Farrier's Lane (12 page)

He returned an hour later bearing a note which read:

She folded it again and placed it in one of the pigeonholes in her bureau. She would not yet keep it with the others of nearly twenty years ago. The space between them had been too great. Memories filled her mind, delicate, without sorrow now. She would accept the invitation to dine. It would be most pleasant to have time to speak of other things as well, to develop the conversation slowly, to enjoy his company, his wit, the complexities of his thoughts, the subtlety of his judgment. And there would be good humor, there had always been that—and honesty.

She dressed with care, not only for herself but also for him. It was a long time since she had worn anything to please anyone else. He had always liked pale colors, subtle tones. She put on ivory silk, smooth over the hip and with a very discreet bustle exquisitely swathed, and lace at the neck, and pearls, lots of pearls. He had always preferred their sheen to the brilliance of diamonds, which he thought hard, and ostentatious.

She alighted from her carriage at five minutes past eight, close enough to the appointed hour to be polite, and yet not so prompt as to be vulgar. The butler who answered the door was very elderly. His white hair shone in the light from the hallway and his shoulders were more than a trifle stooped. He looked at her for a moment before his features lit in a smile. “Good evening, Lady Cumming-Gould,” he said with unconcealed pleasure, memories flooding back. “How very pleasant to see you. Mr. Quade is expecting you, if you will come this way. May I take your cape?”

It was twenty years since Thelonius Quade had been in love with her, and to be honest, she had also loved him far more than she had ever intended when she had begun their romance. He had been a brilliant barrister in his early forties, lean and slight with an ascetic dreamer’s face full of beautiful bones, married to his career and the love of justice.

She had been sixty, still possessed of the great beauty which had made her famous, married to a man of whom she had been fond but never adored. He had been older than she, a chilly man who had little humor, and at that time he was retreating from life into a dour old age, seeking even more physical comfort and less involvement with other people, except a few like-minded friends, and a large number of acquaintances with whom he conducted an enormous correspondence about the dire state of the Empire, the ruin of society and the decline of religion.

Now as she found herself on the brink of seeing Thelonius Quade again, she was ridiculously nervous. It was too absurd! She was over eighty, an old woman; even Thelonius himself must be over sixty now! She had been perfectly composed when she suggested the idea to Charlotte, but as she followed the butler across the familiar hallway her heart was fluttering, and her hands were stiff, and she nearly missed her step between the parquet flooring and the Aubusson carpet of the withdrawing room.

“Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould,” the butler announced, opening the doors for her and stepping back.

Vespasia swallowed, lifted her head even higher, and went in.

Thelonius Quade was standing by the fireplace, facing her. He looked leaner than she had recalled, and perhaps taller. Even his face was gaunt, its sensitive lines thrown into sharper relief. The marks of age had given him a quality it would not be misplaced to call beauty, such was the power of his character that shone through.

He smiled as soon as he saw her, and came across the room slowly, holding out his hands a little, palms upwards.

Without thinking about it, she placed her hands in his, smiling back.

He moved no closer but stood searching her face, and finding in it what he had hoped.

“I suppose you must have changed,” he said quietly. She had forgotten how good his voice was, how very clear. “But I cannot see it—and I do not wish to.”

“I am twenty years older, Thelonius,” she replied with a little shake of her head.

“Ah, but my dear, so am I,” he said gently. “And that cancels it out. Come, let us move a little closer to the fire. The evening is chilly, and it would be hasty to begin dinner the moment you are through the door. We cannot possibly catch up twenty years in one short encounter, so do not let us pretend.” He led her towards the warmth as he spoke. “Tell me instead what it is that concerns you so much. We do not need to play games of trivial conversation and skirt around what we mean. We never did. And unless you are totally different, you will not rest until we have dealt with the matter of importance.”

“Am I so very … direct?” she said with a rueful smile.

“Yes,” he replied without compromise. He searched her face carefully. She had not remembered his eyes were blue, or so perceptive. “You do not look deeply troubled. May I assume it is not a matter of distress?”

