“No sir, it is not!” Lloyd said rather testily. “It is not reasonable to expect any physician to diagnose a disease in a handful of minutes, with no history whatever, and a comatose patient—and all in the half-light of a theater box and a performance going on onstage. Really sir, you ask the impossible!”
“Not a heart attack, or an apoplexy?” Pitt did not apologize.
“No sir, not a heart attack, so far as I can see, and not an apoplexy. In fact if I did not know better, I would suspect he had taken some form of opiate, and accidentally prepared an overdose. Except, of course, men of his distinction do not take opium, and most certainly not a dose to produce this effect!”
“I doubt Mr. Justice Stafford smoked opium,” Livesey said coldly.
“I did not suggest, sir, that he did!” Lloyd snapped. “In fact I went out of my way to explain to—to Mr.—Mr. Pitt here”—he jerked his head towards Pitt—“that I believed he did not. Apart from that, one could not smoke an amount sufficient to cause death in this manner. One would have to drink a solution of opium. Really—I do not know why we discuss the subject at all!” He lifted his shoulders in a violent shrug. “I do not know the cause of the poor man’s demise. It will require an autopsy. Perhaps his own physician is aware of some condition which may explain it. For now, there is nothing more I can do, and I therefore beg you to excuse me that I may rejoin my family, who are endeavoring to have a rare evening out in each other’s company with a little civilized entertainment.”
He sniffed. “I am extremely sorry for your loss, and regret profoundly I could not prevent it, but it was too late—far too late. My card.” He produced one like a conjurer and presented it to Livesey. “Good day, sir—Mr. Pitt!” And with that he stood to attention smartly, then bustled out and closed the door behind him, leaving Pitt and Livesey alone with the body of Samuel Stafford.
Livesey looked very grave, his skin pale, his body tired and yet tense, broad shoulders sagging a little, his head forward, the dim lights strong on his thick hair. Slowly he put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a slim chased-silver hip flask. He held it out to Pitt.
“This is Stafford’s,” he said grimly, meeting Pitt’s eyes. “I saw him drink from it just after the end of the interval. It is a hideous thought, but there may be something in it which caused his illness. Perhaps you should take it and have it examined—even if only to exclude it.”
“Poison?” Pitt asked gravely. He looked down at Stafford. The more he considered the course of events he had observed, the less absurd did Livesey’s words seem. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, of course. You are quite right. It must at least be considered, even if only to prove it was not so. Thank you.”
He took the flask and looked at it, turning it over in his hands. It was very slim, very expensive, chased in silver and engraved with Samuel Stafford’s name and the date of its having been given to him, February 28, 1884; a recent gift, over five and a half years ago. It was a beautiful thing to be a vehicle of death. “I’ll have it examined, of course,” he went on. “In the meanwhile perhaps we had better find out what we can about Mr. Stafford’s evening and precisely what happened.”
“Of course,” Livesey agreed. “And arrange for the body to be taken away discreetly. I shall have to explain to Mrs. Stafford why it cannot go to his home until it has been examined for the cause of death. How very distressing for her! The whole business is most grieving. Is there any lock to this door?”
Pitt turned around and looked at it.
“No, only an ordinary latch. I’ll wait here until you can inform the management and have a constable sent. We cannot leave it open.”
“No, naturally not. I’ll go now.” And without waiting any further Livesey went out and disappeared, leaving Pitt alone just as the curtain fell to a long and enthusiastic round of applause.
When Charlotte left the box with Juniper Stafford she met Adolphus Pryce almost immediately, returning with a goblet of water held out in front of him. He looked extremely agitated and his dark eyes gazed at Juniper with something that, were it not ridiculous to think it, Charlotte would have taken for fear.
“My dear—Mrs. Stafford,” he said jerkily. “Is there anything at all I can do to be of service to you? Your coachman has been told and he will bring your carriage to the front the moment you wish it. How is Mr. Stafford?”
“I don’t know,” Juniper answered in a voice that caught in her throat. “He … looked … very ill! It was so— sudden!”
“I’m so sorry,” Adolphus said again. “I had no idea he was in poor health—none at all.” He held out the goblet of water.
Juniper’s eyes met his on a long, painful look. She took the goblet with both hands, the light catching on her rings. Her gorgeous dress now seemed ridiculously out of place. “No—of course not,” she said hastily. “Neither— neither had I! That is what is so absurd.” Her voice rose to a high, desperate pitch and broke off. She forced herself to drink a sip of the water.
Adolphus stared at her. Charlotte might not have been there at all for any awareness he showed of her. All his intense emotion was centered on Juniper, and yet he did not seem to know what else to say.
“The doctor will do all that can be done,” Charlotte said. “It would be best if we were to find a quiet place where we can await the outcome, don’t you think?”
“Yes—yes, of course,” Adolphus agreed. Again he looked at Juniper. “If … if there is anything, Mrs. Stafford? At least, please let me know … how he is.”
“Of course I will, Mr. Pryce. You are most kind.” Juniper looked at him with a sort of desperation. Then clinging to Charlotte’s arm she turned and walked away towards a small private room off the foyer where refreshments had been taken only an hour earlier. The manager stood in the doorway, wringing his hands and making inarticulate sounds of general anxiety.
It seemed an age to Charlotte that they sat there. Occasionally she took the goblet from Juniper, then handed it back, making small, meaningless remarks and trying to be of comfort without giving any foolish promises of a happy ending she believed could not possibly be.
Eventually Ignatius Livesey came. His face was very grave and Charlotte knew the instant she saw him that Stafford was dead. Indeed when Juniper looked up, the hope died out of her before she spoke. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, the tears brimming over and running down her cheeks.
“I am extremely sorry,” Livesey said quietly. “It pains me to have to tell you that he has gone. The only comfort I can offer you is that it was quite peaceful and he will have felt no pain or distress except momentarily, and that was so short as to be forgotten in an instant.” He filled the doorway, a figure of judicial calm, a stability in a dreadfully changing world. “He was a very fine man who served the law with great distinction for over forty years,
