Farriers' Lane

by Anne Perry

  “It is not of importance. He did drink from it at some time, that is beyond question,” Pitt said flatly.

  “Indeed, tragically, that is true.” Livesey frowned. “Tell me, Pitt, what is it you hope to learn? If I knew I might be better able to answer you. I confess, I don’t see what you believe there is that could help. We know the poison was in the flask, and that he died of it. What assistance would it be if someone had seen him actually drink? Surely it is inescapable that it did happen?”

  “Yes, of course it is,” Pitt conceded. “I admit, I don’t know. I am simply fishing for anything I can find.”

  “Well, I cannot think of anything further to add. I saw him drift into what I took at the time to be a sleep. It was not remarkable. He would certainly not be the first man to sleep in the theater!” Again the flash of humor crossed his face. “It was only when I saw Mrs. Stafford’s agitation that I realized he was ill. Then, of course, I rose and went out of my own box and into theirs, to see if I could offer any assistance. The rest you know yourself.”

  “Not quite. There is the interval. Did you leave your box?”

  “Yes. I went to find a little refreshment, and to stand. One gets stiff sitting for so long.”

  “Did you see Stafford leave his box?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Did you go to the gentlemen’s smoking room?”

  “Very briefly. I looked in, and then left again immediately. To tell the truth there were one or two people there I preferred not to see. They insist on speaking of legal matters, and I wanted to enjoy an evening away from such things.”

  “And you didn’t see Stafford until you returned to your box?”

  “No. I’m sorry.” Livesey rose to his feet, pushing himself up from the arms of his chair. “I am afraid there is nothing else I can tell you, Inspector. Nor could I usefully suggest anywhere further for you to look, except into poor Stafford’s domestic life.”

  “Thank you for sparing me your time.” Pitt stood up also. “You have been very patient.”

  “I am sorry I could be of no help.” Livesey held out his hand and Pitt shook it. It was an unusual courtesy from a judge to a policeman, and he appreciated it.

  After luncheon he went to the offices of Adolphus Pryce and was obliged to wait nearly half an hour before Pryce was free to see him. The office was the same, comfortable, elegant, and individual. Pryce himself was just as graceful, but there was a tiredness in his face and his gestures looked habitual, devoid of the inner energy they had had before. He too was disappointed in himself: his dreams had been shown to be shallow, his emotions dishonest, and it hurt him where there was no evasion, and as yet no healing.

  “Yes, Pitt? What can I do for you?” he said politely. “Do sit down.” He indicated the chair opposite. “I really feel I have already told you everything I know, but if there is something more, please ask me.” He smiled bleakly. “I should congratulate you for solving the Farriers’ Lane case. That was an excellent piece of work. You have certainly put the rest of us to shame. Poor Godman was innocent. That is a fact I shall not live with easily.”

  “Nor, I imagine, will many others,” Pitt said grimly. “But you have nothing to reproach yourself for. Your duty was to prosecute him. You were the only one in the court who was an enemy in plain guise, and he knew you for one. The others were either on his side or supposed to be impartial.”

  “You are too hard on them, Pitt. Everyone believed him guilty. The evidence was overwhelming.”

  “Why?” Pitt asked, his eyes meeting Pryce’s with challenge.

  Pryce blinked. “I don’t understand you. What do you mean, ‘why’?”

  “Why was it overwhelming? What came first, the evidence or the belief? I begin to think perhaps it was the belief.”

  Pryce sat down wearily. “Perhaps it was. We were all horrified, and a little frightened. You know the public is a savage animal when you disturb its deeper beliefs and awaken its fears. There is no purpose whatever in trying to reason with it, explain what you can do, and what you cannot, tell them how difficult it is. All they want is results. They do not care how you obtain them, they don’t want to know the details or the cost. But you are a policeman, you must know that. I don’t imagine they have left you uncriticized or harried over poor Stafford.”

  “No,” Pitt said ruefully. “Although there hasn’t been a public outcry. It was a quieter crime. It lacked the horror. I suppose people feel that a judge is somehow different from themselves, and so the fear is a step removed, not personal. There is no unreasoning monster out there in the shadows crucifying people. Though certainly the Home Secretary has been down to chivvy us once or twice.”

  Pryce crossed his legs and a faint flicker of amusement touched his mouth.

  “You sound bitter, Pitt. What can I help you with? I really have no idea who killed Stafford, or why.”

  “Neither have I,” Pitt said sourly. “I am reduced to going over the facts again—and again. Did you see him during the interval that evening?”

  Pryce looked vaguely surprised, as if he had been expecting some difficult question.

  “Yes. He was in the smoking room, talking to various people. I don’t think I can remember who. I spoke to him myself, but only briefly. Something of no meaning at all—the weather, or the latest cricket disaster, I think. I didn’t see him drink from the flask, if that is what you are hoping.”

  “Did he have a glass in his hand?”

  Pryce’s eyes widened. “Come to think of it, yes, he did. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it? Why does a man drink from a flask if he has a glass of whiskey in his hand?”

  “A second one, I suppose,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “He did drink from the flask, because he drank the poison. It was in the flask when we tested it. That is about the only fact which is incontrovertible.”

  “Well, there must be a limited number of people who could have put it there, by the mere physical facts,” Pryce said logically. “One can reduce their number, surely? Disregard motive, for the time being. It has to be someone who had access to the flask after he left Livesey, because both Livesey and his companion were seen to drink from it then, and they are both in perfect health. And yet it was in the flask when Stafford drank from it later, presumably in the theater. It could be someone in the interval, I suppose.”

  “Who else was in the smoking room?”

  “A couple of hundred people.”

  “They didn’t all speak to Stafford. Can you recall the names of anyone who might have been close enough to him to have spoken to him, or seen what happened?”

  Pryce sat silent for a moment or two, looking bleakly at Pitt.

  “I remember the Honorable Gerald Thompson,” he said at last. “He has a voice that would break glass, and never stops talking. He was close to Stafford, and facing him. And Molesworth was there, from Chancery. Do you know him? No, I don’t suppose you do. Big man, bald, with a white beard.”

  “Is that all you remember?” Pitt asked.

  “There was a tremendous crush in there,” Pryce protested. “Everyone elbowing their way through, trying not to spill drinks, vying for attention, all talking at once. And there was a bit of a commotion going on because Oscar Wilde was there, and at least a dozen people wanted to speak to him. I can’t think why. He was close to Stafford.” Pryce’s face lit with malicious amusement. “You could always go and ask him.”

  “Is he likely to have noticed anything?”

  Pryce’s eyebrows shot up. “I have no idea. I should doubt it. Too busy being amusing.”

  “Thank you.” Pitt rose to his feet. At least Pryce had given him something to pursue, although he had no plan beyond that, nothing else to seek, no one to question.

  “Not at all,” Pryce replied. “I imagine I will see you again. What I’ve given you will be of little use. Even if someone did see him drink from the flask, it won’t tell you anything, unless they saw someone else put something into it—and that seems a little like hopin
g someone will tell you the Derby winner before the day.”

  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?”