The clerk returned with a tray set with a silver swan-necked teapot, a silver cream jug and sugar bowl with tongs, and two china cups and plates and a basin and silver strainer. Two silver teaspoons had handles set with pearl shell. Livesey thanked him absently, and as soon as he left, closing the door silently behind him, Livesey poured tea for himself and Pitt.
“I observed one or two acquaintances,” Livesey continued, looking at Pitt with mild amusement. “I believe I nodded to a couple of them, then proceeded to my box. Frequently I have guests, but on this occasion my wife was unable to come, and I had not invited anyone myself. I was alone. Which, I suppose, was one of the reasons I considered joining Stafford in the interval. As it was I merely passed some small pleasantry and left him to himself.” He sipped his tea with absentminded pleasure. It was Earl Grey, delicate and expensive.
“Why was that, sir?” Pitt sat up a little straighter.
“He went to the smoking room,” Livesey said, shaking his head a little and smiling. “A very public place, Mr. Pitt. The area where gentlemen may retire together to smoke, if they wish to, or to escape feminine company for a few minutes, and possibly to gossip with one another, or transact a little business, if they find it appropriate. There were a great many people there, some of whom I found tedious, and I did not wish to spoil my evening. I looked in, but did not remain.”
“Did you notice if Mr. Pryce was there?”
Livesey’s face darkened. “I follow your thoughts, Mr. Pitt. Most regrettable, but I fear now beyond the point where a man of any sense could avoid them. Yes, he was there, and he spoke with Stafford. That much I saw. But I cannot say that I observed any opportunity for him to have touched the flask.” His steady eyes did not leave Pitt’s face. “Personally, I did not see Stafford drink from it. I doubt he necessarily took it out during the interval at all. I think it more likely he drank from it quietly, in the darkness and the privacy of his own box. That is what I should do, rather than be seen to drink from my own flask in a public place, where refreshment could be purchased.” He regarded Pitt with a sad smile, a comment on the weakness of a man not unlike himself, and for whom he felt a certain pity now. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Pitt conceded, sipping his own tea also. It made excellent sense. He had never carried a flask—it was an utterly alien thought—but if he had done so, he would have drunk from it discreetly, in the privacy of a theater box, not in the public smoking room. “How was his manner?”
“Thoughtful,” Livesey replied after a moment’s consideration, as if reliving a memory. He frowned. “Somewhat preoccupied. I think Pryce would say the same, if he were in a temper to have noticed.”
Pitt hesitated, considering whether to be obscure or direct: He settled for candor.
“You think he might have poisoned Stafford?”
Livesey drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. “I regret it, but it seems a distinct possibility,” he replied, watching Pitt through half-closed eyes. “If it is beyond doubt that someone did.” He drank a little from his tea again.
“Yes, it is beyond doubt—at least reasonable doubt,” Pitt answered. “It is not a dose any man would take either to dull pain or treat any disease, nor for the mind to escape the trials and disappointments of reality. Nor would one take opium by accident.” He took a little of his own tea, not quite sure if he really liked it. The thick curtains muffled the sounds of the street. He could hear the clock ticking on the bookcase.
“The only alternative is suicide,” he went on. “Can you think of any reason whatever why Judge Stafford should take his own life—publicly, in his box in the theater, leaving no note and at such distress to his wife? It would be an extraordinary way to do such a thing—even supposing he wished to.”
“Of course,” Livesey agreed, pulling a small face. “I’m sorry. I was trying to avoid what is unavoidable. Of course he was killed. I am exceedingly grateful it is not my task to find out by whom, but I shall naturally do what I can to assist you.”
He shifted his weight a trifle in his seat and regarded Pitt across folded hands. “No, Samuel Stafford’s manner seemed to me to be unexceptional. He was courteous but detached. Which was his natural way.” He pursed his lips. “I found nothing unusual in him, certainly no sense of strain or impending disaster. I cannot believe he feared death, or expected it, and least of all that he planned it.”
“And you did not see him drink from the flask?”
“No. But as I have said, I did not remain in the smoking room.”
“Mr. Livesey, have you any idea at all as to whether Mr. Stafford was aware of his wife’s relationship with Mr. Pryce, or even suspected it?”
“Ah.” Livesey’s face darkened and his expression was heavy with sadness and distaste. “That is a much harder question. And it would be natural for you to ask me if knowledge of such a thing would make him despairing enough to take his life. I cannot answer the first question; knowledge is sometimes a very subtle thing, Mr. Pitt, not a matter of yes or no.” He looked at Pitt carefully, as if weighing his perception. “There are many levels of awareness,” he went on, his diction precise, his choice of words exact. “It is unquestionable that he knew his wife was distinctly cool towards him. That part of their relationship was mutual. He retained a regard for her, a respect that had become habit over the years, but he was not enamored of her anymore—if he ever was.” He breathed in deeply. “He required that she behave with decorum and fulfill the role of a judge’s wife that society expected of her—and to the best of my knowledge, this she did.” The frown deepened in his heavy face. The subject obviously was unpleasant to him, and he spoke with feeling. “But he did not require, and indeed did not wish, that she should involve him in profound emotions, or give him a constant companionship.”
His eyes did not leave Pitt’s face, and Pitt did not move. “Like many marriages which have been most suitable, and not unpleasant over the years, there was no sense of passion in it, no possessiveness of one another. Had she behaved in-discreetly he would have been angry with her. Had she openly flouted all the rules of society and become a scandal, he would have put her away, either by sending her to the country or, if she had proved utterly willful, as a last resort, and if she had justified such an extreme step, by divorcing her. That would have been an embarrassment which he would have sought to avoid.”
He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “But that did not happen. Had he simply been aware that she was”—his lip curled—“giving her favors to another man, he would have looked the other way and affected not to be aware. Indeed, he may have endeavored to do so to such a degree that it touched no more than the periphery of his consciousness. It is not an uncommon arrangement, especially among those who have been married for some time, and grown”—he searched for a word that was not too indelicate—“a little used to one another.”
“Then it is unlikely, in your judgment, sir, that he would have been thrown into despair by the discovery that his wife was having an affaire with Mr. Pryce?” Pitt asked.
“It is inconceivable,” Livesey replied with candor, his eyes wide.
“If he really was … complacent in the matter,” Pitt pressed, “why would Mrs. Stafford do something so extreme as to murder him?”
A weary and bitter humor flashed across Livesey’s face and was gone. “Presumably her passion for Mr. Pryce is frantic,” he answered, “and not satisfied by a mere affaire. With Stafford dead, she would be a widow of considerable means, and free to marry Pryce. I imagine in your work, Inspector, you have come across many relationships which began as infatuation, and have ended in sordidness and eventually crime? Unfortunately it is a tale that I have witnessed far more often than I care to, usually selfish, a little shabby, and deeply tragic. It afflicts all ages and classes, I regret to say.”