“Messy? Coming to pieces?” Pitt asked.
“Yes sir.”
“And that suit is still on Mr. Stafford?”
“Yes sir.” The valet stared at him with growing alarm.
“Thank you. That’s all.” And without waiting any further he went downstairs, bade the footman in the hall thank Mrs. Stafford, and took his leave.
“You what?” Drummond demanded incredulously, his face dark.
“I want to exhume the body of Samuel Stafford,” Pitt repeated as calmly as he could, but still his voice shook. “I have to.”
“For the love of God—why? You know what he died of!” Drummond was appalled. He leaned across his desk, staring at Pitt in consternation. “Whatever purpose can it serve, apart from distressing everyone?” he demanded. “We’ve got enough public anger and blame over this already. Don’t make it immeasurably worse, Pitt.”
“It’s the only chance I have of solving it.”
“Chance?” Drummond’s voice rose in exasperation. “Chance is not sufficient. You must be sure, if I am going to ask the Home Office for permission to dig him up. Explain to me exactly what you will achieve.”
Still standing in front of the desk like a schoolboy, Pitt explained.
“On the cigar?” Drummond said with slowly widening eyes. “As well as in the flask? But why? That’s absurd.”
“Not as well as, sir,” Pitt said patiently. “Instead of. That would explain why the whiskey in the flask didn’t have any effect on the other man who drank it.”
“Aren’t you forgetting we found opium in the flask?” Drummond asked with only a slight edge of sarcasm. He was too worried to give it full rein. “And all this on the word of Oscar Wilde, of all people? I know you’re desperate, Pitt, but I think this is taking it too far. It isn’t sense. I don’t think I could get you an exhumation order on the evidence, even if I wanted to.”
“But if the opium was on the cigar butt, not the flask, it changes everything,” Pitt argued desperately. “Then there is only one conclusion.”
“It was in the flask, Pitt! The medical examiner found it there. That is a fact. And anyway, the cigar butt was thrown out, you told me that.”
“I know, but if it was in his pocket for several hours, and crumbling, as the valet said, there may be enough there for traces of opium to be found.”
Doubt clouded Drummond’s eyes.
“It’s the only explanation we’ve got,” Pitt said again. “There’s nothing else to pursue. Are you prepared to close the case unsolved? Someone killed Judge Stafford …”
Drummond took a deep breath. “And poor Paterson,” he added very softly. “I feel very badly about that. I don’t know whether the Home Office will grant it, but I’ll try. You’d better be right.”
Pitt said nothing, except to thank him. He had no certainty to reassure either of them.
Until Micah Drummond should tell him whether he had succeeded or not, there was nothing further for Pitt to do regarding the exhumation. But one thing was quite clear in his mind. The solution to Paterson’s death would not be answered by finding opium in Stafford’s pocket. That was still as big a mystery as it had been the very first morning when they found the body. Only one thing was beyond question. Harrimore had not killed him.
Without forming a conscious decision, Pitt found himself outside on the pavement in Bow Street looking for a hansom. When he stopped one, he gave the address of Paterson’s lodgings in Battersea, and sat uncomfortably as the vehicle lurched forward and clattered along the street.
When they arrived he climbed out, paid the driver and went to the door. It was opened by the same pale, grim woman as before. Her face darkened as soon as she recognized Pitt, and she made as if to close it.
He put his foot against the lintel. “I want to see Constable Paterson’s rooms again, if you please,” he asked.
“They ain’t Constable Paterson’s rooms,” she said coldly. “They’re mine, an’ I let ’em to a Mr. ’Obbs. I can’t go openin’ ’em up an’ disturbin’ ’im, for any ol’ p’lice as comes ’ere.”
“Why would you want to stop me from finding out who murdered Paterson?” he asked with a hard edge to his voice. “It would be most unpleasant for you if I were obliged to have police watching the house day and night, and question all your lodgers again. I’m surprised you don’t think it altogether a better thing to let me come in and look at one room.”
“Or’right,” she snapped. “Bleedin’ rozzers. I s’pose there in’t nuffin’ I can do ter stop yer. Bastard!”
He ignored her and went up the stairs to the door of what had been Paterson’s rooms, and were now presumably those of Mr. Hobbs. He knocked loudly.
There were several seconds of silence, then a scuffling of shoes on the far side, and the door opened about six inches. A face appeared a foot or so below him, pale, surrounded by gray whiskers. Anxious blue eyes looked up.
“Mr. Hobbs?” Pitt asked.
“Y-Yes, y-yes, that’s me. What can I do for you, sir?”
“I am Inspector Pitt of the metropolitan police …”
“Oh—oh dear!” Hobbs was filled with alarm. “I assure you, I know of no crime, sir, none at all! I am sure I regret, but I can offer you no assistance whatever.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Hobbs, you can allow me inside to look at your rooms, which as you are no doubt aware
