“You would not have told me anything I should better like to hear,” she replied, and knew immediately that that was not true. There were other things, but they were indiscreet—foolish.
“Don’t flatter me, Vespasia,” he said dryly. “That is for acquaintances. Friends should tell the truth, or at worst keep silence.”
“Oh, please! When was I ever capable of silence?”
He smiled suddenly and dazzlingly. “On a given subject, any time you chose. But tell me what you are presently engaged with—apart from your friend Mrs. Pitt. It would be impossible to relate all that you have done since we last spoke to each other with any candor.”
So she told him of her crusades to reform the poor laws, the education acts, the housing acts, of the theater and the opera she had enjoyed, and some of the people she felt most deeply for—or against. The evening slipped by as present news was replaced by memories, laughter recalled, and sadness, and it was long after midnight when finally he saw her to her carriage steps, held her hands in his for a moment, and bade her farewell for what they both knew would not be long.
Micah Drummond could not free his mind from the Blaine/Godman case. Of course it was possible, very possible, that Samuel Stafford had been poisoned by his wife, or her lover, although there seemed to be no driving necessity for such a violent and dangerous act on their part. If they were discreet, and it appeared they had been, they could hope to continue seeing each other, on occasion, almost indefinitely. Divorce was out of the question; it was socially ruinous. Pryce could never marry a divorced woman and continue to practice the law as he did now. Society would be scandalized. Stafford was not only his friend, he was a most senior judge.
But an affaire was quite a different matter, as long as they did not flaunt it. Why should they do anything as ugly—and as dangerous—as killing him? There was no need. Juniper Stafford was well into her middle forties. She would hardly be hoping to marry Pryce and have children. The pleasure of domestic life together was something that had never been a possibility, unless they were prepared to forgo all social acceptance and reduce their standard of living to approaching penury by comparison with their present situations. And Pryce at least would never countenance that, on her behalf, even if he might on his own.
Was that enough to resort to murder?
He knew what it was like to love a woman so completely that she haunted all private moments; all pleasure was pervaded with thoughts of her, the desire to share; all loneliness and pain were reflections of being separated from her. But never in the blackest or most self-wounding times had he imagined any happiness lay in forcing the issue or resorting to physical or emotional violence.
If Juniper and Pryce had descended to an affair, deceiving Stafford, Micah Drummond despised their weakness and their duplicity, but he also felt a compassion he could not deny.
He inclined to think Livesey had misunderstood Stafford’s intentions about reopening the Blaine/Godman case, or else Stafford had intentionally misled him, for whatever reason. It had been an unusually ugly case. Emotions had been fever high, beyond the edge of hysteria. It would not surprise him to learn that some of that emotion had lasted this long, even though he could not think who would have killed Stafford, or what purpose they now hoped to serve.
Stafford had left no notes to indicate what evidence he was investigating, or what he believed to be the truth, who he suspected, even, of lying, far less of having killed Kingsley Blaine.
The only way to learn would be to investigate the case again themselves. Pitt would probably begin with the original witnesses and suspects. Drummond could start at the top, with the senior police officer in charge of the men who had conducted the investigation—a deputy commissioner, and senior to himself. Therefore he sent a brief note requesting an interview.
It was granted, and Drummond found himself in the ornate and overfurnished office of Deputy Commissioner Aubrey Winton at ten o’clock the following morning.
Winton was a man of average height, fair curling hair receding a little at the temples, and an expression of calm, satisfied confidence.
“Good morning, Drummond,” he said civilly. “Come in—come in!” He held out his hand and shook Drummond’s briefly, then returned to his seat behind the desk. He leaned back and swung around to face Drummond, indicating another chair. “Please, sit down. Cigar?” He waved his hand at a heavily scrolled silver box on the desk top. “What can I do for you?”
Drummond did not prevaricate; there was no time. They were colleagues, not friends.
“The Blaine/Godman case,” he answered. “It seems it may be the cause of a further crime in my area.”
Winton frowned. “That is most unlikely. It was all cleared up—five years ago.” There was heavy disbelief in his voice. He was not going to accept anything so unpleasant without irrefutable proof. Already the atmosphere was cooler.
“Mr. Justice Stafford,” Drummond explained, resenting the necessity, “was killed in the theater three nights ago. He had said he was reopening the case.” He met Winton’s eyes and saw them harden.
“Then I can only assume he found something improper in the conduct of the trial,” Winton said guardedly. “The evidence was conclusive.”
“Was it?” Drummond asked with interest, as if the matter were still undecided. “I am not familiar with it. Perhaps you would acquaint me?”
Winton shifted his body but his face remained immobile, eyes on Drummond’s face.
“If you insist, but I can see no purpose to it. The case was final, Drummond. There is nothing more to add. Stafford must have been pursuing something in the trial,” he repeated.
“For example?” Drummond raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“I have no idea. I am not a lawyer.”
“Nor I.” With difficulty Drummond curbed his desire to be openly critical. “But Stafford was—and he heard the appeal. What could have arisen now that he did not have available to him then? He and the other judges of appeal must have had the whole trial before them at the time.”
Winton’s face pinched with anger and his fingers on the desk top were clenched. “What is it you want, Drummond? Are you implying that we did not investigate the case thoroughly? I suggest you refrain from making such offensive and ill-informed remarks on a case about which you know very little.”
The swiftness and the belligerence of his response betrayed a sensitivity that took Drummond by surprise. Justification he had expected, but not such a leap to defend. Obviously Winton still felt a guilt, or at least a sense of accusation.
Drummond kept his temper with an effort. “I have the murder of a judge to investigate,” he said in a hard, careful voice. “If you were in my position, and heard that he had been planning to reopen an old case, and was interviewing the chief witnesses again on the very day he was murdered, and they were among the few people who had the opportunity to have killed him, would you not look into the evidence of the case yourself?”
Winton took a deep breath and his face relaxed a little, as though he realized his reaction had been excessive, exposing his own vulnerability.
“Yes—yes, I suppose I would, however pointless it proved to be. Well, what can I tell you?” He colored faintly. “The investigation was very thorough. It had to be. It was an appalling crime; the whole country was watching us, from the Home Secretary down.”
Drummond did not make the polite assurances the remark invited. The very fact that Winton had defended himself so sharply indicated he doubted it.
Winton shifted his position again.
“The officer in charge was Charles Lambert, an excellent man, the best,” he began. “Of course the public outcry was immense. The newspapers were headlining it in every issue, and the Home Secretary was calling us regularly, putting tremendous pressure on us to find the killer within a week at the outside. I don’t know if you have ever handled such a case yourself.” His eyes searched Drummond’s face for understanding. “Have you experienced the pressure, the outcry, everyone angry, frightened, anxious to prove themselves? The Home Secretary actually came down here to the station himself, all frock coat, pinstripe trousers and white spats.” His expression hardened at the recollection, and Drummond could imagine the scene: the Home Secretary irate, nervous, pacing the floor and giving impossible commands, not thinking how they might be obeyed, only of the pressure on him from the House of Commons and the public. If the murder were not solved and the man tried and hanged quickly, his own political reputation would be in danger. Home Secretaries had fallen before, and no man was secure if the outcry were sufficient. The Prime Minister would sacrifice him to the wolves of fear.