Farrier's Lane (16 page)

“I don’t know, Mr. O’Neil. That is one of the reasons I would very much like to know what he said to you that afternoon.”

O’Neil’s stare did not waver in the slightest. His intelligent, volatile face was far more controlled than Pitt had first thought, and yet for all the natural charm, there was nothing ingenuous in it.

“Of course you would,” he answered readily. “And so would I, were I in your position. I’ll be happy to oblige you, Mr. Pitt.” He shifted position very slightly. “He first asked me if I recalled the night Kingsley Blaine was murdered. All this was after the pleasantries had been exchanged, of course. To which I said that I most certainly did—as if I would be able to forget it, for all that I tried hard enough! Then he asked me to recount it all for him, which I did.”

“Could you recount it for me, please, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt interrupted.

“If you wish. Well, it was early autumn, but I daresay you know that. Kingsley and I had decided to go to the theater.”
He shrugged expressively, lifting his shoulders high and turning out his hands, palms upwards. “He was married, but I was fancy-free. For all that, he was very enamored of the actress Tamar Macaulay, and he intended to go backstage after the show and visit with her. He had a gift which he proposed to give her, and no doubt he foresaw that she would be suitably grateful for it.”

“What was it?” Pitt interrupted again.

“A necklace. Do you not know that?” He looked surprised. “Of course you do! Yes, a very handsome piece. Belonged to his mother-in-law, rest her soul. And for sure he shouldn’t have been giving it away to another woman. But then we all do foolish things at times. The poor devil’s dead and answered for it now.” He stopped for a moment, regarding Pitt with interest.

“Indeed.” Pitt felt compelled at least to acknowledge that he had heard.

“But then he and I had something of a disagreement—nothing much, you understand, just a wager on the outcome of a fight.” He grinned. “An exhibition of the noble art of pugilism, to you, Mr. Pitt. We disagreed as to who had won—and he refused to pay me, although according to the rules, the money was mine.”

O’Neil pushed out his lower lip ruefully. “I left the theater early in something of a temper, and went to a house of pleasure.” He smiled candidly, covering whatever embarrassment he might have felt. “Kingsley stayed with Tamar Macaulay, and left very late, so I gather. At least that was the testimony of the doorman. Kingsley, poor soul, was given a message, purporting to be from me, that he should meet me at a gambling club we both frequented in those days.” He winced. “The way to it led through Farriers’ Lane, and we all know what happened there.”

“Was the message written or verbal?”

“Oh, verbal—all word of mouth.”

“But you didn’t see Mr. Blaine again?”

“Not alive, no, the poor soul.”

“Was that all the judge asked you?”

“The judge?” O’Neil’s dark eyes widened. “Oh—poor
Mr. Stafford, you mean? Yes, I think so. Frankly it seemed something of a waste of time to me. The case is closed. The verdict was given, and there was no real question about it. The police found the right fellow. Poor devil lost his head and ran amok.” He pulled a slight face. “Not a Christian, you know. Different ideas of right and wrong, I daresay. They hanged him—no choice. Evidence was conclusive. That must have been what Mr. Stafford had in mind to do—prove it so even Miss Macaulay would have to admit it to herself and leave off pestering everyone.”

That could so easily be the truth. Pitt had come because it was an obvious duty to retrace Stafford’s steps. Someone that day had put liquid opium into his flask, or Livesey and his friend would have been poisoned when they drank from it earlier. But he had also hoped to learn something that would tell him whether Stafford intended to reopen the case or to close it forever. Perhaps that was a forlorn hope? O’Neil had been one of the original suspects. He would hardly wish the matter raised again.

Pitt looked at where O’Neil was lounging easily in the other large chair. If he was nervous he hid it better than anyone Pitt had ever seen. He looked casual, rueful, polite; a man dealing generously with a most unpleasant subject, yielding to an obligation socially demanded of him and which he understood without resentment.

“Did he ask you anything in any way new, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt smiled bleakly, trying to keep an air as if he knew something he had not yet revealed.

O’Neil blinked. “No, not that I can think of. It all seemed to be old ground to me. Oh—he did ask if Kingsley carried a stick or a cane of any sort. But he didn’t say why he wanted to know.”

“And did Mr. Blaine carry a stick?”