She lifted an elegant shoulder and the pearls on her bosom shone in the light.

“At the moment it is only interest, which may develop into concern. I am very fond of the young woman.”

“You said in your note that you regarded her as family.” He was standing next to the fireplace, facing her. She stood also; she had been sitting most of the day, and all the journey here, and she felt comfortable. In spite of her age, she was straight-backed and erect, and nearly as tall as he.

“She is the sister of a niece, by marriage.”

“I detect a hesitation, Vespasia—an evasion?”

“You are too quick,” she said dryly, but there was no irritation in her. On the contrary, it was vaguely comforting that he should still know her so well, and be willing to show it. “Yes, she is of very moderate family, and has chosen to appall them by marrying beneath herself, in fact a very great deal beneath herself—to a policeman.”

His eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“Of whom I am also very fond!” she added defensively.

Still he forbore from commenting, still watching her.

“She—she frequently involves herself in his … cases.”
Now she was finding it harder to explain so that it did not sound in the worst possible taste. “In a pursuit of truth,” she said warily, searching his face and not knowing what she read in it. “She is an intelligent and individual young woman.”

“And she is presently so … involved?” he enquired, the amusement so nearly in his voice.

“That will depend.”

“Upon what?”

“Upon whether there is any way in which she can meet any of the participants in the affair in a manner which might be productive.”

He looked confused.

“Really, Thelonius,” she said quickly. “Detecting is not a matter of going ’round in a bowler hat asking impertinent questions and writing down what everyone says in a notebook! The best detecting is done by observing people when they are unaware that you have any interest in them, or knowledge of the matter deeper than their own—and of course by making the odd remark which will provoke a reaction in the guilty.” She stopped, seeing him regard her with surprise and fast dawning amusement.

“Vespasia?”

“And why not?” she demanded.

“My dear! No reason on earth,” he conceded. Then as the gong sounded, he took her by the arm and guided her through the archway to the dining room. The mahogany table was set for two, silver gleaming in the candlelight, tawny chrysanthemums smelling rich and earthy, white linen folded with monograms outward.

He pulled out her chair for her before the butler could reach it, then took his own seat. Tacitly the butler set about his duties.

“And what case is this friend of yours—Does she have a name?”

“Charlotte—Charlotte Pitt.”

“Pitt?” His eyebrows rose and there was sharp interest in his face. “There is an inspector of considerable ability
named Thomas Pitt. Is he by any chance the one towards whom you have developed this regard?”

“Yes, yes he is.”

“An excellent man, so I have heard.” He opened his napkin and spread it across his lap. “A man of integrity. What is this matter in which his wife is interested? Why is it you believe I may have any knowledge?”

The butler poured white wine for him. He sipped it, then offered it to Vespasia. She accepted.

“If it is in the public domain,” he continued, “surely Inspector Pitt will know at least as much as I. And do I gather that he does not wish his wife to participate in the matter?”

“Really, Thelonius,” she reproved him with amusement. “Do you imagine I would set Charlotte against her husband? Certainly not! No—the matter is some five years old, and your knowledge will be superior to almost anyone else’s because you were involved yourself.”

“In what?” He began his soup, a delicate cream of winter vegetables.

She took a deep breath. It was distasteful to intrude such an ugly affair into so pleasant an evening, but they had never restricted themselves to the purely pleasant. Their relationship had been deepened by the sharing of the tragic and the ugly as well as the beautiful.

“The Blaine/Godman murder—in Farriers’ Lane in ’eighty-four,” she said gravely. The lightness vanished. “It seems more than possible that the sudden death in the theater two nights ago of Mr. Justice Stafford is connected with his continued interest in the case.”

His manner sharpened, his expression clouded with concern and he stopped, his spoon in the air.

“I did not know he had any continued interest. In what way?”

“Well, there is some difference of opinion on that,” she answered, aware of the change in him, the undercurrent of old unhappiness. It darkened her mood also, but it was too late to retreat. His eyes were watching her with intensity, waiting.

