Pitt lifted his shoulders and there was a rueful expression in his eyes.
“No, it doesn’t, on the face of it,” he agreed. “But I made a few enquiries into what he had done during the day, and some interesting things emerged. Do you remember the Blaine/Godman case, about five years ago?”
“Blaine/Godman?” Drummond came a little closer to the desk. His face creased in thought, but apparently nothing came to his mind.
“A man crucified against a door, in Farriers’ Lane,” Pitt said.
“Oh!” Drummond winced. “Yes, of course I do. Fearful business, absolutely appalling! There was a terrible outcry. One of the most horrible cases I can remember.” He looked at Pitt with a frown. “But what has Stafford’s death in the theater last night got to do with Farriers’ Lane? The man who did that was hanged at the time.”
“Yes,” Pitt said with anger and pity in his face. He hated hanging, whatever the offense. it only compounded one barbarity with another, and human judgment was far too often fallible, mistakes too easy, knowledge too little. “Stafford was one of the judges who denied Godman’s appeal,” he went on aloud. “His sister, the actress Tamar Macaulay, has been trying to reopen the case ever since then. She believes her brother was not guilty.”
“Not unnatural,” Drummond interrupted. “People find it very hard to accept that their relatives, even their friends, can be guilty of something so horrific. Surely she was on stage, wasn’t she? She was hardly in a position to poison Justice Stafford’s flask of—whatever it is—whiskey?”
“I’ve no idea!” Pitt picked it up and unscrewed the top, putting his nose to it delicately. “Yes—it’s whiskey. Yes, she was on stage at the time he died. But she called on him earlier in the day, at his home.” He screwed the top back on and set the flask on the desk again.
“Oh!” Drummond was surprised and concerned. The picture began to look darker. “But why would she kill Stafford? How could that possibly help her brother’s cause? Or has she lost all sense of reason, and her wits as well?”
Pitt smiled. “I have no idea! I’m only telling you what happened last night, and handing over the flask to you, so you can give it to whoever is put in charge of the enquiry—if there is one.”
“Mr. Samuel Stafford.” Drummond smiled back, a charming expression that totally altered the gravity and somewhat ascetic cast of his face. “Justice of Her Majesty’s Court of Appeal. A most important person, indeed! A case worthy of your talents, Pitt! A delicate case, a most political one,” he added. “It will require careful and tactful investigation, should it prove to be murder. I think you had better take care of it yourself—definitely. Yes—delegate whatever else you have on hand at the moment, and enquire into this.” He picked up the flask from the desk and handed it back to Pitt, meeting his eyes with humor and challenge.
Pitt looked at him long and steadily, then reached out his hand and took the flask.
“Keep me informed,” Drummond commanded. “If it is murder, we’d better deal with it pretty rapidly.”
“We had better be right!” Pitt corrected fiercely. Then he smiled suddenly and widely, seeing Drummond’s shadow of anxiety. “And diplomatic!” he added.
“Get out!” Drummond grinned, not because there was anything remotely amusing in the case, murder or not, but because quite unreasonably, he felt a lift of warmth inside himself, a reassertion that the odd, the eccentric, the unruly, the honest, that which would laugh and would pity, that which was essentially human, was infinitely more important than political expediency or social rules. Unbidden, Eleanor’s face came to his mind, but with so much less pain than before, and none of the bleak hopelessness.
Pitt was surprised to have been given the case, although on reflection he should not have been. Drummond had been frank with him when Pitt had declined promotion because he did not want to sit behind a desk and tell other men how to do a job he was so eminently gifted for himself, and loved in spite of the relatively lower pay. An increase in salary would have meant so much. He would have taken it, for Charlotte’s sake, and their children, and the difference it would have made to them, but it was Charlotte who had refused, knowing how much the work meant to him.
But from that time on Drummond had said he would give Pitt all the most delicate and political cases, a sort of lateral promotion, Drummond’s way of rewarding him in spite of himself, and possibly also making the best use of his skills.
The medical examiner was a new man whom Pitt had not met before. When Pitt went into his laboratory he was standing behind a microscope at a huge marble-topped bench, an intense expression screwing up his face, bottles, retorts and vials all around him. He was huge, as tall as Pitt, and far heavier, but probably no more than thirty-five. His bright ginger hair stood out in a shock of tight little waves, and his beard looked like a fallen bird’s nest.
“Got it!” he said with great enthusiasm. “Got it, by heaven! Come in and make yourself comfortable, whoever you are, and compose your soul in patience. I shall be with you in a moment.” He spoke in a high voice with a soft Highland Scots accent, and never once did he take his eyes from his instrument.
It would have been churlish to be offended, and Pitt did as he was requested with good humor, taking the flask out of his pocket, ready to hand it over.
Several moments of silence passed by while Pitt stared around him at the chaotic wealth of jars, slides and bottles containing all manner of substances. Then the medical examiner looked up and smiled at Pitt.
“Yes?” he said cheerfully. “And what is it I can do for you, sir?”
“Inspector Pitt,” Pitt introduced himself.
“Sutherland,” the medical examiner responded. “I’ve heard of you. Should have recognized you—sorry. What is it? A murder?”
Pitt smiled. “For the moment, a flask. I’d like to know what is in it.” He handed it over.
Sutherland took it and opened it up, holding it gingerly to his nose.
“Whiskey,” he replied, looking at Pitt over the top of it. He sniffed again. “A very moderate malt—expensive, but still very moderate. I’ll tell you what else, when I’ve had a look at it. What do you expect?”
“Perhaps opium?”
“Funny way to take it. Thought it was usually smoked. Not too difficult to get hold of.”
“Don’t think he took it intentionally,” Pitt answered.
“Murder! Thought so. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” He held up the flask and looked at it, reading the name engraved. “Samuel Stafford.” His face sharpened. “Didn’t he die last night? Heard the newsboys shouting something about it.”
“Yes. Let me know as soon as you can.”
“Most certainly. If it is opium, I’ll know by tonight. If it’s something else, or nothing, it’ll take longer.”
“The autopsy?” Pitt asked.
“It’s the autopsy I’m talking about now,” Sutherland replied quickly. “The whiskey’ll only take a moment. Not complicated. Adulterate even a moderate whiskey and it’s not hard to find.”
“Good. I’ll be back for it,” Pitt said.
“If I’m not here, there is my home,” Sutherland said vigorously. “I’ll be there from about eight.” And without adding anything further he resumed his study of the microscope. Pitt placed his card on the marble bench top, with the Bow Street station address printed on it, and set out to begin his investigation.
The first thing to determine was whether Stafford had intended to reopen the Blaine/Godman case or not. Surely if he had taken the time to go and see both Joshua Fielding and Devlin O’Neil, then he must at least have considered it. Would he have bothered to tell anyone other than Tamar herself if the matter must remain closed?
Or was Livesey right, and he intended only to prove once and for all that Godman was guilty and there could be no more question raised on the matter, or suggestions that somehow justice had miscarried? Constant doubts, however trivial or based in emotion, old loyalties and loves, still disturbed public confidence in justice and the administration of the law. When the law itself was not held in respect, then everyone suffered. It would be a natural and honorable thing for Stafford to do.