His mind was far more taken up with wondering what Paterson could possibly have learned that he wished so desperately to communicate with the judge. Did it concern the Farriers’ Lane case, as they had instinctively supposed, or was it something quite different?
He left Lambert to pursue the physical evidence: the witnesses who might have seen someone going into the lodging house; where the rope had come from; any signs of an intruder, a footprint, a scrap of cloth; anything at all that indicated a struggle.
He himself went searching for meaning, motive for such an apparently senseless act. If it lay in a case Paterson had been working on currently, or in some part of his personal life, then it was Lambert who would have the background to find it. But if it lay in the Farriers’ Lane case, then it was only in pursuing that that the answer could be learned.
Had Paterson tried to contact anyone other than Judge Livesey? Might he have tried one of the other judges also? It was too late for Stafford, he was already dead. Sadler had retreated from all responsibility and would have given no answer. Boothroyd was too involved in his conspicuous philanthropy, his seeking for friends and influence, to have taken any part in such a wildly unpopular cause as reopening the Farriers’ Lane case.
That left Judge Oswyn, or perhaps the other lawyers in the case. Aaron Godman’s solicitor, and his barrister who had pleaded for him at the trial. Surely they would have been the natural people with whom to begin, if indeed there were anything new, anything that pointed to a different verdict, or an accomplice.
Why Livesey? Did he imagine him to have some integrity or power others did not?
Pitt began by seeking an appointment with Judge Granville Oswyn in his chambers, and was pleasantly surprised to be granted it almost immediately.
The room was large, sprawling and untidy, full of books, some in cases, some in piles covering tables and heaped on stools. There were several big plush armchairs, none matching anything, but all forming a comfortable whole. Old theater playbills decorated one of the walls, political cartoons by Rowlandson another. Oswyn was a man of interesting and catholic tastes. A beautiful bronze of a hunting dog stood on the bookcase, and there was a jasper-and-rock crystal paperweight on the desk.
Oswyn himself was a large, genial man in clothes that fitted him ill. He had the sort of face that seemed somehow familiar, even though Pitt knew perfectly well they had never met. A smile illuminated his features as though he were genuinely pleased to see Pitt.
“My dear fellow, come in, come in.” He rose from his seat behind the desk and waved at the best chair. “Do sit down. Be comfortable. What can I do for you? I have no idea, but do tell me.” He sat in his chair again, still smiling.
There was no point whatever in being devious, and no advantage to surprise.
“I am investigating the death of Judge Stafford,” Pitt began.
Oswyn’s face darkened. “Very nasty affair,” he said with a frown. “Very nasty indeed. Can’t think why. Honorable man. Hadn’t thought he had an enemy in the world. Seems I was wrong.” He leaned back and crossed his legs carefully. “What can I tell you that you don’t already know?”
Pitt sat back a little.
“He was reinvestigating the Farriers’ Lane case, you know?”
Oswyn’s face lost its geniality, and a flicker of anxiety crossed his eyes.
“No, I didn’t know. Are you sure you are not mistaken? There really was nothing else to pursue. We went through it very thoroughly at the appeal.” He looked at Pitt with concern crossing his face, leaning back and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, making a steeple out of his fingers. “He was far more likely just trying to satisfy that poor Macaulay woman. She would not let it drop, you know. Very sad. Devoted to her brother, and simply would not believe it. But there was no basis for doubt, you know. None at all. Everything was correct at the time.”
“What were the grounds for the appeal, sir?” Pitt asked, as if he had had no idea.
“Oh—medical. A formality really. Had to have something.”
“And did you treat it like that—as a formality?”
Oswyn’s face was aghast and he dropped his hands instantly. “Good heavens, no! Of course not. A man’s life was at stake, and even more, the whole principle of British justice. Must not only be done, but be seen to be done, and to the satisfaction of everyone. Or else justice ceases to be upheld, and then it works for no one. Oh, we examined the case in minute detail. There was no flaw in it, none at all.” He screwed up his eyes, looking at Pitt anxiously.
