Farriers' Lane

by Anne Perry

“Paterson’s dead,” he said thickly, stumbling over his tongue. “Hanged! Someone hanged him! Judge Livesey just found him!”

  9

  PITT FOLLOWED LAMBERT into the hansom and sat cold and shocked beside him while they struggled through the traffic across the Battersea Bridge towards Sleaford Street and the house where Paterson had lodgings.

  “Why?” Lambert said more to himself than to Pitt. He was hunched up, his collar high around his neck, half hiding his face, as though there were a bitter wind inside the cab. “Why? It makes no sense! Why kill poor Paterson? Why now?”

  Pitt did not reply. The answer he thought of was that Paterson had learned, or remembered, some evidence which changed the verdict of the Farriers’ Lane case. Of course it was possible it was something else, another case, or even something personal, but that was on the edge of his mind, so faint it barely touched his thoughts.

  The cab halted abruptly and the sound of shouting intruded, dislocating thought and making speech impossible.

  Lambert shifted restlessly. The delay scraped his nerves raw. He leaned forward and demanded to know what it was that held them up, but no one heard him.

  The cab swiveled around. A horse squealed. They jerked forward again.

  Lambert swore.

  Now they were moving at a steady trot.

  “Why Paterson?” Lambert demanded again. “Why not me? I was in charge of the case. Paterson only did what he was told, poor devil.” His voice was harsh and his face twisted with an anger he could not control, and a deep tearing pain. He stared in front of him and clenched his fists. “Why now, Pitt? Why after all these years? The case is closed!”

  “I don’t think it is,” Pitt replied grimly. “At least for Judge Stafford there was something still to be resolved.”

  “Godman was guilty,” Lambert said between his teeth. “He was! Everything pointed to him. He was seen, by the urchin he gave the message to, by the men at the entrance to Farriers’ Lane, and by the flower seller. He had motive, better than anyone else. And he was a Jew. Only a Jew would have done that! It was Godman. The original trial proved it, and the appeal judges upheld it—all of them!”

  Pitt did not reply. There was nothing he could say which would answer Lambert’s real question, or ease the travail inside him.

  They arrived at Sleaford Street. Lambert threw open the door, almost falling onto the footpath, and leaving Pitt to pay the driver. Pitt caught up with him at the steps. The front door was already half open and there was a white-faced woman standing in the passageway, her hair screwed back in an untidy knot, her sleeves rolled up.

  “Wot’s ’appened?” she answered. “Are you the p’lice? The gennelman upstairs sent out Jackie to fetch the p’lice, but “e wouldn’t say wot’s wrong.” She grabbed Lambert’s sleeve as he brushed past her. “ ’Ere! ’As ’e bin robbed? It ain’t none o’ us! We never robbed nobody! This is a decent ’ouse!”

  “Where is he?” Lambert shook her off. “Which room? Upstairs?”

  Now she was really frightened. “Wot’s ’appened?” she wailed, her voice rising. Somewhere behind her a child began to cry.

  “Nobody’s been robbed,” Pitt said quietly, although he was beginning to feel a little sick himself. It was only a few days ago, such a short time, that he had sat in the office talking to Paterson. “Where is the man who sent for the police?”

  “Upstairs.” She jerked her head. “Number four, on the first landing. Wot’s ’appened, mister?”

  “We don’t know yet.” Pitt went after Lambert, who was already striding up the stairs two at a time. At the top he swung around, glanced at the doors, then banged irritably on number four and immediately tried the handle. It opened under his pressure and with Pitt at his heels he burst in.

  It was a large, old room, like thousands of other bachelor lodgings, with dull wallpaper, heavy furniture, all a little worn but immaculately clean. There was little of character. It was all chosen for utility and a veneer of comfort, but no personal taste of the man who had lived here.

  Ignatius Livesey was sitting in the best armchair. He was very pale, his eyes dark and a little hollow with shock, and when he rose to his feet he was not quite as in control as he had thought. His limbs trembled for a moment and he had to reach twice to grip the chair so he could steady himself.

