“Good morning, Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said with surprise and a very definite pleasure. She had never seen Vespasia in such health since before the death of Emily’s first husband, Vespasia’s nephew and the only reason they could count her as a relative. Today she seemed to have shed the years that grief had added to her and to be the vigorous woman she had been before. “You look most excellently well.”
“There is considerable justice in that,” Vespasia replied, but her satisfaction was obvious. “I am excellently well.” She looked at Charlotte closely. “You look a trifle anxious, my dear. Are you still concerned about that miserable business in Farriers’ Lane? For heaven’s sake sit down! You look as if you were about to rush out of the door. You are not, are you?”
“No—no, of course not. I came to see you, and I have nothing else to do immediately. Mama is at home, and will care for everything that may arise.”
“Oh dear.” Vespasia sat down gracefully, arranging her skirt with a flick of her hand. “Is she still enamored of the actor?”
Charlotte smiled ruefully and sat down opposite her. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
Vespasia’s arched eyebrows rose. “Afraid? Does it matter so much? She is free to do as she pleases, is she not? If she has a little romance—why not?”
Charlotte drew in a deep breath, her mind full of all sorts of excellent reasons why not. But as she came to enumerate them, despite the intensity of her emotions about it, spoken aloud, they seemed silly and of no worth.
Vespasia’s lips curled in amusement. “Just so,” she agreed. “But you are concerned that this unfortunate man may be suspected of having some involvement with the death of Kingsley Blaine?”
“Yes—at least, no. Thomas seems to think there is nothing more to learn in that, and Stafford was simply trying to find enough evidence to persuade Tamar Macaulay to let the matter drop at last.”
“But you don’t?” Vespasia asked.
Charlotte raised her shoulders fractionally. “I don’t know. I suppose it could have been the widow, but—I find it hard to accept. I was with her, holding her hand, when he died. I really cannot believe she clung onto me like that, watching him, and she had poisoned him herself. Apart from that, it would be so stupid—and so unnecessary!”
“The Farriers’ Lane murder again,” Vespasia said thoughtfully. “I did speak to Judge Quade about it. I have been remiss in not letting you know what I learned.” Extraordinarily there was a faint touch of pinkness in her cheeks, and Charlotte noticed it with surprise. She had never seen Vespasia self-conscious before. She waited for an explanation, but none was offered. Instead Vespasia launched into recounting what her enquiry had elicited, very casually, and yet with a precise care for each word.
“Judge Quade found the case most distressing, not only for the facts of the murder, but because the public emotion ran so high, and was so extremely ugly, that the whole matter was conducted in a fever and a haste in which it was not easy to ensure that the law was administered honorably, let alone that justice was done.”
“Does he think it was not?” Charlotte asked quickly, both hope and fear rising inside her.
Vespasia’s gray eyes were perfectly steady. “He thinks that justice was done,” she replied gravely. “But not well done.”
“You mean Aaron Godman was guilty?”
“I am afraid so. It was the atmosphere which troubled Thelonius, the fact that even Barton James, the counsel for the defense, seemed to believe his client guilty, and his handling of the trial was adequate, but no more. The whole city had worked itself into such a pitch of hatred that there was violence in the streets towards Jews who had nothing to do with it, simply because they were Jews. It would have been impossible to find an impartial jury.”
“Then how could the trial be fair?” Charlotte protested.
“I daresay it could not.”
“Then why did he allow it to proceed? Why did he not do something?”
For once there was no spark of humor or indulgence in Vespasia’s eyes. She was quick to defend.
“What would you suggest he do?”
“I—I’m not sure.” Then Charlotte realized the change in her tone, the subtle difference in her eyes. She could not bear to quarrel with her, and she remembered that Thelonius Quade was an old friend. Inadvertently she had questioned the honor of a man for whom Vespasia had regard. Perhaps it was a high regard? “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t suppose there was anything he could do. The law is very binding, isn’t it? He could hardly call a mistrial if nothing incorrect had been done.”
Vespasia’s face softened, her eyes bright.
“He considered doing something himself which would occasion the defense to do precisely that. Then he decided that would be dishonorable to his office, and a statement that he did not believe in the very law it is his calling to administer.”
“Oh.” Charlotte frowned, the extreme gravity of what Vespasia was saying impressing itself upon her. “If a judge had such thoughts, then it must have been very ugly indeed. How delicate of him to have weighed it so fairly, and cared enough to think of such a thing.”
“He is an unusual man,” Vespasia answered, looking down for a moment, and away from Charlotte.
Charlotte found herself smiling as she wondered what friendship there had been between Vespasia and Judge Quade. She had no idea how long ago it had begun. Had it been more than friendship, perhaps an affection? It was a nice thought and her smile grew broader.
She saw Vespasia’s erect back and elegant head. She could imagine her voice saying, “And what is amusing you, pray?” But no words came. Instead there was only the warm color in Vespasia’s cheeks.
“Thank you very much, Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said gently. “I am grateful to you for having asked about it, even though it does seem there is really nothing more to learn.”
“Yes, there is,” Vespasia argued, gathering her attention again. “Not a great deal, and perhaps not indicative, but Judge Quade said he was quite certain that Aaron Godman had been beaten while in custody. When he appeared at his trial he was suffering bruises and lacerations which were too recent to have occurred at the time of the murder. And he was unharmed immediately prior to his arrest.”
“Oh dear. How ugly. You think the jailers beat him while he was in prison?”
“Perhaps. Or the police when they arrested him,” Vespasia replied, watching Charlotte’s face with anxiety. “I am sorry, but it is not impossible.”
“You mean he fought them?”
“No, my dear, I do not The policeman concerned was totally unharmed.”
“Oh.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “But that doesn’t prove anything, does it? Except that, as you say, feelings were ugly, and very high. Aunt Vespasia …”
Vespasia waited.
“Do you think Mr. Quade is really saying, in a euphemistic sort of way, that he believes the police were so desperate to get a conviction, and satisfy the public’s desire, that they would knowingly have charged the wrong man?”
“No,” Vespasia said very definitely. “No. He was disturbed by the manner of the investigation, the haste of it and the emotion, and the indifference of the defense counsel, but he believed the evidence was true, and the verdict correct.”
“Oh—I see.” Charlotte sighed. “Then it seems that after all Judge Stafford was merely trying to prove once and for all that the matter was ended, and surely no one would have killed him for that. It must be his wife after all—or Mr. Pryce.”
“I regret that it does seem so.”
Charlotte looked at her. Was there a hesitation?
“Yes?”
“It is just conceivable that someone has something to hide of an ugliness so great that they feared Mr. Stafford’s investigation, not knowing its nature, or even if they did know it.” Her frown deepened. “And in case he was too thorough, they killed him. I admit it does not seem probable …”