Farrier's Lane (28 page)

Pitt was taken by surprise. There was a naïveté in her face, almost an innocence, and yet she spoke of violence and adultery as a child might speak of things whose names it had heard, but whose meaning it did not grasp. Her perception of character in spite of her innocence startled him, as did her ability to pity.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, she will feel a grief which will be difficult to recover from, because there will be so much guilt in it. Unless—”

“No,” she interrupted firmly. “I do not believe she killed him. Nor do I believe it was Mr. Pryce. He is a foolish man, infatuated, and he has lost his honor over a woman, which means he is weak. But he would not stoop so low as to murder his friend—even for that.” She looked at Pitt gravely. “I will not believe it for a moment. He is foolish, as are many men, but she is considerably to blame. A woman may nearly always rebuff quite graciously and still
make her disinterest plain. But she did the very opposite. They will both pay for it, mark my words.”

Pitt did not contradict her. From what he had observed, he was inclined to think she might well be correct.

“Do you not think they will marry, Mrs. Oswyn, now that they are free to?”

“Possibly, Mr. Pitt, but they will not be happy. Poor Samuel’s death has spoiled that for them, if it were ever possible. But you will have to look elsewhere for whoever killed him.”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, you will,” she said with absolute certainty. “I suppose you are already looking into that wretched affair in Farriers’ Lane? Yes, naturally you are. I would not be surprised if it had something to do with that. Samuel could not let the matter rest, you know? He came here to speak to Granville more than once. Granville tried to persuade him to let the matter drop, that there was nothing else to learn, and certainly nothing good to accomplish. But Samuel would not be persuaded.”

Pitt sat upright. “You mean Judge Stafford intended to reopen the case? Are you sure?”

“Well now.” She unfolded her hands. “I didn’t say I was sure, you understand? I simply knew that he discussed it with Granville, my husband, several times, and they argued over the matter. Samuel wished to pursue it, and Granville did not. I do not know if Granville managed in the end to persuade him of the futility of it, or if he still wished to continue.”

“Judge Oswyn did not believe there was anything further to be learned? No miscarriage of justice?” Pitt pressed.

“Oh no, not at all,” she denied with conviction. “Although he was not happy about the case. He always felt there was a certain haste, and a great deal of emotion which was extremely distasteful. But that did not alter the correctness of the verdict, and that was what he told Samuel.”

“You don’t know what reason Judge Stafford had for pursuing the case?” Pitt leaned forward, looking at her intently.
“You don’t know if he had discovered anything new, any evidence?”

“Dear me, no. My husband never discussed anything of that nature with me. It is not at all suitable, you know? Not at all.” She shook her head, dismissing the idea out of hand. “No. I am afraid I have no idea what they said, only that it was to do with the case, and that it was most heated in tone.”

Pitt was thrown back in confusion. He had dismissed the Farriers’ Lane murder from his calculations, and now it seemed he was premature. Or was it simply that this woman was not in touch with reality, refusing to believe that people she knew and who were friends could be guilty of more than the regrettably common sins of adultery and deceit? He looked at her more closely, and met her gentle eyes, so knowing of her own immediate world and so sublimely ignorant of anything beyond it.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Oswyn,” he said with great courtesy. “You have been most helpful, and most generous with your time.”

“Not at all, Mr. Pitt,” she replied, smiling at him sweetly. “I hope you are successful in your quest. It must be very difficult.”

“Sometimes.” He rose to his feet, excused himself and bade her good-bye.

    Pitt went to Micah Drummond’s office to discuss the matter with him, but Drummond was out and not expected back until the next morning, so it was not until then that Pitt was able to see him. It was a chilly day with a heavy dampness in the air that drove through the wool jacket which had been sufficient the evening before, and he was glad to be in Drummond’s warm office with the fire burning.

Drummond stood in front of it warming the backs of his legs. He had obviously not been in long himself. His thin face was grave and he looked at Pitt expectantly but with no lift of interest.

“Morning, Pitt,” he said solemnly. “Any news?”

Pitt changed his mind, not about what he would say but rather how he would say it.

“No sir. I am pursuing Mrs. Stafford and Mr. Pryce to learn all I can about their relationship, but I still haven’t found anything that would seem to be adequate motive to have killed Stafford.”

