Farrier's Lane (55 page)

Pitt took his leave without further comment. They had said it all.

Outside it was bitterly cold with a wind off the river which cut through the wool of his coat, into his flesh. He walked rapidly along the footpath, head down, woollen muffler tight, collar up over his ears, until he came to the main thoroughfare where he could hail a cab back to Bow Street. Before he could ask those gentlemen what they
could remember of the smoking room in the theater on a night now several weeks ago, he must find out where they lived.

    The Honorable Gerald Thompson fitted Pryce’s description unpleasantly well. He did indeed have a voice which was unusual in tone, a little high and extraordinarily penetrating, and a braying laugh Pitt heard before he saw him.

He received Pitt in the hallway of his club in Pall Mall, preferring not to be seen in the company of a questionable character in one of the main rooms. This way he could pretend, if anyone asked him, that Pitt was merely on some errand and it was not a personal call at all.

“Thank heaven you had the wit to come in your own clothes,” he said dryly. “Well, what can I do for you? Don’t be long about it, there’s a good fellow.”

Pitt swallowed the rejoinder he would have used were he free to, and came straight to the point. “I believe you were in the smoking room at the theater the night Judge Stafford died, sir?”

“As were several hundred other people,” Thompson agreed.

“Indeed. Did you see the judge, sir?”

“I believe so. But I have no idea who slipped poison into his flask. If I had, I should have told you so long before now. My moral duty.”

“Of course. Do you remember if the judge had a drink in his hand when you saw him?”

The Honorable Gerald screwed up his face for several moments, then suddenly opened his eyes wide. “Rather think he had, but he finished it while I was watching him. Saw him raise his hand to attract the waiter for another.”

“Did you see the waiter bring it to him?”

“No, come to think of it, the fellow didn’t appear at all. Fearful melee in those places, you know. Fortunate to get anything at all. Suppose that was why he took a sip from his own flask, poor devil. Not that I saw him do it. Can’t help you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Pitt asked him a few more questions
about others who might have observed something, and learned nothing of profit. He thanked the Honorable Gerald and took his leave.

The learned Mr. Molesworth was even less help. He had seen Stafford certainly, but standing, trying to attract the waiter’s attention and failing. He had not observed him drinking from his own flask, or talking to anyone in particular. He was brisk, businesslike and obviously in a hurry.

Mr. Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde was as different as it was possible to be. Pitt took some time to find him, but eventually he was successful in catching him at his desk in his own rooms. He received Pitt with interest and a remarkable courtesy, rising to greet him, waving his hand and inviting him to be seated. The room was filled with books and papers, and it was apparent that Pitt had interrupted his working.

“I am sorry to intrude, sir,” Pitt apologized sincerely. “I am at my wits’ end, or I should not have imposed.”

“It is when one is at one’s wits’ end that one lets go and finds a courage and imagination in despair not possible in the more comfortable emotions,” Wilde replied immediately. “Over what do you feel such a passion, Mr. Pitt? And what may I do, beyond offer you my pity, which you have gratis, for all it may mean to you.”

“I am investigating the murder of Mr. Justice Stafford.”

“Oh dear.” Wilde screwed up his face. “What execrable taste. What an uncivilized thing to do—murder a man in his box at the theater! How can we poor playwrights compete with such a thing? I am a critic, Mr. Pitt, but even my bitterest and most damaging remarks have not gone so far. I may write that a work is poor, but I shall offer my remarks and leave the playgoer to make his own decision. This was pure sabotage—and quite inexcusable.”

Pitt had prepared himself to be surprised; nevertheless, he was still disconcerted by Wilde’s attitude. It was apparently callous, and yet looking at the long face with its slightly drooping eyes and large mouth he saw no cruelty in it, and innocence rather than indifference.

“I believe you were in the smoking room during the first interval?” he said aloud.

“Certainly. A most agreeable place, full of posings and attitudes, everyone trying to appear what they wished to be, rather than what they were. Do you like observing people, Inspector?”

“It is very often my job,” Pitt replied with a slight smile.

“And mine,” Wilde agreed quickly. “For utterly different reasons, of course. What did I observe that may be of interest to you? I didn’t see anyone slip poison into the poor devil’s flask.” His eyes widened. “You see—I read the newspapers, not just the criticisms, although art is even better organized than life. Crime so seldom has any humor, don’t you find? Real crime, that is. I loathe the squalid. If one has to do something distasteful, one should at least do it with flair.”

