“Don’t think he took it intentionally,” Pitt answered.
“Murder! Thought so. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” He held up the flask and looked at it, reading the name engraved. “Samuel Stafford.” His face sharpened. “Didn’t he die last night? Heard the newsboys shouting something about it.”
“Yes. Let me know as soon as you can.”
“Most certainly. If it is opium, I’ll know by tonight. If it’s something else, or nothing, it’ll take longer.”
“The autopsy?” Pitt asked.
“It’s the autopsy I’m talking about now,” Sutherland replied quickly. “The whiskey’ll only take a moment. Not complicated. Adulterate even a moderate whiskey and it’s not hard to find.”
“Good. I’ll be back for it,” Pitt said.
“If I’m not here, there is my home,” Sutherland said vigorously. “I’ll be there from about eight.” And without adding anything further he resumed his study of the microscope. Pitt placed his card on the marble bench top, with the Bow Street station address printed on it, and set out to begin his investigation.
The first thing to determine was whether Stafford had intended to reopen the Blaine/Godman case or not. Surely if he had taken the time to go and see both Joshua Fielding and Devlin O’Neil, then he must at least have considered it. Would he have bothered to tell anyone other than Tamar herself if the matter must remain closed?
Or was Livesey right, and he intended only to prove once and for all that Godman was guilty and there could be no more question raised on the matter, or suggestions that somehow justice had miscarried? Constant doubts, however trivial or based in emotion, old loyalties and loves, still disturbed public confidence in justice and the administration of the law. When the law itself was not held in respect, then everyone suffered. It would be a natural and honorable thing for Stafford to do.
In seeking to establish Godman’s guilt, and justify the law, even to Tamar herself, had he unwittingly stumbled on some irregularity? Had he frightened someone guilty of—what? Another crime? A private sin? A complicity of some nature?
The place to begin, regrettable as it was, had to be with the widow. Accordingly he strode along the pavement past elegant ladies on their way to see dressmakers and milliners, servants on errands, petty clerks and tradesmen about their business. It was a brisk, chilly morning and the streets were clattering with noise of horses’ hooves, carriage wheels, shouts of drivers and costermongers, crossing sweepers, newsboys, running patterers singing the ballads of scandal and folk drama.
He hailed a hansom and gave the Staffords’ home address in Bruton Street, off Berkeley Square, which he had obtained from the desk sergeant in Bow Street. He sat back as the cab bowled west along Long Acre, and began to contemplate the questions to which he must find answers.
It was an unpleasant thought that if the judge’s death had nothing to do with the Blaine/Godman case, then since Stafford was not presently involved in any other plea, it might prove to be a personal matter, a private vengeance or fear, very probably to do with his family—his widow—perhaps money.
Tomorrow he would know more, at least if Sutherland found opium in the body and in the flask. But if Stafford had in fact died of some disease no one else had been aware of, if his private physician could offer some explanation, then he could happily forget the whole matter. But it was a hope that hovered beyond the edge of his mind, not a solution he expected.
The Staffords’ house was easy to find. There were dark wreaths hung on the door and black crepes over the drawn curtains on the windows. A pale-faced maid in a hat and coat came up the areaway steps and set out along the footpath on some task, and a footman with a black armband carried a coal scuttle inside and closed the door. It was a house conspicuously in mourning.
Pitt alighted, paid the cabby, and went to the front door.
“Yes sir?” the answering parlormaid asked dubiously. She regarded Pitt with disfavor. He looked like a peddler at first glance, except that he carried nothing to sell. But there was a confidence in his manner, even an arrogance, which belied any attempt to ingratiate. She was flustered and overwhelmed with the drama of events. The housemaids were all in tears, the cook had fainted twice, the butler was more than a trifle maudlin, after a long time in his own pantry with the cellar keys, and Mr. Stafford’s valet looked as if he had seen a ghost.
“I am sorry to disturb Mrs. Stafford at such a time,” Pitt said with all the charm he could muster, which was considerable. “But I require to ask her a few questions about events last night, in order that everything may be settled as quickly and decently as possible. Will you please ask her if she will see me.” He fished in his pocket and presented her with one of his cards, an indulgence which had rewarded him many times.
The maid took it, reading it for his occupation and not finding it. She put it on the silver tray used for such purposes and told him to wait while she delivered his enquiry.
He was not long in the dim hallway with its hastily placed crepes before the maid returned to conduct him to the room towards the back of the house where Juniper Stafford received him. It was expensively decorated in warm colors, with stenciled patterns around the doors lending an individual touch. A carved chaise longue had a woven rug draped on it in reds and plums, and no one had changed the bowl of late chrysanthemums on the polished table.
Juniper looked very tired this morning, and shocked, as if the realization of her husband’s death was beginning to come to her, with all the changes in her life that it would mean. In the harsher daylight her skin looked papery and the tiny natural blemishes more pronounced, but she was still a handsome woman with excellent features and very fine dark eyes. Today she was dressed in unrelieved black, but the excellence of the cut, the perfect drape of the fabrics across the hips and the swath of the bustle made it a garment of fashion, and most becoming.
“Good morning, Mrs. Stafford,” Pitt said formally. “I am truly sorry to disturb you again so soon, but there were questions I could not ask you last night.”
“Of course,” she said quickly. “I understand, Mr. Pitt. You do not need to explain to me. I have been a judge’s wife long enough to appreciate the necessities of the law. Surely they have not done the …” She hesitated to use the word, it was so ugly.
“No, not yet.” He saved her from having to say “autopsy.” “I hope for it this evening. But in the meantime I should like to confirm for myself what Mr. Stafford’s purpose was in going to see Mr. O’Neil and Mr. Fielding.” He pulled a rueful face. “I am in some confusion as to whether he did intend to reopen the Blaine/Godman case, or simply to find further evidence to convince Miss Macaulay of the futility of her crusade.”
