Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 13]

by Farriers' Lane

  Sunlight fell across a very formal desk, leather inlaid and furnished with onyx and crystal inkwells, and a stand for pen, seals, knife, tapers and sand. A dossier, tied in ribbon, still sat on one polished corner of the wood.

  Adolphus Pryce looked agitated. He was extremely fashionably dressed in black frock coat, pin-striped trousers and exquisitely cut waistcoat. He had a natural grace and a posture which made his clothes look even more expensive than they probably were.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” he said with an attempt at a smile, but it died on his lips almost before it was born. He looked as if he had slept little. “Withers tells me you have come about poor Stafford. I am not sure what else I can tell you, but of course I am more than happy to try. Please—be seated.” He waved his hand towards the large green leather upholstered chair near Pitt.

  Pitt accepted, leaning back and crossing his legs as if he intended to remain for some time. He saw the look of concern deepen in Pryce’s face as he too sat down.

  “Mr. Stafford came to see you yesterday,” Pitt began, not sure how best to draw the information he wanted, indeed not sure if Pryce possessed it. “Can you tell me what that concerned? I realize you cannot break confidence with a client, but Mr. Stafford himself is dead, and the Godman case is in the public domain.”

  “Of course,” Pryce leaned back a little and placed his fingertips together thoughtfully. “Actually he came entirely about the Godman case. Of course we exchanged a few pleasantries.” His discomfort returned for a moment. “We—we have known each other for some time. But his reason for calling was his concern, indeed his intention to act, with regard to that case.”

  “To act? He told you so?”

  “Yes—yes, indeed.” Pryce stared at Pitt very fixedly. He was a man of considerable charm and poise, aristocratic features and sufficient individuality to remain unmistakable in the memory.

  “To reopen the appeal?” Pitt pressed. “Upon what grounds?”

  “Ah—that he did not say, at least not specifically.”

  “Why did he come to you, Mr. Pryce? What did he wish you to do?”

  “Nothing. Oh, nothing at all.” Pryce lifted his shoulders very slightly. “It was really something of a courtesy, since I had been the original prosecuting counsel. And I suppose he may have wondered if I had had any doubts myself.”

  “If he intended to reopen the appeal, Mr. Pryce, he must either have found some breach of correct conduct in the original trial or else some new evidence, surely? Or there would be no grounds for raising the matter yet again.”

  “Quite. Quite so. And I assure you the original trial was perfectly properly conducted. The judge was Mr. Thelonius Quade, a man of the utmost integrity, and more than sufficient skill to not make an error by mischance.” He sighed. “It seems therefore an inevitable conclusion that Mr. Stafford had found some new evidence. He did intimate to me that it had to do with the medical testimony at the original trial, but he did not say what. He also implied that there was something else he felt was unresolved, but he did not elaborate.”

  “Medical evidence from the autopsy on Blaine?”

  “I presume so.” Pryce’s eyebrows shot up. “But I suppose it is possible he meant some examination of Godman, although what that could have to do with it, I have no idea.”

  Pitt was surprised. “What medical evidence was there to do with Godman?”

  “Oh—most disturbing. He was in a very poor shape when he came to trial. Several most unpleasant bruises and lacerations about the face and shoulders, and a serious limp.”

  “A fight?” Pitt was startled. No one had suggested self-defense; it had not even occurred to him. “Did Barton James not mention it during the trial?”

  “Not at all. The defense put forward was that of not guilty—that it was not Godman but another person, or persons, unknown. There was not the slightest suggestion that Blaine and Godman fought and Blaine died as a result of it.” His face tightened with revulsion. “And really, Mr. Pitt, it would be hard to countenance why Godman should have nailed the wretched man to the stable door. That is macabre—quite shocking! I think any jury in the land would find that indefensible, regardless of any provocation whatsoever!”

  “Is that what you would have done, had you been defending him instead of prosecuting, Mr. Pryce?” Pitt asked. “Would you have claimed it was not your client at all, and kept silent about any struggle?”

