Farriers' Lane

by Anne Perry

  He stood roughly where the idlers had been that night and stared across the street. He could have seen a figure quite clearly, the darkness of a man walking would have been unmistakable. But unless he had stopped and faced him, under the light, he could not have seen his face.

  He stepped out across the street and with faster beating pulse and a catch in his throat, went into Farriers’ Lane.

  It was narrow, smooth underfoot, but he could see almost nothing ahead of him except the outline of the last wall before the stable yard. There must be a light there; its glow was unmistakable even from the first yard or two. He imagined Kingsley Blaine having come this way as a shortcut to the club where he expected to meet Devlin O’Neil. Had he even thought of anyone as he stepped out of the uncertain light of the street into the shadows of the lane? Had the attack come as a complete surprise?

  Pitt’s footsteps rang on the stones, urgent, sharp with fear. The mist caught in his throat and his breath was uneven. He could see the lamp on the wall now illuminating the yard ahead of him. It had been a smithy. Now it was a brickyard. He walked out into it, slowly, trying to imagine what it had been like that night. What had Kingsley Blaine seen? Who had been waiting there for him? Aaron Godman, the slender, mercurial actor dressed for the theater, a white silk scarf gleaming in the stable lamp, a long pointed nail in his hand? Or a dagger which no one had ever found? Surely that hardly mattered? It would be easy enough to lose such a thing, wouldn’t it? Of course the police had searched and found nothing. All it needed was a drain.

  Or had it been someone else? Joshua Fielding? Even Tamar herself—helping, urging him on.

  That was a hideous thought and without knowing why he thrust it away from him.

  He stood still, staring around him. That must be the old stable over to the left. Half a dozen boxes. One door was different from the others, newer.

  He felt a little sick, the sweat cold on his body.

  He turned and went back into the darkness of the alley, almost at a run. He burst out into the street again breathlessly, his heart beating in his throat, then stopped abruptly and stood for a minute. Then he walked on back towards Soho Square where the flower seller had her position.

  He was traveling so rapidly now he bumped into people as he passed, his feet clattering on the pavement, his breath rasping.

  The flower seller was there, a short, fat woman wrapped in a rust brown shawl. Automatically she pushed forward a bunch of mixed flowers and went into her singsong patter.

  “Fresh flowers, mister? Buy a posy o’ fresh flowers fer yer lady, sir? Picked today. Look, still fresh. Smell the country air in ’em, sir.”

  Pitt fished in his pocket and took out a threepenny piece.

  “Yes, please.”

  She did not ask if he wanted change, she simply clasped the coin and gave him two bunches of flowers, her face lighting up with relief. It was getting colder with the darkness and it seemed she had had a poor day.

  “Been here long?” Pitt asked.

  “Since six this morning, sir,” she replied with a frown.

  A couple passed by on the way to a party, her long skirts wet from the pavement, his silk hat gleaming.

  “I mean have you had this place for many years?” Pitt asked the flower seller.

  “Oh. Yeah, ’bout fourteen.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Then it was you who saw Aaron Godman after the Farriers’ Lane murder?”

  Somewhere over the far side of the square a horse squealed and a coachman swore.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but what’s that ter you?” she asked, squinting narrowly at him.

  “Did you already know Mr. Godman?”

  “I seen ’is picsher.”

  “What was he wearing that night, do you remember?”

  “Coat, o’ course, that time o’ night. What else would ’e be wearin’?”

  “Top hat? White silk scarf?”

  “Go on wi’ yer! ’e were an actor, not a toff—poor devil.”

  “You sound sorry for him.”

  “Wot if I were? That bastard Blaine did ’is sister up proper, poor bitch. ’Anged the poor soul anyway.”

  “Was he wearing a white scarf?”

  “I already told yer, ’e were dressed for workin’!”

  “No scarf. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah! ’Ow many times do I ’ave ter tell yer? No scarf!”

  “Have you seen Constable Paterson lately?”

  “An’ if I ’ave?”

  Pitt reached into his pocket and produced a sixpence. “I’ll have some more flowers.”

