Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [141]
“She didn’t kill Paterson,” Pitt said with an unreasoning distaste that surprised him.
“Are you sure?” Moorgate did not bother to conceal his skepticism.
“Quite sure,” Pitt said sharply. “He was hanged from the ceiling, in his own lodgings. No woman on earth could have accomplished that. It must have been a powerful man to do it. Just as it took a powerful man to lift Kingsley Blaine up and hold him while he nailed his wrists to the stable door.”
Moorgate winced and put down his ale mug as if it had turned suddenly sour and undrinkable. Now every man within twenty feet of them was silent and staring.
“Let me understand you, Inspector. Just what are you suggesting?” Moorgate said with considerable anger and a pink color rising up his cheeks.
“The facts suggest, Mr. Moorgate, not I,” Pitt replied calmly.
“They suggest a personal quarrel to me.” Moorgate swallowed. “Had he a love affair of some sort? Perhaps a jealous husband is involved.”
“Who hanged him?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Is that your usual experience, Mr. Moorgate?”
“I have no ‘usual experience,’ ” Moorgate said coldly. “I am a solicitor, not a barrister. And please keep your voice down. You are making a spectacle of us! Murders are rare in my practice. And I have very little idea of what jealous husbands or lovers do when they find they are betrayed.”
“Something hot-blooded or physically violent,” Pitt replied with a twisted smile, aware of the crowd around them. It was not his voice which had aroused their interest. “Shoot if they have a gun,” he went on. “Stab if a knife is available, which is not hard to find. If a spontaneous fight breaks out, then they strike, or even throttle. To go to a man’s home taking a length of hemp, and then remove the chandelier, presumably either before he arrives, or while you have him unconscious, or bound, then string him up by the neck and hang him till he is dead—”
“For God’s sake, man!” Moorgate exploded furiously. “Have you no decency at all?”
“Calls for a great degree of premeditation and cold-blooded planning,” Pitt finished relentlessly.
“Then it was some other motive,” Moorgate snapped. “Regardless, it was nothing to do with any case of mine, and I cannot help you.” He put his ale down at last, slopping on the table to his intense annoyance. “I should advise you to look very closely into the wretched man’s personal life, if I were you. Perhaps he owed money. Usurers can be violent if they are cheated. I really have no notion, but it is your task, not mine, to discover the truth. Now, if there is nothing further, I must return to my chambers. I shall shortly have clients awaiting me.” And without concerning himself with whether Pitt had any further questions or not, he rose to his feet, knocking the table and slopping the ale mug still further. He inclined his head stiffly, and took his leave.
Barton James, the barrister for the defense, was a very different man, taller, leaner, of a more distinguished and assured appearance. He received Pitt in his chambers and enquired courteously for his health, then invited him to be seated.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Pitt?” he said with interest. “Does it concern the death of poor Samuel Stafford?”
“Indirectly, yes.” Pitt had decided to be more circumspect this time, at least to begin with.
“Indeed?” James raised his eyebrows. “In what way can I assist? I knew him, of course, but only very slightly. He was an appeal judge; it is some time since he sat at trial. I have not pleaded before him for fifteen or sixteen years.”
“But you took one of your most celebrated cases to appeal before him.”
“Several,” James agreed.