Adah shivered and the look of loathing deepened in her eyes.
Prosper came to life suddenly as if until now he had been frozen and that instant obtained release.
“It is the end of it! Mr. Pitt, there is nothing we can do to help you,” he said abruptly. “We wish you well, but whoever killed Mr. Stafford, you will have to seek for him elsewhere. No doubt he has personal enemies …” He left the rest unsaid, hanging in the air. He would not speak ill of the dead—it was vulgar—but the conclusions were implicit.
“Thank you for your courtesy in receiving me, ma’am.” Pitt addressed Adah’s rigid figure, and then Harrimore’s. He accepted the inevitable. He would learn nothing more from O’Neil anyway. The answer that Stafford was only looking to establish the truth beyond question was too satisfactory, and too credible, for him to say anything different. And since apparently no one else had been at home, they could not be suspected, nor had they any motive. They were not involved in the murder of Kingsley Blaine; the original investigation had never considered them.
“Not at all,” the old lady said stiffly, unbent only by the demands of civility. “Good day to you, Mr. Pitt.”
Prosper glanced at his mother, then at Pitt, and smiled tightly, reaching for the bell to summon a maid who would show him to the door.
Outside in the quiet street Pitt turned it over in his mind. It looked more and more as if it were either Juniper Stafford or Adolphus Pryce who had put the opium in the flask. And indeed, futile and unnecessary as it was when looked at in the cold light of the mind, perhaps in the heat of passion they had imagined they could find some happiness with Stafford dead which would elude them as long as he lived. Obsession does not always see beyond the moment, and the hungers that consume and fill the mind until they are satisfied, whatever the cost.
Was that really what those two felt? It was something he would have to pursue, and the thought of it curled his lip with distaste. It was an intrusion he loathed. There were weaknesses in people no third party should know, and that kind of ill-balanced and devouring need for another person was one of them. It did not enlarge the one who felt it, it diminished, and in the end destroyed—as it seemed it had destroyed Juniper Stafford and her lover.
But before he began to search for evidence of that, he would clear the Blaine/Godman case from his mind altogether. He already knew quite a lot about it, but there might be other things, details known only to the police, which altered the picture. Also he wanted to form his own beliefs of the men who had conducted the original investigation, and the pressures they were under then, the area for mistakes, if possible their own impressions.
Consequently he walked slowly towards the main thoroughfare, hands in his pockets, thinking as he went. He did not like retracing other men’s investigations, but he had no choice. Still he would try to do it as tactfully as possible, and he took a long time choosing the words with which he would begin.
He arrived at the Shaftesbury Avenue police station a little before noon.
“Yes sir?” the desk sergeant said politely, his face suitably blank.
“Inspector Pitt, from Bow Street,” Pitt introduced himself. “I have a problem I think you might be able to help me with, if you’d oblige me with your time.”
“Indeed, sir? I’m sure we’ll do what we can. What problem might that be?”
“I’ve got a difficult case to which you might know some background. I’d appreciate speaking with the officer in charge of a case you handled about five years ago. A murder in Farriers’ Lane.”
The desk sergeant’s face darkened. “That was all tidied up at the time, Mr. Pitt. There in’t nothing left over from that one. I was ’ere myself an’ I know all about it.”
“Yes, I know it was,” Pitt agreed soothingly. “It is not a question of who was guilty of that, it is a matter arising out of the conclusion. I need to speak with the officer in charge then, if possible. He’s still in the force?”
“O’ course ’e is—been promoted since then. Did a fine job.” The desk sergeant straightened his shoulders unconsciously and lifted his chin a fraction. “That’s Chief Inspector Lambert. I daresay if ’e can ’elp you with your problem ’e’ll be glad to. I’ll certainly ask ’im for you, Inspector.” And with that very firm putting of Pitt in his place, he retreated into the back regions of the office and returned several minutes later to tell Pitt that if he cared to wait for ten minutes or so, Mr. Lambert would see him.
Pitt accepted with a good grace, even though he itched to retaliate.
He kicked his heels for five minutes, then sat on the wooden bench and waited a further ten minutes, then stood again. Eventually a young constable appeared and conducted him to the small, untidy office where a roaring fire made the room claustrophobically hot after the cold outer office. Charles Lambert received him with a look of guarded civility. He was in his late forties, balding severely, but with good features and clear eyes.
“Good morning—Pitt, isn’t it? Sit down.” He waved towards the only other chair. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Very busy. Lot of nasty robberies. My sergeant says you need a spot of assistance. What can I do for you?”
“I’m working on the murder of Judge Samuel Stafford—”
Lambert’s eyebrows rose. “Didn’t know he was murdered! Thought he died in his box in the theater.”
“He did. Of poison.”
Lambert shook his head, pushing out his lower lip.
“My sergeant mentioned Farriers’ Lane. What has Stafford’s death to do with that?” His voice was guarded. “That was all over five years ago, and he wasn’t the judge anyway. It was Quade—Thelonius Quade. Not that there was any doubt about the verdict, or about the conduct of the trial.”
“But there was an appeal,” Pitt said as mildly as he could. He must remember all the time that he would get nothing if he angered Lambert and made him defensive. “No new evidence, I assume?”
“None. Just a desperate attempt to save the man from hanging. Understandable, I suppose, but futile.”
Pitt took a deep breath. He was achieving nothing. Tact had its limitations.
“Stafford was enquiring into the case again. The day he died he interviewed most of the original suspects.”
Lambert’s face hardened and he sat up a little straighter.