  Wordlessly she took the sixpence and handed him four bunches. He had to put them half in his left-hand pocket to hold them all. A couple of gentlemen in evening dress passed him, top hats gleaming, and looked at him with amusement.

  “Have you seen Paterson in the last few days?” he said again.

  “Yeah. ’e came ’ere day afore yesterday,” she replied. “Asked me all the same questions again, ’e did. An’ I answered ’em the same. Then the clock struck.” She jerked her head backwards towards the building behind her. “An’ ’e asked me about that.”

  “What about it? Wasn’t that the clock that told you he was here at a quarter to one?”

  “That’s what Mr. Paterson said to me. ’e were positive it were. Couldn’t shake ’im. In the end I could see as it must ’ave bin. But first off I said as it were quarter past midnight, as that’s wot I thought it were! Yer see …” She squinted at him, making sure he was giving her his full attention. “Yer see, it’s a funny kind o’ clock, that. It don’t ring once fer the quarter past, twice fer the ’alf, an’ then three times for the quarter to, like most, but only once at the quarter to as well. ’e said it must ’a bin quarter past, cos of ’ow much I’d sold. But I first thought it were quarter to one, cos w’en that clock’s bin cleaned, like it ’as now, it rings funny. Makes a kind o’ whirring sound on the quarter to. Didn’t do it that night.” She opened her eyes very wide and suddenly frightened. “That means it were a quarter past midnight, don’t it?”

  “Yes …” Pitt said very slowly, a strange almost choking feeling welling up inside him, excitement, horror and amazement at once. “Yes, it does mean that, if you are sure. Quite sure? Did you see him take the hansom?”

  “Yeah—from that corner there.” She pointed.

  “You sure?”

  “ ’Course I’m sure! I told Mr. Paterson that an’ ’e looked sick. I thought ’e were goin’ ter pass right out in front o’ me. Poor bastard looked fit to drop dead ’isself.”

  “Yes.” Pitt took out the rest of the change from his pocket and offered it to her, about two shillings and nine-pence halfpenny.

  She stared at it incredulously, then put out her hand and grabbed it, pushing it deep into her pocket, holding her hand there.

  “Yes, he would,” Pitt said quietly. “If Aaron Godman bought flowers from you at quarter past midnight, and took a hansom cab straight home to Pimlico, then he could not have been the one who murdered Kingsley Blaine in Farriers’ Lane at half past.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head fractionally. “Come ter that, I don’t suppose ’e could, poor little swine! Still, ’e’s ’anged now—can’t bring ’im back. God rest ’im.”

  10

  PITT ARRIVED HOME a little before eleven o’clock, wet through from the steady rain, his face white, hair plastered over his brow. He took off his outer clothes in the hall and hung them on the hook, but the weight of the water in them pulled them off, and they lay in a sodden heap on the linoleum. He ignored them and went down the corridor towards the kitchen and the warmth of the stove where he could take off his soaking boots and thaw out his feet.

  Charlotte met him at the kitchen door, her face startled and her hair loose around her shoulders. She had obviously been asleep in the rocking chair waiting for him.

  “Thomas? Oh, you’re wet through! What on earth have you been doing? Come in! Come—” Then she saw
his face, the expression in his eyes. “What is it? What’s happened? Is—is somebody else dead?”

  “In a way.” He slumped down in the chair beside the stove and began to unlace his boots.

  She knelt in front of him and started on the other one.

  “What do you mean, ‘in a way’?”

  “Aaron Godman. He didn’t kill Blaine,” he replied.

  She stopped, her fingers curled around the wet laces, staring up at him.

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t him. The flower seller was wrong about the time, and Paterson discovered it the day he died. Maybe he knew who it was, and that was why he was killed.”

  “How can she have been wrong about the time? Didn’t they question her properly?”

  He told her about the clock, and the malfunction when it was cleaned. She finished undoing his boots, took them off and put them close to the stove to dry out, then his socks, and rubbed his frozen feet with a warm towel. He wriggled his toes in exquisite relief, explaining how Paterson had misunderstood, how he had pressed until his conviction that Godman was guilty had overridden the woman and she had given in.

