by Perry, Anne
“Oh no!” she cried out almost involuntarily, her body tightening, her hands clenched in her lap. “I mean—I …” She bit her lip. “It would be foolish now to deny that Mr. Pryce and I have …” She stared at Pitt fiercely, trying to measure how much he knew, what he was merely guessing. “That we have an affection for each other. But it …”
He waited for her to deny that it had been an affaire. He watched the struggle in her face, the fear mounting, the attempt to weigh what he would believe, and then the defeat.
“I confess, I wished that I were free to marry Mr. Pryce, and he had given me reason to suppose he felt the same.” She gulped at the air. “But he is an honorable man. He would never have resorted to such—such wickedness as to have … killed my husband.” Her voice rose in desperation. “Believe me, Mr. Pitt, we loved each other, accepted that it was impossible it could ever be anything more than a few snatched moments—which you may disapprove of.” She shook her head fiercely. “Most people may, but it is not a crime like murder—it is a misfortune which afflicts many of us. I am not the only woman in London who found her true love with a man not her husband!”
“Of course not, Mrs. Stafford. But neither would you be the only woman in the center of a crime of passion, were it so.”
She leaned forward urgently, demanding his attention. “It is not so! Adolphus—Mr. Pryce—is not … he would never …”
“Be so overcome by his passions as to resort to violence to be with the woman he loved,” he finished for her. “How can you be sure of that?”
“I know him.” She looked away. “That sounds absurd, doesn’t it? I realize before you say so.”
“Not absurd,” Pitt said quickly. “Just very usual. We all of us believe those we care for are innocent. And most of us believe we know people well.” He smiled, knowing he spoke for himself as well as for her. “I suppose half of falling in love is a feeling that we understand, perhaps uniquely. That is a great deal of what that closeness is, the idea that we have found something noble, and perceived it as no one else does.”
“The words seem to come to you easily.” She looked down at the hands clenched in her lap. “But all the explanation does not make it untrue. I am sure Adolphus did not murder my husband. You will not shake me from that.”
“And I imagine he is equally sure you did not,” Pitt replied.
This time she jerked her head up to stare at him as if he had struck her.
“What? What did you say? You—oh, dear God—did you say all this to him? Did you make him think I …”
“That you were guilty?” he finished for her. “Or that you had blamed him?”
Her face was white, her eyes brilliant with a sudden and hectic fear. Was it for Pryce or for herself?
“Surely you are not concerned he would think such a thing of you?” he went on.
“Of course not,” she snapped. And in that instant they both knew it was a lie. She was terrified Pryce would think it was she; the humiliation and the horror were hideously obvious.
She swung around, away from him, concealing her face. “Have you been to Mr. Pryce?” she said again, barely controlling her voice.
“Not yet,” he replied. “But I shall have to.”
“And you will try to put it in his mind that I murdered my husband, in a desire to be free so that I might marry him.” Her voice was shaking. “That is monstrous! How dare you be so—to portray me as—so—insatiable …” She stopped, tears of anger and fear in her eyes. She started again. “He would think …”
“That you may have?” he finished for her. “Surely not, if he knows you as you apparently know him.”
“No.” With great difficulty she was regaining mastery of herself again, at least of her voice. “I was going to say he would think that I was very immodest, taking too much for granted. It is for a man to speak of marriage, Mr. Pitt, not a woman!” Now her cheeks were white, with two spots of color high on the bones.
“Are you saying that Mr. Pryce never spoke to you of marriage?” he asked.
She gulped. “How could he? I am already married—at least I was. Of course he didn’t!” She sat very straight, and again he knew she was lying. They must have talked of marriage often. How could they not? Her chin came up a little higher. “You will not maneuver me into blaming him, Mr. Pitt.”
“You are very sure, Mrs. Stafford,” he said thoughtfully. “I admire your confidence. And yet it leaves me with a profoundly ugly thought.”
She stared at him, waiting.
“If it was one of you, and you are so certain it was not Mr. Pryce …” He did not need to finish.
Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to laugh, and choked.
When she had recovered, she was unable to say the words of denial. “You are mistaken, Mr. Pitt,” she said instead. “It was not one of us. I swear it was not me. Certainly I wished at times I were free, but wished, that is all. I would never have hurt Samuel!”
Pitt did not speak. He looked at her face, the fine beads of sweat on her lip, no more than a gleam, the pallor of her skin, almost bloodless.
“I—I felt so sure. No, I still cannot believe that Adolphus would …”
“His emotion was not strong enough?” he said gently. “Was it not, are you really sure of that, Mrs. Stafford?”
He watched the expressions chase each other across her face: fear, pride, denial, exultancy, and fear again.
She looked down, avoiding his probing gaze.
She could not bear to deny his passion; it was a denial of the love itself. “Perhaps not,” she said falteringly. “I could not bear to think I was guilty of provoking such a …” Her head came up sharply, her dark eyes bright and bold. “I had no knowledge of it. You must believe me! I still only half credit it. You will have to prove it to me beyond any doubt whatsoever or I will still say you are mistaken. Only I know, before God, it was not I.”
There was no pleasure in victory. He rose to his feet.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stafford. Your candor has been a great help to me.”
“Mr. Pitt …” Then again she found no words. What she wanted to say was pointless. To deny Pryce’s guilt was too late. She had already committed herself and there was no retreat. “The footman will show you out,” she finished lamely. “Good day.”
“Good day, Mrs. Stafford.”
His interview with Adolphus Pryce was conducted in Pryce’s office, and began comfortably enough with Pitt sitting in the large easy chair which was provided for clients. Pryce himself stood by the window with his back to the bookcase, a slender figure of innate grace.
“I don’t know what else to add, Inspector,” he said with a slight shrug. “Of course I know opium is sold in all sorts of general shops, so one supposes it may be purchased fairly easily. I have never used it myself, so it is only a deduction on my part. But surely that applies to anyone? To the unfortunate members of Aaron Godman’s circle as much as to me, or anyone else Judge Stafford met that day?”
“Indeed,” Pitt agreed. “I asked only as a formality. I never imagined it would produce anything of value.”
Pryce smiled and moved a little away from the window, swinging his chair around behind his desk and sitting down in it, his legs elegantly crossed.
“So what can I tell you, Inspector? All I know of the Farriers’ Lane case is a matter of public record. I believed at the time it was Aaron Godman, and I have not learned what it is that made Judge Stafford doubt it. He said nothing specific to me.”
“Do you not find that surprising, Mr. Pryce?” Pitt asked as ingenuously as he could. “Considering your own part in the case.”
“Not if he was still only suspicious,” Pryce said, his voice cultured and reasonable. If he felt any anxiety he was masking it. Pitt could have sworn the subject was causing him no personal concern, only the professional interest that was his duty. “I would expect him to wait until he had irrefutable evidence before reopening such a notorious case,” Pryce went on, “and calling int
o question a verdict already reached by the original court, and later by five justices of appeal.” He leaned a little farther backwards in his chair. “Perhaps you are not aware of just how deep the feeling was at the time. It was profoundly ugly. A lot of reputations were at stake, possibly even the reputation of English justice itself. No, I am quite sure Mr. Stafford would have to have been very certain indeed of his evidence before he would have mentioned it to anyone at all. Even in the utmost confidence.”
Pitt looked at him as closely as he could without appearing to stare. Juniper had been filled with fears. Pryce seemed completely confident. Was it simply greater self-mastery, or had he a good conscience, and no slightest thought that it might have been she who had poisoned Stafford?
Deliberately Pitt tried to break the calm.
“I take your point, Mr. Pryce. But of course I have to consider the alternative as well. Very possibly it had nothing to do with the Farriers’ Lane case, but was a personal matter.”
“I suppose that is possible,” Pryce said carefully, but the tone of his voice had altered very slightly. He did not ask in what way. He was not as easy to rattle as Juniper.
