Farriers' Lane

by Anne Perry

  “What was he going to do about his wife?” Charlotte asked, refraining from making another judgment.

  “I don’t know.” Tamar shook her head, but her eyes did not leave Charlotte’s face. “I only learned after his death that he was married. If he meant to marry me, then I suppose he was going to leave her. Or perhaps he didn’t mean to marry me, he only promised in order to keep me. But the point is, Aaron didn’t know that either. He thought Kingsley was free, and would marry me.”

  “Are you sure?” Charlotte said softly. “Is it not possible he learned that Mr. Blaine was married, and that is why he killed him? That would be an excellent reason.”

  “It would be, if it were true. I saw Aaron just before he left the theater, and he didn’t know then, any more than I did.”

  “Would he have told you—honestly?”

  “Probably not, but he would not have spoken to Kingsley as he did. He was a good actor—but not good enough to deceive me like that. I knew him too well.”

  “You did not say that at the trial, did you?”

  Tamar gave a bitter little laugh, more a choking on her own breath.

  “No—Mr. James said no one would believe that Kingsley really intended to marry me, and it would only make me look ridiculous, and even more of a victim than if I pretended I were the seducer and were playing with him. That way I would seem less vulnerable, and Aaron have less cause to avenge me.”

  Charlotte could see the sense of it, and reluctantly she admitted it.

  “I think had I been in his place, I might have done the same. It would not have helped to tell the truth.”

  Tamar pulled a face. “Thank you for that!”

  “Did you tell Judge Stafford?”

  “Yes. I have no idea whether he believed me or not. He had the kind of face and manner I could not read.”

  “Who else have you told?”

  Tamar stood up and walked over towards the window, the sunlight harsh on her face, discovering every plane and line, and yet it made her more beautiful because of the honesty of her emotion.

  “Everyone who mattered, who would listen. Barton James, the barrister for the defense, and before him Ebenezer Moorgate, Aaron’s solicitor.” She stared out of the window in front of her. “I even went to Adolphus Pryce. He said the same as Barton James. If I had said so at the trial, he would have made great capital out of it. I believed him. I saw the appeal judges as well—all of them. But none of them listened to me except Judge Stafford, poor man!”

  “Why was he different?” Charlotte asked curiously. “Why was he prepared to look into the case again after five years?”

  Tamar turned from the window and looked at her steadily. “I am not sure. I think he believed me about Kingsley, which no one else did. And he asked me several questions about the time Aaron left the theater, and the time Kingsley left, but he would not say why. Believe me, Mrs. Pitt, I have racked my brain to think why he was going to reopen it. If I knew that, I could take the evidence to Judge Oswyn. He seemed once or twice as if he might have listened, then his courage failed him.”

  “Courage?”

  Tamar laughed and there was harshness deep and hard in it. “It would hardly be popular to say now that Aaron had been innocent. Think of it! The disgrace, the embarrassment, the people who were wrong—the things that cannot be undone. And worse than all that, the disrepute of the law.” Regret overtook anger in her. “That is the worst thing about Stafford’s death—he was a brave man, and an honest one. He died for it.”

  Charlotte looked at her passionate face and its blazing conviction. Was that what had moved Stafford: the power of her belief, rather than evidence? Or had he simply wanted to silence her once and for all, to save the shame she spoke of, the disrepute of the law?

  “If it was not Aaron,” she said aloud, “who was it?”

  Tamar’s face reflected laughter and pain at once.

  “I don’t know. I cannot believe it was Joshua, although he and I had been … close.” She used the word delicately, allowing deeper meaning to be understood. “But it was over by then. It was really no more than propinquity and youth. The police suspected him out of jealousy, but I cannot believe that—not of him. I suppose the only other person would be Devlin O’Neil, but the quarrel would have to be far greater than the few guineas’ wager they spoke of.”

  “He married Kathleen Blaine,” Charlotte pointed out. “Perhaps he was in love with her then.”

  “Perhaps. It is not impossible.”

  “Did she have money?”

  “How very practical of you!” Tamar’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, I believe so, or at least very good expectations. I think she is an only child, and old Prosper Harrimore is wealthy—by our standards.”

  “Did Mr. O’Neil have money?”

  “Good heavens, no, only enough to support a handsome style of life for a short while.” She walked back to the sofa and sat down again facing Charlotte. “He rented his rooms and owed his tailor and his wine merchant—like most good-looking and idle young men.”

  “So he gained considerably by his friend’s death?”

  Tamar hesitated only a moment. “Yes—that is true, if ugly, and perhaps not relevant. But I don’t know who else, unless it was a complete stranger—a robber …” She left it unfinished, knowing how unlikely that was.

  “Who crucified his victims?” Charlotte said skeptically.

  “No—that was obscene,” Tamar admitted. “I don’t know. I don’t know why O’Neil should do such a thing, except to try to put the blame on someone Jewish.”

  “Do you know Devlin O’Neil?”

  “Not now. Why?”

  “Well, the best way we might learn something more about it would be through him.”

  “He would hardly tell us something that incriminated him.”

