Judge Boothroyd sat in a large armchair by the window, his back to the light, and blinked uncertainly at Pitt. He was a lean man gone to paunchiness, his waistcoat creased over his stomach, his narrow shoulders hunched forward.
“Pitt, did you say?” he asked, clearing his throat almost before he had finished speaking. “Perfectly willing to oblige, of course, but I doubt there’s anything I can do. Retired, you know. Didn’t they tell you that? Nothing to do with the bench anymore. Don’t know anything about it now. Just attend to the garden, and a spot of reading. Nothing much.”
Pitt regarded him with a sense of unhappiness. The room had a stale feeling about it, as if in some way it had been abandoned. It was fairly tidy, but the order in it was sterile, placed by an unloving hand. There was a silver tray with three decanters on the table by the window, all of which were close to empty, and there were smudges on the salver as of a fumbling hand. The curtains were drawn back crookedly and one tie was missing. There was no sweetness in the air.
“It is not a current case, sir.” Pitt added the title to give the man a respect he wanted to feel for him, and could not. “It goes back some five years.”
Boothroyd did not look at him. “I’ve been retired about that long,” he replied. “And my memory is not particularly clear anymore.”
Pitt sat down without being invited. Closer to him, he could see Boothroyd’s face more clearly. The eyes were watery, the features blurred not by age but by drink. He was a profoundly unhappy man, and the darkness inside him permeated the room.
“The Farriers’ Lane case,” Pitt said aloud. “You were one of the judges of appeal.”
“Oh.” Boothroyd sighed. “Yes—yes, but I cannot recall much of it now. Nasty case, but not—not much to argue about. Had to go through the motions, that’s all.” He sniffed. “I really don’t have anything to say on the matter.” He did not ask why Pitt wanted to know, and it was a curious omission.
“Do you remember the point on which the appeal was raised, sir?”
“No—no, I don’t, not now. Sat on a lot of appeals, you know. Can’t remember them all.” Boothroyd peered at him, frowning. For the first time his attention was focused, and there was a crease of anxiety across his brow.
“It must have been one of your last cases.” Pitt tried to bring back his recollection, but even as he said it, he knew he had little chance. Not only was Boothroyd’s mind dimmed, fuddled by time and unhappiness and, Pitt suspected, drink, but he had the powerful impression that he did not want to remember. What had happened to the man? He must have been learned, his bearing commanding, his mind incisive once. He must have been able to weigh the evidence, the points of law, and make fine decisions. Now he looked as if all interest in life had gone, his self-respect, his dignity, his ability to reason impersonally. Yet Pitt doubted he was more than sixty-five at the most.
“Possibly,” Boothroyd said, shaking his head. “Possibly it was. Still don’t remember it. A medical point, I think, but I can’t tell you more than that. Or it might have been something to do with a coat—or a bracelet or something. Don’t know. Don’t recall it.”
“Did Judge Stafford come out to visit you lately, sir?”
“Stafford?” Boothroyd’s face fell oddly slack, his eyes staring at Pitt, something close to fear in their shallow watery gaze. He swallowed. “Why do you ask?”
“I am afraid he was killed,” Pitt replied, unexpectedly brutal. The words slipped out before he weighed them. “I’m sorry.”
“Killed?” Boothroyd breathed in deeply. Something in his face eased out, a shadow left it, as if some fear had mercilessly been removed. “Traffic accident, was it? Getting worse in town all the time. Saw some poor devil run over by a bolting carriage just last month. Dogs got into a fight, horse reared. Fearful mess. Lucky it was only one person killed.”
“No, I am afraid not. He was murdered.” Pitt watched Boothroyd’s face. He saw him swallow convulsively and his mouth gape. He struggled for breath. Pitt felt a compassion that was inextricably touched with revulsion. He must at least try to probe Boothroyd’s bemused memory, however little he believed in success. “Did he come out here to see you recently, sir? I am afraid I need to know.”
“I—er—” Boothroyd stared at Pitt helplessly, seeking escape, and eventually realizing there was none. “Er—yes—yes, he did come out. Colleagues, you know. Very civil of him.”
“Did he say anything about the Farriers’ Lane case, sir?” Again he watched Boothroyd’s face, the evasion and the misery in his eyes.
“Think he mentioned it. Natural. It was the last appeal we sat on together. Old memories, you know? No, I don’t suppose you do. Too young.” His eyes slid sideways. “Would you like a glass of whiskey?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
“Don’t mind if I do?” He stood up and lumbered over towards the three decanters on the table. He was not a heavy man, nothing like the weight of Livesey, and yet his movement was labored, as if he found difficulty with it. He poured himself a very generous portion from one of the decanters, filling the glass almost to the brim, and drank half of it still standing by the table before making his way back to his chair. Pitt could smell the aroma of the spirit as Boothroyd breathed out heavily.
“He mentioned it,” he said again. “Can’t recall what he said. Wasn’t very important, far as I know. Who killed him? Robbery?” He looked hopeful again, eyes wide, brows raised.
“No, Mr. Boothroyd. He was poisoned. I am afraid I don’t know by whom. I am still trying to find out. Did he say he planned to reopen the enquiry into the Farriers’ Lane case? Find evidence Aaron Godman was not guilty after all?”
“Good God, no!” Boothroyd said explosively. “Absolute nonsense! Whoever told you that? Did someone say that? Who said that? It’s nonsense!”
Perhaps it would have been more productive to have said yes, but Pitt’s sense of embarrassment and pity prevented him.
“No sir, not to me,” he said quietly. “I just thought it was possible.”
“No,” Boothroyd said again. “No—it was just a quick call, a matter of kindness. He was passing. Sorry I cannot help you, Mr. Pitt.” He finished the rest of his whiskey in two gulps. “Sorry,” he said again.
Pitt rose to his feet, thanked him, and escaped the dank room and its sour air, its confusion and unhappiness.
Mr. Justice Morley Sadler was as different a man as it was possible to imagine. He was smooth faced; remnants of fair hair straggled across his head, and fair whiskers only slightly touched with gray adorned the sides of his cheeks. His clothes were highly fashionable and excellently tailored so that they hung without a wrinkle and he seemed totally in command of himself and any situation he might face. He was smiling amiably when Pitt was shown in and he rose from his desk to greet him, shook his hand and offered him a broad, leather-padded chair.
“Good day, Mr. Pitt—Inspector Pitt, is it? Good day to you. How may I be of service?” He went back to the desk and sat in his own huge, high-backed chair. “I dislike rudeness, Inspector, but I have another appointment in about twenty minutes, which I am honor-bound to keep. Obligation, you understand. One must do one’s best in all matters. Now, what is the subject upon which you wish my opinion?”
Pitt was forewarned he had little time. He came immediately to the point.
“Aaron Godman’s appeal some five years ago, Mr. Sadler. Do you recall the case?”
Sadler’s smooth face tightened. A tiny muscle flickered in the corner of his eye. He stared at Pitt steadily, his smile fixed.