by Anne Perry
She lost interest in the tea and rose to her feet to look more closely at the few photographs which stood in plain frames on the top of the bureau. The one which drew her first was a sepia tint, oval faded away to nothing at the edges, a woman of about forty, slender necked, with high cheekbones and delicate, aquiline nose. Her wide eyes were heavy lidded under a perfect brow. It was a beautiful face, and yet for all its pride, and classic bones, there was individuality in it, and the romantic pose did not entirely mask either the passion or the strength.
It was several moments before Charlotte realized it was Vespasia herself. She had grown so accustomed to her as an old lady, she had forgotten that as a young woman she could be so different—and yet after a second look, so much the same.
The other pictures were of a girl of perhaps twenty, very pretty, but heavier boned, thicker of jaw and shorter nosed. The resemblance was there, and something of the charm, but not the mettle, not the fire of imagination. It must be Olivia, Vespasia’s daughter, who had married Eustace March, and died after bearing him so many children. Charlotte had never known her, but she remembered Eustace vividly, with both anger and pity.
The third picture was of an elderly aristocratic man with a high-boned, gentle face and eyes that looked into a far distance, beyond the camera into some world of his own vision. There was sufficient resemblance to Vespasia for Charlotte to guess from the faintness, the fashion of the dress and the style of the photograph that it was Vespasia’s father.
It was interesting that she should choose to keep in her favorite room a memory of her father, not her husband.
Charlotte was looking at the books in the carved bookcase when she heard a murmuring in the hall and footsteps across the parquet flooring. Quickly she turned around and moved towards the window, so that when the door opened and Vespasia came in, she was facing her, smiling.
Vespasia looked full of energy, as if she were about to go somewhere she anticipated with excitement, not as if she had just returned. Her skin glowed from the brisk wind, her back was straight and her shoulders squared, and she was dressed in the softest grape blue, a gentle color neither navy nor purple, nor yet silver. It was subtle, expensive and extremely flattering. There was almost no bustle, in the most up-to-the-moment fashion, and the cut was exquisite. No doubt she had left a sweeping brimmed hat in the hall.
“Good morning, Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said with surprise and a very definite pleasure. She had never seen Vespasia in such health since before the death of Emily’s first husband, Vespasia’s nephew and the only reason they could count her as a relative. Today she seemed to have shed the years that grief had added to her and to be the vigorous woman she had been before. “You look most excellently well.”
“There is considerable justice in that,” Vespasia replied, but her satisfaction was obvious. “I am excellently well.” She looked at Charlotte closely. “You look a trifle anxious, my dear. Are you still concerned about that miserable business in Farriers’ Lane? For heaven’s sake sit down! You look as if you were about to rush out of the door. You are not, are you?”
“No—no, of course not. I came to see you, and I have nothing else to do immediately. Mama is at home, and will care for everything that may arise.”
“Oh dear.” Vespasia sat down gracefully, arranging her skirt with a flick of her hand. “Is she still enamored of the actor?”
Charlotte smiled ruefully and sat down opposite her. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
Vespasia’s arched eyebrows rose. “Afraid? Does it matter so much? She is free to do as she pleases, is she not? If she has a little romance—why not?”
Charlotte drew in a deep breath, her mind full of all sorts of excellent reasons why not. But as she came to enumerate them, despite the intensity of her emotions about it, spoken aloud, they seemed silly and of no worth.
Vespasia’s lips curled in amusement. “Just so,” she agreed. “But you are concerned that this unfortunate man may be suspected of having some involvement with the death of Kingsley Blaine?”
“Yes—at least, no. Thomas seems to think there is nothing more to learn in that, and Stafford was simply trying to find enough evidence to persuade Tamar Macaulay to let the matter drop at last.”
“But you don’t?” Vespasia asked.
Charlotte raised her shoulders fractionally. “I don’t know. I suppose it could have been the widow, but—I find it hard to accept. I was with her, holding her hand, when he died. I really cannot believe she clung onto me like that, watching him, and she had poisoned him herself. Apart from that, it would be so stupid—and so unnecessary!”
