Farriers' Lane tp-13

by Perry, Anne

  “And where were they standing?”

  ” ’Round a brazier, ’alf in the gutter.”

  “Yes, but which side of the street? Did Godman actually pass them?”

  “Oh—no. Opposite side, but close to Farriers’ Lane entrance. They saw ’im clear enough,” Paterson insisted.

  “Opposite side of the street, after midnight, a group of layabouts and drunks! Is there a lamp near the end of the lane?”

  Paterson’s expression tightened. “About twenty yards. ’E passed under it. Right under it!”

  “How did they describe him?” Pitt went on. “Tall, short, thin, large? What did they say? How was he dressed?”

  “Well …” Paterson pulled a face. “They said he seemed fairly large, but ’e was dressed in an ’eavy overcoat, dark, but it could have been undone and that would ’ave made ’im look a bit bigger. They weren’t that close, and they didn’t pay particular attention. Why should they?”

  “What about the blood? Your report mentions blood, and there must have been a lot. You can’t commit a murder like that without blood all over the place.”

  Paterson winced and looked at Pitt with loathing. “They said they saw the dark stain, but they reckoned as ’e’d bin in a fight, or got a bloody nose.”

  “So there was really no description,” Pitt pressed.

  “No,” Paterson admitted grudgingly. “Not close, but good enough. It weren’t like there was more ’n one man come out o’ the lane all the time they were there. And there’s a light in that yard. No innocent man’d ’ave come out ’o that place an’ jus’ walked away!”

  “No,” Pitt conceded. “That has to be true. What did you do after that?”

  “The medical examiner told us who ’e was,” Paterson continued. “ ’E found ’is name on some things in ’is pockets, and there was the stub of a theater ticket too, for that night. So we knew where ’e’d been until an hour or so before ’e was killed. Naturally we went there.”

  “Who did you see?”

  “Well, the only ones who could tell us much were Miss Macaulay’s dresser, a Miss Primrose Walker, and the doorman, don’t remember ’is name now …”

  “Alfred Wimbush,” Pitt supplied. “What did they say?”

  “The doorman said as Mr. Blaine came to the theater pretty regular, like, and always visited backstage with Miss Macaulay afterwards,” Paterson recounted. “Quite often ’e’d stop for a bite o’ supper. She didn’t say nothing, but it were pretty obvious as they were fond o’ each other, putting it at its best.” There was a very slight sneer in his voice and Pitt ignored it with difficulty. “She was very badly shook by it,” Paterson said more gently. “Took it ’ard. She said Mr. Blaine ’ad been there that evening, an’ ’ad stayed late with ’er. Later she admitted ’e’d given ’er a very ’andsome necklace which ’e said ’ad been in ’is wife’s family fer years. An’ Miss Macaulay ’ad said she’d wear it for supper, but then ’e ’ad to take it back, as keeping it weren’t right. Least that’s what Miss Walker said, but it don’t look as if he did take it back, cos it weren’t on ’im when we found ’im.”

  “So Kingsley Blaine stayed late with Miss Macaulay, and left when?”

  “About midnight, or a minute or two after, say five past,” Paterson replied. “Wimbush told us that. ’E saw Mr. Blaine go out and closed the door after ’im. He said Blaine was scarcely out onto the footpath when a young lad came running across the street from the far side and latched on to ’im, telling ’im a message, something about meeting someone at a club to patch things up. Blaine seemed to understand it, said yes ’e would, turned ’is collar up and went off towards Farriers’ Lane—or in that direction, up north towards So’o.”

  “Did the doorman see who gave the boy the message?” Pitt asked.

  Paterson shrugged very slightly. “A figure, not much more. Said ’e thought it were someone fairly large, but then ’e changed ’is mind and weren’t sure whether it was because ’e were standing in the shadow. Certainly the doorman didn’t see ’is face.”

  “So as far as he knew, it could have been Aaron Godman, or almost anyone else?” Pitt said.

  “Anyone of more or less average height,” Paterson agreed. “But then if it was Godman, he would be careful not to be seen, wouldn’t ’e?” He raised his eyebrows. “Because ’e would know the doorman would recognize ’im, and remember.”

  “That’s true. You found the boy. What did he say?”