“Mrs. Stafford and Mr. Pryce were present when Mr. Stafford died,” she continued. “Both say that he was intending to reopen the case, although neither of them knew upon what grounds. Mr. Justice Livesey, on the other hand, who was also there, is quite sure that he was intending to prove once and for all that the verdict was true and in every way proper, so there would be no more speculation even by the hanged man’s sister, who has been mounting a crusade to have his name cleared.”

The soup dishes were removed and salmon mousse served.

“What is beyond argument,” she resumed, “is that Mr. Stafford was reinterrogating many of the original participants. The day he died he saw Tamar Macaulay, Joshua Fielding, Devlin O’Neil and Adolphus Pryce, as well as Mr. Justice Livesey.”

“Indeed,” Thelonius said slowly, letting his fork rest on his plate, his salmon momentarily ignored. “But I assume he died before he could clarify the matter?”

“He did—and it seems …” She hated saying it. “It seems he died of poison. Opium, to be precise.”

“Hence the interest of your Inspector Pitt,” he said dryly.

“Exactly. But Charlotte’s interest is more personal.”

“Yes?” He picked up the fork again at last.

She found herself smiling. “I know of no delicate way of phrasing this, so I shall be direct.”

“Remarkable!” he said with the gentlest of sarcasm. His face held only laughter, and she was reminded again how very much she had cared for him. He was one of the few men who was more than her intellectual equal, and who was not overawed by her beauty or her reputation. If only they had met when—but she had never indulged fruitless regrets, and would certainly not begin now.

“Charlotte’s mother has conceived an affection for the actor Joshua Fielding,” she said with a tight smile. “She is concerned he may be suspected, both of the Farriers’ Lane murder and of poisoning Stafford.”

He reached for his wineglass.

“I cannot see any likelihood of that,” he said, still looking
at her. “If that is what you wish to hear from me. I think Livesey is almost certainly correct, and Mrs. Stafford and Mr. Pryce are either mistaken in their interpretation of his remarks, or something uglier.”

She did not need to ask him what that might be; the possibilities were apparent.

“And if it is Livesey who is incorrect?” she asked him.

Again the darkness came into his face. He hesitated several moments before answering her.

It was on the edge of her tongue to apologize for having raised the subject at all, but they had never skirted truth before. It would be a kind of denial to do it now, the closing of a door which she deeply wished to remain open.

“It was an extremely ugly case,” he said slowly, his eyes searching her face. “One of the most distressing I have ever presided over. It is not just that the crime itself was horrifying, a man nailed against a stable door like a mockery of the crucifixion of Christ, it was the hatred it engendered in the ordinary man in the street.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips, a wry tolerance in it. “It is amazing how many people turn out to have religious susceptibilities when this sort of affront is given, people who customarily do not darken a church doorway from one year’s end to another.”

“It is easier,” she replied frankly, “and often more emotionally satisfying to be mortally offended on behalf of your God than to serve Him by altering one’s style and manner of life—and in a short space, it is certainly much more comfortable. One can feel righteous, very much one who belongs, while heaping vengeance on the heads of sinners. It costs a lot less than giving time or money to the poor.”

He ate the last of his salmon and offered her more wine.

“You are becoming cynical, my dear.”

“I was never anything else”—she accepted the wine—“where the self-proclaimed righteous were concerned. Was the case really so different from most?”

“Yes.” He pushed his plate away and like a shadow the butler removed it. “There was a distinct alien culture which could be blamed,” Thelonius continued grimly, his eyes sad and angry. “Godman was a Jew, and the resultant anti-Semitic
emotions were among the most unpleasant manifestations of human behavior that I have seen: anti-Semitic slogans daubed on walls, hysterical pamphlets scattered all over the place, even people hurling stones in the streets at those they took to be Jews—windows smashed in synagogues, one set fire to. The trial was conducted at such a pitch of emotion I feared it would escalate beyond my control.” His face pinched as the memory became sharp in his mind. Vespasia could see in his eyes how much it hurt him.