  Pryce chewed his top lip thoughtfully. “I find it hard to say, Mr. Pitt. I think on the whole I would have used self-defense; it would have had a better chance than not guilty. Godman was seen in the area very close to the time of the murder. He was identified by a flower seller, and he did not deny having been there; he simply said it was half an hour earlier than in fact it was. Others actually saw him coming out of the entrance of Farriers’ Lane, what must have been moments after the murder, and with blood on his clothes.”

  “And yet Mr. Barton James chose to put forward a complete denial!” Pitt was astounded. It was incomprehensible. “Did Mr. Stafford wish to reopen the case on grounds of incompetence of the original defending counsel? Surely, one can hardly rectify the case now. The only people who could possibly tell us if there was a fight, and what happened, are Blaine and Godman, and they are both dead.”

  “Precisely,” Pryce agreed ruefully. “I am afraid it is all speculation, and I can think of no way in which it will ever be anything more.”

  “And yet you say Mr. Stafford seemed to feel there was some purpose in pursuing it,” Pitt pointed out. “By the way, why was Godman supposed to have killed Blaine? What motive had he?”

  “Oh—sordid.” Pryce wrinkled his brow very slightly. “He was a Jew, you know, as naturally was his sister. Blaine was having an affaire with her, or so it was alleged. He was unquestionably pursuing her with some vigor, and on that very night had given her a necklace of considerable value which his mother-in-law had owned.” His face shadowed. “A very foolish thing to do, and in execrable taste. Well, Godman profoundly resented Blaine’s attentions to his sister, being aware that of course he had no intention whatever of marrying her—quite apart from the fact that she was a Jewess, and an actress, Blaine himself was already married.”

  “And Godman felt so violently on his sister’s behalf?” Pitt was surprised. Having met Tamar Macaulay, he found it hard to picture her as a romantic victim, in need of her brother’s protection. But then love can make fools of even the most forthright people, and strength of character or purpose was no protection whatever; indeed sometimes the most powerful could be the most deeply hurt.

  “Quite.” Pryce nodded. “It was a matter of family honor, and religious and racial honor as well. Just as we would be appalled if one of our daughters were to become involved with a Jew, so it seems they are equally horrified if one of theirs becomes involved with a gentile.” He tipped his chair a little farther back. “I suppose with a little imagination we might see their point of view. Anyway, that is why Godman killed Blaine—and he certainly would not be the first one to have knifed the seducer of his sister.”

  “No,” Pitt agreed. “Not by a long, long way. But that was not used as a defense, was it?”

  Pryce smiled. “I doubt society would have accepted Miss Macaulay’s virtue as adequate cause to justify murder, Mr. Pitt. I regret that would have been laughed out of court.”

  “Is her reputation so stained?”

  “Not at all. It is the reputation of actresses in general from which she would suffer. And I do not think a gentile jury would view with any kindness the excuse that he did not wish her to accept the favors of a gentile lover, as being tainting to her pure Jewish blood.” He pulled a sour face. “If every man who had courted a beautiful Jewess were to be crucified, we should need more crosses than they had in Rome—and the existence of our forests would be in jeopardy!”

  “Yes.” Pitt pushed his hands into his pockets. “Altogether an extremely ugly case, and calling for no public sympathy at all. I am surprised
that Miss Macaulay rose above the storm and still commands an audience in the theater.”

  Pryce shrugged. “I think she had a thin time of it for a while. But once Godman was hanged—and no one ever claimed she had had any part in it—then the public was satisfied, and chose to forgive her.” He reached forward absently and his long fingers touched the smooth surface of the jasper inkstand. “And perversely, there were many who secretly admired her loyalty to her brother, even while at the very same moment they lusted to hang him from the highest gibbet in the land. Had she turned on him, they would have branded her a traitor.” He let go of the stand. “It seemed she really did believe him innocent, and the public chose to believe her equally innocent of anything more than falling in love with a man who would never have married her.”

  “She lost her lover and her brother in one act,” Pitt said grimly.

  “It would seem so,” Pryce agreed.