“Did Judge Stafford mention it to you lately?” Pitt felt his way, seeking for the question which would probe between the certainties of the obvious answers.
Oswyn hesitated only minutely, a moment of indecision, but it was there, and Pitt saw it. Oswyn smiled, understanding the expression in Pitt’s eyes, knowing he had seen.
“Well, yes, he did say something.” He shrugged. “But it was—not serious, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” Pitt said unhelpfully. “How could such a matter not be serious?”
But Oswyn had had time to think now. His answer came with assurance. “It was a nuisance. The poor Macaulay woman was still troubling him, trying to find someone to believe her and reopen the matter. And Stafford, poor devil, was the man she was directing her efforts towards.” He shrugged and smiled, attempting to look at ease. “He merely mentioned that. It was an embarrassment. Surely you can understand that, Inspector?” He laughed very slightly, but there was no nervousness in it, and no humor.
“In case there had been an omission, or an error?” Pitt asked.
“No!” Oswyn leaned forward, banging his hand down on the surface of the desk. His face was a little pink, his eyes earnest. “There was no …” He shook his head. “There was no error. The matter was very simple.” He stared at Pitt earnestly. “The appeal was raised on the grounds of the medical evidence. Yardley said originally that he thought the wound that killed Blaine had been caused by some sort of dagger. Then on examination he admitted that it could have been a particularly long farrier’s nail.”
“Farriers’ nails only come in certain lengths,” Pitt argued. “They have to go into horses’ hooves. There’s a limit to how long they can be, even though they are clipped off.”
“Yes, of course.” Oswyn waved the thought away impatiently. “All right, then an ordinary nail. The man is a surgeon, not a blacksmith. Perhaps it was just a loose piece of metal ’round the yard. The point is, it did not have to have been a dagger.”
“Were there any nails like that, or longer pieces of metal ’round the yard?” Pitt asked. “Surely a bloodstained piece would have been easy enough to find.”
Oswyn looked startled. “I have no idea. For heaven’s sake, man, we sat on the appeal. That was weeks after the trial, which itself was weeks after the crime. Every man and his father could have been through the yard by then, and probably had.”
“So whatever the weapon was, it was never found?”
“I suppose not. Perhaps it was one of the nails he used to hang him up by.” With an effort he lowered his voice. “But whatever it was, Inspector, it is far too late now to shed any light on it. Poor Stafford could hardly have been investigating that, could he?” He had scored a point of logic and he knew it.
“Nevertheless,” Pitt argued. “If Yardley changed his mind, then there was an element of uncertainty in the evidence. It seems to have been considered sufficient to take it to appeal.”
“A desperate measure.” Oswyn screwed up his face, his broad, mobile mouth rueful. “A man will try anything to avoid the rope, and who is to blame him?”
“Do you remember P.C. Paterson?” Pitt changed the subject abruptly.
“P.C. Paterson?” Oswyn repeated the name thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“He was the constable who carried out a great deal of the investigation.”
“Oh yes. Wasn’t he the one who found the final proof? The flower seller who saw Go
dman in Soho Square just after the crime. Good piece of work. Hero of the moment, Paterson. Why?”
“He was murdered on Tuesday night.”
Oswyn’s surprise and his sorrow both looked acutely real.
“Oh dear—I’m so sorry! What a damned shame. Very promising young officer.” He shook his head. “Dangerous trade, policing. But then of course you know that.”
“It was not in the course of duty, sir. He was murdered in his own home. Hanged, to be precise.”
“Good God!” Oswyn was totally stunned. The blood fled from his skin, leaving it pasty white, and all the sense of well-being and geniality that had been so much a part of him vanished. “How dreadful—how—Who was it?”
“We have no idea so far.”
“No idea! But surely—” He stopped abruptly, confused and profoundly unhappy. “You cannot think it had anything to do with Kingsley Blaine! I mean …” Instinctively his hand went up to his throat and he pulled at his collar, loosening it a fraction. “Why, for God’s sake?”
“That is what I am trying to determine, sir.” Pitt watched him closely. “I had questioned Paterson in some detail regarding his original investigation of the case. I am wondering if something I said prompted him to an act, a word to someone which may have resulted in his murder.”