“The Farriers’ Lane murder again,” Vespasia said thoughtfully. “I did speak to Judge Quade about it. I have been remiss in not letting you know what I learned.” Extraordinarily there was a faint touch of pinkness in her cheeks, and Charlotte noticed it with surprise. She had never seen Vespasia self-conscious before. She waited for an explanation, but none was offered. Instead Vespasia launched into recounting what her enquiry had elicited, very casually, and yet with a precise care for each word.
“Judge Quade found the case most distressing, not only for the facts of the murder, but because the public emotion ran so high, and was so extremely ugly, that the whole matter was conducted in a fever and a haste in which it was not easy to ensure that the law was administered honorably, let alone that justice was done.”
“Does he think it was not?” Charlotte asked quickly, both hope and fear rising inside her.
Vespasia’s gray eyes were perfectly steady. “He thinks that justice was done,” she replied gravely. “But not well done.”
“You mean Aaron Godman was guilty?”
“I am afraid so. It was the atmosphere which troubled Thelonius, the fact that even Barton James, the counsel for the defense, seemed to believe his client guilty, and his handling of the trial was adequate, but no more. The whole city had worked itself into such a pitch of hatred that there was violence in the streets towards Jews who had nothing to do with it, simply because they were Jews. It would have been impossible to find an impartial jury.”
“Then how could the trial be fair?” Charlotte protested.
“I daresay it could not.”
“Then why did he allow it to proceed? Why did he not do something?”
For once there was no spark of humor or indulgence in Vespasia’s eyes. She was quick to defend.
“What would you suggest he do?”
“I—I’m not sure.” Then Charlotte realized the change in her tone, the subtle difference in her eyes. She could not bear to quarrel with her, and she remembered that Thelonius Quade was an old friend. Inadvertently she had questioned the honor of a man for whom Vespasia had regard. Perhaps it was a high regard? “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t suppose there was anything he could do. The law is very binding, isn’t it? He could hardly call a mistrial if nothing incorrect had been done.”
Vespasia’s face softened, her eyes bright.
“He considered doing something himself which would occasion the defense to do precisely that. Then he decided that would be dishonorable to his office, and a statement that he did not believe in the very law it is his calling to administer.”
“Oh.” Charlotte frowned, the extreme gravity of what Vespasia was saying impressing itself upon her. “If a judge had such thoughts, then it must have been very ugly indeed. How delicate of him to have weighed it so fairly, and cared enough to think of such a thing.”
“He is an unusual man,” Vespasia answered, looking down for a moment, and away from Charlotte.
Charlotte found herself smiling as she wondered what friendship there had been between Vespasia and Judge Quade. She had no idea how long ago it had begun. Had it been more than friendship, perhaps an affection? It was a nice thought and her smile grew broader.
She saw Vespasia’s erect back and elegant head. She could imagine her voice saying, “And what is amusing you, pray?” But no words came. Instead there was o
nly the warm color in Vespasia’s cheeks.
“Thank you very much, Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said gently. “I am grateful to you for having asked about it, even though it does seem there is really nothing more to learn.”
“Yes, there is,” Vespasia argued, gathering her attention again. “Not a great deal, and perhaps not indicative, but Judge Quade said he was quite certain that Aaron Godman had been beaten while in custody. When he appeared at his trial he was suffering bruises and lacerations which were too recent to have occurred at the time of the murder. And he was unharmed immediately prior to his arrest.”
“Oh dear. How ugly. You think the jailers beat him while he was in prison?”
“Perhaps. Or the police when they arrested him,” Vespasia replied, watching Charlotte’s face with anxiety. “I am sorry, but it is not impossible.”
“You mean he fought them?”
“No, my dear, I do not The policeman concerned was totally unharmed.”
“Oh.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “But that doesn’t prove anything, does it? Except that, as you say, feelings were ugly, and very high. Aunt Vespasia …”
Vespasia waited.
