affaire, a season’s lust which would wear itself out as such passions often do. But perhaps it is deeper than that. I do not envy you, Mr. Pitt, but I fear you may be driven to investigating such a possibility.”
It answered many questions, unpleasant as it was.
Livesey was watching him.
“I see you have thought of that also,” he observed. “If Adolphus Pryce tried to convince you that Stafford was reopening the Blaine/Godman case, you may readily appreciate why. Naturally both he and Mrs. Stafford would prefer you to believe it was some guilty and fearful party to that case who had committed the crime of murdering her husband, rather than have you investigate either of them.”
“Of course.” Pitt felt unreasonably oppressed by it. It was foolish. He knew that what Livesey said was true. Now that he saw it, he knew he had been careless not to have noticed the small signs before. He stood up, pushing his chair back a little. “Thank you very much for sparing me time this afternoon, Mr. Livesey.”
“Not at all.” Livesey rose also. “It is a very grave matter, and I assure you I shall give you any assistance within my power. You have only to tell me what I can do.”
And with that Pitt excused himself and left, walking slowly, heavy in thought. It was already late, the sun was low behind the rooftops and a slight mist gathered in the damp streets, smoke smearing gray across the pale color of the sky and the smell of it rank as people stoked their fires against the chill of the evening.
Perhaps the medical examiner would have the results of the autopsy. Or at least he might know if there was poison in the flask. This whole case might disappear, a hasty judgment, a fear not realized. He quickened his pace and strode out along the pavement towards the main thoroughfare and the chance of finding a hansom.
The light was still on in the medical examiner’s office, and when Pitt knocked on the door he was commanded to enter.
Sutherland was in shirtsleeves, his hair standing on end where he had run his fingers through it. He had a pencil behind each ear, and another in his fingers, the end chewed to splinters. He jerked up from the papers he had been staring at, and regarded Pitt with ferocious interest.
“Opium,” he said simply. “The flask was full of it. More than enough to kill four men, let alone one.”
“Is that what killed Stafford?” Pitt asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. You were quite right, opium poisoning. Easily recognizable, if you know what you are looking for, and you told me. Nasty.”
“Could it have been accidental, intended just as …”
“No,” Sutherland said firmly. “One doesn’t take opium in whiskey like that. It should be smoked. And anyone who took it regularly would know perfectly well that a dose that size would kill. No, Mr. Pitt, it was intended to be precisely what it was: lethal. You have a murder, unquestionably.”
Pitt said nothing. It was what he had feared, and yet a small part of him had still kept hope that it might not be so. Now it was conclusive. Mr. Justice Samuel Stafford had been murdered—not apparently over the Blaine/Godman case. Was it Juniper Stafford and Adolphus Pryce? One of them—or both? As simple and as ugly as that?
“Thank you,” he said aloud to Sutherland.
“I’ll write it all out,” Sutherland replied, screwing up his face, “and send it to the station.”
“Thank you,” Pitt repeated, and saw the look of rueful understanding in Sutherland’s expression. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Sutherland picked up his pencil again and continued scribbling on the paper in front of him.
3
T
The first job with the cake was to prepare the fruit itself. The currants and sultanas had to be rubbed in flour to ease out the lumps. Charlotte was busy doing this in the center of the scrubbed kitchen table while Gracie took everything down from the dresser and washed the shelves and the plates and polished the saucepans. She had been with Charlotte for several years now, and was nearly seventeen, but in spite of all Charlotte’s efforts, she was still almost as small and waiflike in appearance as when she had first come. However, her bearing had altered beyond recognition. She had a confidence greater than that of any other maid on the street, quite probably in half of Bloomsbury. She not only worked for a detective, the best in the whole metropolitan force, but she had actually assisted in a case herself. She had had adventures, and she did not accept a cheeky answer from any errand boy or tradesman, whoever they were.
Now she was perched on the dresser at risk to life and limb, a damp cloth in one hand and a china tureen in the other, her face set in concentration as she turned very slowly and set down the tureen before wiping the top shelf with first one side of the cloth, then the other, regarding the dirt with satisfaction, then doing it again.
Charlotte bent over the fruit, her fingers exploring the hard-packed knobs of currants and forcing them into separate pieces.
“Was it a wonderful drama, ma’am?” Gracie asked with interest, climbing backwards precariously.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said with candor. “To tell you the truth I hardly noticed it. But the main actor was extremely attractive.” She smiled as she said it, thinking of Caroline’s vulnerability in the matter.
“Was ’e terrible ’andsome?” Gracie said curiously. “Was ’e dark and very dashing?”
“Not really dark.” Charlotte pictured Joshua Fielding’s highly individual, whimsical face. “Not really handsome, I suppose, in an ordinary way. But extremely appealing. I think because one felt he had such an ability to laugh without cruelty, and to be gentle. One imagined he might understand all sorts of things.”
“Sounds very nice,” Gracie approved. “I’d like to know someone like that. Was the heroine beautiful? What was she like? All golden ’air and big eyes?”