Oswyn passed a hand over his brow, temporarily hiding his face from Pitt. “Are you trying to say that Godman was not guilty, and someone else is, and that person is now murdering anyone who appears likely to reopen the case? That makes little sense, Inspector. Have you been attacked?”
“No,” Pitt admitted. “But then I am still as confused as I was at the beginning. I have discovered no evidence at all to suggest Godman was not guilty. In fact the more I learn, the more certain it seems he was.”
Oswyn breathed in deeply and shook himself a little as if suddenly immensely relieved. “Indeed.” He swallowed hard. “Indeed. A tragic and extremely ugly case, but settled at the time.” He bit his lip. “I have been a servant of the law all my life, Inspector. I should—er—I should hate to think we could have made such a mistake. It would—jeopardize much that I believe to be of immeasurable value to the British people. Indeed, it is a model for the world.” He sounded oddly pompous, as if he did not entirely mean it. “A great deal of the law of the United States of America is based upon our common law. I suppose you were aware of that—yes, of course you were. The law is above us all, more important than any individual.”
“Surely the law can only be measured by how it deals with the individual, Mr. Oswyn?”
“Oh. I think that is too—too sweeping a statement, too simplistic, if you will forgive my saying so? There are profound issues at stake—” He stopped suddenly, his face pink. “But that does not help you in your quest to find out who murdered Mr. Stafford, or this unfortunate constable. How can I possibly help you?”
“I am not sure that you can,” Pitt conceded. “The last thing he did before he was killed was send a letter to Judge Livesey saying that he had learned something terrible and wished to tell him as soon as possible. Unfortunately—” He stopped. The color had fled again from Oswyn’s face and he looked ill.
“He—er …” Oswyn stammered. “He—he wrote to Livesey? What—what was it he had learned? Did he say? Do you know?”
Pitt was about to say no, then changed his mind.
“The letter was to Judge Livesey. It was he who found him, when he went the following day.”
“But what was in the letter?” Oswyn said urgently, leaning forward across the desk towards Pitt. “Livesey must have—”
“That is why I have come to see you, sir,” Pitt said, speaking the truth, and knowing a lie would be understood. “The Farriers’ Lane case—”
“I don’t know! I thought Godman was guilty. I still do.” There was a beading of sweat on his lip now. “I cannot say differently. I know nothing, and speculation would be totally irresponsible.” His voice was rising a little and threaded with anxiety again. “A man in my position cannot start making wild suggestions about miscarriages of justice. I have responsibilities—I can think …” He took a deep breath and let it go. “I owe—debts of obligation to the law I have served. I have duties. Of course if you have evidence, that would be different.” He stared at Pitt, his eyes wide and troubled, demanding an answer.
“No. No evidence yet.”
“Ah.” Oswyn let out his breath in a long sigh. “Then when I can help you, please come back and let me know.”
It was a polite dismissal and Pitt accepted it. He could learn nothing more from Oswyn anyway. There were no facts, only a profusion of impressions.
“Thank you, sir.” He rose to his feet. “Yes, certainly I will. As soon as I have found out exactly what that letter meant.”
“Yes—yes, of course.”
It was the next morning before Pitt could make arrangements to see Ebenezer Moorgate, the solicitor who had handled Aaron Godman’s case. He preferred to meet Pitt not in his chambers, which he shared with several others, but in a public house some mile and a half away. It was a small place, crowded with petty clerks, small tradesmen and idlers. Ale was slopped in the sawdust on the floor, and the smell of boiled vegetables mixed with that of stale beer, dirt, and too many people.
Moorgate looked out of place in his smart suit with its clean white shirt and stiff wing collar, and his well-barbered face. He had an ale mug in his hand, but he had not touched it.
“You are late, Inspector Pitt,” he said as soon as Pitt pushed his way through the throng and joined him at a small table in the corner. “Although I fail to see the purpose of this meeting. The case you refer to was over a long time ago. We appealed—and lost. It can only cause more grief, quite uselessly, to open it up again.”
