Farrier's Lane (7 page)

“Is it?” She swung around, facing him. Her dark eyes were wide, still full of fear, and her voice had a hard, frightened edge to it. “Do you think so? Isn’t that why Samuel was killed?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “Mr. Livesey seems to think that Mr. Stafford was quite satisfied that the verdict was correct. He simply wanted to find further proof of it so even Tamar Macaulay would be convinced and let it rest. In the public good.”

She stood very still, her body stiff under its black gown.

“Then who killed Samuel?” she said quietly. “And for heaven’s sake, why? Nothing else makes any sense. And it was immediately after that woman came here, and he went to speak to O’Neil and Joshua Fielding about the evidence. Do you—do you think maybe one of them really killed Kingsley Blaine, and they are afraid Samuel knew something about it—and that he was going to prove it?”

“It is possible,” he conceded. “Mrs. Stafford, can you think of anything he may have said which would help us to find out what he knew? Even what he intended, would help.”

She was silent for several moments, her face heavy with concentration.

Pitt waited.

“He seemed to feel it was extremely urgent,” she said finally, a deep line of anxiety between her brows. “He would not have gone to Devlin O’Neil again, someone so close to the murdered man’s family, and a personal friend, unless he felt he had new information or evidence. I—I just know, from his manner, that he had learned something.” She stared at him with fierce concentration. “It is only natural that he did not discuss it with me. It would have been improper. And of course I did not know the details anyway. All I knew was what was public knowledge. Everyone was talking about it. One could not bump into a friend or acquaintance anywhere, even at the opera or the dinner table, without it creeping into the conversation after a few moments. There was terrible anger everywhere, Mr. Pitt. It was not an ordinary crime.”

“No.” Pitt thought of the dark air of fear and prejudice which would blow from the bloodstained Farriers’ Lane, even into the withdrawing rooms of London and the discreet, plush lined gentlemen’s clubs with a clink of crystal and the aroma of cigar smoke.

“It wasn’t, I assure you!” There was an urgency in her now, as if she thought he doubted her. “I have never known such a public fury over a crime—other than the Whitechapel murders, of course. And even so, there was an element of blasphemy in this which outraged people in quite a different way. Even gentle and pious people could not wait for him to be hanged.”

“Except Tamar Macaulay,” he observed.

She winced. “It is an abominable thought that she may have been right, is it not?”

“Indeed!” he said with a sudden surge of feeling. “In many ways far worse than the original crime.”

She looked uncomprehending.

“The murder of Kingsley Blaine was the murder of one man,” he explained with a bitter smile. “The murder, if you like, of Aaron Godman was the slow, judicial passion incurred by the fear and rage, and misjudgment, of a nation and what purports to be the justice system it practices. To
have criminals is a sad fact of humanity. To have laws which, when tested to their limit, exact an irretrievable punishment from an innocent person, in order to assuage our own fears, is a tragedy of a far greater order. We all consented to it; we are all tainted.”

She looked very pale, her eyes hollow, skin tight on her throat.

“Mr. Pitt, that is—that is simply dreadful! Poor Samuel; if he feared that, no wonder he was so disturbed.”

“He was disturbed?”

“Oh yes, he has been anxious about the case for some time.” She looked down at the rich carpet. “Of course I was not sure to begin with whether it was simply that he was afraid Miss Macaulay was going to revive the subject in the public mind again and try to bring the law into disrepute. And of course that would have caused him great concern.” She met Pitt’s eyes. “He loved the law. He had given most of his life to it, and he held it in reverence above all things. It was like a religion to him.”

He hesitated; the next thought that came to the edge of his mind was difficult to put to her without being offensive.

She was staring at him, waiting for his response, her eyes still haunted by fear.

“Mrs. Stafford,” he began awkwardly, “I hardly know how to ask you, and I do not wish to be insulting, but—but is it possible he—he intended to protect the reputation of the law—in people’s eyes …” He stopped.

“No, Mr. Pitt,” she said quietly. “You did not know Samuel, or you would not need to ask. He was a man of total integrity. If he had further evidence that convinced him Aaron Godman might not have been guilty, he would have made it public, whatever the risk to the reputation of the law, or of any individual barrister or the original trial judge, or indeed to himself. But if he had such evidence, he would surely already have made it known. I think perhaps he had only a suspicion, and now he is—gone—we may never know what it was.”

