“You are very sure, Mrs. Stafford,” he said thoughtfully. “I admire your confidence. And yet it leaves me with a profoundly ugly thought.”
She stared at him, waiting.
“If it was one of you, and you are so certain it was not Mr. Pryce …” He did not need to finish.
Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to laugh, and choked.
When she had recovered, she was unable to say the words of denial. “You are mistaken, Mr. Pitt,” she said instead. “It was not one of us. I swear it was not me. Certainly I wished at times I were free, but wished, that is all. I would never have hurt Samuel!”
Pitt did not speak. He looked at her face, the fine beads of sweat on her lip, no more than a gleam, the pallor of her skin, almost bloodless.
“I—I felt so sure. No, I still cannot believe that Adolphus would …”
“His emotion was not strong enough?” he said gently. “Was it not, are you really sure of that, Mrs. Stafford?”
He watched the expressions chase each other across her face: fear, pride, denial, exultancy, and fear again.
She looked down, avoiding his probing gaze.
She could not bear to deny his passion; it was a denial of the love itself. “Perhaps not,” she said falteringly. “I could not bear to think I was guilty of provoking such a …” Her head came up sharply, her dark eyes bright and bold. “I had no knowledge of it. You must believe me! I still only half credit it. You will have to prove it to me beyond any doubt whatsoever or I will still say you are mistaken. Only I know, before God, it was not I.”
There was no pleasure in victory. He rose to his feet.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stafford. Your candor has been a great help to me.”
“Mr. Pitt …” Then again she found no words. What she wanted to say was pointless. To deny Pryce’s guilt was too late. She had already committed herself and there was no retreat. “The footman will show you out,” she finished lamely. “Good day.”
“Good day, Mrs. Stafford.”
His interview with Adolphus Pryce was conducted in Pryce’s office, and began comfortably enough with Pitt sitting in the large easy chair which was provided for clients. Pryce himself stood by the window with his back to the bookcase, a slender figure of innate grace.
“I don’t know what else to add, Inspector,” he said with a slight shrug. “Of course I know opium is sold in all sorts of general shops, so one supposes it may be purchased fairly easily. I have never used it myself, so it is only a deduction on my part. But surely that applies to anyone? To the unfortunate members of Aaron Godman’s circle as much as to me, or anyone else Judge Stafford met that day?”
“Indeed,” Pitt agreed. “I asked only as a formality. I never imagined it would produce anything of value.”
Pryce smiled and moved a little away from the window, swinging his chair around behind his desk and sitting down in it, his legs elegantly crossed.
“So what can I tell you, Inspector? All I know of the Farriers’ Lane case is a matter of public record. I believed at the time it was Aaron Godman, and I have not learned what it is that made Judge Stafford doubt it. He said nothing specific to me.”
“Do you not find that surprising, Mr. Pryce?” Pitt asked as ingenuously as he could. “Considering your own part in the case.”
“Not if he was still only suspicious,” Pryce said, his voice cultured and reasonable. If he felt any anxiety he was masking it. Pitt could have sworn the subject was causing him no personal concern, only the professional interest that was his duty. “I would expect him to wait until he had irrefutable evidence before reopening such a notorious case,” Pryce went on, “and calling into question a verdict already reached by the original court, and later by five justices of appeal.” He leaned a little farther backwards in his chair. “Perhaps you are not aware of just how deep the feeling was at the time. It was profoundly ugly. A lot of reputations were at stake, possibly even the reputation of English justice itself. No, I am quite sure Mr. Stafford would have to have been very certain indeed of his evidence before he would have mentioned it to anyone at all. Even in the utmost confidence.”
Pitt looked at him as closely as he could without appearing to stare. Juniper had been filled with fears. Pryce seemed completely confident. Was it simply greater self-mastery, or had he a good conscience, and no slightest thought that it might have been she who had poisoned Stafford?
Deliberately Pitt tried to break the calm.
“I take your point, Mr. Pryce. But of course I have to consider the alternative as well. Very possibly it had nothing to do with the Farriers’ Lane case, but was a personal matter.”
“I suppose that is possible,” Pryce said carefully, but the tone of his voice had altered very slightly. He did not ask in what way. He was not as easy to rattle as Juniper.
“I regret the necessity for being so blunt, Mr. Pryce,” Pitt continued. “But I am aware of your relationship with Mrs. Stafford. For many men that would be a motive.”
Pryce breathed in and out slowly before replying. He uncrossed his ankles.
“I daresay, but not for me. Is that what you came here to ask?”
“Among other things,” Pitt conceded with a slight shrug. “Are you telling me that you were not tempted? You must have wished Judge Stafford … gone? Or have I misjudged the depth of your feeling for Mrs. Stafford?”
“No.” Pryce picked up a stick of sealing wax and played with it absently, his eyes avoiding Pitt’s. “No, of course not. But no depth of feeling excuses murder.”
“What does it excuse?” Pitt asked, still courteously, even though his words were harsh.
“I am not sure that I understand you,” Pryce said guardedly, but his confidence was gone. His fingers were fiddling nervously with the sealing wax and he was breathing more rapidly.
Pitt waited, refusing to help or to dismiss the subject.
“Love.” Pryce moved a little in his chair. “It explains a great deal, of course, but it excuses nothing, nothing of any moment. Of course it doesn’t.”
“I agree, Mr. Pryce.” Pitt kept his eyes on Pryce’s face. “Not deceit, seduction, the betrayal of a friend, adultery—”
“For God’s sake!” Pryce snapped the wax. His face was white. He sat back, rigid, struggled for something to say, and then was suddenly limp. “That’s—that’s true,” he admitted quietly, his voice a little hoarse. “And you will never know how I regret it. I have been excessively foolish, lost all sense of judgment and allowed myself to be led—” He stopped, looking up swiftly and meeting Pitt’s eyes. “But it is still not murder.”
Again Pitt said nothing, but looked unwaveringly back at Pryce.
Pryce took a long, slow breath, his face almost white, but a little of his composure regained. The effort had been tremendous.
“Of course I appreciate you have to consider the possibility. Logic demands it. But I assure you, I had no part in his death. None whatever. I …” He bit his lip. “I don’t know how I can prove that, but it is the truth.”
Pitt smiled. “I had not expected you to confess to it, Mr. Pryce—any more than Mrs. Stafford.”
Pryce’s face was suddenly tight again, and his body stiff in his chair.
“You have said the same to Mrs. Stafford? That’s …” Then he stopped, as if new thoughts crowded his mind.
“Naturally,” Pitt replied calmly. “I have been led to believe that her feeling for you is very deep. She must often have wished for her freedom.”
“Wishing is not …” Pryce’s fists clenched. He took a deep breath. “Of course. It would be ungallant of me to say I did not hope so—and untrue. We both wished she were free, but that is a far cry from committing murder to make it so. She will have told you the same.” He stopped, waiting for Pitt’s reply.