“No.” O’Neil pulled a face. “He was not the kind of man to enter into a fight with anyone. It was a personal murder, Mr. Pitt. If anyone is trying to say it was a struggle, a face-to-face fight of any sort, then they’re just dreaming.” All the light vanished out of his expression and he leaned forward. “It was brutal, swift and complete. I saw the body.”
He was pale now. “I was the one who went to identify him. He had no family other than his wife and his father-in-law. It seemed the decent thing that I should do. There was no other mark on him, Mr. Pitt. Just the stab wound that killed him, in his side and up to the heart … and the—the nails in his hands and feet.” He shook his head. “No—no, there was no way it was a battle involving two men both armed. He did not defend himself.”

“Did Mr. Stafford not say why he asked?”

“No—no, he didn’t. I asked him, but he evaded an answer.”

Pitt could think of no reason why Stafford should make such an enquiry. Had it something to do with the medical evidence he had questioned? He must find Humbert Yardley and ask him.

“What was Kingsley Blaine like, Mr. O’Neil?” he resumed. “I don’t have the advantage of knowing anything about him at all. Was he a large man?”

“Oh.” O’Neil was taken aback. “Well—taller than I am, but loose limbed, if you know what I mean.” He looked at Pitt questioningly. “Not an athlete, more of a … well, speak no ill of the dead—and he was a friend of mine—but more of a dreamer, you know?” He rose to his feet with some grace. “Would you like to see a photograph of him? We have a few in the house.”

“Have you?” Pitt was surprised, although it was surely not unreasonable. The men had been friends.

“But of course,” O’Neil said quickly. “After all, he lived here all his married life—which God bless him was only a couple of years.”

Pitt was surprised. There had been nothing about this in the notes he had read.

“This was Kingsley Blaine’s house?”

“Ah no.” O’Neil was obviously amused at Pitt’s confusion. “The house belongs to my father-in-law, Mr. Prosper Harrimore. And of course my grandmother-in-law, Mrs. Adah Harrimore, lives here too.” He smiled again with total candor. “I married Kingsley’s widow. You didn’t know that?”

“No,” Pitt admitted, rising to his feet also. “No, I didn’t. Did Mr. Stafford speak to any of the rest of your … family?”

“No—no, not at all. He came later in the day, about four o’clock. I was home from a most agreeable late luncheon. He had sent a message ’round to my club. I preferred to meet him here rather than there.” He went over to the door and opened it. “Didn’t know what he wanted then, except that it was to do with Kingsley. It was not something I wished to discuss in public, or to remind my friends of, if I were fortunate enough that they had forgotten.”

“And the other members of the family were not at home?” Pitt went through and into the hall.

O’Neil followed him. “No—my wife was out calling upon friends, my grandmother-in-law was taking a carriage ride, and my father-in-law was at his place of business. He has interests in a trading emporium in the City.”

Pitt stood back for O’Neil to lead the way across the very fine hall, flagged in black and white with a magnificent stair rising to a wide gallery above. “I should be obliged to see a photograph,” he said. He had no specific idea as to what he could learn from it, but he wanted to see Kingsley Blaine; he wanted at least an impression of the man who was at the heart of this tragedy which it seemed was still so dangerously alive five years after Blaine himself was dead and Aaron Godman hanged for his murder.

“Ah well, then,” O’Neil said cheerfully, his good humor apparently returned. “I’ll show you, with pleasure.” And he opened the door and led Pitt into another larger and warmer room where a fire burned in the hearth, crackling noisily, flames leaping, and a young woman with fair brown hair and unusually high cheekbones sat on a padded stool, beside her a dark, curly-haired child of about two years old. Another child, whom Pitt judged to be about four, sat on the carpet in front of her, a thin, brightly colored book in her hands. She was quite different in appearance: Her hair was ash fair with only the slightest wave in it, and she had solemn blue eyes.

“Hello, my pretty,” O’Neil said cheerfully, patting her head.

“Hello, Papa,” she replied happily. “I’m reading a story to Mama and James.”

“Are you indeed?” O’Neil said with admiration, not questioning her truthfulness. “What is it about, then?”

“A princess,” the child answered without hesitation. “And a fairy prince.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous, sweetheart.”

“Grandpapa gave me the book.” She held it up with pride. “He said I could be a princess like that, if I’m good.”

“And so you can, my love, so you can,” O’Neil assured her. “Kathleen, my dear,” he said to the woman, “this is Mr. Pitt, who has called on a matter of business. Mr. Pitt, may I present my wife.”

