Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [133]
“I don’t think it is,” Pitt replied grimly. “At least for Judge Stafford there was something still to be resolved.”
“Godman was guilty,” Lambert said between his teeth. “He was! Everything pointed to him. He was seen, by the urchin he gave the message to, by the men at the entrance to Farriers’ Lane, and by the flower seller. He had motive, better than anyone else. And he was a Jew. Only a Jew would have done that! It was Godman. The original trial proved it, and the appeal judges upheld it—all of them!”
Pitt did not reply. There was nothing he could say which would answer Lambert’s real question, or ease the travail inside him.
They arrived at Sleaford Street. Lambert threw open the door, almost falling onto the footpath, and leaving Pitt to pay the driver. Pitt caught up with him at the steps. The front door was already half open and there was a white-faced woman standing in the passageway, her hair screwed back in an untidy knot, her sleeves rolled up.
“Wot’s ’appened?” she answered. “Are you the p’lice? The gennelman upstairs sent out Jackie to fetch the p’lice, but “e wouldn’t say wot’s wrong.” She grabbed Lambert’s sleeve as he brushed past her. “ ’Ere! ’As ’e bin robbed? It ain’t none o’ us! We never robbed nobody! This is a decent ’ouse!”
“Where is he?” Lambert shook her off. “Which room? Upstairs?”
Now she was really frightened. “Wot’s ’appened?” she wailed, her voice rising. Somewhere behind her a child began to cry.
“Nobody’s been robbed,” Pitt said quietly, although he was beginning to feel a little sick himself. It was only a few days ago, such a short time, that he had sat in the office talking to Paterson. “Where is the man who sent for the police?”
“Upstairs.” She jerked her head. “Number four, on the first landing. Wot’s ’appened, mister?”
“We don’t know yet.” Pitt went after Lambert, who was already striding up the stairs two at a time. At the top he swung around, glanced at the doors, then banged irritably on number four and immediately tried the handle. It opened under his pressure and with Pitt at his heels he burst in.
It was a large, old room, like thousands of other bachelor lodgings, with dull wallpaper, heavy furniture, all a little worn but immaculately clean. There was little of character. It was all chosen for utility and a veneer of comfort, but no personal taste of the man who had lived here.
Ignatius Livesey was sitting in the best armchair. He was very pale, his eyes dark and a little hollow with shock, and when he rose to his feet he was not quite as in control as he had thought. His limbs trembled for a moment and he had to reach twice to grip the chair so he could steady himself.
“I am glad you have come, gentlemen.” His voice was hoarse. “I am ashamed to say that being alone here has not been an experience I have found easy. He is in the bedroom, where I found him.” He took a deep breath. “Beyond ascertaining that he is dead—a fact of which there is little doubt—I have touched nothing.”
Lambert looked at him for only an instant, then walked past and opened the bedroom door. He stopped with an involuntary gasp.
Pitt strode over. Paterson was hanging from the hook which should have supported the small, ugly chandelier now lying skewed sideways on the floor. He was held by a rope, an ordinary piece of hemp about twelve or fourteen feet long, such as any carter would use, except there was a running noose in one end. His body was stiff; his face, when Pitt moved around to see, was purplish, eyes protruding, tongue thick between his open lips.
Lambert stood motionless, swaying a little as if he might faint.
Pitt took him by the arm, having to pull hard to force him from the spot.
“Come,” he ordered sharply. “You can’t do anything for him. Mr. Livesey!”
Livesey suddenly realized he could help and started