Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [142]
With an effort he brought his mind back to the present, and the slow building up to the questions that mattered.
“Thank you, Mr. James. You see, it is not only the murder of Mr. Stafford I am investigating, but there seems to be another murder linked to it.” He saw James’s eyes widen. “That of Constable Paterson.”
“Paterson? Is that the young officer who was on the Farriers’ Lane case?” James asked, a tiny muscle flicking on his brow.
“Yes.”
“Oh dear. Are you quite sure it is connected? Policework can be very dangerous, as I am sure you do not need me to tell you. Might it not be a coincidence? The Farriers’ Lane case was closed some five years ago. Oh, I know Miss Macaulay keeps trying to arouse interest in it again, but I am afraid she is in a hopeless cause. It is only her devotion to her brother which drives her. She has no hope of success.”
“You are quite certain he was guilty?”
James shifted minutely in his seat. “Oh indeed, quite certain. I am afraid there was no doubt.”
“Did you think so at the time?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did you think so at the time?” Pitt repeated, watching James’s face, the long patrician nose, the mouth on the verge of humor, the careful eyes.
James pushed out his lower lip in a rueful expression.
“I would like to have thought him innocent, of course, but I confess, as the case proceeded it became more and more difficult.”
“You believed the verdict a true one?”
“I did. So would you, had you been there, Mr. Pitt.”
“But you lodged an appeal.”
“Naturally. It was what Godman wished, and his family. It is natural to try every possible step, however slight the chance of success, when a man is to be hanged. I warned them of the unlikelihood of its being granted. I held out no false hopes, but nevertheless, of course I did my best. As you know, it was refused.”
“The grounds were insufficient?”
James shrugged. “The medical examiner, Humbert Yardley—a very reliable man, no doubt you know him?—did seem to change his mind about the weapon. It is not like him to do that. Possibly with the horror of the whole affair—it was a spectacularly gruesome crime, as you must know—he may temporarily have lost his customary cool-headedness.” He leaned back in his chair again, his face a trifle puckered. “It was an outrage in a very extraordinary sense, you know. The man was not only murdered, but crucified. The newspapers made banner headlines. All sorts of very deep and violent emotions were roused. In some quarters there were anti-Jewish riots. Pawnshops were broken into and vandalized. Men who were known to be Jewish were attacked in the streets. It was all extremely ugly.”
He smiled with bitter humor. “I was even subjected to considerable abuse myself for defending him. I had the expensive and embarrassing experience of being pelted with rotten fruit and eggs when passing through Covent Garden. Thank God it wasn’t Billingsgate!”
Pitt hid a smile. He had walked by the fish market on a warm day. “Did you ever think him innocent, Mr. James?”
“I assumed him innocent, Mr. Pitt. That is my duty. Not the same thing. But my own thoughts are irrelevant.” He looked at Pitt gravely. “I did the best for him I could. And I do not believe any barrister in the land would have obtained an acquittal. The evidence was overwhelming. He was actually seen not half a mile from the spot, at the relevant time, and quite clearly, by someone who knew him by sight. Then there was the evidence of the street urchin who delivered the message for him which brought Blaine through Farriers’ Lane, and of the idlers who saw him leave the lane, covered with blood.”
“Did the urchin identify him?” Pitt said