“Do you think Mr. Quade is really saying, in a euphemistic sort of way, that he believes the police were so desperate to get a conviction, and satisfy the public’s desire, that they would knowingly have charged the wrong man?”
“No,” Vespasia said very definitely. “No. He was disturbed by the manner of the investigation, the haste of it and the emotion, and the indifference of the defense counsel, but he believed the evidence was true, and the verdict correct.”
“Oh—I see.” Charlotte sighed. “Then it seems that after all Judge Stafford was merely trying to prove once and for all that the matter was ended, and surely no one would have killed him for that. It must be his wife after all—or Mr. Pryce.”
“I regret that it does seem so.”
Charlotte looked at her. Was there a hesitation?
“Yes?”
“It is just conceivable that someone has something to hide of an ugliness so great that they feared Mr. Stafford’s investigation, not knowing its nature, or even if they did know it.” Her frown deepened. “And in case he was too thorough, they killed him. I admit it does not seem probable …”
“No,” Charlotte replied, the lift in her voice belying the word. “But not impossible. Not really. I think we might pursue that, don’t you? I mean …” She stopped. She had taken too much for granted. “Could we?” she asked tentatively.
“Oh, I don’t see why not.” Vespasia smiled with both amusement and pleasure. “I don’t see why not, at all. I have no idea how …” Her fine eyebrows arched enquiringly.
“Nor do I,” Charlotte admitted. “But I shall most certainly give the matter much thought.”
“I wondered if you might,” Vespasia murmured. “If I can be of any assistance, I shall be happy to.”
“I wondered if you might,” Charlotte said with a grin.
Charlotte was torn whether or not to tell Pitt of her visit to Great-Aunt Vespasia. If she did he would be bound to ask why she was so concerned in the matter. It would not take him long to deduce that it was because of Caroline’s regard for Joshua Fielding, and his possible implication in both the murder of Kingsley Blaine and thus also of Judge Stafford. She could always try to convince him that it was because Caroline had been present in the theater and so was intricately involved in the emotion of the crime. But she knew Pitt would see beyond that very quickly, and he might think her foolish, an older woman, recently widowed and alone, falling victim to a fancy for a younger man, a glamorous man utterly out of her own class and experience, offering her a last glimpse of youth.
And put like that it was absurd, and not a little pathetic. Pitt would feel no unkindness, no criticism, but perhaps a gentle, wry sort of pity. She could not subject Caroline to that. She was surprised how protective she felt, how fierce to defend the extraordinary vulnerability.
So she told Pitt only that she had been to see Vespasia, and when he looked up quickly she kept her eyes down on her sewing.
“How is she?” Pitt asked, still watching her.
“Oh, in excellent health.” She looked up with a quick smile. He would suspect if she simply stopped there. He knew her too well. “I have not seen her look in such spirits since poor George died. She is quite restored to herself again, with all the vigor she used to have when we first met her.”
“Charlotte.”
“Yes?” She raised wide, innocent eyes to him, holding her needle in the air.
“What else?” he demanded.
“About what? Aunt Vespasia looked in excellent health and spirit. I thought you would be pleased to know.”
“I am, of course. I want to know what else it is you have discovered that is making you feel so pleased.”
“Ah.” She was delighted. She had deceived him perfectly. She smiled broadly, this time without guile. “She has looked up an old friend, and I think perhaps she is very fond of him indeed. Isn’t that good?”
He sat up. “You mean a romance?”
“Well—hardly! She is over eighty!”
“What on earth does that matter?” His voice rose incredulously. “The heart doesn’t stop caring!”
“Well, no—I suppose not.” She turned the idea over with surprise, and then dawning pleasure. “No! Why not? Yes, I think perhaps it was a romance, at the time they first knew each other, and I suppose it could be again.”
“Excellent.” Pitt was smiling widely. “Who is he?”
“What?” She was caught out.
“Who is he?” he repeated, with suspicion.
“Oh …” She resumed her sewing, her eyes on the needle and linen. “A friend from some years ago. Thelonius—Thelonius Quade.”