“Unfortunately it is not an old case anymore, Mr. Moorgate. Two more people are dead.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Moorgate said guardedly, his fingers clasping his mug more tightly. “It cannot have anything to do with the case. That’s nonsense, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”
“Judge Stafford, and now Constable Paterson.”
“Paterson?” Moorgate’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know about that. Poor fellow. But it is coincidence. Tragic, but chance. Has to be.”
“He wrote to Judge Livesey just before he was murdered, saying he had something urgent to tell him—urgent and dreadful.”
Moorgate swallowed. “You did not say he had been murdered.”
At the next table a man turned around, his face full of curiosity. Beyond him another man stopped talking and stared.
Moorgate licked his lips. “What are you suggesting, Pitt? That someone from the Farriers’ Lane case is murdering people? Why? Revenge for Godman? That’s preposterous.” His voice rose a pitch higher and he was speaking more rapidly, unaware of the stir he was causing. “From what you say, it seems to me that Paterson may have discovered who murdered Stafford! Or thought he did. Obvious, don’t you agree? Could have been the Macaulay woman. Loss of her brother, all the scandal and such an appalling end, turned her mind.” He was staring at Pitt fixedly. “Known lesser things than that to drive a woman mad. Poison is a woman’s method, more often than not. Would have thought you could prove it.” He looked angry and faintly accusing.
“Possibly,” Pitt agreed. “Although since Stafford appeared to be considering reopening the case, I cannot see her motive. He was the one person she would most wish to remain alive.”
“Nonsense!” Moorgate dismissed it with a flick of his free hand. “Absolute nonsense, my dear fellow,” he repeated. “There is nothing to reopen it for. I am very familiar with it, you know. I was the instructing solicitor at the time. If ever I saw a hopeless case, that was it. Did all we could, of course. One has to. But there was never any chance!” He shook his head sharply. “Wretched fellow was guilty as the devil.”
Suddenly he remembered his ale and took a sip of it, looking around at the considerable number of people now staring a
t him. “Miss Macaulay could not accept it. Quite often takes the family like that. Natural, I suppose. But Stafford probably told her so that day, and I daresay in her disappointment and frustration she killed him. She would view it as a kind of betrayal. Very intense woman, you know, very emotional. I suppose actresses are like that—lightly balanced. No fit occupation for a woman—but then no gentlewoman would take it up, so there you are.”
“She didn’t kill Paterson,” Pitt said with an unreasoning distaste that surprised him.
“Are you sure?” Moorgate did not bother to conceal his skepticism.
“Quite sure,” Pitt said sharply. “He was hanged from the ceiling, in his own lodgings. No woman on earth could have accomplished that. It must have been a powerful man to do it. Just as it took a powerful man to lift Kingsley Blaine up and hold him while he nailed his wrists to the stable door.”
Moorgate winced and put down his ale mug as if it had turned suddenly sour and undrinkable. Now every man within twenty feet of them was silent and staring.
“Let me understand you, Inspector. Just what are you suggesting?” Moorgate said with considerable anger and a pink color rising up his cheeks.
“The facts suggest, Mr. Moorgate, not I,” Pitt replied calmly.
“They suggest a personal quarrel to me.” Moorgate swallowed. “Had he a love affair of some sort? Perhaps a jealous husband is involved.”
“Who hanged him?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Is that your usual experience, Mr. Moorgate?”
“I have no ‘usual experience,’ ” Moorgate said coldly. “I am a solicitor, not a barrister. And please keep your voice down. You are making a spectacle of us! Murders are rare in my practice. And I have very little idea of what jealous husbands or lovers do when they find they are betrayed.”
“Something hot-blooded or physically violent,” Pitt replied with a twisted smile, aware of the crowd around them. It was not his voice which had aroused their interest. “Shoot if they have a gun,” he went on. “Stab if a knife is available, which is not hard to find. If a spontaneous fight breaks out, then they strike, or even throttle. To go to a man’s home taking a length of hemp, and then remove the chandelier, presumably either before he arrives, or while you have him unconscious, or bound, then string him up by the neck and hang him till he is dead—”
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