He poured himself a very generous portion from one of the decanters, filling the glass almost to the brim, and drank half of it still standing by the table before making his way back to his chair. Pitt could smell the aroma of the spirit as Boothroyd breathed out heavily.
“He mentioned it,” he said again. “Can’t recall what he said. Wasn’t very important, far as I know. Who killed him? Robbery?” He looked hopeful again, eyes wide, brows raised.
“No, Mr. Boothroyd. He was poisoned. I am afraid I don’t know by whom. I am still trying to find out. Did he say he planned to reopen the enquiry into the Farriers’ Lane case? Find evidence Aaron Godman was not guilty after all?”
“Good God, no!” Boothroyd said explosively. “Absolute nonsense! Whoever told you that? Did someone say that? Who said that? It’s nonsense!”
Perhaps it would have been more productive to have said yes, but Pitt’s sense of embarrassment and pity prevented him.
“No sir, not to me,” he said quietly. “I just thought it was possible.”
“No,” Boothroyd said again. “No—it was just a quick call, a matter of kindness. He was passing. Sorry I cannot help you, Mr. Pitt.” He finished the rest of his whiskey in two gulps. “Sorry,” he said again.
Pitt rose to his feet, thanked him, and escaped the dank room and its sour air, its confusion and unhappiness.
Mr. Justice Morley Sadler was as different a man as it was possible to imagine. He was smooth faced; remnants of fair hair straggled across his head, and fair whiskers only slightly touched with gray adorned the sides of his cheeks. His clothes were highly fashionable and excellently tailored so that they hung without a wrinkle and he seemed totally in command of himself and any situation he might face. He was smiling amiably when Pitt was shown in and he rose from his desk to greet him, shook his hand and offered him a broad, leather-padded chair.
“Good day, Mr. Pitt—Inspector Pitt, is it? Good day to you. How may I be of service?” He went back to the desk and sat in his own huge, high-backed chair. “I dislike rudeness, Inspector, but I have another appointment in about twenty minutes, which I am honor-bound to keep. Obligation, you understand. One must do one’s best in all matters. Now, what is the subject upon which you wish my opinion?”
Pitt was forewarned he had little time. He came immediately to the point.
“Aaron Godman’s appeal some five years ago, Mr. Sadler. Do you recall the case?”
Sadler’s smooth face tightened. A tiny muscle flickered in the corner of his eye. He stared at Pitt steadily, his smile fixed.
“Of course I remember it, Inspector. A most unpleasant case—but it was settled at the time. There is nothing more to add.” He glanced at the gold face of the clock on the mantel, then back at Pitt. “What is it that concerns you now, so long after? Not that wretched Macaulay woman, is it? The grief turned her mind, I am afraid. She became obsessed.” He pursed his lips. “It happens sometimes, especially to women. Their brains are not created to bear such strains. A somewhat lightly balanced creature in the first place, of a hysterical nature—an actress—what can you expect? It is very sad—but also something of a public nuisance.”
“Indeed?” Pitt said noncommittally. He watched Sadler with growing interest. The man was obviously extremely successful; the furnishings of his chambers were opulent, from the coffered ceiling to the Aubusson carpet on the floor. The surfaces were highly polished, the upholstery new.
Sadler himself looked in good health and well satisfied with his position in life. And yet mention of the case caused him discomfort. Was it merely because of Tamar Macaulay’s constant efforts to have it reexamined—with the obvious implication that the verdict was wrong, or at best questionable? It would be enough to try anyone’s patience. Pitt would feel discomfited if someone cast such doubt on a case he had investigated to a conclusion so irretrievable.
“No,” he said aloud, as Sadler was growing impatient. “No, it has nothing to do with Miss Macaulay. It is in connection with the death of Judge Samuel Stafford.”
“Stafford?” Sadler blinked. “I don’t follow you.”
“Mr. Stafford was investigating the case again, and saw the principal witnesses the day he died.”
“Coincidence,” Sadler said, lifting both his hands from the desk top and waving them as if to dismiss the matter. “I assure you, Samuel Stafford was far too levelheaded a man to be rattled by a persistent woman. He knew as well as we all did that there was nothing to look into. Everything possible had been done by the police at the time. An extremely ugly case, but dealt with admirably by everyone concerned: police, the court at the original trial, and by appeal. Ask anyone with knowledge of the events, Mr. Pitt. They will all tell you the same.” He smiled widely and glanced again at the clock. “Now if that is all, I have an appointment with the Lord Chancellor this evening, and I must prepare for it. I have the opportunity to do him some small service, and I am sure you would not wish me to be remiss in it.”
Pitt remained seated. “Of course not,” he said, but he did not make any move to leave. “Did Judge Stafford come to see you within the last week or two of his life?”
“I saw him, naturally! That occurs in the normal course of our duties, Inspector. I see a great many people, barristers, solicitors, other judges, diplomats, members of both the House of Lords and the House of Commons, members of the royal family, and of most of the great families of the nation, at some time or another.” He smiled frankly, meeting Pitt’s eyes.
“Did Mr. Stafford mention the case to you?” Pitt said doggedly.
“The Farriers’ Lane case, you mean?” Sadler’s pale eyebrows rose. “Not that I recall. There would be no reason to. The matter has been closed some five years or more. Why do you wish to know, Inspector, if I may ask?”
“I wondered upon what grounds he was considering reopening it?” Pitt replied, taking a gamble.
Sadler’s face paled and his wide mouth hardened.
“That is quite untrue, Inspector. He was not. If he had been, I am sure he would have told me, considering my own part in the appeal. You have been misinformed—mischievously so, I have to say.” He looked at Pitt steadily. “I assure you, he made no mention of the matter, none at all. Now, if you will excuse me, I am expecting my next appointment, a man of considerable distinction who wishes to refer to me a most delicate issue.” He smiled widely, a fixed gesture. He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Good day to you, Inspector. I am sorry I cannot be of any assistance.”
