Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [183]
“Is he likely to have noticed anything?”
Pryce’s eyebrows shot up. “I have no idea. I should doubt it. Too busy being amusing.”
“Thank you.” Pitt rose to his feet. At least Pryce had given him something to pursue, although he had no plan beyond that, nothing else to seek, no one to question.
“Not at all,” Pryce replied. “I imagine I will see you again. What I’ve given you will be of little use. Even if someone did see him drink from the flask, it won’t tell you anything, unless they saw someone else put something into it—and that seems a little like hoping someone will tell you the Derby winner before the day.”
Pitt took his leave without further comment. They had said it all.
Outside it was bitterly cold with a wind off the river which cut through the wool of his coat, into his flesh. He walked rapidly along the footpath, head down, woollen muffler tight, collar up over his ears, until he came to the main thoroughfare where he could hail a cab back to Bow Street. Before he could ask those gentlemen what they could remember of the smoking room in the theater on a night now several weeks ago, he must find out where they lived.
The Honorable Gerald Thompson fitted Pryce’s description unpleasantly well. He did indeed have a voice which was unusual in tone, a little high and extraordinarily penetrating, and a braying laugh Pitt heard before he saw him.
He received Pitt in the hallway of his club in Pall Mall, preferring not to be seen in the company of a questionable character in one of the main rooms. This way he could pretend, if anyone asked him, that Pitt was merely on some errand and it was not a personal call at all.
“Thank heaven you had the wit to come in your own clothes,” he said dryly. “Well, what can I do for you? Don’t be long about it, there’s a good fellow.”
Pitt swallowed the rejoinder he would have used were he free to, and came straight to the point. “I believe you were in the smoking room at the theater the night Judge Stafford died, sir?”
“As were several hundred other people,” Thompson agreed.
“Indeed. Did you see the judge, sir?”
“I believe so. But I have no idea who slipped poison into his flask. If I had, I should have told you so long before now. My moral duty.”
“Of course. Do you remember if the judge had a drink in his hand when you saw him?”
The Honorable Gerald screwed up his face for several moments, then suddenly opened his eyes wide. “Rather think he had, but he finished it while I was watching him. Saw him raise his hand to attract the waiter for another.”
“Did you see the waiter bring it to him?”
“No, come to think of it, the fellow didn’t appear at all. Fearful melee in those places, you know. Fortunate to get anything at all. Suppose that was why he took a sip from his own flask, poor devil. Not that I saw him do it. Can’t help you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Pitt asked him a few more questions about others who might have observed something, and learned nothing of profit. He thanked the Honorable Gerald and took his leave.
The learned Mr. Molesworth was even less help. He had seen Stafford certainly, but standing, trying to attract the waiter’s attention and failing. He had not observed him drinking from his own flask, or talking to anyone in particular. He was brisk, businesslike and obviously in a hurry.
Mr. Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde was as different as it was possible to be. Pitt took some time to find him, but eventually he was successful in catching him at his desk in his own rooms. He received Pitt with interest and a remarkable courtesy, rising to greet him, waving his hand and inviting him to be seated. The room was filled with books and papers, and it was apparent that Pitt had interrupted his working.
“I am sorry to intrude, sir,” Pitt apologized sincerely. “I am at my wits’ end, or I should not have imposed.”
“It is when one is at one’s wits’ end that one lets go and finds a courage and imagination in despair not possible in the more comfortable emotions,” Wilde replied immediately. “Over what do you feel such