“Did Judge Stafford mention it to you lately?” Pitt felt his way, seeking for the question which would probe between the certainties of the obvious answers.
Oswyn hesitated only minutely, a moment of indecision, but it was there, and Pitt saw it. Oswyn smiled, understanding the expression in Pitt’s eyes, knowing he had seen.
“Well, yes, he did say something.” He shrugged. “But it was—not serious, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” Pitt said unhelpfully. “How could such a matter not be serious?”
But Oswyn had had time to think now. His answer came with assurance. “It was a nuisance. The poor Macaulay woman was still troubling him, trying to find someone to believe her and reopen the matter. And Stafford, poor devil, was the man she was directing her efforts towards.” He shrugged and smiled, attempting to look at ease. “He merely mentioned that. It was an embarrassment. Surely you can understand that, Inspector?” He laughed very slightly, but there was no nervousness in it, and no humor.
“In case there had been an omission, or an error?” Pitt asked.
“No!” Oswyn leaned forward, banging his hand down on the surface of the desk. His face was a little pink, his eyes earnest. “There was no …” He shook his head. “There was no error. The matter was very simple.” He stared at Pitt earnestly. “The appeal was raised on the grounds of the medical evidence. Yardley said originally that he thought the wound that killed Blaine had been caused by some sort of dagger. Then on examination he admitted that it could have been a particularly long farrier’s nail.”
“Farriers’ nails only come in certain lengths,” Pitt argued. “They have to go into horses’ hooves. There’s a limit to how long they can be, even though they are clipped off.”
“Yes, of course.” Oswyn waved the thought away impatiently. “All right, then an ordinary nail. The man is a surgeon, not a blacksmith. Perhaps it was just a loose piece of metal ’round the yard. The point is, it did not have to have been a dagger.”
“Were there any nails like that, or longer pieces of metal ’round the yard?” Pitt asked. “Surely a bloodstained piece would have been easy enough to find.”
Oswyn looked startled. “I have no idea. For heaven’s sake, man, we sat on the appeal. That was weeks after the trial, which itself was weeks after the crime. Every man and his father could have been through the yard by then, and probably had.”
“So whatever the weapon was, it was never found?”
“I suppose not. Perhaps it was one of the nails he used to hang him up by.” With an effort he lowered his voice. “But whatever it was, Inspector, it is far too late now to shed any light on it. Poor Stafford could hardly have been investigating that, could he?” He had scored a point of logic and he knew it.
“Nevertheless,” Pitt argued. “If Yardley changed his mind, then there was an element of uncertainty in the evidence. It seems to have been considered sufficient to take it to appeal.”
“A desperate measure.” Oswyn screwed up his face, his broad, mobile mouth rueful. “A man will try anything to avoid the rope, and who is to blame him?”
“Do you remember P.C. Paterson?” Pitt changed the subject abruptly.
“P.C. Paterson?” Oswyn repeated the name thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“He was the constable who carried out a great deal of the investigation.”
“Oh yes. Wasn’t he the one who found the final proof? The flower seller who saw Godman in Soho Square just after the crime. Good piece of work. Hero of the moment, Paterson. Why?”
“He was murdered on Tuesday night.”
Oswyn’s surprise and his sorrow both looked acutely real.
“Oh dear—I’m so sorry! What a damned shame. Very promising young officer.” He shook his head. “Dangerous trade, policing. But then of course you know that.”
“It was not in the course of duty, sir. He was murdered in his own home. Hanged, to be precise.”
“Good God!” Oswyn was totally stunned. The blood fled from his skin, leaving it pasty white, and all the sense of well-being and geniality that had been so much a part of him vanished. “How dreadful—how—Who was it?”
“We have no idea so far.”
“No idea! But surely—” He stopped abruptly, confused and profoundly unhappy. “You cannot think it had anything to do with Kingsley Blaine! I mean …” Instinctively his hand went up to his throat and he pulled at his collar, loosening it a fraction. “Why, for God’s sake?”
“That is what I am trying to determine, sir.” Pitt watched him closely. “I had questioned Paterson in some detail regarding his original investigation of the case. I am wondering if something I said prompted him to an act, a word to someone which may have resulted in his murder.”
Oswyn passed a hand over his brow, temporarily hiding his face from Pitt. “Are you trying to say that Godman was not guilty, and someone else is, and that person is now murdering anyone who appears likely to reopen the case? That makes little sense, Inspector. Have you been attacked?”
“No,” Pitt admitted. “But then I am still as confused as I was at the beginning. I have discovered no evidence at all to suggest Godman was not guilty. In fact the more I learn, the more certain it seems he was.”
Oswyn breathed in deeply and shook himself a little as if suddenly immensely relieved. “Indeed.” He swallowed hard. “Indeed. A tragic and extremely ugly case, but settled at the time.” He bit his lip. “I have been a servant of the law all my life, Inspector. I should—er—I should hate to think we could have made such a mistake. It would— jeopardize much that I believe to be of immeasurable value to the British people. Indeed, it is a model for the world.” He sounded oddly pompous, as if he did not entirely mean it. “A great deal of the law of the United States of America is based upon our common law. I suppose you were aware of that—yes, of course you were. The law is above us all, more important than any individual.”
“Surely the law can only be measured by how it deals with the individual, Mr. Oswyn?”
“Oh. I think that is too—too sweeping a statement, too simplistic, if you will forgive my saying so? There are