  “But you said she accepted a valuable piece of jewelry from him—a family heirloom?”

  “She says she wore it that evening, for supper, and then insisted he keep it.”

  “And did he keep it?” Pitt asked.

  Pryce looked surprised. “I have no idea. It was not found on his body. Perhaps Miss Macaulay disposed of it, to lend truth to her story. To the best of my knowledge it has never been seen since.” His face quickened with hope. “Perhaps Stafford had learned something about that. That would make far more sense than some purely medical evidence about Godman which can never be verified. Indeed, that is quite a viable idea.”

  “Who knew about the necklace?” Pitt asked, his mind racing over possibilities, new threads that Stafford might have followed till he came close to a truth as yet unguessed, and frightened someone into murder. “It cannot have been long from the time he gave it to her until Godman left the theater.”

  “No—it was not,” Pryce agreed quickly. “It was testified to by Miss Macaulay’s dresser, Primrose Walker. She saw Blaine give it to her, and say that it had been in his family for years; in fact it had belonged to his mother-in-law. Miss Macaulay says that is why she gave it back to him, but unfortunately for her, there is no evidence to support that. Unless, of course, Stafford found something.”

  “Would he not have told you?”

  “Not necessarily. I was prosecuting counsel, Mr. Pitt, not defense. He may well have intended to tell Barton James as soon as he was certain of his own facts. Indeed he did mention that he intended to call upon James in the very near future.” He looked at Pitt with gravity, but there was a growing keenness in his face. “That would explain a great deal, which otherwise seems very odd.” He stopped, as if he feared he might have said too much, and waited for Pitt’s reply.

  “Did the police not remark the absence of the necklace at the time?” Pitt questioned, still turning over the facts in his mind.

  “No, not that I recall,” Pryce said slowly. “At least they may have done so, but it did not appear in evidence in the trial. Miss Macaulay claimed that she returned it to Blaine, and I think they merely disbelieved her, assuming either that she kept it—it was quite valuable—or that she said that in order to help her brother’s defense.”

  “Did it?”

  Pryce shrugged ruefully. “Not in the slightest. As I said, she was not believed. Perhaps we owe her an apology.” His face reflected regret, even a touch of pain. “I am afraid I implied that she was of dubious reputation in that regard, and that she would say anything to try to cast doubt on her brother’s guilt. Not an unreasonable assumption in the circumstances, but perhaps not true, for all that.” He winced. “It is a very ugly thought, Mr. Pitt, that one may have used one’s skill to hang an innocent man. The argument that it is one’s profession is not always satisfying.”

  Pitt felt an instinctive sympathy with him, and wounding memories of his own came sharply to mind. He liked Pryce, and yet there was something that disturbed him, something very faint, too amorphous to name.

  “I understand,” he said aloud. “I face the same.”

  “Of course. Of course,” Pryce agreed. “I wish I could tell you more, but that is all I know. I doubt Mr. Stafford knew any more, or he would surely have mentioned it.” He stopped, a shadow in his eyes, for all the easy composure of his bearing. “I—eh—I’m sorry. He was a personal acquaintance.”

  “I appreciate your feelings.” Pitt spoke because the situation seemed to require it. He did not often feel himself awkward or at a loss for words. He had faced others’ bereavements so often that, although he had never ceased to care, he had learned what to say. There was something in Pryce that confused him, as, on reflection, there was in Juniper Stafford. Perhaps it was no more than a very natural eagerness to have the solution found as soon as possible, scandal avoided, ugly or stupid speculation, so that people might remember Stafford with honor and affection, and the hideous fact of murder could recede into something apart, a tragedy to be dealt with by the law.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Pryce.” Pitt rose to his feet. “You have been most generous, and given me much to consider. There were undoubtedly aspects of the Blaine/Godman case that Mr. Stafford would have been justified in pursuing, and evidence to suggest that was what he intended. If the medical examiner’s report requires it, I shall follow them myself.”

  Pryce rose also, offering his hand.

  “Not at all. Please let me know if I can be of any further service, if you need to know anything more about the original case.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  Pryce saw him to the door, opening it for him, and the dutiful clerk conducted him through the office to the street.