“I regret the necessity for being so blunt, Mr. Pryce,” Pitt continued. “But I am aware of your relationship with Mrs. Stafford. For many men that would be a motive.”
Pryce breathed in and out slowly before replying. He uncrossed his ankles.
“I daresay, but not for me. Is that what you came here to ask?”
“Among other things,” Pitt conceded with a slight shrug. “Are you telling me that you were not tempted? You must have wished Judge Stafford … gone? Or have I misjudged the depth of your feeling for Mrs. Stafford?”
“No.” Pryce picked up a stick of sealing wax and played with it absently, his eyes avoiding Pitt’s. “No, of course not. But no depth of feeling excuses murder.”
“What does it excuse?” Pitt asked, still courteously, even though his words were harsh.
“I am not sure that I understand you,” Pryce said guardedly, but his confidence was gone. His fingers were fiddling nervously with the sealing wax and he was breathing more rapidly.
Pitt waited, refusing to help or to dismiss the subject.
“Love.” Pryce moved a little in his chair. “It explains a great deal, of course, but it excuses nothing, nothing of any moment. Of course it doesn’t.”
“I agree, Mr. Pryce.” Pitt kept his eyes on Pryce’s face. “Not deceit, seduction, the betrayal of a friend, adultery—”
“For God’s sake!” Pryce snapped the wax. His face was white. He sat back, rigid, struggled for something to say, and then was suddenly limp. “That’s—that’s true,” he admitted quietly, his voice a little hoarse. “And you will never know how I regret it. I have been excessively foolish, lost all sense of judgment and allowed myself to be led—” He stopped, looking up swiftly and meeting Pitt’s eyes. “But it is still not murder.”
Again Pitt said nothing, but looked unwaveringly back at Pryce.
Pryce took a long, slow breath, his face almost white, but a little of his composure regained. The effort had been tremendous.
“Of course I appreciate you have to consider the possibility. Logic demands it. But I assure you, I had no part in his death. None whatever. I …” He bit his lip. “I don’t know how I can prove that, but it is the truth.”
Pitt smiled. “I had not expected you to confess to it, Mr. Pryce—any more than Mrs. Stafford.”
Pryce’s face was suddenly tight again, and his body stiff in his chair.
“You have said the same to Mrs. Stafford? That’s …” Then he stopped, as if new thoughts crowded his mind.
“Naturally,” Pitt replied calmly. “I have been led to believe that her feeling for you is very deep. She must often have wished for her freedom.”
“Wishing is not …” Pryce’s fists clenched. He took a deep breath. “Of course. It would be ungallant of me to say I did not hope so—and untrue. We both wished she were free, but that is a far cry from committing murder to make it so. She will have told you the same.” He stopped, waiting for Pitt’s reply.
“She denied it,” Pitt agreed. “And denied, of course, that you would have had anything to do with it either.”
Pryce turned away, laughing very slightly, a husky, nervous sound.
“This is ridiculous, Inspector. I admit—Mrs. Stafford and I have a relationship that—that—was improper—but not”—this time he did not look at Pitt—“not a mere dalliance, not just …” He stopped and then started again. “It is a very deep emotion. It is some people’s tragedy that they fall truly in love with someone when it is impossible they can marry. That is what has happened to us.” His words were very formal, and Pitt had no idea whether he believed them without shadow, or if he were saying what he hoped was true.
“I am quite sure,” Pitt said, aware he was turning the knife. “Otherwise you would hardly have risked your reputation and your honor by having an affaire.”
Pryce lifted his eyes sharply and glared at him.
“There are some circles in society where such a thing is ignored,” Pitt continued relentlessly, “if it is discreet enough, but I doubt the law is one of them. Surely judges’ wives, like Caesar’s, should be above suspicion?”
Pryce stood up and walked over to the window, his back to Pitt. For several seconds he did not reply, then when he spoke his voice was thick.
