Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [140]
“No. No evidence yet.”
“Ah.” Oswyn let out his breath in a long sigh. “Then when I can help you, please come back and let me know.”
It was a polite dismissal and Pitt accepted it. He could learn nothing more from Oswyn anyway. There were no facts, only a profusion of impressions.
“Thank you, sir.” He rose to his feet. “Yes, certainly I will. As soon as I have found out exactly what that letter meant.”
“Yes—yes, of course.”
It was the next morning before Pitt could make arrangements to see Ebenezer Moorgate, the solicitor who had handled Aaron Godman’s case. He preferred to meet Pitt not in his chambers, which he shared with several others, but in a public house some mile and a half away. It was a small place, crowded with petty clerks, small tradesmen and idlers. Ale was slopped in the sawdust on the floor, and the smell of boiled vegetables mixed with that of stale beer, dirt, and too many people.
Moorgate looked out of place in his smart suit with its clean white shirt and stiff wing collar, and his well-barbered face. He had an ale mug in his hand, but he had not touched it.
“You are late, Inspector Pitt,” he said as soon as Pitt pushed his way through the throng and joined him at a small table in the corner. “Although I fail to see the purpose of this meeting. The case you refer to was over a long time ago. We appealed—and lost. It can only cause more grief, quite uselessly, to open it up again.”
“Unfortunately it is not an old case anymore, Mr. Moorgate. Two more people are dead.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Moorgate said guardedly, his fingers clasping his mug more tightly. “It cannot have anything to do with the case. That’s nonsense, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”
“Judge Stafford, and now Constable Paterson.”
“Paterson?” Moorgate’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know about that. Poor fellow. But it is coincidence. Tragic, but chance. Has to be.”
“He wrote to Judge Livesey just before he was murdered, saying he had something urgent to tell him—urgent and dreadful.”
Moorgate swallowed. “You did not say he had been murdered.”
At the next table a man turned around, his face full of curiosity. Beyond him another man stopped talking and stared.
Moorgate licked his lips. “What are you suggesting, Pitt? That someone from the Farriers’ Lane case is murdering people? Why? Revenge for Godman? That’s preposterous.” His voice rose a pitch higher and he was speaking more rapidly, unaware of the stir he was causing. “From what you say, it seems to me that Paterson may have discovered who murdered Stafford! Or thought he did. Obvious, don’t you agree? Could have been the Macaulay woman. Loss of her brother, all the scandal and such an appalling end, turned her mind.” He was staring at Pitt fixedly. “Known lesser things than that to drive a woman mad. Poison is a woman’s method, more often than not. Would have thought you could prove it.” He looked angry and faintly accusing.
“Possibly,” Pitt agreed. “Although since Stafford appeared to be considering reopening the case, I cannot see her motive. He was the one person she would most wish to remain alive.”
“Nonsense!” Moorgate dismissed it with a flick of his free hand. “Absolute nonsense, my dear fellow,” he repeated. “There is nothing to reopen it for. I am very familiar with it, you know. I was the instructing solicitor at the time. If ever I saw a hopeless case, that was it. Did all we could, of course. One has to. But there was never any chance!” He shook his head sharply. “Wretched fellow was guilty as the devil.”
Suddenly he remembered his ale and took a sip of it, looking around at the considerable number of people