“Indeed?” Harrimore said, looking at Pitt narrowly.
“An excellent example of the art,” Pitt offered, glancing at O’Neil.
“Indeed it is,” O’Neil agreed, then turned to his wife. “Perhaps you had better take the children, my dear, and see to their morning walk, now the weather is so pleasant.”
She rose obediently, recognizing an order when she heard it. She excused herself to Pitt and her father, and followed by the two small children, she went out into the hallway and closed the door.
“Mr. Pitt is here about the recent and sudden death of Judge Stafford,” O’Neil said immediately, his face resuming its earlier gravity. “I saw the poor man the very day he died, so natural it is I should be asked.”
“Tactful of you, Mr. Pitt,” Harrimore said slowly, looking him up and down. “And why is it you are concerned with the matter, sir? You don’t look like a policeman.”
Pitt was not sure whether that was a compliment or a complaint.
“Sometimes an advantage,” he replied quietly. “But I did not mislead Mr. O’Neil in the matter.”
“No—no, I imagine not.” Uncertain humor flickered in Harrimore’s eyes. “And why do the police involve themselves with the death of Mr. Stafford?”
“Because I regret he did not die of any natural cause.”
Harrimore’s face tightened. “Not our concern, sir. We have had more than our share of murder in this house, as I am sure you will be aware. My late son-in-law met his death by violence. I would thank you not to rake up that matter and distress my family again. My daughter has already suffered profoundly and I will do all I can to protect them all from further distress.” He looked at Pitt grimly and the tacit threat in him was unmistakable.
“That is why I refrained from mentioning the true cause of my visit in her presence, sir,” Pitt answered quietly. “Mrs. O’Neil could know nothing of Mr. Stafford, since she was not at home when he called, so I judged tact to be the better part.”
“At least that is something,” Harrimore said grudgingly. “Although what Devlin could tell you I don’t know.”
“Very little,” O’Neil said with feeling. “Only what Mr. Pitt already knows from others, Papa-in-law. But I suppose the poor man has a hard job to do.”
Harrimore grunted.
The door opened again and a very elderly woman came in, heavy bosomed, narrow shouldered and broad hipped, but erect of carriage and with a fine head of hair. Her resemblance to Harrimore was so pronounced as to make introductions unnecessary, except for courtesy’s sake.
“How do you do, Mrs. Harrimore,” Pitt replied to her cool greeting.
Adah Harrimore regarded him with bright dark eyes, deep set like her son’s, and acutely intelligent.
“Inspector,” she said warily. “And what is it now? We have had no crime here. What do you want with us?”
“It’s about Judge Stafford’s death, poor man,” O’Neil explained to her, patting a cushion in the chair to her side and plumping it up. “He died the other evening, at the theater, he did.”
“For heaven’s sake leave the thing alone!” she snapped, glaring at the chair. “I don’t need to sit down yet. I am perfectly well! What if he did? Old men die all the time. I daresay he drank too much and took an apoplexy.” She turned to Pitt and looked at him narrowly. “Why do you come here because a judge died at the theater? You had better have some excellent explanation for yourself, young man!”
“He did not die naturally, ma’am,” Pitt replied, watching her face. “And he called here earlier that day, to see Mr. O’Neil. I wished to know his state of mind, and as much of what he said as Mr. O’Neil could recall.”
“His state of mind was relevant to his death? Are you saying he took his own life?” she demanded.
“No. I regret to say he was killed.”
Her nostrils flared very slightly as she let out her breath, and there was an almost imperceptible paling of the skin around her mouth.
“Was he. That is unfortunate, but it has nothing to do with this household, Mr. Pitt. He called here once, on some matter of enquiry, I am informed. We have not seen him either before or since. We regret his death, but other than that we can contribute nothing.” She turned to O’Neil. “Devlin? I presume this man did not confide in you any concern for his safety?”
O’Neil looked at her with wide eyes. “No, Grandmama-in-law. He seemed to me perfectly composed and quite in command of the situation.”
Her face was pale and there was a small muscle ticking in her right eyelid.
“Would it be impertinent of me to enquire what matter a judge came here to see you about? The family has no pleas before the court of appeal that I am aware of.”
O’Neil hesitated only a moment, and he did not look at Pitt.
“Not at all, Grandmama-in-law,” he said with an easy smile. “I did not mention it at the time, not to distress you, but the poor man was pestered by Tamar Macaulay to reopen the case of Kingsley’s death, God rest him. He wanted to prove to her once and for all that it is closed. The verdict was correct, and she’ll not change it, poor woman, by all her agitation. Let people forget and get on with their lives.”
“I should think so,” the old lady said vehemently. “The wretched creature must be demented to keep on raking it up. It is finished!” Her eyes were brilliant and hard. “Bad blood,” she said bitterly. “You can’t get away from it.” She stared unwaveringly at O’Neil’s face. “Kingsley’s in his grave, and so is that damned Jew! Let us have some peace.” Her face was hard, full of old hatred and a terrible grief.
“Quite so, Grandmama,” O’Neil said gently. “Don’t you let it trouble you anymore. Now poor Mr. Stafford’s in his grave too—or about to be. Let’s hope that’s enough even for Miss Macaulay.”