  Paterson looked less certain. “Like I said, ’e weren’t a very good witness. Just a street urchin, begging, stealing, surviving ’ow ’e could. ’Ated the police, like all ’is kind.” He sniffed and shifted a little in the seat. “ ’E said the man what gave ’im the message was old, then young. Said ’e were big, then ordinary. Frankly, sir, I don’t think ’e knew. All ’e cared about was the sixpence the fellow gave ’im. ’E did say ’e ’ad a Jewish nose, and seemed very excited. But then ’e would be. ’E were planning to murder a man.”

  “Was he always uncertain, or did he change his mind?” Pitt asked, watching Paterson’s face.

  Paterson hesitated. “Well … ’E changed ’is mind, but honestly, I don’t think ’e ever knew. ’E were un’elpful right from the start. That sort is. Don’t know the truth from lies ’alf the time.”

  “Did he identify Aaron Godman?”

  “No, not definite. Said ’e couldn’t be sure. But then ’elpin’ the police don’t come natural to them.”

  “What put you onto Godman? Why not O’Neil, or Fielding?”

  “Oh, we considered them, right enough.” Paterson’s voice had a hard edge to it now and his face was full of anger. “And I admit it often crossed my mind that Mr. Fielding might ’a known more than ’e ever said. But it was proved fair and square that it was Godman as did it.”

  “Wasn’t there a quarrel between Blaine and O’Neil?”

  “Yes, and according to some gentlemen we found who overheard it, it was pretty bad at the time, but the sort of ’eated quarrel young gentlemen ’ave when they’re a bit the worse for champagne and think their honor’s been questioned.” He looked at Pitt irritably, as if Pitt were raising the issue beyond reason. “It was all over a wager, and only a few pounds at stake. Which might seem a lot to you an’ me, but to the likes o’ them it weren’t much. Nobody but a madman would murder ’is friend over a few pounds.” His lips pulled crooked with the memory, and once again rage and horror overtook his momentary annoyance with Pitt. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you didn’t see that body. A man would ’ave to be insane with ’ate to do that to anyone. That weren’t caused by no quick temper over a wager—’ooever did that ’ad ’ated long and deep before it came to that night.”

  Pitt did not argue. The fierceness in Paterson’s voice and the sick memory in his eyes stifled it before it came to his tongue.

  “O’Neil is married to Blaine’s widow, you know,” he said instead.

  “I know that,” Paterson said between his teeth. “And don’t think I ’aven’t wondered since if ’e ’ad that in ’is mind before Blaine was dead,” he went on sharply. “ ’E may ’ave. That don’t mean to say ’e killed Blaine. No sir, Godman did that.” His face set hard and there was a flicker of loathing in his blue eyes. “Blaine were playing fast and loose with ’is sister. Got ’er with child, and promised to marry ’er, which ’e never intended to,” he said bitterly. “And when Godman found that out ’e lost ’is ’ead. You know Jews don’t like us touching their women any more’n we like it when they touch ours. They think we’re not as good as they are—sort o’ lesser, if you like. They’re the chosen race o’ God, and we’re not.”

  His body stiffened and he shook himself a little. “They think Christ was a blasphemer, and they crucified ’im. I guess some of ’em anyway still ’ate us. An’ Godman was one of ’em. And when ’e found out what ’ad ’appened to ’is sister ’e just went mad.” He shivered and let out his breath sharply, staring at Pitt.

  Pitt could fee
l the emotion in the room, the air still charged with it. Suddenly he perceived, as he had not before, what it had been like in the original investigation, the horror that had soaked everything, the fear of violence and madness, and then the anger. It reached out and touched him now like a sick coldness. He had been trying to understand with his mind. He should have used his imagination, his instinct.

  “Why are you so sure it was Godman?” he asked as calmly as he could, but he heard his own voice shake. “Apart from the motive.”

  “ ’E were seen,” Paterson answered immediately, his shoulders square, his chin up. “Positively. No shadows, no doubt. ’E stopped to buy flowers, the arrogant bastard! Sort of a celebration o’ what ’e’d done!” His voice was thick with fury. “ ’E stood right under the light. Anyway, the woman knew ’im. Seen ’is face on a poster and recognized ’im straightaway. In So’o Square, less than half a mile from Farriers’ Lane, and a few minutes after it ’appened. ’E lied. Said it were thirty minutes earlier.”