“Except by retracing his steps,” Pitt replied. “And if it is necessary, then I shall do that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pitt.” She forced herself to smile. “You have been most considerate, and I have every faith you will handle the whole matter in the best way possible.”

“I will certainly try,” he replied, conscious already that his findings might be far from what she could wish or foresee, it would not be easy to learn what Samuel Stafford had discovered so long after the event, and which had caused someone such terror they had again resorted to murder. He looked at her handsome face with its dark brows and well-proportioned bones, and saw the calmness in her eyes for the first time since he had seen her in her theater box watching the stage, before Stafford was taken ill. He felt guilty, because she placed a trust in him he doubted he would be able to honor.

He bade her good-bye with haste, because it embarrassed him, and after a brisk walk, took a hansom cab east again to the chambers of Adolphus Pryce, Q.C. They were in one of the larger Inns of Court, close by the Old Bailey, and the oak-paneled office was bustling with clerks and juniors with inky fingers and grave expressions. An elderly gentleman with white whiskers and a portentous air came up to him, peering at him over the top of his gold-rimmed pince-nez.

“And what may we do for you, sir?” he enquired. “Mr. er …?”

“Pitt—Inspector Thomas Pitt, of the Bow Street station,” Pitt supplied. “I am here in connection with the death last night of Mr. Justice Stafford.”

“Terrible news.” The clerk shook his head. “Very sudden indeed. We had not even heard the poor gentleman was ailing. Such a shock! And in the theater. Not the most salubrious place from which to depart this vale of tears, dear me, no. Still, what cannot be changed must be endured the best we can. Most unfortunate. But …” He coughed dryly. “In what way does that involve these chambers? Mr. Stafford was an appeal court judge, not a barrister. And we have no case presently before him, of that I am quite sure; it is my business to know.”

Pitt changed his mind about his approach.

“But you have had in the past, sir?”

The clerk’s white eyebrows rose. “But of course. We have tried cases before most of the justices of the bench, both in the Old Bailey and in appeal. So, I imagine, has every other reputable chambers in London.”

“I have in mind the case of Aaron Godman.”

Suddenly there was a hush as a dozen quill pens stopped moving and a junior with a ledger in his hands stood motionless.

“Aaron Godman?” The clerk repeated the name. “Aaron Godman! Oh dear, that is some time ago now, at least five years. But you are perfectly correct, of course. Our Mr. Pryce prosecuted that one, and secured a conviction. It went to appeal, I believe before Mr. Stafford, among others. There are usually five judges of appeal, but you will know that.”

The junior with the ledger continued his journey and the pens began to move again, but there was a curious air of listening in the room although no one turned or looked at Pitt.

“Do you by any chance recall who they were?” he asked.

“Not by chance, sir, by memory,” the clerk replied. “Mr. Stafford himself, Mr. Ignatius Livesey, Mr. Morley Sadler, Mr. Edgar Boothroyd and Mr. Granville Oswyn. Yes, that is correct. I believe Mr. Sadler has retired from the bench now, and I heard Mr. Boothroyd had moved to the Chancery division. Surely the case is no longer of any interest? As I recall, it was denied at appeal. There really were no grounds for opening up the matter again, none at all. Dear me, no. The trial was conducted with perfect propriety, and there was most certainly no new evidence.”

“You are speaking of the appeal?”

“Of course. What else?”

“I had heard that Mr. Stafford was still interested in the matter, and had interviewed several of the principal witnesses again in the last few days.”

Again the writing stopped and there was a prickly silence.

“Indeed? I had not heard that!” The clerk looked quite
taken aback. “I cannot imagine what that would mean. However, it did not concern these chambers, Mr.—er … Mr. Pitt, you say? Quite so—Mr. Pitt. We prosecuted the case, we did not defend. That, as I recall, was Mr. Barton James, of Finnegan, James and Mulhare, of Fetter Lane.” He frowned. “Although it is most odd that Mr. Stafford should be enquiring in the matter. If indeed there is some new evidence come to light, I would have thought Mr. James should take it up—if it is of any importance?”

“Miss Macaulay, Godman’s sister, appealed personally to Mr. Stafford,” Pitt explained.

