Farriers' Lane

even of visions, not a pleasant pastime, a little laughter and sensuality away from the duties of marriage or the loneliness of a bachelor life. Charlotte could not imagine her as a comfortable woman, and she believed Pitt did not either.

“I do not leap to conclusions, Miss Macaulay.” Pitt’s voice cut across her thoughts. “Even when they seem on the firmest of ground.”

A smile flashed across Tamar’s face and vanished.

“And you, Mr. Fielding?” Pitt turned to Joshua. “Did Mr. Stafford come to sec you about this case?”

“Yes, of course. I gathered from what he said that he was considering reopening it after all.” He sighed heavily. “Now we have lost that chance. We have not managed to persuade anyone else to consider it at all.”

“Did you see him alone, Mr. Fielding?”

“Yes. I imagine that there is no point in my telling you what happened, since there is no one to verify it.” Joshua shrugged. “He simply asked me about the night Blaine was killed, and made me rehearse everything I know all over again. But he said he was off to see Devlin O’Neil—that was Blaine’s friend, with whom he quarreled that evening—over money, I think.”

“Did he have this with him?” Pitt pulled the silver flask out of his pocket and held it forward.

Joshua regarded it curiously. “Not that I saw, but then one doesn’t usually carry such a thing where it is visible. Why? Is it poisoned?”

Tamar shrank a little into herself and looked at it with distaste.

“I don’t know,” Pitt replied, putting it away again. “Have you seen it before, Miss Macaulay?”

“No.”

Pitt did not argue.

“Thank you. I expect whoever is in charge tomorrow will speak to you again. I’m sorry to have had to distress you this way.”

Joshua shrugged gently, a smile crossing his face and disappearing.

Pitt bade them good-night and after the briefest exchange Charlotte, Pitt and Caroline took their leave. Outside the night was dark; the theater lights were dimmed now, only the ordinary street lamps like luminous pearls in a faint fog that was gathering in gauzy wraiths in the air. Carriage wheels hurried along the damp streets and hooves clattered sharply on the wet stone.

Had Stafford planned to reopen the case of murder for which Aaron Godman had been hanged? Was that why he had been killed? Tamar Macaulay wanted it reopened. Who wanted it kept closed—enough to murder?

Or was it something entirely different: a different person, a different fear—or hate?

Charlotte walked a little faster and linked her arm in Pitt’s as he looked for a hansom to take them home.

2

MICAH DRUMMOND was in his office early in the morning. Since the case which had centered on Belgrave Square that summer, and produced so much horror and scandal, and for Drummond himself, knowledge that affected every part of his life, he was no longer happy with his own thoughts. Work was something of a relief, even though it offered reminders far too often of just what a tortuous web of obligations he had unknowingly entered when he accepted membership in the secret society of the Inner Circle.

Eleanor Byam was a different matter. The only way he could keep his mind from her was to sink it in the urgent and complicated problems of other people.

He was standing near the window in the thin autumn sunlight when Pitt knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Drummond said hopefully. There was too little on his desk and what there was was stale. He had already read it and delegated it appropriately. Now all he could do was send for further reports every so often to keep him abreast of every new turn of events, which would be more interference than his officers deserved. “Come in!” he said again more sharply.

The door opened and Pitt stood in the entrance, his hair curling wildly, his jacket crooked and his cravat in imminent danger of coming undone completely. Drummond found him a remarkably reassuring sight, at once familiar and yet always on the brink of some surprise.

Drummond smiled. “Yes, Pitt?”

Pitt came in, closing the door behind him.

“I was at the theater last night.” He put his hands in his pockets and stood in front of the desk, at anything but attention. In another man Drummond might have resented it, but he liked Pitt too much to wish to reaffirm their relative positions of authority.

“Oh yes.” Drummond was surprised. It was not one of Pitt’s regular habits.

“Invitation from my mother-in-law,” Pitt elaborated. “Justice Samuel Stafford died in his box,” he went on. “I saw him taken ill and went to offer any help I could.” He pulled a silver hip flask out of his jacket pocket, a beautiful thing gleaming in the light.

Drummond looked at it, then at Pitt’s face, waiting for the explanation.

Pitt put the flask on the green leather desk top.

“There’s no medical report yet, of course, but it looked too much like opium poisoning to ignore the possibility. Justice Ignatius Livesey was there as well. He’d been in the next box and came to help too. Actually it was he who realized it might well be poison. He saw Stafford drink from the flask, so he took it from Stafford’s pocket and gave it to me, for the medical examiner to look at.”