  “I see. Yes, you found the flower seller, didn’t you? Good piece of work.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “What was O’Neil doing at the time of the murder?”

  “Gambling at a club about a mile and a half away.”

  “Witnesses?”

  Paterson lifted one shoulder. “More or less. ’E could ’ave stepped out, but ’e’d ’ave been seen when ’e got back. There must ’ave been blood all over the place after a killing like that.” Again his face mirrored his horror and the outrage he still felt even now.

  “And Fielding?”

  “Went ’ome. No proof, o’ course.” Paterson shrugged. “But no reason to suspect ’im, since Godman was definitely alone. The men at the end o’ Farriers’ Lane swore to that. Fielding may’ve known about it, or guessed afterwards, but ’e definitely weren’t there at the time.”

  “Thank you. That’s all very clear.”

  “Is that all, sir?”

  “I think so.”

  Paterson stood up.

  “Ah—just one more thing,” Pitt added quickly.

  “Yes sir?”

  “When Godman came to court he was badly bruised, as if someone had beaten him. Who was that?”

  Paterson flushed a hot, dull red. “I—er—well, ’e weren’t an easy prisoner.”

  Pitt raised his eyebrows very high. “He resisted?”

  Paterson stammered and then fell silent.

  “Yes?” Pitt asked again.

  Paterson’s face set hard. “If you’d seen what ’e did to Blaine, sir, you wouldn’t ask, cos you’d feel the same.”

  “I see. Thank you, Paterson. That’s all.”

  “Yes sir.” Paterson stood to attention sharply, then turned on his heel and went out.

  Over the next two days Pitt patiently followed Paterson’s footsteps. He found Primrose Walker, Tamar Macaulay’s dresser, very easily. She was still in the company, and still working at the same task. She repeated what she had said originally, that Kingsley Blaine had visited Miss Macaulay frequently, and on that night he had given her a gift of an expensive necklace. She described it quite closely: a diamond scroll set with turquoise. She said Miss Macaulay had accepted it reluctantly, and only to wear that evening, then to return it. Had Miss Walker seen her return it? No, of course not. She did not attend the champagne supper. She could add nothing more.

  It was only a formality that Pitt had asked her. It was a foregone conclusion in his mind that she would repeat what she had said before, and it would support Tamar Macaulay, and thus Aaron Godman. The only thing that slightly surprised Pitt was that when speaking of Kingsley Blaine her face had softened and it was obvious her memory of him was gentle. Even now there was no dislike in her, no sense that he had betrayed her mistress.

  And Wimbush, the theater doorman, also repeated his original evidence. He was a small, lugubrious man with a long nose.

  “No, I didn’t see ’im proper,” he replied when Pitt asked him about the man on the far side of the street who had sent the boy over with the message. “Jus’ looked like a big geezer in the shadow o’ the wall opposite.”

  “Can you remember anything about him?” Pitt pressed. “Close your eyes and imagine it again. Go through your mind, exactly as it happened. You were standing at the doorway, making sure everyone left so you could lock up. Kingsley Blaine came out. Was he the last?”

  “Oh, yes sir.”

  “What about Miss Macaulay?”

  “She come out a few minutes before,” Wimbush replied. “Mr. Blaine went back for ’is gloves wot ’e left on the table. I got Miss Macaulay an ’ansom and she was gone before Mr. Blaine came back. I said good-night to ’im, an’ ’e were about ter go and look for a cab ’isself, when this skinny little lad, about eleven or twelve years old, come scarperin’ across the street an’ pulled at ’is sleeve. I were about to tell ’im ter clear orf, when ’e said as ’e’d got a message from a Mr. O’Neil, and to say as ’e were sorry about the quarrel they’d ’ad, and Mr. Blaine were right after all. An’ would Mr. Blaine meet ’im at Dauro’s Club right away and they’d make it up.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “So Mr. Blaine said yes ’o course ’e would, thanked the lad an’ gave ’im a couple o’ pence, then ’e set orf along the path towards Farriers’ Lane, poor devil. And that’s the last I ever saw of ’im alive.”

  “And the man who sent the message? Did he look like Mr. O’Neil to you?”