  “I am glad you have come, gentlemen.” His voice was hoarse. “I am ashamed to say that being alone here has not been an experience I have found easy. He is in the bedroom, where I found him.” He took a deep breath. “Beyond ascertaining that he is dead—a fact of which there is little doubt—I have touched nothing.”

  Lambert looked at him for only an instant, then walked past and opened the bedroom door. He stopped with an involuntary gasp.

  Pitt strode over. Paterson was hanging from the hook which should have supported the small, ugly chandelier now lying skewed sideways on the floor. He was held by a rope, an ordinary piece of hemp about twelve or fourteen feet long, such as any carter would use, except there was a running noose in one end. His body was stiff; his face, when Pitt moved around to see, was purplish, eyes protruding, tongue thick between his open lips.

  Lambert stood motionless, swaying a little as if he might faint.

  Pitt took him by the arm, having to pull hard to force him from the spot.

  “Come,” he ordered sharply. “You can’t do anything for him. Mr. Livesey!”

  Livesey suddenly realized he could help and started forward, taking Lambert’s other arm and guiding him to the chair.

  “Sit down,” he said grimly. “Get your breath. Nasty shock for you, when you knew the poor man. Sorry I don’t carry brandy, and I doubt Paterson would have had any.”

  Lambert shook his head and opened his mouth as if to reply, but no words came.

  Pitt left them and went back into the bedroom. All the same questions that had teemed in Lambert’s mind were in his now, but before he addressed any of them, he must see what facts he could observe.

  He touched Paterson’s hand. The body swung very slightly. The flesh was cold, the arm rigid. He had been dead several hours. He was dressed in plain dark uniform trousers and tunic, which was torn, his sergeant’s insignia ripped off. He still wore his boots. It was nearly midday now. Presumably it was what he had worn when he came home from the last duty of the day before. If he had slept here, risen in the morning and dressed ready to go out, the body would still have some warmth left, and be limp. He must have died sometime late yesterday evening, or during the night. It would almost certainly be the evening. Why should he be wearing his street clothes all night?

  The hook was in the middle of the ceiling, about ten or eleven feet high, where one would expect to find a chandelier. There was no furniture near enough to it for him to have climbed on. It had taken a strong man to lift Paterson up and then let him fall from that height. He must have used the rope as a pulley over the hook. There was no conceivable way Paterson could have done it himself, even supposing he had some cause to, or believed he had.

  Pitt glanced around, simply as a matter of course, to see if there were any letter, although he knew it had to be murder. Physically, suicide was impossible.

  There was nothing. It was a plain, tidy, characterless bedroom. A bed with a wooden headboard occupied the far end. A sash window looked out over a narrow alley with a few sheds and what appeared to be a stable.

  There was a wardrobe to the right, and some four or five feet from it a chest of drawers. There were three chairs, one padded, the other two hard seated and straight backed. All of them were upright and against the wall. Had Paterson used them to stand on they would have been under the chandelier, and probably fallen over.

  He went over to the chairs and examined them one by one. He could see no mark on any of them. But then if the man had taken off his shoes, there would be none.

  He heard Livesey’s footsteps at the door and looked around.

  “Have you learned anything?” Livesey said very quietly.
/>   “Not a great deal,” Pitt replied, straightening up and glancing around the room again. Its impersonalness hurt him, as if Paterson had lived and died leaving no mark. And yet had he seen books, photographs, letters, handmade articles chosen with meaning and care, perhaps it would have hurt more. Except that there was a sense of futility, a loneliness as if someone had slipped away unnoticed, his loss seen only when it was too late. He could not have been more than thirty-two or thirty-three. He had barely begun. And now there was nothing.

  Lambert’s question rang in his head. Why? Who could have done this, and why now?

  “I think he was dead a long time before I got here,” Livesey said quietly. “I wish to God I had come when I got his note last night! I could have saved him.”

  “He sent you a letter?” Pitt said in amazement, then immediately felt ridiculous. He should have asked Livesey what he was doing here. Appeal court justices did not normally visit police constables in their lodging houses. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I was going to ask you why you were here.”