“Judges’ wives are human, Inspector. Were your acquaintance with the gentry deeper than a passing ability to quote the odd thought or two from Shakespeare, you would not need me to tell you that. We may have slightly different codes of behavior from one social class to another, but our emotions are the same.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Pryce? That your passion for Mrs. Stafford drove you to put opium into Samuel Stafford’s flask?”
Pryce swung around. “No! No—I did not kill him! I did not harm him in any way at all—or contribute to it. I—I have no knowledge of it—before, or since.”
Pitt kept his face a mask of disbelief.
Pryce swallowed hard, as if choking. “I am guilty of adultery, but not of murder.”
“I find it hard to believe that you have no knowledge as to who is,” Pitt replied, although that was not true.
“I—I—What are you waiting for me to say?” Pryce was gasping between words as if he had to force himself to speak. “That Juniper—Mrs. Stafford—killed him? You’ll wait forever. I’ll not say it.”
But he had said it, and the irony of it was in his eyes. The thought had been in his mind, and found its way to his lips.
Pitt rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Pryce. You have been most candid. I appreciate it.”
Pryce’s face reflected self-disgust.
“You mean I have allowed you to see that I am both shallow in my defense of Mrs. Stafford and that I am afraid for her? I still do not believe she had any part in her husband’s death, and I will defend her to the limit of my ability.”
“If she did, Mr. Pryce, then the limit of your ability will be very rapidly reached,” Pitt answered, going to the door. “Thank you for your time.”
“Pitt!”
Pitt turned, his face questioning.
Pryce swallowed hard and licked his lips. “She is a very emotional woman, but I really don’t—I don’t …” He stopped, honesty preventing him from making a plea for her after what he had already confessed.
“Good day,” Pitt said quietly, and went out into the cold corridor.
“No sir, I doubt it,” he said later in the day to Micah Drummond.
Drummond stood in front of the fire in his office, his feet spread a little, his hands behind his back. He regarded Pitt with a frown.
“Why not? Why not now, more than before?”
Pitt was sitting far back in the best chair, his legs sprawled comfortably.
“Because when I saw her, to begin with she defended him,” he replied. “She was sure he could not possibly ha
ve done it. I don’t think she had really considered him. Her emotions would not permit it. Then when I told her the unlikelihood of Aaron Godman being innocent, and there being any motive for anyone in the Farriers’ Lane case wanting to kill the judge, she could no longer avoid the inevitable thought that it was either herself or Pryce.” He looked at Drummond. “Her immediate fear was that it was Pryce. I saw it in her face the moment she first thought it.”
Drummond looked down at the carpet thoughtfully.
“Is she not clever enough to lead you to think precisely that?”
“I don’t believe even Tamar Macaulay could act well enough to look as she did,” Pitt said honestly. “Acting is broad gestures, movements of the hands and body, tones of voice, inflections; not even the most brilliant can make the blood drain from the face.”
“Then perhaps it was Pryce?” Drummond said, almost hopefully. “Maybe he grew impatient waiting. An affaire was not enough for him, he wanted marriage.” He shrugged. “Or he grew nervous of a continued illicit relationship. She might have been growing indiscreet, or pressing him for more attentions?”
“So he resorted to murder?” Pitt said with a touch of sarcasm. “Pryce does not seem like a hysterical man to me. Unwise in his passions, ungoverned, selfish, allowing an obsession with a woman to destroy his moral judgment, certainly; but not to the degree where he would throw everything away and gain nothing. He knows the law better than to imagine he could succeed.”
“Why not?” Drummond interrupted. “Is it such a long step from adultery and the betrayal of a man who trusted him, who was his friend, to killing that man?”
“Yes, I think it is,” Pitt argued, leaning forward. “But quite apart from that, Pryce is a barrister. Adultery is a sin, but it is not a crime. Society may shun you for a while if you are too blatant about it. They hang you for murder. Pryce has seen that happen too often to ignore it.”
Drummond dug his hands deep into his pockets and said nothing. His mind was not engaged in it as Pitt’s was, and Pitt knew it. He had come because it was his duty, and he needed Drummond’s authority to pursue the Farriers’ Lane case.
