“I have no idea,” Caroline answered very quietly. “That depends upon him. I shall enjoy each day, and let the one after take care of itself. And Charlotte, my dear …”
“Yes?”
“That is all I am prepared to say on the subject, either to you or to Grandmama.”
“Oh.”
“And now I am going to order the carriage and go and tell Joshua and Tamar the news. You may come if you wish.”
“Yes—yes, I will tell Tamar. I would like to do that.”
“Of course. I think you should.”
It was too early to find anyone at the theater, so Charlotte and Caroline went to the house in Pimlico. They were let in by a surprised Miranda Passmore, but as soon as she saw their faces she knew the news was good. She threw open the door and ushered them in, taking Caroline by the arm and calling loudly for her father.
“Is Miss Macaulay in her rooms?” Charlotte asked, caught up in the happiness of the moment in spite of her own reservations about Caroline and Joshua.
“Yes, I’m sure. She wouldn’t have gone out this early. You want to tell her yourself? You should. It is all over, isn’t it?” Miranda swung around to face them. “I didn’t even ask you, but I can see you’ve discovered something wonderful. He was innocent, wasn’t he?” Her words tumbled over each other. “Can you prove it at last? You can— can’t you?”
Charlotte found herself smiling, unable to deny such pleasure.
“Yes—and better than that, last night they arrested the man who really did it.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous!” Miranda did a little twirl around on the spot out of sheer joy, then clasped Charlotte in a spontaneous hug. “That’s wonderful! You are brilliant! You’d have liked Aaron, he was a bit like you—impulsive and full of ideas. Come, you must tell Joshua too.” This last was to Caroline. “He’ll be in his rooms as well, probably having breakfast. Come on up.”
Charlotte left Caroline outside Joshua’s door. She did not need to hear Caroline’s voice lifted in excitement and happiness, the relief in him, the thoughts and memories of a dead friend, the sense of victory, and the sorrow that all of it was so dreadfully, disastrously late.
She went on up behind Miranda to Tamar’s rooms and knocked on the door.
Tamar opened it after a moment, looked first to Miranda’s shining face, then at Charlotte.
“It’s over,” Charlotte said quietly. “They arrested Prosper Harrimore last night, and he did not even deny it. All the world will know Aaron was innocent.”
Tamar stood motionless, simply staring at Charlotte, searching her face to make absolutely sure she could not be mistaken, then as she believed it the tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She lifted her hands, and then let them fall.
Charlotte forgot everything about decent restraint, good manners and all rules of etiquette and threw her arms around her, holding her tightly and finding her own eyes stinging. Caroline was forgotten. If she too was in Joshua’s arms and they laughed or cried or clung to each other, it did not matter, at least for now.
Pitt felt far from happy. To have solved the murder in Farriers’ Lane reversed an old and bitter injustice, but it could not help Aaron Godman now. Nothing could undo his suffering or retrieve his loss. It was a small balm to the living, but any redress of wrong was worth fighting for, even when it would cause the guilt and the questions that this would, including the ruin of several reputations.
But he had expected it also to solve the murders of Samuel Stafford and Constable Paterson. And it had not. Apart from the fact that he believed Harrimore, it took him only an hour to ascertain that it was physically quite impossible for him to have committed either crime. His time was fully and unequivocally accounted for.
So who had killed Stafford, and why?
Was it conceivable that it was not anyone they had so far suspected? No one in the theater had any motive that he could imagine. If Stafford had indeed been considering reopening the Farriers’ Lane case, then it was supremely in their interest that he should remain alive. None of them was guilty. That was now undisputed.
He was forced to think again of Juniper and Adolphus Pryce. But they had each feared it was the other.
Who did that leave?
No one.
He could think of no alternative but to go back once more and retrace Stafford’s actions all that last day, speak again to anyone who had seen him, cross-check every piece of evidence and see if he could draw anything new from it.
He set out for the police station where he had gone to tell Drummond that he had ascertained that Harrimore could not be guilty of Stafford’s death or Paterson’s. The day was crisp and cold. A weak sun shone fitfully through the drifting clouds of smoke from countless chimneys, and the paving stones were slippery with ice. Fresh horse manure in the street steamed gently in the freezing air.
He did not expect to learn anything from those involved with the case of Kingsley Blaine. It seemed after all as if Stafford’s death had no connection with it except that of coincidence. O’Neil would have more tragedy than any man could deal with today, and Pitt would certainly not intrude on him unless it were a matter of crisis. And neither had he any wish to see Joshua Fielding or Tamar Macaulay. They would be celebrating the end of five years’ nightmare. Nothing would bring back the dead, but at last the shame was gone. And although it had had nothing to do with Pitt at all—far from it, he had been the one to resolve it—still he felt implicated because he represented the law to them. He was a member of the police who had unwittingly wronged them so irretrievably.
He paced along the footpath deep in thought, narrowly avoiding bumping into people. The clatter of wheels and hooves, the cries of coachmen, costers and crossing sweepers passed over him in a sea of sound he ignored. When the early afternoon newspapers carried word of Harrimore’s arrest all London would know of it. His mind was filled with the furor it would cause. He even wondered if he should go and tell Lambert himself. But how could he phrase it? Simply to announce it would sound like self-praise, and criticism that Lambert had been tragically wrong. To express sorrow or sympathy would be unforgivably condescending. Lambert would be bound to think he had come in