  “Not intentionally, of course,” Charlotte agreed. “But we can only learn the truth from those who know it.”

  There was a sudden lift in Tamar’s face, a spark of hope in her dark eyes.

  “You would be prepared to do that?”

  “Of course,” Charlotte said without giving it a minute’s thought.

  “Then we shall get Clio to take you. She still knows Kathleen, and it would not be difficult.”

  “Not we, I think,” Charlotte corrected quickly. “It must be done as if by chance. They should not know I have any interest in the case.”

  “Oh—yes, of course. That was stupid of me. I’ll introduce you to Clio. She is not in this morning, but next time—soon. She’ll take you.”

  “Excellent! Explain to her what we need, and why, and I will do all I can.”

  When Charlotte began to discuss the case frankly with Tamar, Caroline realized that her presence was unnecessary, and very quietly she turned and walked over to the door, opened it and went out. She was down the stairs and in the hallway outside Joshua Fielding’s room with her hand raised to knock before she realized how forward she was being, how indelicate and unlike everything she had been taught, and had tried to teach her own daughters. Had Charlotte behaved this way she would have been horrified, and told her so.

  Self-consciousness overcame her and she stepped back again. It would look odd, foolish, but she would have to go back upstairs and hope no one would ask her for an explanation. She turned and was halfway across to the stairs upwards when Miranda Passmore came running up from the floor beneath.

  “Hallo, Mrs. Ellison! Is Mr. Fielding not in? I thought he was, in fact I was sure. Here, let me knock again.” And without waiting for an answer, and misunderstanding Caroline’s gasp, she crossed the landing and rapped sharply on Joshua’s door.

  There was a moment of desperate silence. Caroline drew in her breath to protest.

  The door swung open and Joshua Fielding stood in the entrance smiling, looking first at Caroline, then at Miranda.

  “Oh Joshua, I thought you were there,” Miranda said cheerfully. “Mrs. Ellison called to see you, but she could not make you hear.” She s
miled and ran on up the stairs and disappeared.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you,” Joshua apologized.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t,” Caroline said quickly. “I didn’t knock.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “I—I came with my daughter, to see Miss Macaulay—about—about Judge Stafford’s death. I thought …” She stopped, aware she was speaking too much, explaining where he had not asked.

  “It is good of you to become involved in the matter.” He smiled. There was both warmth and a certain shyness in it. “It must have been very distressing for you to have been there and seen the poor man die, and then learning it was murder. I am sorry it should have happened to you.”

  “I am also anxious that there should be no injustice done,” she said quickly. She did not want him to think her feeble, simply concerned in the unpleasantness for herself, and unconcerned for others.

  “I don’t think you can help,” he said, pulling a face. “Judge Stafford was going to reopen the case of Kingsley Blaine’s death, but since he apparently left no notes on it, it looks as if it will remain closed—by default. Unless we can discover what he intended.”

  “That is what we must try to do,” she said urgently. “Not only to clear his name but also to protect you—and Miss Macaulay.”

  He smiled, but it was an expression full of self-mockery and pain.

  “You think they will blame us for that death too?”

  “It is not impossible,” she said quietly, a sudden chill inside her as she realized the truth of what she said. “They will have no choice, if neither Stafford’s widow nor her lover are guilty. It will be the natural thing to do.”

  “I don’t think like a policeman,” he said ruefully. “But please do not stand out here in the hallway. Would it be very improper for you to come inside? The house is full of people.”

  “Of course it would not,” she said quickly, feeling the color burn up her face. “Nobody could possibly imagine—” She broke off. What she had been going to say would have been rude. She was trying too hard, because the thoughts racing in her mind were absurd. “That you would be other than courteous,” she finished lamely, walking past him as he held the door open for her.

  The room inside was highly individual, but the first glance startled her. She had previously met him only in the theater, or downstairs in the large sitting room of the Passmores, along with Tamar Macaulay. This room was quite markedly his. A huge portrait of the actor Edmund Keene, painted in sepia and black, decorated the far wall. It was dramatic in pose, and reached from the floor to above head height. It dominated the room with its presence, and made her realize far more powerfully than before how deeply he loved his art.

  Along the narrow wall were shelves full of books. A small table was littered with papers which she thought were scripts of a play. Several easy chairs filled the open space, as if he frequently entertained many people, and she felt a sharp regret that she was not one of them, and could not be. A gulf of social status and experience divided them. Suddenly she felt horribly alone and outside all the laughter and the warmth.

  “I wish I knew what to do about it.” He resumed the first conversation, pulling a chair a little straighter for her and holding it while she sat down. It was a gracious gesture, and yet it reminded her sharply that she was probably fifteen or sixteen years older than he, little short of a generation.

  “We must fight back,” she said briskly, battling her own misery with anger. “We must find the truth that they have not. It is there—they simply were content to accept the easiest answer. We will not.”

  He looked at her with dawning amazement—and admiration.

  “Do you know how?”