“How do you do, Mrs. O’Neil,” Pitt replied courteously. So this was Kathleen Blaine O’Neil. She was pretty, very womanly, and yet there was strength in the cast of her features, not masked by the soft chin and the gentle eyes.

“How do you do, Mr. Pitt,” she said without any expression except a slight curiosity.

“Mr. Pitt is interested in photography,” O’Neil said, keeping his back to Kathleen and facing Pitt. “There are one or two good pictures in here I wished to show him.”

“Of course.” Kathleen smiled at Pitt. “Please be welcome, Mr. Pitt. I hope they are of help to you. Do you take many photographs? I expect you have met some interesting people?”

Pitt hesitated only a moment. “Yes, Mrs. O’Neil, I have certainly met some very interesting people, with quite unique faces, both good and bad.”

She continued to regard him without making any further remark.

“This is one that you might like,” O’Neil said casually, and Pitt moved over beside him in front of a large, silver-framed photograph of a young woman, who was immediately recognizable as Kathleen O’Neil, in a very formal gown. Behind her was a man of apparently the same age, tall, still with the slenderness of youth, fair, wavy hair falling
slightly over his left brow. It was a handsome face, good-humored, emotional, full of an easy, romantic sensuality. Pitt did not need to ask if it were Kingsley Blaine. He would ask O’Neil later, privately, if Blaine were the father of the elder child with the fair hair, but it would only be a formality; the answer was plain.

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “An excellent picture. I am most obliged, Mr. O’Neil.”

Kathleen was regarding him with interest.

“Is it helpful to you, Mr. Pitt? He was my first husband. He died about five years ago.”

Pitt felt an abysmal hypocrite. Words raced through his mind. He should tell her he knew, but how without embarrassing O’Neil?

O’Neil came to his rescue.

“Mr. Pitt knows that, my dear,” he said to his wife. “I explained to him.”

“Oh. I see.” But obviously she did not.

The conversation was rescued by the door opening and a man coming in. He looked first at O’Neil, then at Pitt, with a question sharp in his powerful, hatchet-nosed face. He was heavily built, barrel-chested, and he walked with a pronounced limp. Briefly he glanced at the children, and there was intense pride in his eyes for that moment before he turned back towards Pitt.

“Ah, a good morning to you, Papa-in-law,” O’Neil said with a charming smile. “This is Mr. Pitt, a business acquaintance of mine.”

“Indeed!” Harrimore looked at Pitt civilly enough, but with a carefully guarded expression. He had a remarkable face; at one moment it was almost intimidating with its strength, and yet when he moved, and the intelligence lit his eyes, it was also vulnerable. His mouth was twisted a little, but it was impossible to say whether with cruelty or his own pain. “Good of you to come to us at home, Mr. Pitt, and save us the trouble of traveling at this hour. Have you eaten, sir, or may we offer you some refreshment?”

“That is very kind of you, Mr. Harrimore, but I have eaten, thank you,” Pitt replied. Kathleen might have accepted
an interest in photography as his reason for being there, but he did not think Prosper Harrimore would be taken in so easily.

“Devlin was showing Mr. Pitt the photograph of Kingsley and me at our wedding,” Kathleen said with a smile.

“Indeed?” Harrimore said, looking at Pitt narrowly.

“An excellent example of the art,” Pitt offered, glancing at O’Neil.

“Indeed it is,” O’Neil agreed, then turned to his wife. “Perhaps you had better take the children, my dear, and see to their morning walk, now the weather is so pleasant.”

She rose obediently, recognizing an order when she heard it. She excused herself to Pitt and her father, and followed by the two small children, she went out into the hallway and closed the door.

“Mr. Pitt is here about the recent and sudden death of Judge Stafford,” O’Neil said immediately, his face resuming its earlier gravity. “I saw the poor man the very day he died, so natural it is I should be asked.”

“Tactful of you, Mr. Pitt,” Harrimore said slowly, looking him up and down. “And why is it you are concerned with the matter, sir? You don’t look like a policeman.”

Pitt was not sure whether that was a compliment or a complaint.

“Sometimes an advantage,” he replied quietly. “But I did not mislead Mr. O’Neil in the matter.”

“No—no, I imagine not.” Uncertain humor flickered in Harrimore’s eyes. “And why do the police involve themselves with the death of Mr. Stafford?”