“Love,” Drummond said sharply. “You don’t need to look any farther than that. Or if you wish to be more accurate, amorous obsession. For God’s sake, Pitt, more crimes have been committed from lust than anything else except possibly money. What on earth is your problem with seeing that?”

“Society is full of similar affairs and obsessive lusts,” Pitt replied, determined not to give ground. “Very few of them end in murder, and those that do are usually where someone has been deceived and found it out suddenly, and then killed the offenders in the heat of the emotion.”

“Why do you keep on arguing the point?” Drummond screwed up his face, staring at Pitt. “Of course that is the cause of many of them. But it is also not unknown for two lovers to kill the husband or wife who stands in the way of their union. Why do you not believe that that is what happened here?” He moved around from the fire as he became too hot. He sat in one of the armchairs and waved at Pitt to sit in the other.

“It may have,” Pitt said grudgingly. “But it seems so … hysterical. Stafford wasn’t standing in their way. He was apparently close to complacent about the affair.”

“He knew about it?” Drummond said sharply. “Are you sure?”

Pitt drew in his breath. He wanted to say “of course,” but if he overstated his case he would only have to withdraw later, and then Drummond would wonder what else he had exaggerated. “Livesey’s wife said he was uninterested, and Judge Oswyn’s wife said she was sure Stafford knew, in essence, but he preferred not to know the details. As long as Juniper Stafford was discreet, and caused no public embarrassment, he was prepared to tolerate it. He was most certainly not passionately jealous. She was emphatic about
that.” He was about to add that Stafford had been close to sixty, then he realized that Drummond was probably over fifty himself, and the remark would be tactless.

“Yes?” Drummond asked, sensing that Pitt had withheld something.

“Nothing.” Pitt shrugged. “Simply that apparently Stafford was not an emotional man. It was a civil relationship, amiable, but not close, and now somewhat staled by habit. Anyway, it was not Stafford who killed either his wife or her lover. Stafford was the victim. They had no need to kill him—he did not endanger their affaire.”

“Perhaps they wanted to marry?” Drummond said with something of an edge to his voice. “Perhaps an affair was not enough for them? Maybe a stolen moment here and there was far too little for the emotion and the need they felt for each other? Would it be enough for you, Pitt, if you loved a woman intensely?”

Pitt tried to imagine himself in such a situation. He would hate the deceit, the knowledge through everything that any time together would always be bounded by partings, uncertainty, and the need to lie.

“No,” he admitted. “I would always want more.”

“And resent the husband?” Drummond went on.

“Yes.” Pitt admitted that too.

“Then you can understand why a man as in love as Adolphus Pryce might eventually descend to murder.” Drummond’s face puckered with distaste. “It is an abysmal thing to have to uncover, and I am not surprised you are looking for some other answer, but you cannot evade the truth, or your duty towards it. It is not like you to try.”

Pitt opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again without speaking.

Drummond rose to his feet and went over towards the window. He looked down at the street, the drays clattering by, a coster shouting at a barrow boy who was stuck in his path. It was raining steadily.

“I understand your getting tired of it,” he went on with his back to Pitt. “I do myself. I am not sure how much longer I shall continue. Perhaps it wants a sharper mind, a
man with more knowledge of crime—in a practical sense—than I have. You’ve always mentioned that you prefer detection in the street to commanding other men, but in serious cases you could do both …” He left it in the air, undefined.

Pitt stared at him, thoughts whirling in his mind, doubts as to what Drummond meant, whether it was just idle complaint because it was a cold, dark day and the case depressed him, or if he really were thinking of retiring to some other pursuit, perhaps out of reach of the tentacles of the Inner Circle and its oppressive, insatiable secret demands. Or if it were all really to do with Eleanor Byam. After the scandal if Drummond were to marry her, he would no longer be able to maintain the social position he now held, and very probably not the professional position either. Pitt felt powerful and conflicting emotions. He was sorry for Drummond, and yet he was surprised how much he found he wanted the post. His pulse was beating faster. There was a new energy inside him.

