Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [175]
“Yes sir.” The constable obliged reluctantly and the footman, looking acutely unhappy, went up the broad wooden staircase.
Pitt waited at the bottom. Once or twice his eyes wandered around the walls looking at paintings, finely carved doorways, an elegant dado, but every few moments he looked back at the stair again. He saw the sticks in the hall stand and went over to them, examining them one by one. The third was beautifully balanced, with a silver top. It was a moment or two before he realized it was also a sword. Very slowly, feeling a little sick, he pulled it out. The blade was long and very fine, its steel gleaming in the light. It was clean all but for a tiny brown mark around the band where the blade met the hilt. The blood would have run down the shaft when he put it down to crucify Blaine.
He was facing the dining room door when he heard the sound above him and looked up sharply. Devlin O’Neil stood with his hand on the newel post at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a dressing robe and looked anxious.
“What brings you here at this time of night, Inspector? Don’t say there’s been another murder.”
“No, Mr. O’Neil. I think you had better be prepared to look after your wife, and your grandmother-in-law.”
“Has something happened to Prosper?” He started down rapidly. “The butler told me he went out some time ago, and I didn’t hear him return. What was it? A street accident? How badly is he hurt?” He missed his step a little on the last stair and stumbled into Pitt, only catching himself by snatching at the newel at the bottom.
“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Neil,” Pitt went on, and some sense of real tragedy in his voice must have struck O’Neil. His face lost every vestige of color and he stared at Pitt without speaking. “I am afraid I have come to arrest Mr. Harrimore,” Pitt went on. “For the murder of Kingsley Blaine, five years ago, in Farriers’ Lane.”
“Oh God!” O’Neil slid as if his legs had buckled beneath him, and sat in a heap on the bottom stair, his head in his hands. “That’s—that’s—” Perhaps he had been going to say “impossible,” but some recollection or instinct stopped him, and the words died in his throat.
“I think you had better have the footman fetch you a stiff brandy, and then be prepared to look after Mrs. Harrimore and your wife,” Pitt said gently. “They are going to need you.”
“Yes.” O’Neil swallowed and coughed. “Yes—I’ll do that. Would you be kind enough to—no, I’ll do it myself.” And rather awkwardly he climbed to his feet again and stumbled across the hall to pull the bell rope.
He had just let it go when Prosper appeared at the top of the stairs, followed right on his heels by the constable. He looked bewildered, as though walking in his sleep. He came down slowly, holding on to the rail for support.
“Mr. Harrimore …” Pitt began. He looked at Harrimore’s face. It was curiously dead; only his eyes were frantic, full of darkness and pain. “Mr. Harrimore,” Pitt repeated quietly. He hated this even more than first telling the bereaved. “I am arresting you for the murder of Kingsley Blaine, five years ago, in Farriers’ Lane, and of Judge Samuel Stafford, and of Police Constable Derek Paterson in his home. I would advise you to come without resisting, sir. It will distress your family more than is necessary, and it will be hard enough for them as it is.”
Prosper stared at him as if he had not heard, or not understood.
Adah was coming down the stairs, clinging to the banister, her face ashen, her long gray hair over her shoulders in a thin braid, a shawl hanging open to show the thick fabric of her nightgown.
At last Devlin O’Neil came to life. He moved from where he had been standing by the bell rope and came towards the stairs.
“You shouldn’t be here, Grandmama-in-law,” he said gently. “Go back up to bed. I’ll come and tell you what’s happened. You go back and keep warm now.”
Adah waved her hand at him absently, as if to shoo him away. Her eyes were on Pitt.
“Are you taking him?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“Yes ma’am. I have no alternative.”
“It’s my fault,” she said