“That will depend.”
“Upon what?”
“Upon whether there is any way in which she can meet any of the participants in the affair in a manner which might be productive.”
He looked confused.
“Really, Thelonius,” she said quickly. “Detecting is not a matter of going ’round in a bowler hat asking impertinent questions and writing down what everyone says in a notebook! The best detecting is done by observing people when they are unaware that you have any interest in them, or knowledge of the matter deeper than their own—and of course by making the odd remark which will provoke a reaction in the guilty.” She stopped, seeing him regard her with surprise and fast dawning amusement.
“Vespasia?”
“And why not?” she demanded.
“My dear! No reason on earth,” he conceded. Then as the gong sounded, he took her by the arm and guided her through the archway to the dining room. The mahogany table was set for two, silver gleaming in the candlelight, tawny chrysanthemums smelling rich and earthy, white linen folded with monograms outward.
He pulled out her chair for her before the butler could reach it, then took his own seat. Tacitly the butler set about his duties.
“And what case is this friend of yours—Does she have a name?”
“Charlotte—Charlotte Pitt.”
“Pitt?” His eyebrows rose and there was sharp interest in his face. “There is an inspector of considerable ability named Thomas Pitt. Is he by any chance the one towards whom you have developed this regard?”
“Yes, yes he is.”
“An excellent man, so I have heard.” He opened his napkin and spread it across his lap. “A man of integrity. What is this matter in which his wife is interested? Why is it you believe I may have any knowledge?”
The butler poured white wine for him. He sipped it, then offered it to Vespasia. She accepted.
“If it is in the public domain,” he continued, “surely Inspector Pitt will know at least as much as I. And do I gather that he does not wish his wife to participate in the matter?”
“Really, Thelonius,” she reproved him with amusement. “Do you imagine I would set Charlotte against her husband? Certainly not! No—the matter is some five years old, and your knowledge will be superior to almost anyone else’s because you were involved yourself.”
“In what?” He began his soup, a delicate cream of winter vegetables.
She took a deep breath. It was distasteful to intrude such an ugly affair into so pleasant an evening, but they had never restricted themselves to the purely pleasant. Their relationship had been deepened by the sharing of the tragic and the ugly as well as the beautiful.
“The Blaine/Godman murder—in Farriers’ Lane in ’eighty-four,” she said gravely. The lightness vanished. “It seems more than possible that the sudden death in the theater two nights ago of Mr. Justice Stafford is connected with his continued interest in the case.”
His manner sharpened, his expression clouded with concern and he stopped, his spoon in the air.
“I did not know he had any continued interest. In what way?”
“Well, there is some difference of opinion on that,” she answered, aware of the change in him, the undercurrent of old unhappiness. It darkened her mood also, but it was too late to retreat. His eyes were watching her with intensity, waiting.
“Mrs. Stafford and Mr. Pryce were present when Mr. Stafford died,” she continued. “Both say that he was intending to reopen the case, although neither of them knew upon what grounds. Mr. Justice Livesey, on the other hand, who was also there, is quite sure that he was intending to prove once and for all that the verdict was true and in every way proper, so there would be no more speculation even by the hanged man’s sister, who has been mounting a crusade to have his name cleared.”
The soup dishes were removed and salmon mousse served.
“What is beyond argument,” she resumed, “is that Mr. Stafford was reinterrogating many of the original participants. The day he died he saw Tamar Macaulay, Joshua Fielding, Devlin O’Neil and Adolphus Pryce, as well as Mr. Justice Livesey.”
“Indeed,” Thelonius said slowly, letting his fork rest on his plate, his salmon momentarily ignored. “But I assume he died before he could clarify the matter?”
“He did—and it seems …” She hated saying it. “It seems he died of poison. Opium, to be precise.”
“Hence the interest of your Inspector Pitt,” he said dryly.
“Exactly. But Charlotte’s interest is more personal.”
“Yes?” He picked up the fork again at last.
She found herself smiling. “I know of no delicate way of phrasing this, so I shall be direct.”
“Remarkable!” he said with the gentlest of sarcasm. His face held only laughter, and she was reminded again how very much she had cared for him. He was one of the few men who was more than her intellectual equal, and who was not overawed by her beauty or her reputation. If only they had met when—but she had never indulged fruitless regrets, and would certainly not begin now.
“Charlotte’s mother has conceived an affection for the actor Joshua Fielding,” she said with a tight smile. “She is concerned he may be suspected, both of the Farriers’ Lane murder and of poisoning Stafford.”