“Thelonius Quade.” He repeated the name slowly. “Charlotte.”
“Yes?” She kept her eyes studiously on the linen.
“You said Thelonius Quade?”
“I think so.”
“Judge Thelonius Quade?”
She hesitated only a moment. “Yes …”
“Who just happens to have presided over the trial of Aaron Godman for the murder of Kingsley Blaine?”
There was no point whatever in lying. She tried evasion.
“I think their friendship had lapsed at that time.”
He shook his head with a wry expression. “That is irrelevant! Why did she suddenly renew his acquaintance now?”
She said nothing.
“Because you asked her?” he went on.
“Well, I am interested,” she pointed out. “I was there when the poor man died. I actually sat holding the hand of his widow!”
“And you don’t think she killed him,” he said with a harder edge to his voice. He was not angry—in fact there was a definite amusement in it—but she knew he would accept no argument.
“No, no, I really don’t,” she agreed, looking up at him at last. “But Judge Quade apparently was happy with the verdict, even if not with the conduct of the trial.” She smiled at him, candid finally. “It does look as if poor Godman was guilty, even if they did not prove it in the best way. But Thomas, it is just possible, isn’t it, that the fact that Judge Stafford was investigating the case again may have frightened someone so much, for some other reason, some other sin, that they killed him?” She waited anxiously, searching his face.
“Possible,” he said gravely. “But not likely. What sin?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to find out.”
“Perhaps—but I’m going back to the murder of Stafford first, and some investigation into the evidence of Juniper Stafford or Adolphus Pryce having obtained opium. I need to know a great deal more about them.”
“Yes, of course. But you won’t forget the Blaine/Godman case, will you? I mean …” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Thomas! If there were some affair, some misconduct in the case, bribery, violence, another matter involved which concerns
someone powerful, an affair which would ruin someone. Then that might be a reason to kill Judge Stafford before he found out—even if it did not change Godman’s guilt. Couldn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said cautiously. “Yes, it’s possible—just.”
“Then you’ll look into it?” she urged.
“After Juniper and Adolphus. Not before.”
She smiled. “Oh good. Would you like a cup of cocoa before bedtime, Thomas?”
The following day Charlotte delegated Gracie to take care of matters at home and took an omnibus to Cater Street to visit Caroline. She arrived at a little after eleven o’clock and found her mother already gone out on an errand, and her grandmother sitting in the big, old withdrawing room by the fire, full of indignation.
“Well,” she said, glaring up at Charlotte, her back rigidly straight, her old hands clenched like claws across the top of her stick. “So you’ve come to visit me at last, have you? Realized your duty finally. A little late, girl!”
“Good morning, Grandmama,” Charlotte said calmly. “How are you?”
“I’m ill,” the old lady said witheringly. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Charlotte. How could I be anything but ill, with your mother behaving like a perfect fool? She was never a particularly clever woman, but now she seems to have taken complete leave of her wits! Your father’s death has unhinged her.” She sniffed angrily. “I suppose it was to be expected. Some women cannot handle widowhood. No stamina—no sense of what is fitting. Never did have much. My poor Edward always had to take charge!”
At another time Charlotte might have ignored the insult. It was part of her grandmother’s pattern of thought and she was accustomed to it, but at the moment she was feeling protective towards her mother.
“Oh fiddlesticks,” she said briskly, sitting down on the chair opposite. “Mama always had a perfectly good sense of what was appropriate.”
“Don’t you fiddlesticks me!” Grandmama snapped. “No woman with the faintest idea of propriety would marry her daughter to a policeman, even if she were as plain as a horse and daft as a chicken.” She waited for Charlotte to take offense, and when she did not, continued reluctantly. “And now she is making a fool of herself courting the friendship of persons on the stage. For heaven’s sake, that’s hardly any better! They may know how to speak the Queen’s English, but their morals are in the gutter. Not one of them is any better than they should be. And half of them are Jews—I know that for a fact.” She glared at Charlotte, daring her to argue.