  “He sent me a note yesterday.” Livesey’s voice was still husky, as if his mouth were dry. “He said he had learned something which troubled him deeply, and he wanted to tell me about it.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He passed it over to Pitt.

  Pitt read in scribbled writing which even in its haste and emotion showed the form of its copperplate letters.

  My lord,

  Forgive me writing you like this, but I have learned something terrible which I have to tell you, or I cannot rest with myself a night longer. I know you are a very busy man, but this is more important than anything, I swear it. I dare tell no one else.

  Please answer me when I can speak to you about it,

  Your humble servant,

  D. Paterson, P.C.

  “And you don’t know what it was that troubled him so much, or why he wouldn’t simply tell Inspector Lambert?” Pitt asked.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Livesey replied, lowering his voice still further so Lambert would not hear him in the next room. “But the suggestion implicit is not a pleasant one. I must say, poor Lambert does look very shaken. I assume it is some case Paterson is presently engaged in, and which was a great deal more serious than he at first supposed.” He winced, his heavy face looking tired and shocked. “I fear it may involve some possible misbehavior or corruption. I refuse to speculate further and possibly do someone a profound injustice.”

  “Why did he choose you, Mr. Livesey?” Pitt asked, endeavoring to make his tone so courteous as to rob the words of any rudeness. “Did he know you?”

  “By repute, I suppose,” Livesey replied with profound unhappiness. “Certainly to the best of my knowledge I had never met him. Of course I knew his name, because I read his evidence at the trial of Aaron Godman. Similarly, he may have known that I sat on the appeal. But not personally, no. We had never met.”

  Pitt was still puzzled.

  “That does not really answer the question.”

  “I agree,” Livesey said, shaking his head. “It is extraordinary. I can only suppose that the poor young man discovered, or thought he had discovered, something which he dared not take to his own superiors, and he chose someone whose name he knew, with the position, and the integrity, to help him. I feel appallingly guilty that I did not come last night, when I could have saved his life.”

  There was no comment Pitt could make that would be helpful. He could not deny it. To do so would be condescending, and neither of them would believe it. Livesey did not deserve that, instead he walked over to the body, still hanging from its rope, regarded the noose, then pulled one of the chairs over to see if it would give him enough height to lift the body down at last and lay it where it could rest decently until the medical examiner came and took it away.

  That was something Lambert could do, send for the appropriate people Presumably Livesey had not done so. He turned to look at him.

  “Do you—do you need a little help?” Livesey said, swallowing and stepping forward. “I …” He cleared his throat. “What would you like me to do?”

  “I was going to ask you if you had called the medical examiner,” Pitt answered,

  “No—no, I just sent the boy for the police. I thought …”

  “Lambert can do that,” Pitt said quickly. “I can’t untie the rope, his weight will have pulled it tight. I’ll need a knife.”

  “Er …” Livesey was beginning to look ill, as if his years had caught up with him. “I’ll go and see if the landlady has one. You’ll need to preserve the rope, I imagine. Evidence.”

  “Thank you. Ask Lambert to send for the medical examiner, will you?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” And as if escaping the room and its fearful burden, Livesey turned on his heel and went out of the door. A moment later Pitt heard his steps heavy in the passage outside, and then on the stairs.

  Pitt went back and stood in the room until Livesey returned with the knife.

  Livesey was too shaken to touch the corpse. His face was pale and there was sweat on his brow and lip and his hands were clumsy, as if he could no longer coordinate them. Pitt held the body up as far as he could to ease the weight. Livesey cut the rope, taking several seconds to saw it through, then Pitt felt the full weight of Paterson suddenly collapse on him.

  Livesey swore, his voice choking, and together they laid the body on the floor.

  “There’s nothing else to do here,” Pitt said quietly, moved by pity for Livesey, and anxiety in case he could not bear the horror any longer. “Come. We’ll wait for the medical examiner in the next room.”

