was not he, then who could it have been?”
“I don’t know.” Kathleen shrugged very slightly. “I wondered if it was the other actor—did I say that the man they hanged was an actor? No. Well, he was. You see, it was an actress Kingsley was having an affaire with.” For all her frankness, she still avoided saying “in love.”
Charlotte swallowed. “The other actor?”
“Yes—Joshua Fielding. He is Jewish also—and he was in love with Kingsley’s actress.”
“You think he was jealous?” Charlotte asked, her throat tight, painfully aware of Caroline sitting rigid a few feet away, her hands clenched hard in her elegant gloves.
“Or that he knew Kingsley would never marry her,” Kathleen replied. “And he hated him for hurting her, albeit without really intending to. Kingsley had a terrible quarrel with him only a couple of days before he was killed.”
“With—Joshua Fielding?” Caroline interrupted for the first time. Her face was white and her voice husky.
Kathleen turned to her, as if only now fully aware of her presence.
“Yes. He came home most upset and with his clothes ruffled and dirty. I think it must have been very fierce.”
“He told you this?” Caroline tried to keep the fact at bay.
“Yes—you had to know him,” Kathleen explained, totally misunderstanding Caroline’s distress. “He did not tell the truth if it was painful, but neither would he deliberately lie. I knew something was very wrong, and of course I asked him. He said he had had a violent quarrel with Joshua Fielding. But when I asked him the subject, he said I would not wish to know, and kissed me, and went to change from his soiled clothes before retiring.” She shook her head. “Of course when his relationship with—with his mistress came out in the trial, I realized what the quarrel must have been.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said quickly, aching for Caroline, knowing the pain as if it were a tangible thing. Her stomach was clenched, and a little sick. “Yes, I see.” She scrambled for something else to say. She wished they could leave, but it would be pointedly rude, and make a return impossible. And they needed to return. She was convinced there was far more they could learn about Kingsley Blaine which might lead to his murderer, even if it was what they most dreaded to hear. To stop now would be worse than if they had never begun.
“Even so.” She tried to put a lift into her voice, but her throat was so tight it sounded more like a squeak. “Even so, I still think you should not feel any remorse. It was none of it your fault. He was fairly tried.”
“But I did not tell anyone about the quarrel,” Kathleen said, looking from Caroline to Charlotte and back again, her face pale. “No one asked me, and I did not offer it. Do you think it might have made a difference?”
“No,” Charlotte lied. “None at all. Now I really don’t wish to distress you anymore. The last thing I want is for you to think of my visit as a time of anxiety and the raking up of old wounds.”
She was lying, and yet it was certainly true she did not wish to hurt Kathleen, even less now that she knew her better. But Joshua Fielding’s wry, gentle face filled her mind as she tried to imagine it contorted with the hatred that would stab a man to death and then crucify his corpse. It was impossible. And yet he was an actor. It was his art and his living to convey passions he did not feel, and hide those he did.
And more powerful than her own doubt or unhappiness over it was a biting misery for Caroline. The wound would be so deep, so out of proportion to the brief time she had known him. But emotion has little to do with time, and love nothing at all.
Kathleen was talking again, but she did not hear her words. The rest of the visit was spent in more pleasant conversation. Charlotte was forced to drag her mind from her thoughts and concentrate. Caroline could only sit and stare, making the odd remark when civility made it absolutely necessary.
When they took their leave it was full of smiles and thanks, and they went out into the blustery wind with skirts whipping around their ankles and a bleak unhappiness inside, as if the sun had disappeared.
8
P
Was it vanity that made it so hard for him to change his mind, or was there a sound instinct, some observation a little below conscious level, which told him her grief was real? Or was it that he wanted Aaron Godman to have been innocent? That was an ugly thought. It would bring tragedy to everyone involved except Tamar Macaulay, the real and believable tragedy of dishonor.
He stood outside the Staffords’ house, raised the door knocker and let it fall. There were still black crepes on the windows, the curtains half drawn. There was a desolate air about it, a weariness.
The door opened and a footman with a black armband looked at him enquiringly.
“I am sorry to disturb Mrs. Stafford,” Pitt said with more authority than he felt. “But there are some further questions I need to discuss with her regarding the judge’s death.” He produced his card. “Will you ask her if she will see me?”
“Yes sir,” the footman said with obedience devoid of feeling.
Five minutes later Pitt was in the chilly morning room when Juniper Stafford came in. She was wearing black, but it was beautifully cut, fashionable and gleaming. She wore jet jewelry discreetly set with seed pearls at her ears and throat, and there was a glow to her skin, a faint flush. Her eyes were soft and alive. He was surprised, and instantly he knew the truth of Livesey’s statement that she was in love.
“Good morning, Mr. Pitt,” she said with a slight smile, stopping just inside the door. “Have you made any progress?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Stafford,” he replied soberly. “I regret it is very slight. Indeed, the more I learn of the matter, the less does it point to any solution.”
