He arrived at the Shaftesbury Avenue police station a little before noon.
“Yes sir?” the desk sergeant said politely, his face suitably blank.
“Inspector Pitt, from Bow Street,” Pitt introduced himself. “I have a problem I think you might be able to help me with, if you’d oblige me with your time.”
“Indeed, sir? I’m sure we’ll do what we can. What problem might that be?”
“I’ve got a difficult case to which you might know some background. I’d appreciate speaking with the officer in charge of a case you handled about five years ago. A murder in Farriers’ Lane.”
The desk sergeant’s face darkened. “That was all tidied up at the time, Mr. Pitt. There in’t nothing left over from that one. I was ’ere myself an’ I know all about it.”
“Yes, I know it was,” Pitt agreed soothingly. “It is not a question of who was guilty of that, it is a matter arising out of the conclusion. I need to speak with the officer in charge then, if possible. He’s still in the force?”
“O’ course ’e is—been promoted since then. Did a fine job.” The desk sergeant straightened his shoulders unconsciously and lifted his chin a fraction. “That’s Chief Inspector Lambert. I daresay if ’e can ’elp you with your problem ’e’ll be glad to. I’ll certainly ask ’im for you, Inspector.” And with that very firm putting of Pitt in his place, he retreated into the back regions of the office and returned several minutes later to tell Pitt that if he cared to wait for ten minutes or so, Mr. Lambert would see him.
Pitt accepted with a good grace, even though he itched to retaliate.
He kicked his heels for five minutes, then sat on the wooden bench and waited a further ten minutes, then stood again. Eventually a young constable appeared and conducted him to the small, untidy office where a roaring fire made the room claustrophobically hot after the cold outer office. Charles Lambert received him with a look of guarded civility. He was in his late forties, balding severely, but with good features and clear eyes.
“Good morning—Pitt, isn’t it? Sit down.” He waved towards the only other chair. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Very busy. Lot of nasty robberies. My sergeant says you need a spot of assistance. What can I do for you?”
“I’m working on the murder of Judge Samuel Stafford—”
Lambert’s eyebrows rose. “Didn’t know he was murdered! Thought he died in his box in the theater.”
“He did. Of poison.”
Lambert shook his head, pushing out his lower lip.
“My sergeant mentioned Farriers’ Lane. What has Stafford’s death to do with that?” His voice was guarded. “That was all over five years ago, and he wasn’t the judge anyway. It was Quade—Thelonius Quade. Not that there was any doubt about the verdict, or about the conduct of the trial.”
“But there was an appeal,” Pitt said as mildly as he could. He must remember all the time that he would get nothing if he angered Lambert and made him defensive. “No new evidence, I assume?”
“None. Just a desperate attempt to save the man from hanging. Understandable, I suppose, but futile.”
Pitt took a deep breath. He was achieving nothing. Tact had its limitations.
“Stafford was enquiring into the case again. The day he died he interviewed most of the original suspects.”
Lambert’s face hardened and he sat up a little straighter.
“I don’t know what for!” Already the note of defense was in his voice. “Unless the sister prevailed on him in some way.” He shrugged in an open expression of his dismissal of the whole idea. “She’s a handsome woman, and obsessed with the idea her brother was innocent. It’s an ugly thing to suggest, I know.” Again the edge was there in his tone, the guard against an expected attack. “But it happens. He wouldn’t be the first man to lose his head over a beautiful and determined woman.”
Pitt was irritated, but he tried to conceal it.
“No—of course not. And that may be all it was. But you will understand that if I am to say that, then I must have very good proof. The widow will not accept that easily—nor will his fellows on the bench.” He forced a smile he did not feel. “It calls into question the virtue and good sense of all of them if we say he was simply a fool over a lovely face, and so far forgot his own mind and experience as to reopen a case for such a reason. I shall be in a very unenviable position if I say that and cannot prove it.”
Lambert smiled back, relaxing a little as his mind moved from his own difficulties to Pitt’s.
“You certainly will,” he agreed with a feeling close to relish. “Their lordships will take very unkindly to that. You’ll be looking for a job chasing pickpockets and card sharps in future.”
“Precisely.” Pitt shifted a little in his seat. The room was suffocating. “So can you tell me all you can recall of the Farriers’ Lane murder, then I can tell my superiors he cannot have been following that for any sound reason at all.” Mentally he apologized to Micah Drummond for the implicit slander.
“If you think it will help,” Lambert replied. “It was all very straightforward, although we didn’t expect it to be at the time.”
“Ugly, I should think,” Pitt murmured. “A lot of public outcry.”
“Never known a case like it,” Lambert agreed, moving back in his chair and making himself more comfortable. He understood what Pitt wanted now, and more importantly, why. “Except the Whitechapel murders—but of course they never caught the Ripper, poor devils. A few resignations over that.”
“But you caught your man.”
Lambert’s eyes were sharp and clear hazel, meeting Pitt’s with appreciation of all that was unsaid as well as the surface conversation between them.
“We did—and I got promoted. But it was all above-board.” The edge came back into his voice. “The evidence was incontrovertible. I can’t say we didn’t have some luck, we did. But we also did a damnably good job! My men were excellent—disciplined, dedicated, and kept their tempers in difficult conditions. A lot of public hysteria. Lot of terror. Some very nasty incidents down the east end. Couple o’ synagogues broken into, windows smashed, a pawnbroker near beaten to death. Posters all over the place and writing on walls. Some newspapers even called for all Jews to be run out of the city. Very ugly—but you can’t blame them. It was one o’ the worst murders in London.” He was watching Pitt closely, studying his face, reading his expression.
Pitt tried to iron out his emotions and look impassive, and he was almost sure he failed.
“Yes?” he said politely. “I know the body of Kingsley Blaine was found in Farriers’ Lane—by whom?”
Lambert recalled himself to the details with an effort. “The blacksmith’s boy early in the morning,” he replied. “Gave the poor lad a turn he didn’t get over as long as we knew him. Heard that after the trial he left London and went to the country. Sussex way.”
“No one else passed through Farriers’ Lane that night? Odd, wasn’t it, if it was a usual passageway?” Pitt asked.
“Well, put it this way, if they did, either they didn’t see Blaine nailed up to the stable door or they didn’t report it. And I suppose either of those is quite likely. You’d be looking where you were going and in the dark not see him …”
“The stable wasn’t in a direct path.”
“No—no, it was over the far side of the yard.”
“So whoever killed Blaine either lured him across the yard or was strong enough to carry him,” Pitt reasoned.
“I suppose that follows,” Lambert conceded. “But then he knew Godman; it wouldn’t be hard to persuade him to come out of the alley into the yard …”
“Wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t go into a dark stable yard alone with a man whose sister I was seducing, would you?”
Lambert stared at him, his face growing pink with confusion and annoyance.