  However, when Pitt went to see Mr. Justice Livesey in his chambers in the early afternoon, he met with a totally different response. Livesey received him graciously; indeed he seemed to have been expecting him. His rooms were very spacious, full of autumn sunlight reflecting on polished, inlaid furniture, a bureau of exquisite marquetry in tropical woods, wine-colored leather upholstered chairs, two vases of chrysanthemums. Two magnificent bronzes stood on a low bookcase and a marble mounted clock sat on the mantel.

  “I am afraid that is absolute nonsense,” Livesey said with a smile in answer to Pitt’s first remarks on the case. He leaned back in his great chair and regarded Pitt tolerantly. “Stafford was an intelligent and deeply responsible man. He was learned in the law, and he understood his duty towards it. A judge, particularly a judge of appeal, has a uniquely important position, Mr. Pitt.” His face was composed in an expression of quiet, profound confidence. “We are the last resort of the convicted to obtain mercy, or redress of a harsh or mistaken judgment. Similarly we are the final voice of the people in sealing a verdict forever. It is a monumental responsibility and we cannot afford error. Stafford was aware of that, as we all are.”

  He looked at Pitt with a growing smile touching his mouth. “I don’t know why people say that without the law we would be no better than savages. We would be far worse. Savages have laws, Mr. Pitt—usually very strict laws. Even they understand that no society can function without them. Without law we have anarchy, we have the devil stalking the earth, picking us off one by one, the weak and strong alike.” He pursed his lips. “We are all vulnerable at times. It is not only justice; in the end it is survival itself.”

  His steady eyes did not waver from Pitt’s face. “Without law, who will protect the mother and child who are tomorrow’s strength? Who will protect the geniuses of the mind, the inventor, the artist who enriches the world but has not the power of money or physical ability to defend himself? Who will protect the wise who are old, and might fall victim to the powerful and foolish? Indeed who will protect the strong from themselves?”

  “I have served the law all my adult life, Mr. Livesey,” Pitt replied, meeting his gaze. “You have no need to persuade me of its importance. Nor do I doubt Mr. Stafford’s service to it.”

  “I am sorry,” Livesey apologized. “I have not explained myself well. You are unfamiliar wit
h the Godman case, which was unusually ugly. If you knew it as well as I, you would also be quite certain that it was dealt with justly and correctly at the time.” He shifted his massive weight a little in his chair. “There was no flaw in the verdict, and Stafford knew that as well as the rest of us. He was disturbed because Tamar Macaulay would not let the matter drop.” His face darkened. “A very foolish woman, unfortunately. Obsessed with the idea that her brother was not guilty, when it was plain to everyone else that he was. Indeed there was no other serious suspect.”

  “Not the friend …” Pitt had to stop to recollect his name. “O’Neil? Did he not quarrel with Blaine that evening?”

  “Devlin O’Neil?” Livesey’s eyes widened; they were an unusually clear blue for a man of his years. “Certainly they had a disagreement, but quarrel is too large a word for it. There was a difference over who had won or lost a trivial wager.” He waved a heavy, powerful hand, dismissing it. “The sum involved was only a few pounds, which either of them could well afford. It was not an issue over which a man murders his friend.”

  “How do you know?” Pitt asked, equally pleasantly.

  “I was one of the judges of appeal,” Livesey said with a slight frown. “Naturally I studied the evidence of the trial very closely.” Pitt’s question perplexed him; the answer seemed so obvious.

  Pitt smiled patiently. “I appreciate that, Mr. Livesey. I meant whose testimony do we have for it? O’Neil’s?”

  “Of course.”

  “Not proof of a great deal.”

  A shadow of darkness and surprise crossed Livesey’s face. Obviously he had not considered it in that light.

  “There was no cause to doubt him,” he said with a trace of irritation. “The difference of opinion was observed by others, and told to the police when they investigated the murder. O’Neil was asked to explain it, which he did—to everyone’s satisfaction, except, apparently, yours.”