  “I have some idea,” she said with far more certainty than she felt. She sounded like Charlotte, and it was appalling—and exciting. “We will begin by making the acquaintance of the people concerned. Who are they? I mean—who are all the people who might know the truth, or some part of it?”

  “I suppose Tamar and myself,” he replied, sitting down opposite her. “But we have talked about it so endlessly that I don’t think there can be anything we have not considered.”

  “Well, if neither of you killed Mr. Blaine, and Aaron Godman did not, then there must be someone else involved,” she said reasonably. Pitt’s wry, intelligent face flashed into her mind, and she wondered if this was how he thought. “Who do you believe killed him?”

  He thought for a moment, his chin resting on one hand. It might have seemed a theatrical pose in anyone else, and yet he looked totally natural. She was acutely conscious of his presence, of the sunlight from the window on the thick wave of his hair. He was too young for there to be any gray in the bright brown of it. Yet there were fine lines in the skin around his eyes; it was not a face without experience, or pain. There was none of the brashness or the untempered spirit of youth. Perhaps he was not so far short of forty.

  But she was fifty-three. Merely naming it hurt.

  “I suppose it has to be Devlin O’Neil,” he said, looking up at her at last. “Unless it is someone we know nothing about. I don’t suppose it is even imaginable that his wife knew he intended leaving her for Tamar, and employed someone to kill him.” A bitter humor lit his eyes for an instant, and then changed to pity. “That is, of course, if he really did mean to leave her. I don’t think he had much money of his own, and he would have given up a very comfortable life, and all social reputation. I’ve never told Tamar, but I think honestly it was unlikely he would have done such a thing. He probably told her he would because he really loved her, and couldn’t bear to lose her, so he lied, hoping to keep it going as long as he could. But we’ll never know.”

  She chose deliberately to ask the most painful question. It was there in her mind, and it would get all the blows dealt at one time.

  “And would she have married him? Isn’t she Jewish? What about her faith, marrying outside her own people?” She hated the words even as she heard herself saying them.

  “Not desirable,” he admitted, meeting her eyes very directly. “But we are not very strict. She would have done it.”

  “And her brother did not mind?” She pushed it to the sticking point.

  “Aaron?” He lifted his shoulders very slightly. “He wasn’t pleased. And of course Passmore wouldn’t have been pleased either, if she had given up the stage and become a respectable matron—or perhaps respectable would have been impossible, since Blaine would have left his wife for her—but at least quietly domestic, raising a family. She is the best actress on the London stage at the moment—with the possible exception of Bernhardt.”

  “So he would have wished Blaine … elsewhere?”

  He smiled broadly. “Certainly, had he known about it. But he didn’t. He thought Blaine was just one more stage door johnnie. They were pretty discreet. And she did have other admirers, you know.”

  “Yes, of course. I suppose it is natural.” Unconsciously she smoothed down her skirt.

  “Very.”

  “Then it comes back to Devlin O’Neil,” she said decisively. “We must make his acquaintance and learn all we can about him. If we cannot prove Aaron’s innocence, then we must prove someone else’s guilt.”

  His admiration was undisguised. “How wonderfully obvious! We have spent five years trying to show Aaron did not do it; we should have tried harder to show that someone else did. But we didn’t have the necessary skills.” He relaxed a little farther into the chair. “And of course O’Neil was not exactly well disposed towards us, nor ignorant of our interest.”

  “Of course not. But he does not know me, nor my daughter, who is quite practiced in these things.”

  “Is she? What a remarkable family you are. I shall never judge people so hastily again. You seem so utterly respectable. I apologize!” He laughed very lightly. “I supposed that you spent your mornings visiting dressmakers and milliners, writing beautiful letters to friends in the country, and ordering your households. And in the afternoons you w
ould call upon acquaintances, or receive them, taking tea and cucumber sandwiches cut by your cook, and doing good works for the less fortunate, or stitching fine embroidery. I pictured your evenings at the very best social functions, or sitting by the fire reading improving books and holding suitable conversations—uplifting to the mind. I am truly sorry; I eat the bread of humility.” The laughter was vivid in his face. “I was never so mistaken! Women are the most mystifying creatures, so often not at all what they seem. All the time you were out detecting fearful crimes and unearthing desperate secrets.”

  Caroline felt the color flooding up her cheeks, but she lied in her teeth.

  “We should not succeed if we were open in the matter,” she said with a catch in her voice and a fluttering in her stomach. “The art of detection lies in appearing quite harmless.”

  “Does it?” he said curiously. “We have been so singularly unsuccessful, perhaps that was one of our problems? We tried to appear too clever.”

  “Well, you were hopelessly handicapped by the fact that everyone had to realize your interest in the affair,” she pointed out. “Tell me, what was Aaron like? And what about Kingsley Blaine?”

  For half an hour he told her of the two men, both of whom he had known and liked. He recounted anecdotes with gentleness and laughter, but all the time she was acutely aware that they were both dead, and their youth, their hopes and their weaknesses ended. He spoke softly, his voice holding the words with regret, as if they were more than mere memories. There was an emotion in him that made her wish both to laugh with him and to cry.