Pitt was not sure whether that was a compliment or a complaint.
“Sometimes an advantage,” he replied quietly. “But I did not mislead Mr. O’Neil in the matter.”
“No—no, I imagine not.” Uncertain humor flickered in Harrimore’s eyes. “And why do the police involve themselves with the death of Mr. Stafford?”
“Because I regret he did not die of any natural cause.”
Harrimore’s face tightened. “Not our concern, sir. We have had more than our share of murder in this house, as I am sure you will be aware. My late son-in-law met his death by violence. I would thank you not to rake up that matter and distress my family again. My daughter has already suffered profoundly and I will do all I can to protect them all from further distress.” He looked at Pitt grimly and the tacit threat in him was unmistakable.
“That is why I refrained from mentioning the true cause of my visit in her presence, sir,” Pitt answered quietly. “Mrs. O’Neil could know nothing of Mr. Stafford, since she was not at home when he called, so I judged tact to be the better part.”
“At least that is something,” Harrimore said grudgingly. “Although what Devlin could tell you I don’t know.”
“Very little,” O’Neil said with feeling. “Only what Mr. Pitt already knows from others, Papa-in-law. But I suppose the poor man has a hard job to do.”
Harrimore grunted.
The door opened again and a very elderly woman came in, heavy bosomed, narrow shouldered and broad hipped, but erect of carriage and with a fine head of hair. Her resemblance to Harrimore was so pronounced as to make introductions unnecessary, except for courtesy’s sake.
“How do you do, Mrs. Harrimore,” Pitt replied to her cool greeting.
Adah Harrimore regarded him with bright dark eyes, deep set like her son’s, and acutely intelligent.
“Inspector,” she said warily. “And what is it now? We have had no crime here. What do you want with us?”
“It’s about Judge Stafford’s death, poor man,” O’Neil explained to her, patting a cushion in the chair to her side and plumping it up. “He died the other evening, at the theater, he did.”
“For heaven’s sake leave the thing alone!” she snapped, glaring at the chair. “I don’t need to sit down yet. I am perfectly well! What if he did? Old men die all the time. I daresay he drank too much and took an apoplexy.” She turned to Pitt and looked at him narrowly. “Why do you come here because a judge died at the theater? You had better have some excellent explanation for yourself, young man!”
“He did not die naturally, ma’am,” Pitt replied, watching her face. “And he called here earlier that day, to see Mr. O’Neil. I wished to know his state of mind, and as much of what he said as Mr. O’Neil could recall.”
“His state of mind was relevant to his death? Are you saying he took his own life?” she demanded.
“No. I regret to say he was killed.”
Her nostrils flared very slightly as she let out her breath, and there was an almost imperceptible paling of the skin around her mouth.
“Was he. That is unfortunate, but it has nothing to do with this household, Mr. Pitt. He called here once, on some matter of enquiry, I am informed. We have not seen him either before or since. We regret his death, but other than that we can contribute nothing.” She turned to O’Neil. “Devlin? I presume this man did not confide in you any concern for his safety?”
O’Neil looked at her with wide eyes. “No, Grandmama-in-law. He seemed to me perfectly composed and quite in command of the situation.”
Her face was pale and there was a small muscle ticking in her right eyelid.
“Would it be impertinent of me to enquire what matter a judge came here to see you about? The family has no pleas before the court of appeal that I am aware of.”
O’Neil hesitated only a moment, and he did not look at Pitt.
“Not at all, Grandmama-in-law,” he said with an easy smile. “I did not mention it at the time, not to distress you, but the poor man was pestered by Tamar Macaulay to reopen the case of Kingsley’s death, God rest him. He wanted to prove to her once and for all that it is closed. The verdict was correct, and she’ll not change it, poor woman, by all her agitation. Let people forget and get on with their lives.”
“I should think so,” the old lady said vehemently. “The wretched creature must be demented to keep on raking it up. It is finished!” Her eyes were brilliant and hard. “Bad blood,” she said bitterly. “You can’t get away from it.” She stared unwaveringly at O’Neil’s face. “Kingsley’s in his grave, and so is that damned Jew! Let us have some peace.” Her face was hard, full of old hatred and a terrible grief.
“Quite so, Grandmama,” O’Neil said gently. “Don’t you let it trouble you anymore. Now poor Mr. Stafford’s in his grave too—or about to be. Let’s hope that’s enough even for Miss Macaulay.”
Adah shivered and the look of loathing deepened in her eyes.
Prosper came to life suddenly as if until now he had been frozen and that instant obtained release.
“It is the end of it! Mr. Pitt, there is nothing we can do to help you,” he said abruptly. “We wish you well, but whoever killed Mr. Stafford, you will have to seek for him elsewhere. No doubt he has personal enemies …” He left the rest unsaid, hanging in the air. He would not speak ill of the dead—it was vulgar—but the conclusions were implicit.
“Thank you for your courtesy in receiving me, ma’am.” Pitt addressed Adah’s rigid figure, and then Harrimore’s. He accepted the inevitable. He would learn nothing more from O’Neil anyway. The answer that Stafford was only looking to establish the truth beyond question was too satisfactory, and too credible, for him to say anything different. And since apparently no one else had been at home, they could not be suspected, nor had they any motive. They were not involved in the murder of Kingsley Blaine; the original investigation had never considered them.
“Not at all,” the old lady said stiffly, unbent only by the demands of civility. “Good day to you, Mr. Pitt.”
Prosper glanced at his mother, then at Pitt, and smiled tightly, reaching for the bell to summon a maid who would show him to the door.
Outside in the quiet street Pitt turned it over in his mind. It looked more and more as if it were either Juniper Stafford or Adolphus Pryce who had put the opium in the flask. And indeed, futile and unnecessary as it was when looked at in the cold light of the mind, perhaps in the heat of passion they had imagined they could find some happiness with Stafford dead which would elude them as long as he lived. Obsession does not always see beyond the moment, and the hungers that consume and fill the mind until they are satisfied, whatever the cost.
Was that really what those two felt? It was something he would have to pursue, and the thought of it curled his lip with distaste. It was an intrusion he loathed. There were weaknesses in people no third party should know, and that kind of ill-balanced and devouring need for another person was one of them. It did not enlarge the one who felt it, it diminished, and in the end destroyed—as it seemed it had destroyed Juniper Stafford and her lover.
But before he began to search for evidence of that, he would clear the Blaine/Godman case from his mind altogether. He already knew quite a lot about it, but there might be other things, details known only to the police, which altered the picture. Also he wanted to form his own beliefs of the men who had conducted the original investigation, and the pressures they were under then, the area for mistakes, if possible their own impressions.
Consequently he walked slowly towards the main thoroughfare, hands in his pockets, thinking as he went. He did not like retracing other men’s investigations, but he had no choice. Still he would try to do it as tactfully as possible, and he took a long time choosing the words with which he would begin.