“But you did see the judge?”

“I did,” Wilde agreed, his eyes never leaving Pitt’s face. He seemed to find him both interesting and agreeable. In spite of his pose, Pitt could not help liking the man.

“Did you see him drink from his flask?”

“You know, this is absurd—I didn’t—but I did see him hand it to someone else, a Mr. Richard Gibson. I only know the judge from his obituary photograph in the newspapers, but Gibson I have met. Stafford took the flask out of his pocket and passed it to this acquaintance, who thanked him and took a good-sized gulp from it before handing it back.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at Pitt curiously. “I assume that means that someone poisoned it after that? I don’t envy you. I did not know opium would kill anyone so rapidly. But I assure you that is what happened.” He leaned back a fraction, concentrating on his inner vision. “I can see it quite clearly in my mind. Stafford gave the flask to this man, who drank from it and handed it back. Stafford didn’t drink from it himself. He was smoking, a large cigar. The bell rang for the second act, and Stafford took the cigar out of his mouth, pulled a face as if he disliked it, then knocked the burning end off and put it in his jacket pocket.” He frowned.

“You mean in his cigar case,” Pitt corrected.

“No, I don’t,” Wilde said. “I mean in his pocket, as I said. Filthy habit. But he didn’t drink, of that I am positive. And Gibson is still alive and flourishing. I saw him only the other day. What a curious circumstance. How do you explain it?”

Pitt was thinking the same thing, ideas half formed whirling in his head.

“You are quite sure?” he asked.

“Of course.” Wilde’s eyebrows rose. “What would be the purpose in inventing such a thing? It is only interesting if it is true.”

Pitt stood up.

Wilde looked up at him, his face alive with interest. “You have thought of something! I can see it in your eyes. What is it? I have provided you with the vital clue! All is revealed—you know the heart of the murderer—and less interesting but more to the point, you know his face.”

“I may.” Pitt smiled in spite of himself. “Certainly I have an idea as to the weapon—”

“Opium in the whiskey flask.”

“Perhaps not. Thank you, Mr. Wilde. You have been of the utmost help. Now if you will excuse me, I have something extremely unpleasant to do.”

“Shall I now have to scan the newspapers to learn what it is?” Wilde asked plaintively.

“Yes—I’m sorry. Good day, sir.”

“Interesting, frustrating, interrupted, in patches most stimulating,” Wilde answered.
“Good
is far too tame and pedestrian a word. Have you no imagination, man?”

Pitt smiled back at him from the doorway. “It is otherwise occupied.”

Wilde waved him out with total agreeability and resumed his work.

    Pitt took a hansom straight to Stafford’s house and asked to see Juniper.

“I expected you back, Mr. Pitt,” she said tartly. “I confess to that—but not so soon. I appreciate that you are confounded,
but I have done everything I can. I really cannot help you any further.”

“Yes, you can, Mrs. Stafford,” he said quickly. “May I see Mr. Stafford’s valet again? I must know what has happened to Mr. Stafford’s clothes.”

Her face pinched. “Of course you may see the valet if you wish. My husband’s clothes are still here. I have not had the heart to dispose of them yet. It will have to be done, of course, but it is a duty I have not steeled myself for.” She reached for the bell, still looking at him. “May I ask what you hope to learn from them?”

“I would prefer not to say until I am certain,” he answered. “If I might speak to the valet first …”

“If you wish.” There was very little interest in her face or her voice. All the vitality which had been so vivid in her before was drained away, killed. She wanted an end to it, but the details were of no importance anymore.

When the butler answered her summons she ordered him to take Pitt upstairs to the master’s dressing room and have the valet wait upon him there.

When the valet arrived, a little out of breath, he regarded Pitt with perplexity. He was a very stout man with black hair and a homely face, and he did not conceal his surprise at seeing Pitt again.

“Yes sir. What can I do for you?”

“Judge Stafford’s suit the night he died. Where is it now?” Pitt asked.

The man was genuinely shocked.

“That was Mr. Stafford’s best suit, sir! ’ad it made for ’im just a few months back. Best quality wool barathea.”

