were the scene of a tragedy.”
“Oh, no sir, you are mistaken,” Hobbs said in considerable agitation. “That was next door, I assure you! Yes, yes, next door.”
“No, Mr. Hobbs, it was here.”
“Oh! But you must be mistaken. The landlady assured me …”
“Possibly. But I was among those who found the body. I remember quite clearly.” He felt sorry for the man’s distress. “It seems you have been lied to, possibly in order to secure your tenancy. But they are very agreeable rooms. I wouldn’t let it dissuade you.”
“But really—murder, sir. This is dreadful!” Hobbs moved from one foot to the other.
“May I come in?”
“Well—yes, I suppose so, if you must. I am a law-abiding man, sir. I have no right to stop you.”
“Yes, you have, until I obtain a warrant, but I shall certainly do so, if you make it necessary.”
“No! No, not at all. Please.” And he opened the door so far back it knocked against the stop and shuddered forward again.
Pitt went in, remembering sharply and with a peculiar jolt of sadness his first time here, Livesey sitting in the chair looking sick, and the body of young Paterson still hanging by its rope in the bedroom.
“Thank you, Mr. Hobbs. If you don’t mind, it is the bedroom I wish to see.”
“The bedroom. Oh, my sainted aunt! The bedroom!” Hobbs’s hand flew to his face. “Oh dear—you don’t mean —not in the bedroom? The poor soul! I shall have to have the bed moved. I can’t sleep there now.”
“Why not? It is no different from last night,” Pitt said with less sympathy than he might have felt were there not so many other problems boiling in his mind.
“Oh, my dear sir—you jest at my expense.” Hobbs followed him anxiously to the bedroom door. “Or you are totally without sensitivity.”
Pitt had no time to be concerned about him. He knew he was being abrupt, but his mind was turning over every possibility, new ideas forming painfully. He looked at the room. It had not changed from his first visit except that of course the dreadful corpse of Paterson was no longer there, and the chandelier had been hung up again. Other than that it appeared totally untouched.
“What are you looking for?” Hobbs demanded from the doorway. “What is it? What do you think is here?”
Pitt stood motionless in the center of the floor, then began to turn very slowly, looking first at the bed, then the window.
“I’m not sure,” he replied absently. “I won’t know unless I see it—perhaps …”
Hobbs let out a gasp and fell silent.
Pitt turned towards the chest of drawers. It looked vaguely out of place, and yet he was sure it had been precisely there the first time.
“Have you moved that?” He looked around at Hobbs.
“The chest?” Hobbs was startled. “No sir. Most definitely not. I have moved nothing at all. Why should I?”
Pitt walked over to it. The picture on the wall was too close to it. But the picture had not been moved. He lifted it to make sure. There was no mark on the paper behind it, no pinhole. He ran his fingers over it to make doubly sure.
“What are you looking for, sir?” Hobbs said angrily, alarm making his voice rise in both pitch and volume.
Pitt bent down and looked very carefully at the floorboards, and at last he saw it, a very slight indentation about six inches from the front foot of the chest of drawers. There was a second indentation six inches from the back foot. That was where it had been accustomed to stand! It had been moved. And when he took off the cloth and looked at the polished surface there were scratch marks such as if someone had stood on it wearing boots, and slipped a little, losing his footing. He felt a little sick.
“You are sure you haven’t moved this?” He swung around to stare at Hobbs.
“I’ve told you, sir, I have not moved it,” Hobbs said furiously. “It is exactly where it was when I came here. Do you wish me to take my oath upon it? I will.”
Pitt rose to his feet. “No, thank you, I don’t think it will be necessary, but if it is, I shall call upon you to do so.”
“Why? What does it mean?” Hobbs was pale with agitation and mounting fear.
“It means, I think, that Constable Paterson moved this piece of furniture out of its place in order to climb up and take down the chandelier, then place his noose over the hook, and jump,” Pitt answered him.
“You mean his—murderer!” Hobbs gasped.
“No, Mr. Hobbs,” Pitt corrected. “I mean Paterson himself, when he realized what he had done to Aaron Godman; when he realized how he had allowed his horror and his rage at the time to blind him not only to the truth but to both honor and justice. He not only reached the wrong conclusion, he reached it by dishonest means. He did not listen to the flower seller; he made up his mind what had happened and coerced her into believing it. He was so sure he was right he forced the issue—and he was wrong.”
“Stop it,” Hobbs said in anguish. “I don’t want to hear it. It is quite terrible! I know what you are talking about—that murder in Farriers’ Lane. I remember when they hanged Godman. If what you are saying is true, then what hope is there for any of us? It can’t be! Godman was tried and found guilty, the judges all said so. You must be wrong.” He was wringing his hands in consternation. “They haven’t convicted Harrimore yet—and they won’t. You’ll see. British justice is the best in the world. I know that, even if you don’t.”
“I don’t know whether it is or not,” Pitt said evenly. “It doesn’t really matter.”
