“Have you any ideas as to how a slight man like Godman could have got him up like that?” Pitt asked.
Paterson engaged his mind, leaving his emotions aside. His brow furrowed in concentration. “No sir. I wondered about that myself. But there was never any suggestion that anyone ’elped him. ’E was definitely alone, so far as we know. ’E came out of Farriers’ Lane by ’imself. Not the sort of thing you do with anyone else. I reckon Godman must’ve known ’ow to lift people. Maybe it’s part of his art as a actor. Like firemen.”
“Possibly,” Pitt agreed. “Go on. How did you trace his movements after he left Farriers’ Lane?”
“Just patience, sir. Asking people all ’round, street peddlers, crossing sweepers, costers and the like. Found a flower seller who saw ’im very plain. She was under a streetlight in Soho Square, and ’e stopped and spoke to ’er. And there’s no question it was ’im, ’e admitted it ’isself. ’E said it was quarter past midnight. She thought that was right at first, then when we questioned ’er closer, she agreed it was actually quarter to one, and she got it wrong the first time. Apparently ’e tried to tell ’er it was quarter past midnight. There’s a clock just over there, above one of the ’ouses, and she ’eard it strike. It gives just one bell on each quarter, and two at ’alf past, not like most, which do three at the quarter before.”
“Did it matter?” Pitt asked doubtfully. “You didn’t know what time Blaine was killed, did you? Exactly? Surely the layabouts at the end of Farriers’ Lane didn’t know the time.”
“No,” Paterson agreed. “But we knew close, because we knew what time Blaine left the theater, which was after quarter past midnight. If Godman had been at the flower seller’s then and ’eadin away from Farriers’ Lane, he couldn’t possibly ’ave delivered the message or killed Blaine in the stable yard, cos ’e took a cab straight after that, an’ the cabby swore ’e took ’im right from Soho Square to ’is ’ouse in Pimlico, which is miles away. And at that time ’e got ter Soho Square an’ the flower seller, ’e’d already got rid o’ the coat. We never could shift the cabby on that. ’E’d picked up other fares straight after ’oo knew the time exact.” Paterson’s face creased with disgust, almost as if he had smelled something which made him feel sick. “It was a good attempt at an alibi, and if the flower seller’d believed what ’e said and ’e’d stuck to it, it might ’a worked.”
“But she didn’t?”
“No—she didn’t actually look at the clock ’erself. It was behind ’er, she only ’eard it ring and accepted ’is word that it were quarter past and not quarter to one. And o’ course there were the layabouts at the end o’ Farriers’ Lane.”
“That sounds like good work, Sergeant,” Pitt said sincerely.
Paterson flushed. “Thank you, sir. I was never on a case I cared about more.”
“Did Godman ever admit it, when you arrested him, or later?”
“No, he never did,” Paterson said bleakly. “ ’E always claimed he was innocent. ’E looked astounded when we went for ’im.”
“Did he struggle—put up a fight?”
Paterson avoided Pitt’s eyes for the first time.
“Well—yes, ’e—er—’e cut up a bit rough. But we had the better of him.”
“I imagine,” Pitt said with a sudden discomfort. “Thank you, Sergeant. I can’t think of anything more to ask you.”
“Does that ’elp you with your case, sir?”
“I don’t think so. But it clarifies it. At least I know all I can about the Blaine/Godman affair. I think maybe my case has nothing to do with it except coincidence. Thank you for being so frank.”
“Thank you, sir.” Paterson stood up and excused himself. Since there was nothing else to learn here, Pitt went to the desk sergeant at the front, thanked him for his civility, and went out into the windy street. It was just beginning to rain and a small boy in a lopsided cap was sweeping horse manure out of the road so two women in large hats could cross without soiling their boots.
Pitt saw Micah Drummond in the middle of the afternoon. It was raining hard, beating on the windows and streaming down in rivulets, making them so opaque it was impossible to see anything more than the dim blur of buildings beyond. Drummond sat behind the desk in his office and Pitt sat restlessly in the chair in front. The afternoon was darkening early and the gas hissed gently in the brackets on the wall.
“What have you learned about Stafford?” Drummond asked, tilting his chair back a trifle.
“Nothing,” Pitt replied bluntly. “I’ve spoken to his widow, who not unnaturally says she thinks he was killed because he was going to reopen the Blaine/Godman case. And Adolphus Pryce says the same.”
“I notice you say ‘says she thinks,’ ” Drummond observed. “A very careful choice of words. You doubt her?”
Pitt pulled a face. “Their relationship with each other is a great deal more intimate than proper.”
Drummond winced. “Surely not murder? There’s no sense in it. They may be immoral, although you have no proof of that. But there is a great distance between falling in love with a married woman and murdering her husband. They are civilized people, Pitt.”
“I know.” Pitt did not argue as to whether civilized people did such things or they were confined to barbarians, whether by race or social class. It was not what Drummond meant, and he knew it. “I spent rather more time pursuing the details of the Blaine/Godman case,” he said instead. “Trying to find out exactly what Stafford could have been intending to do.”
“Oh dear.” Drummond sounded weary. His face puckered with distaste. “Surely he was only trying to settle the matter once and for all. I looked into it myself. Godman was guilty, and you can’t do any good by raking it up again. Unfortunately poor Stafford was killed before he could show Miss Macaulay how mistaken she was, which is a tragedy, not only for her but for the reputation of the law in England.” He shifted in his chair a fraction and frowned at Pitt. “The woman is a little mad, which moves me to pity, but she is doing a considerable amount of damage. For heaven’s sake, Pitt, don’t, even inadvertently, give her the idea that there is the slightest chance that you will reopen the case.”
“I am investigating the death of Samuel Stafford,” Pitt said very directly, meeting Drummond’s eyes. “I’ll go wherever that takes me, nowhere else. But I spoke to O’Neil, and his family, who are not suspect, of course; and to Charles Lambert, who conducted the original investigation. As far as I can see there is nothing which Stafford could have taken any further.” He shook his head a little. “Even if he found any of the missing physical evidence, which would be very unlikely after all these years, it still wouldn’t prove anything different. It was a sordid tragedy at the
