“Do you mind telling me what he said to you, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt sat down at last, specifically invited.
“Well, certainly I have no objection to your knowing, sir,” O’Neil replied, watching Pitt’s face closely in spite of his casual attitude. “But it would be a courtesy, you understand, if you were to tell me why. I would surely take it kindly.”
“Of course.” Pitt crossed his legs and smiled, looking directly at him. “Mr. Stafford was murdered that evening.”
“Good God! You don’t say so!” If O’Neil was not surprised he was a superlative actor.
“Very regrettable,” Pitt answered. “At the theater.”
“Indeed. And him a supreme court judge, and all. What kind of a blackguard would kill a judge, and him an old man too—or at least an old man from where you and I stand.” O’Neil pulled a face. “Was it robbery, then?”
“No—he was poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” There was a widening of surprise in his dark eyes. “Well, by all the saints—what an extraordinary thing to do. And why was he poisoned? Was it a case he was on, do you think?”
“I don’t know, Mr. O’Neil. That is one of the reasons I would very much like to know what he said to you that afternoon.”
O’Neil’s stare did not waver in the slightest. His intelligent, volatile face was far more controlled than Pitt had first thought, and yet for all the natural charm, there was nothing ingenuous in it.
“Of course you would,” he answered readily. “And so would I, were I in your position. I’ll be happy to oblige you, Mr. Pitt.” He shifted position very slightly. “He first asked me if I recalled the night Kingsley Blaine was murdered. All this was after the pleasantries had been exchanged, of course. To which I said that I most certainly did—as if I would be able to forget it, for all that I tried hard enough! Then he asked me to recount it all for him, which I did.”
“Could you recount it for me, please, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt interrupted.
“If you wish. Well, it was early autumn, but I daresay you know that. Kingsley and I had decided to go to the theater.” He shrugged expressively, lifting his shoulders high and turning out his hands, palms upwards. “He was married, but I was fancy-free. For all that, he was very enamored of the actress Tamar Macaulay, and he intended to go backstage after the show and visit with her. He had a gift which he proposed to give her, and no doubt he foresaw that she would be suitably grateful for it.”
“What was it?” Pitt interrupted again.
“A necklace. Do you not know that?” He looked surprised. “Of course you do! Yes, a very handsome piece. Belonged to his mother-in-law, rest her soul. And for sure he shouldn’t have been giving it away to another woman. But then we all do foolish things at times. The poor devil’s dead and answered for it now.” He stopped for a moment, regarding Pitt with interest.
“Indeed.” Pitt felt compelled at least to acknowledge that he had heard.
“But then he and I had something of a disagreement—nothing much, you understand, just a wager on the outcome of a fight.” He grinned. “An exhibition of the noble art of pugilism, to you, Mr. Pitt. We disagreed as to who had won—and he refused to pay me, although according to the rules, the money was mine.”
O’Neil pushed out his lower lip ruefully. “I left the theater early in something of a temper, and went to a house of pleasure.” He smiled candidly, covering whatever embarrassment he might have felt. “Kingsley stayed with Tamar Macaulay, and left very late, so I gather. At least that was the testimony of the doorman. Kingsley, poor soul, was given a message, purporting to be from me, that he should meet me at a gambling club we both frequented in those days.” He winced. “The way to it led through Farriers’ Lane, and we all know what happened there.”
“Was the message written or verbal?”
“Oh, verbal—all word of mouth.”
“But you didn’t see Mr. Blaine again?”
“Not alive, no, the poor soul.”
“Was that all the judge asked you?”
“The judge?” O’Neil’s dark eyes widened. “Oh—poor Mr. Stafford, you mean? Yes, I think so. Frankly it seemed something of a waste of time to me. The case is closed. The verdict was given, and there was no real question about it. The police found the right fellow. Poor devil lost his head and ran amok.” He pulled a slight face. “Not a Christian, you know. Different ideas of right and wrong, I daresay. They hanged him—no choice. Evidence was conclusive. That must have been what Mr. Stafford had in mind to do—prove it so even Miss Macaulay would have to admit it to herself and leave off pestering everyone.”
That could so easily be the truth. Pitt had come because it was an obvious duty to retrace Stafford’s steps. Someone that day had put liquid opium into his flask, or Livesey and his friend would have been poisoned when they drank from it earlier. But he had also hoped to learn something that would tell him whether Stafford intended to reopen the case or to close it forever. Perhaps that was a forlorn hope? O’Neil had been one of the original suspects. He would hardly wish the matter raised again.
Pitt looked at where O’Neil was lounging easily in the other large chair. If he was nervous he hid it better than anyone Pitt had ever seen. He looked casual, rueful, polite; a man dealing generously with a most unpleasant subject, yielding to an obligation socially demanded of him and which he understood without resentment.
“Did he ask you anything in any way new, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt smiled bleakly, trying to keep an air as if he knew something he had not yet revealed.
O’Neil blinked. “No, not that I can think of. It all seemed to be old ground to me. Oh—he did ask if Kingsley carried a stick or a cane of any sort. But he didn’t say why he wanted to know.”
“And did Mr. Blaine carry a stick?”
“No.” O’Neil pulled a face. “He was not the kind of man to enter into a fight with anyone. It was a personal murder, Mr. Pitt. If anyone is trying to say it was a struggle, a face-to-face fight of any sort, then they’re just dreaming.” All the light vanished out of his expression and he leaned forward. “It was brutal, swift and complete. I saw the body.” He was pale now. “I was the one who went to identify him. He had no family other than his wife and his father-in-law. It seemed the decent thing that I should do. There was no other mark on him, Mr. Pitt. Just the stab wound that killed him, in his side and up to the heart … and the—the nails in his hands and feet.” He shook his head. “No—no, there was no way it was a battle involving two men both armed. He did not defend himself.”
“Did Mr. Stafford not say why he asked?”
“No—no, he didn’t. I asked him, but he evaded an answer.”
Pitt could think of no reason why Stafford should make such an enquiry. Had it something to do with the medical evidence he had questioned? He must find Humbert Yardley and ask him.
“What was Kingsley Blaine like, Mr. O’Neil?” he resumed. “I don’t have the advantage of knowing anything about him at all. Was he a large man?”
“Oh.” O’Neil was taken aback. “Well—taller than I am, but loose limbed, if you know what I mean.” He looked at Pitt questioningly. “Not an athlete, more of a … well, speak no ill of the dead—and he was a friend of mine—but more of a dreamer, you know?” He rose to his feet with some grace. “Would you like to see a photograph of him? We have a few in the house.”