Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [146]
Pitt’s footsteps rang on the stones, urgent, sharp with fear. The mist caught in his throat and his breath was uneven. He could see the lamp on the wall now illuminating the yard ahead of him. It had been a smithy. Now it was a brickyard. He walked out into it, slowly, trying to imagine what it had been like that night. What had Kingsley Blaine seen? Who had been waiting there for him? Aaron Godman, the slender, mercurial actor dressed for the theater, a white silk scarf gleaming in the stable lamp, a long pointed nail in his hand? Or a dagger which no one had ever found? Surely that hardly mattered? It would be easy enough to lose such a thing, wouldn’t it? Of course the police had searched and found nothing. All it needed was a drain.
Or had it been someone else? Joshua Fielding? Even Tamar herself—helping, urging him on.
That was a hideous thought and without knowing why he thrust it away from him.
He stood still, staring around him. That must be the old stable over to the left. Half a dozen boxes. One door was different from the others, newer.
He felt a little sick, the sweat cold on his body.
He turned and went back into the darkness of the alley, almost at a run. He burst out into the street again breathlessly, his heart beating in his throat, then stopped abruptly and stood for a minute. Then he walked on back towards Soho Square where the flower seller had her position.
He was traveling so rapidly now he bumped into people as he passed, his feet clattering on the pavement, his breath rasping.
The flower seller was there, a short, fat woman wrapped in a rust brown shawl. Automatically she pushed forward a bunch of mixed flowers and went into her singsong patter.
“Fresh flowers, mister? Buy a posy o’ fresh flowers fer yer lady, sir? Picked today. Look, still fresh. Smell the country air in ’em, sir.”
Pitt fished in his pocket and took out a threepenny piece.
“Yes, please.”
She did not ask if he wanted change, she simply clasped the coin and gave him two bunches of flowers, her face lighting up with relief. It was getting colder with the darkness and it seemed she had had a poor day.
“Been here long?” Pitt asked.
“Since six this morning, sir,” she replied with a frown.
A couple passed by on the way to a party, her long skirts wet from the pavement, his silk hat gleaming.
“I mean have you had this place for many years?” Pitt asked the flower seller.
“Oh. Yeah, ’bout fourteen.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Then it was you who saw Aaron Godman after the Farriers’ Lane murder?”
Somewhere over the far side of the square a horse squealed and a coachman swore.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but what’s that ter you?” she asked, squinting narrowly at him.
“Did you already know Mr. Godman?”
“I seen ’is picsher.”
“What was he wearing that night, do you remember?”
“Coat, o’ course, that time o’ night. What else would ’e be wearin’?”
“Top hat? White silk scarf?”
“Go on wi’ yer! ’e were an actor, not a toff—poor devil.”
“You sound sorry for him.”
“Wot if I were? That bastard Blaine did ’is sister up proper, poor bitch. ’Anged the poor soul anyway.”
“Was he wearing a white scarf?”
“I already told yer, ’e were dressed for workin’!”
“No scarf. Are you sure?”
“Yeah! ’Ow many times do I ’ave ter tell yer? No scarf!”
“Have you seen Constable Paterson lately?”
“An’ if I ’ave?”
Pitt reached into his pocket and produced a sixpence. “I’ll have some more flowers.”
Wordlessly she took the sixpence and handed him four bunches. He had to put them half in his left-hand pocket to hold them all. A couple of gentlemen in evening dress passed him, top