  “Poor Paterson,” she said quietly. “He must have felt dreadful. I suppose it was his guilt over that which made him reckless for his own safety. He must have wanted desperately to put things right.” She went to the kettle which was singing quietly on the back of the stove, and pulled it forward onto the hot plate to bring it right to the boil, reaching with the other hand for the teapot and the caddy.

  “Why did he write to Judge Livesey and not to you, or to his own inspector?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He continued rubbing his cold feet, rolling up his trousers to keep the wet fabric from his legs. “I suppose he thought Livesey had the power to reopen the case. I certainly hadn’t, without some absolutely conclusive evidence, and even then I could only take it to the courts. Livesey could do it much more directly. And he was involved with the original appeal; in fact he was in charge of it. It was he who presented the judgment.”

  Charlotte poured the scalding water onto the tea and closed the lid of the pot. “I suppose he couldn’t be … at fault, could he?”

  “He had nothing to do with the original case,” he replied. “He certainly couldn’t have killed Blaine—and he couldn’t have killed Paterson. He was at a dinner all evening until well into the small hours of the morning. By which time Paterson was dead. We can prove all that by the medical evidence, and also by the landlady’s testimony of the time the outer doors were locked.”

  She brought the teapot to the kitchen table, and cups, milk from the pantry, and a large slice of brown bread, butter and pickle. She poured the tea, gave him his, and sat down opposite him as he began to eat hungrily.

  “I suppose it must have been whoever killed Blaine,” she said thoughtfully. “Paterson must have told them he knew, which means that he had worked it all out. I wonder how.” She frowned. “I don’t see how knowing it couldn’t have been Godman tells him who it was.”

  “Nor do I,” Pitt said with his mouth full. “Believe me, I’ve racked my mind over and over to think of what he could have seen or deduced which told him the answer—and I cannot think of it.” He sighed. “I wish to heaven he’d told someone! It was only in retracing his steps I even discovered that he’d found out Godman wasn’t guilty.”

  She held her mug of tea in both hands.

  “Who have you told?” she asked very quietly.

  “Drummond—only Drummond,” he replied, watching her face. “It isn’t something anyone wants to know. It means they were all wrong—the police, the lawyers, the original trial and jury, the appeal—everyone. Even the hangman executed an innocent man. I imagine he’ll see that in his nightmares for a while.” He shivered and hunched his shoulders as though it were cold in the kitchen, in spite of the stove. “And the newspapers, the public—everyone, except Joshua Fielding and Tamar Macaulay.”

  “What did Mr. Drummond say?”

  “Not much. He knows as well as I do what the reaction is going to be.”

  “What will it be? They cannot deny it—can they?”

  “I don’t know.” He set his mug down wearily. “There’ll be a lot of anger, probably a lot of blame, everyone saying someone else should have known, should have been more competent, should have done something differently.” He smiled with a bitter humor. “I think Adolphus Pryce is about the only one who will come out of it without blame of some sort. He was supposed to prosecute, and he did. But Moorgate, Godman’s solicitor, is going to feel guilty for not having believed his client, whatever he does about it now; and Barton James for not having pressed the flower seller harder—but then he believed Godman was guilty, so he wouldn’t have seen any point. But he still had an innocent client, and let him be hanged.”

  He picked up the mug again but it was nearly empty. “And Thelonius Quade, who tried the first case, will be bound to wonder if he could have or should have directed something differently and found the truth. Lambert will feel guilty for having charged the wrong man—and just as bad, let the right one go, not only free but unsuspected, to kill again.”

  “And the appeal court judges,” Charlotte added, reaching for his mug and refilling it. “They denied the appeal and confirmed the wrong verdict. They are not going to retreat easily.” She passed him back the mug. “When will you tell Tamar Macaulay?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t even thought about that yet.” He passed his hand over his eyes, rubbing them and shaking his head. “Tomorrow, maybe. Maybe later. I would really rather have a better idea of who it was before I tell her. I’m not sure enough what she’ll do.”

