Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [178]
He did not expect to learn anything from those involved with the case of Kingsley Blaine. It seemed after all as if Stafford’s death had no connection with it except that of coincidence. O’Neil would have more tragedy than any man could deal with today, and Pitt would certainly not intrude on him unless it were a matter of crisis. And neither had he any wish to see Joshua Fielding or Tamar Macaulay. They would be celebrating the end of five years’ nightmare. Nothing would bring back the dead, but at last the shame was gone. And although it had had nothing to do with Pitt at all—far from it, he had been the one to resolve it—still he felt implicated because he represented the law to them. He was a member of the police who had unwittingly wronged them so irretrievably.
He paced along the footpath deep in thought, narrowly avoiding bumping into people. The clatter of wheels and hooves, the cries of coachmen, costers and crossing sweepers passed over him in a sea of sound he ignored. When the early afternoon newspapers carried word of Harrimore’s arrest all London would know of it. His mind was filled with the furor it would cause. He even wondered if he should go and tell Lambert himself. But how could he phrase it? Simply to announce it would sound like self-praise, and criticism that Lambert had been tragically wrong. To express sorrow or sympathy would be unforgivably condescending. Lambert would be bound to think he had come in order to savor his victory.
No. Let him read it in the newspapers and nurse his defeat alone. Perhaps privacy was the best he could offer.
That was something Paterson would be spared, poor devil. He would not have to face the public embarrassment. Although what was that, compared with the private guilt?
And what about the officers of the courts? Thelonius Quade had doubted all the time, so much so that he had even considered in some way invalidating the proceedings so a mistrial would be called. But in the end his trust in the law had prevailed. How much would he blame himself for that?
And the appeal judges. Was some suspicion of haste, of emotion governing judgment, what had driven Mr. Justice Boothroyd to retirement and drink? Or might it have happened anyway? Did he see something, perceive a lie, a doubt in the transcript of the original trial, and not have the courage to say so? It would take a brave man, in the climate of the time, to tell the law and the public that it had convicted the wrong man, the case was not over at all. There was no closing the file and putting it in the past, no saying that, yes, it was a tragedy, but it was resolved, could be forgotten, with honor.
Forgetting would be sought in vain, and there was no honor for anyone.
The first person Pitt resorted to again was Juniper Stafford. He found her still in black, but this time it was plain, even dull. It was still an expensive cloth and well cut, but it was fashionable rather than possessing any character and it no longer rustled when she moved; nor was her perfume more than the pleasing scent of cleanliness. She looked truly bereaved in every sense. In seeing her face he was intensely aware of loss, even of failure. It was not Samuel Stafford she mourned, and perhaps not even Adolphus Pryce. He felt it was something in herself, a belief, a dream which had died, and the self-knowledge which had taken its place was a bitter fruit.
“Good morning, Inspector Pitt,” she said without interest. “Do you have some news? My maid tells me the afternoon newspapers say that you have arrested another man for the murder of Kingsley Blaine. I assume he murdered Samuel also, and for some reason they have not mentioned it. It seems an odd omission.” She stood in the center of the morning room.