perhaps a blessing. What is far worse is that the other judge, Mr. Livesey, seems to think it may have been poison.”
“Oh, dear heaven!” Caroline was aghast. “You mean, he took his …” Then realization struck her. “No—you don’t, do you? You mean he was murdered!”
Charlotte sat down and took Caroline’s hand to draw her down again too.
“Yes, it seems a strong possibility. And I am afraid there is worse, much worse …”
“What?” Caroline’s eyes were wide. “What in heaven’s name would be worse than that?”
“Tamar Macaulay visited him today, about a very dreadful case for which her brother was hanged, about five years ago.”
“Hanged? Oh, Charlotte! How tragic. But whatever could Mr. Stafford have done about it?”
“Apparently she still believes he was innocent, in spite of all the evidence, and she wanted Stafford to reopen the case. Mrs. Stafford said Tamar had pestered him for a long time, and he was quite upset by it. After she left he went out very hastily and told Mrs. Stafford he was going to see the other principal suspects in the case.”
“And you think one of them murdered him?” Caroline concluded with distress. “And that—that was what we saw: We saw him murdered?”
“Yes. But Mama, the other suspects were a man called O’Neil—and Joshua Fielding.”
Caroline stared at her, her eyes hurt, her face full of confusion.
“Joshua Fielding,” she repeated, blinking. “Suspected of murder? Who? Who was killed?”
“A man called Blaine. Apparently it was a very shocking case. He was crucified.”
“What?” Caroline could not grasp what she had said. “You mean—no, you can’t! It’s …”
“Against a door,” Charlotte went on. “They hanged Tamar’s brother, but she has never believed him guilty. I’m sorry.”
“But why Joshua Fielding? Why should he kill this man? What reason could he have?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Stafford just said that the judge went to see both Mr. Fielding and Mr. O’Neil after Tamar called on him today.” She gave a harsh little laugh. “Or it must be yesterday, by now.”
“What is Thomas doing?”
“Finding out all he can, so that when he hands it over to whoever will look into the case—if, of course, it is poison and there is a case—so that they have all they can to begin with.”
“Yes. I see.” She shivered. “I suppose it would be remiss not to act. I had no idea when you married a policeman of some of the extraordinary things we should find ourselves doing.”
“Nor I,” Charlotte said frankly. “But some of them have been wonderful, some terrifying, some tragic, and many most deepening of experience, and I hope of wisdom and understanding. I pity those women who have nothing to do but stitch embroidery, flirt, gossip and try to think of something to do which could be called charitable and yet not impair their reputations or get their fingers dirty!”
Caroline pulled a slight face, but did not voice the argument in her mind. She knew Charlotte well enough to appreciate the pointlessness of it, and a small part of her had a sneaking desire to dabble in such adventures herself, not that she would have admitted it.
A few moments later the door opened and Pitt stood in the entrance, his face grave. His eyes went first to Caroline.
“I’m sorry, Mama-in-law,” he apologized. “But it seems as if it may be a case for the police, and since no one else is here now, I should go and see two of the actors. Stafford visited both of them earlier in the day. They may have some connection—or at least know something that explains what happened.”
Charlotte rose to her feet quickly, absentmindedly straightening her skirt.
“We’ll come with you. I don’t want to wait here, do you, Mama?”
“No.” Caroline stood up beside her. “No. I’d far rather come with you. We can wait somewhere where we shall not intrude.”
Pitt stepped back and held the door open for them. Hastily they passed through, then walked along the corridor with him to the stage door, which apparently he had found. The manager was waiting for them, shifting from foot to foot, his face creased with anxiety.
“What has happened, Mr. Pitt?” he said as soon as Pitt was close enough he did not need to raise his voice. “I know the judge is dead, but why do you need to see Miss Macaulay and Mr. Fielding? What can they possibly do to help?” He put his hands in his pockets and then pulled them out again. “I don’t understand, really I don’t! I want to be of assistance, naturally—but this is beyond comprehension.”
“Mr. Stafford visited with them earlier in the day,” Pitt replied, his hand on the door to the stage.
“Visited with them?” The manager looked appalled. “Not here, Inspector! Certainly not here!”
“No,” Pitt agreed as they walked in single file along the narrower passageway towards the room where Fielding and Tamar Macaulay had been asked to wait. “Miss Macaulay called upon the judge in his home. That at least we know.”
“Do we! Do we?” the manager demanded. “I know nothing about it at all!” He stopped and flung open the door. “There you are! I wash my hands of the whole affair! Upon my soul, as if this wasn’t bad enough! A judge dying in his box during the performance—and now the police! Anyone would think we were doing the Scottish play! Well go on, go on! You’d better do whatever it is you have to!”
“Thank you.” Pitt accepted with only the slightest twist of irony. He held the door just long enough for Charlotte and Caroline to pass through, then closed it with a very slight bow, just as the manager came to it.
Inside the room was calm and comfortable. Half a dozen easy chairs were scattered about over a carpeted
