WHILE CHARLOTTE AND CAROLINE were concerned with the Blaine/Godman case, and the danger to Tamar Macaulay and Joshua Fielding, Pitt was sitting in the public omnibus returning his attention to the death of Judge Stafford, which was the core of his case. He did not know whether the Farriers’ Lane murder was the original cause of it, or if the connection were accidental, mere chance that Stafford had been enquiring into it on the day of his death, and totally misleading. Surely if he had any evidence which would justify reexamining the case, he would have told others of it, the police, his colleagues—or at the very least, left notes.
The conductor pushed his way down between the seats and crowded passengers and took their money, swaying on his feet as the vehicle stopped and started. A fat man coughed into a red handkerchief and apologized to no one in particular.
Most murders were tragically simple, involving the passions of close relationship—love, jealousy, greed, fear—or the reactions of the thief caught in the act.
The best place to begin was with the crime itself, for the time being ignore motive. Someone had placed opium in Stafford’s flask of whiskey after the time he and Livesey had both drunk from it in Livesey’s chambers. Later he had visited Joshua Fielding, Tamar Macaulay, Devlin O’Neil and Adolphus Pryce, any of whom could have touched the flask before the evening, when he had gone to the theater, drunk from it, and then fallen into a coma and died. The only people with the opportunity were those he had visited and his wife, Juniper Stafford. To consider either the clerks in his office or the servants in his house seemed absurd. No one could suggest the slightest motive for such an act.
The omnibus was stationary again, behind a large brewer’s dray. The traffic was creeping up an incline, horses straining and impatient. A carriage in front somewhere had broken a piece of harness. Footmen were scrambling about, cursing. A costermonger was shouting. Someone was ringing a bell and a carriage dog was barking hysterically. Everyone was cold and short of temper.
“It’s getting worse every day,” the man beside Pitt said angrily. “In another year or two nothing will move at all! London will be one vast jam of carts and carriages without room for a soul to take a step. Half this stuff should be taken away. Made illegal.”
“And where would you put it?” the man opposite demanded, his face creased with anger. “They’ve as much right to travel as you!”
“On the railways,” the first man retorted, straightening his tie with a tweak. “On the canals. What’s wrong with the river? Look at that damned great load there.” He jerked his hand towards the window where a wagon was passing by laden with boxes and bales twenty feet high. “Disgraceful. Send it up the river by barge.”
“Maybe it’s not going anywhere that’s on the river,” the second man suggested.
“Then it should be! Size of it!”
The omnibus moved forward with a jolt and resumed its slow progress, and the conversation was lost. Pitt returned his thoughts to the case. Motive he put aside for the moment Opportunity was obvious. How about means? He had never had occasion to enquire into the availability of opium. Like any other officer, he knew there were opium dens in parts of London, where those addicted to the substance could obtain it and then lie in tiers of narrow cots and smoke themselves into their own brief, private oblivion. And of course he also knew a little about the opium wars with China which had occurred between 1839 and 1842, and then again between 1856 and 1860. They had been begun by the Chinese attempting to take action against British merchants dealing in the opium trade. It was a black page of British history, but Pitt did not know what bearing it had on the present availability of the drug to the ordinary public in London, except that apparently the opium traders, with the mighty naval power of the Empire behind them, had won the day.
Perhaps the best thing would be to try to purchase opium himself and see how he fared. He would put off going to see Judge Livesey until later. The omnibus had stopped again for traffic, and he rose to his feet, excused himself and picked his way with difficulty past the passengers seated along the benches on both sides of the aisle, trying not to step on feet. Amid grumbles about delay, noise, clumsiness, and people who did not know where they were going, he alighted, dodging a landau driven by an ill-tempered coachman. He leaped over a pile of steaming manure and an overflowing gutter, and strode along the pavement until he should see an apothecary’s shop.
He found one within half a mile, but it was small and dark, and when he went inside the solitary young woman behind the counter, and the piles of jars and packets balanced on it, were of little help. She offered him alternative powders for toothache, the name of a dentist she recommended, or several other patent remedies for pain of one sort or another, but did not seem to know where he might obtain opium. She had a mixture adequate to give a crying baby, in order to lull it to sleep, which she thought might contain opium, but she was not sure since the ingredients were not listed on the bottle.
He thanked her and declined, then went out again to resume his search. He walked as briskly as he could through the swirls of people buying, selling, running errands and gossiping on the footpath and spilling onto the street, jostling the traffic, shouting at each other amid the clatter of hooves and wheels, the jingle of harness and whinnying of horses.
The second apothecary’s shop he found was a much larger establishment, and when he went inside the counters were clear, the shelves behind stacked with a marvelous array of colored bottles filled with every manner of liquids, crystals, dried leaves and powders, all labeled with their chemical names in Latin. Another shelf was filled with packets, and occasionally along its length there were cupboards set in, their doors ostentatiously locked. The man superintending this alchemist’s glory was small, bald headed, with spectacles halfway down his nose and a general expression of interest on his face.
“Yes sir, and what may I do for you?” he enquired as soon as Pitt was inside. “Is it for yourself, sir, or your family? You are a family man, yes?”
“Yes,” Pitt agreed, smiling without knowing why, except that there was something about being seen to belong to a family which pleased him. But the admission rather altered what he had intended saying regarding opium.
“Thought so,” the apothecary said with satisfaction. “Fancy I can judge a man pretty well by his appearance. Begging your pardon for the familiarity, sir, but it takes a good wife to turn a collar like that.”
“Oh.” Pitt had no idea anyone could tell his collar and cuffs had been taken off and turned so the worn bits were on the inside, thus prolonging the life of the garment. He put his hand up to it unconsciously, and realized his tie was crooked and thus Charlotte’s neat stitching showed. He straightened it with a faint blush.
“Now, sir, what can I do for you?” the apothecary said cheerfully.
There was little point in anything but honesty now. The sharp-eyed little man would be insulted by deviousness, and probably be aware of a lie.
“I’m a police officer,” Pitt explained, producing his identification.
“Indeed?” the apothecary said with interest. There was no shadow of anxiety in his open expression.
“I should like to know more about the availability of opium,” Pitt replied. “Not to smoke, that I know already. I am looking into the liquid form. Do you have any information you could give me?”
“Good gracious, sir, of course I have.” The apothecary looked surprised. “Easy to get as you like. Mothers use it to quieten a fractious baby. Poor souls need a little sleep, and give the child enough to keep it from crying half the night, keeping the whole house awake.” He pointed to a row of bottles on one of the shelves behind him. “Godfrey’s Cordial, sell a great deal of that. Made up of treacle, water, spices—and opium. Works very well, they say. And then there’s also Steedman’s powder. And Atkinson’s Royal Infants’ Preservative is very popular.” He shook his head. “Don’t know if it’s the name, or the mixture, but people like it. Of course in East Anglia and the fen country you can buy opium in penny sticks or in pills from just about any little corner shop you like.”