Farriers' Lane

“Yes.” O’Neil swallowed and coughed. “Yes—I’ll do that. Would you be kind enough to—no, I’ll do it myself.” And rather awkwardly he climbed to his feet again and stumbled across the hall to pull the bell rope.

He had just let it go when Prosper appeared at the top of the stairs, followed right on his heels by the constable. He looked bewildered, as though walking in his sleep. He came down slowly, holding on to the rail for support.

“Mr. Harrimore …” Pitt began. He looked at Harrimore’s face. It was curiously dead; only his eyes were frantic, full of darkness and pain. “Mr. Harrimore,” Pitt repeated quietly. He hated this even more than first telling the bereaved. “I am arresting you for the murder of Kingsley Blaine, five years ago, in Farriers’ Lane, and of Judge Samuel Stafford, and of Police Constable Derek Paterson in his home. I would advise you to come without resisting, sir. It will distress your family more than is necessary, and it will be hard enough for them as it is.”

Prosper stared at him as if he had not heard, or not understood.

Adah was coming down the stairs, clinging to the banister, her face ashen, her long gray hair over her shoulders in a thin braid, a shawl hanging open to show the thick fabric of her nightgown.

At last Devlin O’Neil came to life. He moved from where he had been standing by the bell rope and came towards the stairs.

“You shouldn’t be here, Grandmama-in-law,” he said gently. “Go back up to bed. I’ll come and tell you what’s happened. You go back and keep warm now.”

Adah waved her hand at him absently, as if to shoo him away. Her eyes were on Pitt.

“Are you taking him?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Yes ma’am. I have no alternative.”

“It’s my fault,” she said simply. “He did it, but it’s my fault, my guilt before God.”

Devlin O’Neil made as if to grasp at her, but she brushed him off, still staring at Pitt.

“Is it?” Pitt stared back at her tormented face. He did not need to know, but he knew she was going to tell him, and that the compulsion was beyond her to stop. Half a century of guilt and agony had to find release.

“I knew he was defiled before he was born,” she said. “You see my husband lay with a Jewess, and then with me while I was carrying him. I knew what would happen. I tried to get rid of him.” She shook her head. “I tried everything I knew—but I failed. He was born anyway—but deformed, twisted, like you see. I didn’t know he killed Kingsley, but I feared it. It was history all over again, do you see?” She stared at him, searching his face to be certain he understood.

“Yes,” Pitt said very quietly, sick with the misery of it. “I see.” He imagined Adah as a young woman, betrayed, bitter, believing without question the superstition she had been taught, hating the child inside her and terrified of the contamination she truly believed in, alone in some bathroom trying desperately to abort the baby in her womb.

He touched her arm, holding her. “There is nothing you can do now. Go back to bed. It’s over.”

She turned and looked at Prosper and for a moment their eyes met. Neither of them spoke. Then like a very old woman she did as Pitt had bidden her, and climbed back up the stairs, her feet leaden, her back bowed. Never once did she look behind her.

“I did not kill Judge Stafford,” Prosper said, staring at Pitt. “I swear by God, I did not. Nor did I kill Paterson. And I can prove it.”

It was a moment before Pitt fully comprehended what he had said, and that he meant it.

“But you killed Kingsley Blaine.”

“Yes—God help me. He deserved it!” His face came to life at last, his mouth twisted with anger and pain. “He was betraying my daughter with that Jewess. And doing to my grandchildren what my father did to me.” Suddenly the hatred vanished, leaving him wide-eyed. “But I did not kill Stafford! I never saw him within weeks of the day he died. And I didn’t kill Paterson. I was at a friend’s house all evening, and there are twenty men and women who will swear to that.”

Pitt’s mind was whirling. If Prosper had not killed Stafford, or Paterson, then who had—and why? For heaven’s sake—why?

Wordlessly he took Prosper by the arm and the constable fell in beside him on the right, and they walked to the front door past Devlin O’Neil, still stunned, his robe slack, oblivious of the cold. The constable opened the front door, and the three of them stepped outside back into the rain, Pitt carrying the sword stick.

12

CAROLINE WAS ECSTATIC. It was all over, and Joshua was freed from any suspicion whatever. He was guilty of nothing, and it had been proved. The anxiety was ended, even the smallest fear niggling at the back of the mind. The relief was overwhelming. She wanted to laugh aloud, to cry, to run and shout.

She looked at Charlotte’s face and saw the shadows in her eyes, the conflicting emotions tearing at her.

“What?” she said quickly, her mind confused. “What else? There is something you haven’t told me. What is it?”

“What are you going to do now?” Charlotte asked. They were standing in the withdrawing room in Cater Street. It was early morning and the fire was still only just burning up and there was little heat in it.

“I’m going to tell Joshua, of course,” Caroline replied, still puzzled. “And Tamar, naturally.”

“I didn’t mean right this minute …”

“Then what?”

“I—I mean about Joshua. There is no need to worry about him now.” She stopped, uncertain how to continue.