Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [16]
The medical examiner was a new man whom Pitt had not met before. When Pitt went into his laboratory he was standing behind a microscope at a huge marble-topped bench, an intense expression screwing up his face, bottles, retorts and vials all around him. He was huge, as tall as Pitt, and far heavier, but probably no more than thirty-five. His bright ginger hair stood out in a shock of tight little waves, and his beard looked like a fallen bird’s nest.
“Got it!” he said with great enthusiasm. “Got it, by heaven! Come in and make yourself comfortable, whoever you are, and compose your soul in patience. I shall be with you in a moment.” He spoke in a high voice with a soft Highland Scots accent, and never once did he take his eyes from his instrument.
It would have been churlish to be offended, and Pitt did as he was requested with good humor, taking the flask out of his pocket, ready to hand it over.
Several moments of silence passed by while Pitt stared around him at the chaotic wealth of jars, slides and bottles containing all manner of substances. Then the medical examiner looked up and smiled at Pitt.
“Yes?” he said cheerfully. “And what is it I can do for you, sir?”
“Inspector Pitt,” Pitt introduced himself.
“Sutherland,” the medical examiner responded. “I’ve heard of you. Should have recognized you—sorry. What is it? A murder?”
Pitt smiled. “For the moment, a flask. I’d like to know what is in it.” He handed it over.
Sutherland took it and opened it up, holding it gingerly to his nose.
“Whiskey,” he replied, looking at Pitt over the top of it. He sniffed again. “A very moderate malt—expensive, but still very moderate. I’ll tell you what else, when I’ve had a look at it. What do you expect?”
“Perhaps opium?”
“Funny way to take it. Thought it was usually smoked. Not too difficult to get hold of.”
“Don’t think he took it intentionally,” Pitt answered.
“Murder! Thought so. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” He held up the flask and looked at it, reading the name engraved. “Samuel Stafford.” His face sharpened. “Didn’t he die last night? Heard the newsboys shouting something about it.”
“Yes. Let me know as soon as you can.”
“Most certainly. If it is opium, I’ll know by tonight. If it’s something else, or nothing, it’ll take longer.”
“The autopsy?” Pitt asked.
“It’s the autopsy I’m talking about now,” Sutherland replied quickly. “The whiskey’ll only take a moment. Not complicated. Adulterate even a moderate whiskey and it’s not hard to find.”
“Good. I’ll be back for it,” Pitt said.
“If I’m not here, there is my home,” Sutherland said vigorously. “I’ll be there from about eight.” And without adding anything further he resumed his study of the microscope. Pitt placed his card on the marble bench top, with the Bow Street station address printed on it, and set out to begin his investigation.
The first thing to determine was whether Stafford had intended to reopen the Blaine/Godman case or not. Surely if he had taken the time to go and see both Joshua Fielding and Devlin O’Neil, then he must at least have considered it. Would he have bothered to tell anyone other than Tamar herself if the matter must remain closed?
Or was Livesey right, and he intended only to prove once and for all that Godman was guilty and there could be no more question raised on the matter, or suggestions that somehow justice had miscarried? Constant doubts, however trivial or based in emotion, old loyalties and loves, still disturbed public confidence in justice and the administration of the law. When the law itself was not held in respect, then everyone suffered. It would be a natural and honorable thing for Stafford to do.
In seeking to establish Godman’s guilt, and justify the law, even to Tamar herself, had he unwittingly stumbled on some irregularity? Had he frightened someone guilty of—what? Another crime? A private sin? A complicity of some nature?
The place to begin, regrettable as it was, had to be with the widow. Accordingly he strode along the pavement