guilt?

And what about the officers of the courts? Thelonius Quade had doubted all the time, so much so that he had even considered in some way invalidating the proceedings so a mistrial would be called. But in the end his trust in the law had prevailed. How much would he blame himself for that?

And the appeal judges. Was some suspicion of haste, of emotion governing judgment, what had driven Mr. Justice Boothroyd to retirement and drink? Or might it have happened anyway? Did he see something, perceive a lie, a doubt in the transcript of the original trial, and not have the courage to say so? It would take a brave man, in the climate of the time, to tell the law and the public that it had convicted the wrong man, the case was not over at all. There was no closing the file and putting it in the past, no saying that, yes, it was a tragedy, but it was resolved, could be forgotten, with honor.

Forgetting would be sought in vain, and there was no honor for anyone.

The first person Pitt resorted to again was Juniper Stafford. He found her still in black, but this time it was plain, even dull. It was still an expensive cloth and well cut, but it was fashionable rather than possessing any character and it no longer rustled when she moved; nor was her perfume more than the pleasing scent of cleanliness. She looked truly bereaved in every sense. In seeing her face he was intensely aware of loss, even of failure. It was not Samuel Stafford she mourned, and perhaps not even Adolphus Pryce. He felt it was something in herself, a belief, a dream
which had died, and the self-knowledge which had taken its place was a bitter fruit.

“Good morning, Inspector Pitt,” she said without interest. “Do you have some news? My maid tells me the afternoon newspapers say that you have arrested another man for the murder of Kingsley Blaine. I assume he murdered Samuel also, and for some reason they have not mentioned it. It seems an odd omission.” She stood in the center of the morning room. The fire cast a glow on her cheeks, but it could not put life into her eyes, or mobility in her expression.

“The omission was necessary, Mrs. Stafford,” he replied. She had assumed Harrimore guilty, as indeed he had himself, but Juniper did not even ask why. Did she suppose Stafford had threatened him with discovery, or did she no longer particularly care? “Prosper Harrimore did not kill the judge,” he said aloud.

She frowned very slightly. “I don’t understand. That’s ridiculous. If he didn’t, then who did? And why?” The first very faint flicker of humor lit her eyes, totally without fear. “You cannot have returned because you imagine it was I—or Mr. Pryce. You have very effectively proved that it was not, by helping us to blame each other.” She turned a little away from him. “I will not say you made it happen, that would be to give you too much credit—or blame. Had we been stronger, had we the love we imagined we had, you could not have done such a thing.” She brushed her hand over her skirt, removing a fleck of thread. “So why have you come?”

He was sorry for her, in spite of the contempt he had felt before. Disillusion is one of the bitterest of all griefs.

“Because I am driven back to the beginning again,” he replied candidly. “All the information I thought I had is of little use. The judge’s death appears, after all, to have had nothing to do with the Farriers’ Lane case. Or if it does, it is a connection I haven’t seen, and still cannot see now. There is nothing for me to do but go back to the physical details and reexamine each one to see if I have missed something, or misinterpreted it.”

“How tedious.” she said without feeling. “I can repeat everything I told you before, if you believe it may be helpful.” And without waiting for him to reply, in a monotone she recited the events of the last day of Stafford’s life, from seeing him at breakfast through Tamar Macaulay’s visit, his agitation, to his leaving to go and interview Joshua Fielding and Devlin O’Neil again. She told him of Stafford’s return, his preoccupation, which was not particularly unusual, the dinner they had shared.

“And he was perfectly well then?” he interrupted. “He was not sleepy, unusually inattentive? He ate well, without complaint of pain or discomfort?”

“Yes, he ate excellently. And we were served from the same dishes. There was nothing he took which I did not. More, of course, but just the same dishes. He cannot have been poisoned in this house, Mr. Pitt.”

“No, I had already concluded that, Mrs. Stafford. Besides, we found the traces of opium in his flask. I wondered if he could have taken anything from it already, before the meal, that’s all. I am checking everything …”