  Wimbush pulled a face. “Can’t say as ’e did. I can’t say as it looked like Mr. Godman neither. It were just a shape in the shadow, big like, with an ’eavy coat on. But I’ll tell you this—either it were a toff or someone got up to look like one.”

  “So everyone assumed it was someone who knew Mr. Blaine,” Pitt said as civilly as he could. He should not have been disappointed, but he was.

  “Yer asked me what I remembered,” Wimbush said with injured sensibility. “I told yer, ’e were a toff. Top ’at, silk scarf. I remember seein’ the light on it—all white ’round ’is neck.”

  “Did Mr. Godman have a top hat and a silk scarf?”

  “Not unless ’e were goin’ somewhere special.” Wimbush’s lips curled in a smile heavy with contempt. “ ’E were ’ere to work. Even gents don’t go to work in top ’ats and silk scarves.”

  “And that night?” Pitt said, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. Lambert would already have asked this, even if Paterson had not.

  “No ’e didn’t,” the doorman replied. “But then you’ll just say as ’e got one out o’ the dressers’ room or summink. That’s what they said before. Although why ’e should do that no one bothered wi’ askin’! Just make ’im more like to be noticed, I’d say. Them rozzers don’t think like ordinary folks.” He cleared his throat as if he were about to spit, then glanced at Pitt’s face and changed his mind.

  “Did you see Mr. Godman leave that night?”

  “No, I didn’t. Wish I ’ad. Leastways I spec’ I saw ’im, but I didn’t take any special notice.”

  “I see. Thank you.” He must remember to ask if Godman had had a scarf on when he was arrested.

  He spoke to Tamar Macaulay again, but she repeated what she had said before, and he found himself embarrassed for the cruelty of having to remind her of an act which had robbed her at once of both her brother and the man she loved. Her dark face was unreadable as she stood in the dust of the stage wings, the bare boards drafty, the huge canvas backdrops hanging on their pulleys over their heads, the limelight dead. He could see her only in the yellow glare of a gas bracket on the passageway towards the dressing rooms. Some theaters were already lit with electricity, but this was not one of them.

  He looked across at the strength in her, the hollows of her eyes, the perfect balance of nose, cheek and jaw which gave her face its power. Her tenderness, her laughter, would be worth waiting for, worth earning. How had Kingsley Blaine ever imagined he could play with such a woman and then expect to walk away freely? He must have been a f
ool, a daydreaming, irresponsible and complete fool. She would be capable of a passion fierce enough to crucify. Did she defend her brother so intensely, and at such cost to herself, because she believed Blaine had deserved it? And would she have done it herself, had she the physical strength? Was it guilt which drove her now?

  “Miss Macaulay,” he said aloud, breaking the eerie half silence of their island of unreality. All around them the theater was alive with sounds of preparation. “If it was not Mr. Godman killed Kingsley Blaine, who was it?”

  She turned and faced him with a sudden flash of humor. In the half-light it was exaggerated, and oddly without malice.

  “I don’t know. I suppose Devlin O’Neil.”

  “Over the quarrel about a wager?” Pitt allowed his disbelief to show.

  “Over Kathleen Harrimore,” she corrected. “Perhaps the passion sprang from his feeling for her, and the knowledge that Kingsley was betraying her with me.” A shadow of remorse passed over her face and unmistakable pain. “And it may have crossed his mind that Kathleen stood to inherit Prosper Harrimore’s estate, which is very considerable. And of course to have an excellent and assured living in the meantime.” She turned around to meet his eyes. “You think it is vicious of me to accuse him? I don’t think that it is—you asked me who else. I don’t believe it was Aaron. I never will.”

  Pitt did not argue. There was nothing else to say. He thanked her and took his leave to seek the urchin who was the one person who had seen the murderer’s face, albeit in the shadows, and had heard his voice.

  But although he searched every avenue he could think of, through police records, the general knowledge of the constables in Lambert’s station, his own contacts in the streets and the fringes of the semicriminal underworld, he had no success. There were whispers, false trails, information that turned out to be untrue, or too late. Joe Slater apparently did not wish to be found.

  It was on the third day, gray and cold with a knife-edge wind out of the east, before Pitt at last found him in Seven Dials, next to a stall selling secondhand boots. He was gangling, thin and fair-haired, his face wary and full of suspicion.