Pitt smiled. “I had not expected you to confess to it, Mr. Pryce—any more than Mrs. Stafford.”
Pryce’s face was suddenly tight again, and his body stiff in his chair.
“You have said the same to Mrs. Stafford? That’s …” Then he stopped, as if new thoughts crowded his mind.
“Naturally,” Pitt replied calmly. “I have been led to believe that her feeling for you is very deep. She must often have wished for her freedom.”
“Wishing is not …” Pryce’s fists clenched. He took a deep breath. “Of course. It would be ungallant of me to say I did not hope so—and untrue. We both wished she were free, but that is a far cry from committing murder to make it so. She will have told you the same.” He stopped, waiting for Pitt’s reply.
“She denied it,” Pitt agreed. “And denied, of course, that you would have had anything to do with it either.”
Pryce turned away, laughing very slightly, a husky, nervous sound.
“This is ridiculous, Inspector. I admit—Mrs. Stafford and I have a relationship that—that—was improper—but not”—this time he did not look at Pitt—“not a mere dalliance, not just …” He stopped and then started again. “It is a very deep emotion. It is some people’s tragedy that they fall truly in love with someone when it is impossible they can marry. That is what has happened to us.” His words were very formal, and Pitt had no idea whether he believed them without shadow, or if he were saying what he hoped was true.
“I am quite sure,” Pitt said, aware he was turning the knife. “Otherwise you would hardly have risked your reputation and your honor by having an affaire.”
Pryce lifted his eyes sharply and glared at him.
“There are some circles in society where such a thing is ignored,” Pitt continued relentlessly, “if it is discreet enough, but I doubt the law is one of them. Surely judges’ wives, like Caesar’s, should be above suspicion?”
Pryce stood up and walked over to the window, his back to Pitt. For several seconds he did not reply, then when he spoke his voice was thick.
“Judges’ wives are human, Inspector. Were your acquaintance with the gentry deeper than a passing ability to quote the odd thought or two from Shakespeare, you would not need me to tell you that. We may have slightly different codes of behavior from one social class to another, but our emotions are the same.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Pryce? That your passion for Mrs. Stafford drove you to put opium into Samuel Stafford’s flask?”
Pryce swung around. “No! No—I did not kill him! I did not harm him in any way at all—or contribute to it. I—I have no knowledge of it—before, or since.”
Pitt kept his face a mask of disbelief.
Pryce swallowed hard, as if choking. “I am guilty of adultery, but not of murder.”
“I find it hard to believe that you have no knowledge as to who is,” Pitt replied, although that was not true.
“I—I—What are you waiting for me to say?” Pryce was gasping between words as if he had to force himself to speak. “That Juniper—Mrs. Stafford—killed him? You’ll wait forever. I’ll not say it.”
But he had said it, and the irony of it was in his eyes. The thought had been in his mind, and found its way to his lips.
Pitt rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Pryce. You have been most candid. I appreciate it.”
Pryce’s face reflected self-disgust.
“You mean I have allowed you to see that I am both shallow in my defense of Mrs. Stafford and that I am afraid for her? I still do not believe she had any part in her husband’s death, and I will defend her to the limit of my ability.”
“If she did, Mr. Pryce, then the limit of your ability will be very rapidly reached,” Pitt answered, going to the door. “Thank you for your time.”
“Pitt!”
Pitt turned, his face questioning.
Pryce swallowed hard and licked his lips. “She is a very emotional woman, but I really don’t—I don’t …” He stopped, honesty preventing him from making a plea for her after what he had already confessed.
“Good day,” Pitt said quietly, and went out into the cold corridor.
“No sir, I doubt it,” he said later in the day to Micah Drummond.
Drummond stood in front of the fire in his office, his feet spread a little, his hands behind his back. He regarded Pitt with a frown.
“Why not? Why not now, more than before?”
Pitt was sitting far back in the best chair, his legs sprawled comfortably.
“Because when I saw her, to begin with she defended him,” he replied. “She was sure he could not possibly have done it. I don’t think she had really considered him. Her emotions would not permit it. Then when I told her the unlikelihood of Aaron Godman being innocent, and there being any motive for anyone in the Farriers’ Lane case wanting to kill the judge, she could no longer avoid the inevitable thought that it was either herself or Pryce.” He looked at Drummond. “Her immediate fear was that it was Pryce. I saw it in her face the moment she first thought it.”
Drummond looked down at the carpet thoughtfully.
“Is she not clever enough to lead you to think precisely that?”
“I don’t believe even Tamar Macaulay could act well enough to look as she did,” Pitt said honestly. “Acting is