  “Anyway”—she smiled bleakly—“not tonight. In the morning it will look different, maybe clearer.”

  He finished his tea. “I doubt it.” He stood up. “But for the moment I don’t care. Let us go to bed, before I get too tired to climb the stairs.”

  “Could it be Joshua Fielding?” Charlotte said over the breakfast table, her face pale with anxiety, watching Pitt as he spread his toast with marmalade. “Thomas, if it is, what am I going to do about Mama?”

  Reluctantly he forced his mind to that problem. He did not want to face it. He had enough to occupy his mental and emotional energy with Paterson’s death and the fact that Godman was innocent, but he heard the fear in her voice and he knew it was well founded.

  “To begin with, don’t tell her that Godman is innocent,” he said slowly, thinking as he spoke. “If it is Fielding, she is much safer if he has no reason to think he is suspected.”

  “But if it is?” she said urgently, panic rising inside her. “If he murdered Blaine, and Judge Stafford, and Paterson—Thomas, he’s—he’s absolutely ruthless. He’ll murder Mama, if he thinks he needs to, to be safe!”

  “Which is exactly why you don’t tell her Godman is innocent!” he replied decisively. “Charlotte! Listen to me—there is no point whatever in telling her Fielding might be guilty. She is in love with him.”

  “Oh, rubbish!” she said hotly, feeling a strange choking inside her, a sense of loneliness, almost of betrayal, as though she had been abandoned. It was absurd, and yet there was an ache in her throat at the thought of Caroline really in love, as she was in love with Pitt—emotionally, intimately. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. “That’s nonsense, Thomas. She is attracted to him, certainly. He is interesting, a kind of person we don’t even meet in the normal way of things. And she was concerned that justice should be done.”

  His voice cut across her. “Charlotte! I haven’t time to argue with you. Your mother is in love with Joshua Fielding. I know you have been trying hard not to accept that, but you will have to. It is a fact, however you dislike it.”

  “No, it isn’t!” She thrust it away from her. “Of course it isn’t. Thomas, Mama is well over fifty!” She could feel the choking in her throat again, and a revulsion against the pictures that were forming in her imaginat
ion. Thomas should understand that. “It is friendship, that is all!” Her voice was growing higher and louder. She knew it was unfair, but she resented Emily being away in the west country and avoiding all this. She should have been here to help. This was a crisis.

  Pitt was staring at her, irritation in his eyes.

  “Charlotte, there is no time for self-indulgence! People don’t stop falling in love because they are fifty—or sixty—or any other age!”

  “Of course they do.”

  “When are you going to stop loving me? When you are fifty?”

  “That’s different,” she protested, her voice thick.

  “No, it isn’t. Sometimes we grow a little more careful in what we do, because we have learned some of the dangers, but we go on feeling the same. Why shouldn’t your mother fall in love? When you are fifty Jemima will think you as old and fixed as the framework of the world, because that is what you are to her—the framework of all she knows and that gives her safety and identity. But you will be the same woman inside as you are now, and just as capable of passions of all sorts: indignation, anger, laughter, outrage, making a fool of yourself, and of loving.”

  Charlotte blinked fiercely. It was stupid to feel so close to tears, and yet she could not help it.

  Pitt put his hand over hers. Her fingers were stiff. She pulled away.

  “What am I going to do about her?” she asked abruptly, sniffing hard. “If he killed Kingsley Blaine, not to mention Judge Stafford, and now poor Paterson, then he’s about as dangerous as a man could be! He wouldn’t think twice about killing her if he thought she was a threat to him.” She sniffed again. “And if he didn’t, how can I stop her behaving like a fool? People can, when they fall in love. I should have tried to discourage her sooner. I should have warned her—told her his faults. And she can’t possibly marry him, even if he’s totally innocent.” She shook her head fiercely. “Even if he were to ask her—which of course he won’t.”

  “If he asks her to marry him, you are going to do nothing,” Pitt replied with a hard edge to his voice that took her by total surprise, leaving her staring at him in amazement.