“Oh dear, yes indeed. A most tenacious young woman-most misguided.” The clerk shook his head. “Unfortunate. An actress person, I believe. Most unfortunate. Well, sir, what is it that we may do for you?”

“May I see Mr. Pryce, if he is available? He was at the theater yesterday evening, and Mr. Stafford also called upon him earlier in the day. He may be able to give us some information which will throw further light upon Mr. Stafford’s death.”

“Indeed. He was a personal friend of Mr. and Mrs. Stafford; possibly Mr. Stafford confided some concern for his health. He has a client with him at the moment, but I do not believe he will be long. If you care to take a seat, sir, I will inform him that you are here.” And with that he bowed very slightly, a stiff gesture, rather like a black crow that was about to peck and changed its mind. Pitt watched him walk away between the desks and files and high-backed stools where young men sat bent over books, scribbling industriously. Not one of them looked up as he passed.

It was over a quarter of an hour before the clerk returned to say that Mr. Pryce was free now, and conducted Pitt to his heavily ornate office, where carved oak chests and bookcases held a library of law books, and the mellow gleam of polished wood reflected the warmth of the fire. Two well-curtained windows looked out onto a small shaded courtyard. The single tree was already bright with autumn colors and the grass was sorely in need of clipping.

Sunlight fell across a very formal desk, leather inlaid and
furnished with onyx and crystal inkwells, and a stand for pen, seals, knife, tapers and sand. A dossier, tied in ribbon, still sat on one polished corner of the wood.

Adolphus Pryce looked agitated. He was extremely fashionably dressed in black frock coat, pin-striped trousers and exquisitely cut waistcoat. He had a natural grace and a posture which made his clothes look even more expensive than they probably were.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” he said with an attempt at a smile, but it died on his lips almost before it was born. He looked as if he had slept little. “Withers tells me you have come about poor Stafford. I am not sure what else I can tell you, but of course I am more than happy to try. Please—be seated.” He waved his hand towards the large green leather upholstered chair near Pitt.

Pitt accepted, leaning back and crossing his legs as if he intended to remain for some time. He saw the look of concern deepen in Pryce’s face as he too sat down.

“Mr. Stafford came to see you yesterday,” Pitt began, not sure how best to draw the information he wanted, indeed not sure if Pryce possessed it. “Can you tell me what that concerned? I realize you cannot break confidence with a client, but Mr. Stafford himself is dead, and the Godman case is in the public domain.”

“Of course,” Pryce leaned back a little and placed his fingertips together thoughtfully. “Actually he came entirely about the Godman case. Of course we exchanged a few pleasantries.” His discomfort returned for a moment. “We—we have known each other for some time. But his reason for calling was his concern, indeed his intention to act, with regard to that case.”

“To act? He told you so?”

“Yes—yes, indeed.” Pryce stared at Pitt very fixedly. He was a man of considerable charm and poise, aristocratic features and sufficient individuality to remain unmistakable in the memory.

“To reopen the appeal?” Pitt pressed. “Upon what grounds?”

“Ah—that he did not say, at least not specifically.”

“Why did he come to you, Mr. Pryce? What did he wish you to do?”

“Nothing. Oh, nothing at all.” Pryce lifted his shoulders very slightly. “It was really something of a courtesy, since I had been the original prosecuting counsel. And I suppose he may have wondered if I had had any doubts myself.”

“If he intended to reopen the appeal, Mr. Pryce, he must either have found some breach of correct conduct in the original trial or else some new evidence, surely? Or there would be no grounds for raising the matter yet again.”

“Quite. Quite so. And I assure you the original trial was perfectly properly conducted. The judge was Mr. Thelonius Quade, a man of the utmost integrity, and more than sufficient skill to not make an error by mischance.” He sighed. “It seems therefore an inevitable conclusion that Mr. Stafford had found some new evidence. He did intimate to me that it had to do with the medical testimony at the original trial, but he did not say what. He also implied that there was something else he felt was unresolved, but he did not elaborate.”

“Medical evidence from the autopsy on Blaine?”

“I presume so.” Pryce’s eyebrows shot up. “But I suppose it is possible he meant some examination of Godman, although what that could have to do with it, I have no idea.”