  Two hours later Pitt had questioned the landlady, now alternately shrieking with outrage and mute with fear, and then the other tenants, and learned nothing from any of them. The medical examiner had been and gone, taking the body with him in his mortuary van, the horse stamping and blowing as it caught the smell of fear from passersby. Livesey, still pink-faced and now suddenly cold, had excused himself. Pitt and Lambert stood on the landing outside the door, the keys in the lock.

  Lambert shook his head.

  “I don’t understand,” he said yet again. “What on earth could he have wanted to tell Livesey? Why not us? If not me, then you?” He took the keys out of the door and gave them to Pitt. In single file they went down the stairs.

  The landlady was still standing in the hall, her face haggard and eyes blazing.

  “Murder!” she said furiously. “In my very own ’ouse! I always said I never should ’ave ’ad police as lodgers! Never again! I’ll take my oath on that, never again!”

  Lambert swung around on her, his face white, his eyes blazing.

  “A young policeman is murdered in your house, and you’ve got the impertinence to blame him! Perhaps if he’d never come here then he’d be alive today. What sort of a house do you keep anyway?”

  “ ’Ow dare you?” she shrieked, her cheeks scarlet with outrage. “Why you—”

  “Come on.” Pitt took Lambert by the arm and half pulled him out, still turned towards the woman, wanting to fight. The rage and the grief in him needed to lash out at someone, lay blame where he could see and hear.

  “Come on,” Pitt repeated urgently. “We’ve got a lot to do!”

  Reluctantly Lambert went with him. Outside the sky was overcast and it had begun to rain. Passersby were huddled into themselves, collars up, faces averted from the driving cold.

  “What?” Lambert demanded between his teeth. “Who murdered poor Paterson? We haven’t even found out who killed Judge Stafford! We don’t know why! Do you know, Pitt?” He dodged off the pavement into the running gutter, then back on again. “Have you even got an idea? And don’t tell me Godman wasn’t guilty—that doesn’t make any sense. If he wasn’t, why would anybody rake it all up now? They’ve got away with it. It was the perfect murder. Godman is hanged and the case is closed.”

  “What else was Paterson working on?” Pitt asked, matching his pace to Lamber
t’s as they walked along Battersea Park Road to a place where they could find a hansom back to the station.

  “An arson case. A couple of robberies,” Lambert answered. “Nothing much. Nothing anyone would kill him over. Garotte him in a dark alley, maybe; or stick a knife into him if he went to make an arrest. But not go to his house and string him up on a rope. It’s insane. It’s that damn Macaulay woman. She’s out on a rampage of revenge.” He stopped in his stride, turning to face Pitt, his eyes brilliant and wretched. “She’s insane! She’s coming after the people she holds to blame for her brother’s hanging!”

  “She’s not doing it alone,” Pitt said, trying to keep calm. “No woman by herself strung up Paterson. He’s a big man and was in good health.”

  “All right then,” Lambert snapped. “She had help. She’s a clever woman, beautiful, and has got that sort of personality. Some poor devil fell in love with her, and she’s got ’im so obsessed he helped her do that.” He was talking too fast and Pitt could hear the hysteria rising in his voice. “Or maybe ’e did it for her,” he went on. “Go and find him, Pitt. Prove it! Paterson was a good man. Far too good to die for the likes of her! You do that! Prove it!” And he snatched himself away from Pitt’s outstretched hand and strode along the wet pavement towards the Battersea Bridge, and the carriages and cabs clattering back and forth along it.

  Pitt began the long and tedious job of investigating the murder of Constable Paterson. The medical examiner’s report said that death had been caused by strangulation brought about by hanging, exactly as it had appeared. He had died some time the previous evening; his guess was that it had been earlier rather than later.

  As a matter of course Pitt checked where Judge Livesey had been at that time, and was not surprised to learn that he had attended a dinner given by several of his colleagues and had been observed by at least a score of people for all of the relevant time. Not that Pitt had for a moment thought he might have been guilty; it was simply a matter of routine to check.

  His mind was far more taken up with wondering what Paterson could possibly have learned that he wished so desperately to communicate with the judge. Did it concern the Farriers’ Lane case, as they had instinctively supposed, or was it something quite different?