“What is it?” she asked anxiously. “What has happened? Is someone ill?”
“Yes, it looks like it,” Pitt replied, pushing his chair back as if to rise, and then changing his mind. “I think Judge Stafford seems to be unwell.”
Indeed, Mrs. Stafford was on her feet, leaning over her husband in some agitation, attempting to loosen his collar and speaking to him in a low, urgent voice. However, he made no response except a spasmodic jerking of his limbs, not wildly, but as if he were in some distress. The same fixed, immobile expression remained on his face, as if he still could not bear to drag his attention from the stage and the figures on it playing out their own predetermined drama.
“Should we help?” Charlotte whispered doubtfully.
“What could we do?” Pitt looked worried, his face puckered. “He probably needs a doctor.” But even as he said it he pushed his chair farther back and rose to his feet. “I’d better see if she wishes someone to call for one. And they may need assistance to help him to a more private place, where he can lie down. Please excuse me to Caroline.” And without waiting any longer he slipped out of the back of the box.
Once outside he hurried along the wide passageway, counting the doors until he came to the right one. There was no point in knocking; the woman had all she could cope with in trying to help her husband without coming to open a door which would not be locked anyway. In fact it was already ajar; he simply pushed it wide and went in.
Samuel Stafford was slumped in the chair, his face very flushed. Even from the doorway Pitt could hear his labored breathing. Juniper Stafford was at the far side of the box now, leaning against the rail, her hands up to her face, knuckles white. She seemed almost paralyzed with fear. Next to Stafford, half kneeling on the floor, was Mr. Justice Ignatius Livesey.
“Can I be of help?” Pitt asked quickly. “Have you sent for a doctor, or would you like me to?”
Livesey looked around, startled. Obviously he had not heard Pitt come in. He was a big man, broad-headed with a powerful face, with short nose and fleshy jaw. It was a face of conviction and courage, perhaps uncertain temper, belonging to a man of intense and sudden moods who commanded others with ease.
“Yes, send for a doctor,” he agreed quickly after only a glance at Pitt to assure himself he was a gentleman, and not merely a curious intruder. “I am not a medical man, and I fear there is little I can do.”
“Of course. I’ll send my wife to be with Mrs. Stafford.”
Livesey’s face showed acute surprise.
“You know him?”
“Only by repute, Mr. Livesey,” Pitt said with the barest smile. The man in the chair was sliding farther down and his breathing was becoming slower. Without wasting any more time Pitt went out again, and passing his own box pushed the door open.
“Charlotte, it’s serious,” he said urgently. “I think the poor man may be dying. You’d better go and be with Mrs. Livesey.”
Caroline looked around at him anxiously.
“Stay here, Mama-in-law,” Pitt answered the unspoken question. “I’m going for a doctor, if there is one here.”
Charlotte stood up and went outside with him, turning to the Staffords’ box at a run, her skirts swinging. Pitt went the other way around towards the management offices. He found the right door, knocked sharply, then went in without waiting for an answer.
Inside a man with a magnificent mustache looked up angrily from the desk where he was studying some very indiscreet photographs.
“How dare you, sir!” he protested, half rising to his feet. “This is—”
“An emergency,” Pitt said without bothering to smile. “One of your patrons, in box fourteen, is extremely ill. In fact I fear he may well be dying. Mr. Justice Stafford—”
“Oh my God!” The manager was aghast. “How appalling! What a scandal! People are so superstitious. I —”
“Never mind that,” Pitt interrupted. “Is there a doctor in the theater? If not, you had better send for the nearest one as fast as you can. I am going back to see if I can do anything.”
“Who are you, sir? Your name.”
“Pitt—Inspector Thomas Pitt, Bow Street.”
“Oh, sweet heaven! What a disaster!” The manager’s face drained of all color.
“Don’t be idiotic!” Pitt snapped. “It’s not a crime! The poor man was taken ill, and I happened to be in a nearby box with my family. Even policemen come to the theater, on occasion. Now for goodness sake, man, go and find a doctor!”
The manager’s mouth opened and closed without sound. Then suddenly he gathered up the photographs and pushed them into a drawer, slammed it closed, and was on Pitt’s heels as he went out and along the corridor.
Back in box fourteen Samuel Stafford was now lying well towards the rear, out of the gaze of the inquisitive who might prefer the real drama to the one still following its course on the stage. The actors’ discipline was sufficient to help them ignore any disturbance in the audience. Livesey had taken off his jacket and rolled it up under Stafford’s head and he was kneeling beside him, peering at him with profound concern. Juniper Stafford sat on the other seat, leaning forward, her face intent on her husband’s comatose form. His breath was even slower and the flush had gone from his skin. He looked white and clammy and he made no movement at all except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His limbs were perfectly still. Charlotte knelt beside Juniper, her arm around her, holding one of her hands.
“The manager has sent for a doctor,” Pitt said quietly, although he knew even as he said it that it would be of little use, and certainly too late.
