“Oh yes!” Paterson said fiercely. “There weren’t another for an hour or more. God knows ’ow ’e felt when ’e ’eard what ’e’d passed! This one were kind o’ furtive, they said.”
“Did they?” Pitt asked, amazement lifting his voice. “That sounds like an unusual word for such men to use.”
“Well”—Paterson colored very slightly—“what they said actually was that he looked scared, like ’e’d rather not be seen. He came to the end o’ the alley, out o’ the shadows, stood still for a moment to see who was passing, then put ’is shoulders back and walked fairly quickly along the footpath, not looking to right nor left.”
“And where were they standing?”
” ’Round a brazier, ’alf in the gutter.”
“Yes, but which side of the street? Did Godman actually pass them?”
“Oh—no. Opposite side, but close to Farriers’ Lane entrance. They saw ’im clear enough,” Paterson insisted.
“Opposite side of the street, after midnight, a group of layabouts and drunks! Is there a lamp near the end of the lane?”
Paterson’s expression tightened. “About twenty yards. ’E passed under it. Right under it!”
“How did they describe him?” Pitt went on. “Tall, short, thin, large? What did they say? How was he dressed?”
“Well …” Paterson pulled a face. “They said he seemed fairly large, but ’e was dressed in an ’eavy overcoat, dark, but it could have been undone and that would ’ave made ’im look a bit bigger. They weren’t that close, and they didn’t pay particular attention. Why should they?”
“What about the blood? Your report mentions blood, and there must have been a lot. You can’t commit a murder like that without blood all over the place.”
Paterson winced and looked at Pitt with loathing. “They said they saw the dark stain, but they reckoned as ’e’d bin in a fight, or got a bloody nose.”
“So there was really no description,” Pitt pressed.
“No,” Paterson admitted grudgingly. “Not close, but good enough. It weren’t like there was more ’n one man come out o’ the lane all the time they were there. And there’s a light in that yard. No innocent man’d ’ave come out ’o that place an’ jus’ walked away!”
“No,” Pitt conceded. “That has to be true. What did you do after that?”
“The medical examiner told us who ’e was,” Paterson continued. “ ’E found ’is name on some things in ’is pockets, and there was the stub of a theater ticket too, for that night. So we knew where ’e’d been until an hour or so before ’e was killed. Naturally we went there.”
“Who did you see?”
“Well, the only ones who could tell us much were Miss Macaulay’s dresser, a Miss Primrose Walker, and the doorman, don’t remember ’is name now …”
“Alfred Wimbush,” Pitt supplied. “What did they say?”
“The doorman said as Mr. Blaine came to the theater pretty regular, like, and always visited backstage with Miss Macaulay afterwards,” Paterson recounted. “Quite often ’e’d stop for a bite o’ supper. She didn’t say nothing, but it were pretty obvious as they were fond o’ each other, putting it at its best.” There was a very slight sneer in his voice and Pitt ignored it with difficulty. “She was very badly shook by it,” Paterson said more gently. “Took it ’ard. She said Mr. Blaine ’ad been there that evening, an’ ’ad stayed late with ’er. Later she admitted ’e’d given ’er a very ’andsome necklace which ’e said ’ad been in ’is wife’s family fer years. An’ Miss Macaulay ’ad said she’d wear it for supper, but then ’e ’ad to take it back, as keeping it weren’t right. Least that’s what Miss Walker said, but it don’t look as if he did take it back, cos it weren’t on ’im when we found ’im.”
“So Kingsley Blaine stayed late with Miss Macaulay, and left when?”
“About midnight, or a minute or two after, say five past,” Paterson replied. “Wimbush told us that. ’E saw Mr. Blaine go out and closed the door after ’im. He said Blaine was scarcely out onto the footpath when a young lad came running across the street from the far side and latched on to ’im, telling ’im a message, something about meeting someone at a club to patch things up. Blaine seemed to understand it, said yes ’e would, turned ’is collar up and went off towards Farriers’ Lane—or in that direction, up north towards So’o.”
“Did the doorman see who gave the boy the message?” Pitt asked.
Paterson shrugged very slightly. “A figure, not much more. Said ’e thought it were someone fairly large, but then ’e changed ’is mind and weren’t sure whether it was because ’e were standing in the shadow. Certainly the doorman didn’t see ’is face.”
“So as far as he knew, it could have been Aaron Godman, or almost anyone else?” Pitt said.
“Anyone of more or less average height,” Paterson agreed. “But then if it was Godman, he would be careful not to be seen, wouldn’t ’e?” He raised his eyebrows. “Because ’e would know the doorman would recognize ’im, and remember.”
“That’s true. You found the boy. What did he say?”
Paterson looked less certain. “Like I said, ’e weren’t a very good witness. Just a street urchin, begging, stealing, surviving ’ow ’e could. ’Ated the police, like all ’is kind.” He sniffed and shifted a little in the seat. “ ’E said the man what gave ’im the message was old, then young. Said ’e were big, then ordinary. Frankly, sir, I don’t think ’e knew. All ’e cared about was the sixpence the fellow gave ’im. ’E did say ’e ’ad a Jewish nose, and seemed very excited. But then ’e would be. ’E were planning to murder a man.”
“Was he always uncertain, or did he change his mind?” Pitt asked, watching Paterson’s face.
Paterson hesitated. “Well … ’E changed ’is mind, but honestly, I don’t think ’e ever knew. ’E were un’elpful right from the start. That sort is. Don’t know the truth from lies ’alf the time.”
“Did he identify Aaron Godman?”
“No, not definite. Said ’e couldn’t be sure. But then ’elpin’ the police don’t come natural to them.”
“What put you onto Godman? Why not O’Neil, or Fielding?”
“Oh, we considered them, right enough.” Paterson’s voice had a hard edge to it now and his face was full of anger. “And I admit it often crossed my mind that Mr. Fielding might ’a known more than ’e ever said. But it was proved fair and square that it was Godman as did it.”
“Wasn’t there a quarrel between Blaine and O’Neil?”
“Yes, and according to some gentlemen we found who overheard it, it was pretty bad at the time, but the sort of ’eated quarrel young gentlemen ’ave when they’re a bit the worse for champagne and think their honor’s been questioned.” He looked at Pitt irritably, as if Pitt were raising the issue beyond reason. “It was all over a wager, and only a few pounds at stake. Which might seem a lot to you an’ me, but to the likes o’ them it weren’t much. Nobody but a madman would murder ’is friend over a few pounds.” His lips pulled crooked with the memory, and once again rage and horror overtook his momentary annoyance with Pitt. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you didn’t see that body. A man would ’ave to be insane with ’ate to do that to anyone. That weren’t caused by no quick temper over a wager—’ooever did that ’ad ’ated long and deep before it came to that night.”
Pitt did not argue. The fierceness in Paterson’s voice and the sick memory in his eyes stifled it before it came to his tongue.
“O’Neil is married to Blaine’s widow, you know,” he said instead.
“I know that,” Paterson said between his teeth. “And don’t think I ’aven’t wondered since if ’e ’ad that in ’is mind before Blaine was dead,” he went on sharply. “ ’E may ’ave. That don’t mean to say ’e killed Blaine. No sir, Godman did that.” His face set hard and there was a flicker of loathing in his blue eyes. “Blaine were playing fast and loose with ’is sister. Got ’er with child, and promised to marry ’er, which ’e never intended to,” he said bitterly. “And when Godman found that out ’e lost ’is ’ead. You know Jews don’t like us touching their women any more’n we like it when they touch ours. They think we’re not as good as they are—sort o’ lesser, if you like. They’re the chosen race o’ God, and we’re not.”