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By Root 1136 0

her. “It was a very infamous case. He gained immensely in stature for his handling of it, the dignity and sureness of his dispatch. People felt safer because of his presence on the bench. Forgive me, Inspector, but you do not understand what it means for a judge of appeal to go back on his considered verdict. He would be admitting he was wrong, that he did not discover all the facts of the case; or worse, that his assessment of them was incorrect, and unwittingly connived at a terrible injustice. I doubt there would be any official censure, but that is hardly what matters. It is the public shame, the loss of all confidence in him which would be so appalling. His judgments would never stand in the same way again; even his past cases would not have the weight they used to.”

“But surely that would apply to Judge Stafford equally, if the verdict were overturned for a reason they could have known at the time?” Pitt reasoned. “And if it were something they could not have known, then they were in no way at fault.”

She was about to argue, certainty in her face and patience to explain to him. Then confusion overtook it. “Well, I—I suppose so. But why should Mr. Pryce lie about it? He was prosecuting counsel. It was his duty to obtain a conviction if he could. He is in no way to blame if the defense was inadequate or the judgment faulty.”

He watched her closely. “There is always the possibility it had nothing to do with the Farriers’ Lane case, Mrs. Stafford.”

She blinked, the shadow of fear plain in her eyes now.

“Then he would have even less reason to lie,” she argued.

“Unless the motive were personal.” He hated doing this. It was like an animal toying with its prey. For all the gravity of the crime, he felt no satisfaction in the end of the chase. He could not feel the anger that would have made it easy. “I am aware, Mrs. Stafford, that Mr. Pryce is deeply in love with you.” He saw the color fade from her skin, leaving it pallid, and the alarm in her eyes. Were there no guilt, no fear for him—or perhaps for herself—then such a remark would have made her blush. “I am afraid his motive is all too clear,” he finished.

“Oh no!” she cried out almost involuntarily, her body tightening, her hands clenched in her lap. “I mean—I …” She bit her lip. “It would be foolish now to deny that Mr. Pryce and I have …” She stared at Pitt fiercely, trying to measure how much he knew, what he was merely guessing. “That we have an affection for each other. But it …”

He waited for her to deny that it had been an affaire. He watched the struggle in her face, the fear mounting, the attempt to weigh what he would believe, and then the defeat.

“I confess, I wished that I were free to marry Mr. Pryce, and he had given me reason to suppose he felt the same.” She gulped at the air. “But he is an honorable man. He would never have resorted to such—such wickedness as to have … killed my husband.” Her voice rose in desperation. “Believe me, Mr. Pitt, we loved each other, accepted that it was impossible it could ever be anything more than a few snatched moments—which you may disapprove of.” She shook her head fiercely. “Most people may, but it is not a crime like murder—it is a misfortune which afflicts many of us. I am not the only woman in London who found her true love with a man not her husband!”

“Of course not, Mrs. Stafford. But neither would you be the only woman in the center of a crime of passion, were it so.”

She leaned forward urgently, demanding his attention. “It is not so! Adolphus—Mr. Pryce—is not … he would never …”

“Be so overcome by his passions as to resort to violence to be with the woman he loved,” he finished for her. “How can you be sure of that?”

“I know him.” She looked away. “That sounds absurd, doesn’t it? I realize before you say so.”

“Not absurd,” Pitt said quickly. “Just very usual. We all of us believe those we care for are innocent. And most of us believe we know people well.” He smiled, knowing he spoke for himself as well as for her. “I suppose half of falling in love is a feeling that we understand, perhaps uniquely.