“That’s a judgment I could not make until I reached that situation.” Pitt chose his words very carefully. He must not betray himself. “And that is not so today.” He made an effort to keep his voice level. “I’ll go back to the Stafford case. Thank you for your advice.” And before Drummond could say any more, he excused himself and went out.

    In spite of having agreed with Drummond about Adolphus Pryce, Pitt still chose to go and see the other judges in Aaron Godman’s appeal and the Farriers’ Lane murder. Livesey he had seen already, Oswyn was out of London for the time being, but it was not difficult to find the address of Mr. Justice Edgar Boothroyd, even though he had now retired from the bench.

It took Pitt all morning on the train and then an open dog cart ride in the blustery wind before he finally arrived at the quiet, rambling old house just outside Guildford. An aged housekeeper showed him into a wood-paneled sitting room which in better weather would have opened onto a terrace and then a lawn. Now the wind was blowing dead leaves
across the unkempt grass, fading chrysanthemum heads hung shaggy in the flower beds, and starlings squabbled on the stone path, snatching up pieces of bread someone had left for them.

Judge Boothroyd sat in a large armchair by the window, his back to the light, and blinked uncertainly at Pitt. He was a lean man gone to paunchiness, his waistcoat creased over his stomach, his narrow shoulders hunched forward.

“Pitt, did you say?” he asked, clearing his throat almost before he had finished speaking. “Perfectly willing to oblige, of course, but I doubt there’s anything I can do. Retired, you know. Didn’t they tell you that? Nothing to do with the bench anymore. Don’t know anything about it now. Just attend to the garden, and a spot of reading. Nothing much.”

Pitt regarded him with a sense of unhappiness. The room had a stale feeling about it, as if in some way it had been abandoned. It was fairly tidy, but the order in it was sterile, placed by an unloving hand. There was a silver tray with three decanters on the table by the window, all of which were close to empty, and there were smudges on the salver as of a fumbling hand. The curtains were drawn back crookedly and one tie was missing. There was no sweetness in the air.

“It is not a current case, sir.” Pitt added the title to give the man a respect he wanted to feel for him, and could not. “It goes back some five years.”

Boothroyd did not look at him. “I’ve been retired about that long,” he replied. “And my memory is not particularly clear anymore.”

Pitt sat down without being invited. Closer to him, he could see Boothroyd’s face more clearly. The eyes were watery, the features blurred not by age but by drink. He was a profoundly unhappy man, and the darkness inside him permeated the room.

“The Farriers’ Lane case,” Pitt said aloud. “You were one of the judges of appeal.”

“Oh.” Boothroyd sighed. “Yes—yes, but I cannot recall much of it now. Nasty case, but not—not much to argue
about. Had to go through the motions, that’s all.” He sniffed. “I really don’t have anything to say on the matter.” He did not ask why Pitt wanted to know, and it was a curious omission.

“Do you remember the point on which the appeal was raised, sir?”

“No—no, I don’t, not now. Sat on a lot of appeals, you know. Can’t remember them all.” Boothroyd peered at him, frowning. For the first time his attention was focused, and there was a crease of anxiety across his brow.

“It must have been one of your last cases.” Pitt tried to bring back his recollection, but even as he said it, he knew he had little chance. Not only was Boothroyd’s mind dimmed, fuddled by time and unhappiness and, Pitt suspected, drink, but he had the powerful impression that he did not want to remember. What had happened to the man? He must have been learned, his bearing commanding, his mind incisive once. He must have been able to weigh the evidence, the points of law, and make fine decisions. Now he looked as if all interest in life had gone, his self-respect, his dignity, his ability to reason impersonally. Yet Pitt doubted he was more than sixty-five at the most.

“Possibly,” Boothroyd said, shaking his head. “Possibly it was. Still don’t remember it. A medical point, I think, but I can’t tell you more than that. Or it might have been something to do with a coat—or a bracelet or something. Don’t know. Don’t recall it.”

“Did Judge Stafford come out to visit you lately, sir?”

“Stafford?” Boothroyd’s face fell oddly slack, his eyes staring at Pitt, something close to fear in their shallow watery gaze. He swallowed. “Why do you ask?”

“I am afraid he was killed,” Pitt replied, unexpectedly brutal. The words slipped out before he weighed them. “I’m sorry.”