“All about the murder o’ Mr. Blaine, sir. Jus’ like you did. An’ I told ’im just the same as I told you.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothin’. ’e just thanked me, and then went orf.”
“Where to, do you know?”
“No sir, ’e din’t say.”
But Pitt did not need the doorman to tell him. He spoke to Tamar Macaulay’s dresser, who told him the same. Paterson had seen her, and asked all the old questions. She had given him the same replies.
Pitt left the theater and turned north, towards Farriers’ Lane. It was late afternoon on a cold, gray day with the pavements gleaming wet from the rain and the wind chasing rubbish along the gutters.
He passed beggars, street traders, peddlers and those with nothing to do but stand around huddled against the cold, looking for a place to shelter for the night, doorways to sleep in. A brazier with a one-armed man selling roasted chestnuts was a welcome glow in the gloom, and a small island of warmth. There were a dozen men standing around it.
It reminded Pitt of the men who had been idling near Farriers’ Lane on the night Kingsley Blaine was murdered. He knew their names. They were there on the original records he had read in the beginning. He had read it again, to remind himself.
There was little chance of finding any of them now. They could have moved to other areas, found a better way of life, or a worse one. They could be ill, or dead, or in prison. Mortality was high, and five years a long time.
Had Paterson bothered to look for them? Or for the urchin, Joe Slater?
Surely he would have gone to the flower seller first? If she was still there.
And yet as he was within a few hundred yards, Pitt found himself drawn to Farriers’ Lane.
He quickened his pace, striding over the wet cobbles with urgency, as though he might miss something if he hesitated. He turned the last corner and saw ahead of him, far on the left side, the narrow opening of Farriers’ Lane, a black slit in the wall. He slowed his step. He wanted to see it, and at the same time it repelled him. His stomach clenched, his feet were numb.
He stopped opposite it. As Paterson had said, the street lamp was about twenty yards away. The wind was whining in the eaves of the roofs above him and rattling an old newspaper along the road. The half-light was dimming and the gas in the lamps had already been lit. Still Farriers’ Lane was a dark gulf, impenetrable.
He stood roughly where the idlers had been that night and stared across the street. He could have seen a figure quite clearly, the darkness of a man walking would have been unmistakable. But unless he had stopped and faced him, under the light, he could not have seen his face.
He stepped out across the street and with faster beating pulse and a catch in his throat, went into Farriers’ Lane.
It was narrow, smooth underfoot, but he could see almost nothing ahead of him except the outline of the last wall before the stable yard. There must be a light there; its glow was unmistakable even from the first yard or two. He imagined Kingsley Blaine having come this way as a shortcut to the club where he expected to meet Devlin O’Neil. Had he even thought of anyone as he stepped out of the uncertain light of the street into the shadows of the lane? Had the attack come as a complete surprise?
Pitt’s footsteps rang on the stones, urgent, sharp with fear. The mist caught in his throat and his breath was uneven. He could see the lamp on the wall now illuminating the yard ahead of him. It had been a smithy. Now it was a brickyard. He walked out into it, slowly, trying to imagine what it had been like that night. What had Kingsley Blaine seen? Who had been waiting there for him? Aaron Godman, the slender, mercurial actor dressed for the theater, a white silk scarf gleaming in the stable lamp, a long pointed nail in his hand? Or a dagger which no one had ever found? Surely that hardly mattered? It would be easy enough to lose such a thing, wouldn’t it? Of course the police had searched and found nothing. All it needed was a drain.
Or had it been someone else? Joshua Fielding? Even Tamar herself—helping, urging him on.
That was a hideous thought and without knowing why he thrust it away from him.
He stood still, staring around him. That must be the old stable over to the left. Half a dozen boxes. One door was different from the others, newer.
He felt a little sick, the sweat cold on his body.
He turned and went back into the darkness of the alley, almost at a run. He burst out into the street again breathlessly, his heart beating in his throat, then stopped abruptly and stood for a minute. Then he walked on back towards Soho Square where the flower seller had her position.
He was traveling so rapidly now he bumped into people as he passed, his feet clattering on the pavement, his breath rasping.
The flower seller was there, a short, fat woman wrapped in a rust brown shawl. Automatically she pushed forward a bunch of mixed flowers and went into her singsong patter.
“Fresh flowers, mister? Buy a posy o’ fresh flowers fer yer lady, sir? Picked today. Look, still fresh. Smell the country air in ’em, sir.”
Pitt fished in his pocket and took out a threepenny piece.
“Yes, please.”
She did not ask if he wanted change, she simply clasped the coin and gave him two bunches of flowers, her face lighting up with relief. It was getting colder with the darkness and it seemed she had had a poor day.
“Been here long?” Pitt asked.
“Since six this morning, sir,” she replied with a frown.
A couple passed by on the way to a party, her long skirts wet from the pavement, his silk hat gleaming.