“Yes, I’m sure, but where is it?”

“ ’E was buried in it, sir. What you’d expect?”

Pitt swore in weariness and exasperation.

The valet stared at him. He was too well trained for anything a man did to shake his composure, unless of course it was another servant, which was entirely a different matter.

“And his cigar case, where is that?” Pitt demanded.

“In ’is dresser, sir, as it ought. I took all ’is things out of ’is pockets, natural.”

“May I see the cigar case?”

The valet’s eyebrows rose. “Yes sir. O’ course you may.” He kept his voice civil, but his belief was plain that Pitt was eccentric at the very least. He went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. He took out a silver cigar case and passed it across.

Pitt opened it with shaking fingers. It was empty. It was foolish, but he was bitterly disappointed.

“What did you take out of this?” he said in a low, tight voice.

“Nothing, sir.” The man was aggrieved.

“Not the best cigars—to smoke yourself?” Pitt pressed, although if he had, it would disprove his theory. “Not a butt?”

“No sir. There weren’t nothing in it! I swear by God it was just like it is now. Empty.”

“The judge smoked half a cigar at the theater that night, and put the other half back in his pocket. What happened to it?”

“Oh, that.” Relief flooded the man’s face. “I threw it out, sir. Couldn’t bury the poor man with a cigar butt in his pocket. Messy thing, it was.”

“Messy? Coming to pieces?” Pitt asked.

“Yes sir.”

“And that suit is still on Mr. Stafford?”

“Yes sir.” The valet stared at him with growing alarm.

“Thank you. That’s all.” And without waiting any further he went downstairs, bade the footman in the hall thank Mrs. Stafford, and took his leave.

    “You what?” Drummond demanded incredulously, his face dark.

“I want to exhume the body of Samuel Stafford,” Pitt repeated as calmly as he could, but still his voice shook. “I have to.”

“For the love of God—why? You know what he died of!” Drummond was appalled. He leaned across his desk,
staring at Pitt in consternation. “Whatever purpose can it serve, apart from distressing everyone?” he demanded. “We’ve got enough public anger and blame over this already. Don’t make it immeasurably worse, Pitt.”

“It’s the only chance I have of solving it.”

“Chance?” Drummond’s voice rose in exasperation. “Chance is not sufficient. You must be sure, if I am going to ask the Home Office for permission to dig him up. Explain to me exactly what you will achieve.”

Still standing in front of the desk like a schoolboy, Pitt explained.

“On the cigar?” Drummond said with slowly widening eyes. “As well as in the flask? But why? That’s absurd.”

“Not as well as, sir,” Pitt said patiently. “Instead of. That would explain why the whiskey in the flask didn’t have any effect on the other man who drank it.”

“Aren’t you forgetting we found opium in the flask?” Drummond asked with only a slight edge of sarcasm. He was too worried to give it full rein. “And all this on the word of Oscar Wilde, of all people? I know you’re desperate, Pitt, but I think this is taking it too far. It isn’t sense. I don’t think I could get you an exhumation order on the evidence, even if I wanted to.”

“But if the opium was on the cigar butt, not the flask, it changes everything,” Pitt argued desperately. “Then there is only one conclusion.”

“It was in the flask, Pitt! The medical examiner found it there. That is a fact. And anyway, the cigar butt was thrown out, you told me that.”

“I know, but if it was in his pocket for several hours, and crumbling, as the valet said, there may be enough there for traces of opium to be found.”

Doubt clouded Drummond’s eyes.

“It’s the only explanation we’ve got,” Pitt said again. “There’s nothing else to pursue. Are you prepared to close the case unsolved? Someone killed Judge Stafford …”

Drummond took a deep breath. “And poor Paterson,” he added very softly. “I feel very badly about that. I don’t
know whether the Home Office will grant it, but I’ll try. You’d better be right.”

Pitt said nothing, except to thank him. He had no certainty to reassure either of them.

Until Micah Drummond should tell him whether he had succeeded or not, there was nothing further for Pitt to do regarding the exhumation. But one thing was quite clear in his mind. The solution to Paterson’s death would not be answered by finding opium in Stafford’s pocket. That was still as big a mystery as it had been the very first morning when they found the body. Only one thing was beyond question. Harrimore had not killed him.