Pitt was surprised. “What medical evidence was there to do with Godman?”
“Oh—most disturbing. He was in a very poor shape when he came to trial. Several most unpleasant bruises and lacerations about the face and shoulders, and a serious limp.”
“A fight?” Pitt was startled. No one had suggested self-defense; it had not even occurred to him. “Did Barton James not mention it during the trial?”
“Not at all. The defense put forward was that of not guilty—that it was not Godman but another person, or persons, unknown. There was not the slightest suggestion that Blaine and Godman fought and Blaine died as a result of it.” His face tightened with revulsion. “And really, Mr. Pitt, it would be hard to countenance why Godman should have nailed the wretched man to the stable door. That is macabre—quite shocking! I think any jury in the land would find that indefensible, regardless of any provocation whatsoever!”
“Is that what you would have done, had you been defending him instead of prosecuting, Mr. Pryce?” Pitt asked. “Would you have claimed it was not your client at all, and kept silent about any struggle?”
Pryce chewed his top lip thoughtfully. “I find it hard to say, Mr. Pitt. I think on the whole I would have used self-defense; it would have had a better chance than not guilty. Godman was seen in the area very close to the time of the murder. He was identified by a flower seller, and he did not deny having been there; he simply said it was half an hour earlier than in fact it was. Others actually saw him coming out of the entrance of Farriers’ Lane, what must have been moments after the murder, and with blood on his clothes.”
“And yet Mr. Barton James chose to put forward a complete denial!” Pitt was astounded. It was incomprehensible. “Did Mr. Stafford wish to reopen the case on grounds of incompetence of the original defending counsel? Surely, one can hardly rectify the case now. The only people who could possibly tell us if there was a fight, and what happened, are Blaine and Godman, and they are both dead.”
“Precisely,” Pryce agreed ruefully. “I am afraid it is all speculation, and I can think of no way in which it will ever be anything more.”
“And yet you say Mr. Stafford seemed to feel there was some purpose in pursuing it,” Pitt pointed out. “By the way, why was Godman supposed to have killed Blaine? What motive had he?”
“Oh—sordid.” Pryce wrinkled his brow very slightly. “He was a Jew, you know, as naturally was his sister. Blaine was having an affaire with her, or so it was alleged. He was unquestionably pursuing her with some vigor, and on that very night had given her a necklace of considerable value which his mother-in-law had owned.” His face shadowed. “A very foolish thing to do, and in execrable taste. Well, Godman profoundly resented Blaine’s attentions to his sister, being aware that of course he had no intention whatever of marrying her—quite apart from the fact that she was a Jewess, and an actress, Blaine himself was already married.”
“And Godman felt so violently on his sister’s behalf?” Pitt was surprised. Having met Tamar Macaulay, he found it hard to picture her as a romantic victim, in need of her brother’s protection. But then love can make fools of even the most forthright people, and strength of character or purpose was no protection whatever; indeed sometimes the most powerful could be the most deeply hurt.
“Quite.” Pryce nodded. “It was a matter of family honor, and religious and racial honor as well. Just as we would be appalled if one of our daughters were to become involved with a Jew, so it seems they are equally horrified if one of theirs becomes involved with a gentile.” He tipped his chair a little farther back. “I suppose with a little imagination we might see their point of view. Anyway, that is why Godman killed Blaine—and he certainly would not be the first one to have knifed the seducer of his sister.”
“No,” Pitt agreed. “Not by a long, long way. But that was not used as a defense, was it?”
Pryce smiled. “I doubt society would have accepted Miss Macaulay’s virtue as adequate cause to justify murder, Mr. Pitt. I regret that would have been laughed out of court.”
“Is her reputation so stained?”
“Not at all. It is the reputation of actresses in general from which she would suffer. And I do not think a gentile jury would view with any kindness the excuse that he did not wish her to accept the favors of a gentile lover, as being tainting to her pure Jewish blood.” He pulled a sour face. “If every man who had courted a beautiful Jewess were to be crucified, we should need more crosses than they had in Rome—and the existence of our forests would be in jeopardy!”
“Yes.” Pitt pushed his hands into his pockets. “Altogether an extremely ugly case, and calling for no public sympathy at all. I am surprised that Miss Macaulay rose above the storm and still commands an audience in the theater.”
Pryce shrugged. “I think she had a thin time of it for a while. But once Godman was hanged—and no one ever claimed she had had any part in it—then the public was satisfied, and chose to forgive her.” He reached forward absently and his long fingers touched the smooth surface of the jasper inkstand. “And perversely, there were many who secretly admired her loyalty to her brother, even while at the very same moment they lusted to hang him from the highest gibbet in the land. Had she turned on him, they would have branded her a traitor.” He let go of the stand. “It seemed she really did believe him innocent, and the public chose to believe her equally innocent of anything more than falling in love with a man who would never have married her.”
“She lost her lover and her brother in one act,” Pitt said grimly.
“It would seem so,” Pryce agreed.
“But you said she accepted a valuable piece of jewelry from him—a family heirloom?”
“She says she wore it that evening, for supper, and then insisted he keep it.”
“And did he keep it?” Pitt asked.
Pryce looked surprised. “I have no idea. It was not found on his body. Perhaps Miss Macaulay disposed of it, to lend truth to her story. To the best of my knowledge it has never been seen since.” His face quickened with hope. “Perhaps Stafford had learned something about that. That would make far more sense than some purely medical evidence about Godman which can never be verified. Indeed, that is quite a viable idea.”
“Who knew about the necklace?” Pitt asked, his mind racing over possibilities, new threads that Stafford might have followed till he came close to a truth as yet unguessed, and frightened someone into murder. “It cannot have been long from the time he gave it to her until Godman left the theater.”
“No—it was not,” Pryce agreed quickly. “It was testified to by Miss Macaulay’s dresser, Primrose Walker. She saw Blaine give it to her, and say that it had been in his family for years; in fact it had belonged to his mother-in-law. Miss Macaulay says that is why she gave it back to him, but unfortunately for her, there is no evidence to support that. Unless, of course, Stafford found something.”
“Would he not have told you?”
“Not necessarily. I was prosecuting counsel, Mr. Pitt, not defense. He may well have intended to tell Barton James as soon as he was certain of his own facts. Indeed he did mention that he intended to call upon James in the very near future.” He looked at Pitt with gravity, but there was a growing keenness in his face. “That would explain a great deal, which otherwise seems very odd.” He stopped, as if he feared he might have said too much, and waited for Pitt’s reply.
“Did the police not remark the absence of the necklace at the time?” Pitt questioned, still turning over the facts in his mind.
“No, not that I recall,” Pryce said slowly. “At least they may have done so, but it did not appear in evidence in the trial. Miss Macaulay claimed that she returned it to Blaine, and I think they merely disbelieved her, assuming either that she kept it—it was quite valuable—or that she said that in order to help her brother’s defense.”