Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [184]
“I am investigating the murder of Mr. Justice Stafford.”
“Oh dear.” Wilde screwed up his face. “What execrable taste. What an uncivilized thing to do—murder a man in his box at the theater! How can we poor playwrights compete with such a thing? I am a critic, Mr. Pitt, but even my bitterest and most damaging remarks have not gone so far. I may write that a work is poor, but I shall offer my remarks and leave the playgoer to make his own decision. This was pure sabotage—and quite inexcusable.”
Pitt had prepared himself to be surprised; nevertheless, he was still disconcerted by Wilde’s attitude. It was apparently callous, and yet looking at the long face with its slightly drooping eyes and large mouth he saw no cruelty in it, and innocence rather than indifference.
“I believe you were in the smoking room during the first interval?” he said aloud.
“Certainly. A most agreeable place, full of posings and attitudes, everyone trying to appear what they wished to be, rather than what they were. Do you like observing people, Inspector?”
“It is very often my job,” Pitt replied with a slight smile.
“And mine,” Wilde agreed quickly. “For utterly different reasons, of course. What did I observe that may be of interest to you? I didn’t see anyone slip poison into the poor devil’s flask.” His eyes widened. “You see—I read the newspapers, not just the criticisms, although art is even better organized than life. Crime so seldom has any humor, don’t you find? Real crime, that is. I loathe the squalid. If one has to do something distasteful, one should at least do it with flair.”
“But you did see the judge?”
“I did,” Wilde agreed, his eyes never leaving Pitt’s face. He seemed to find him both interesting and agreeable. In spite of his pose, Pitt could not help liking the man.
“Did you see him drink from his flask?”
“You know, this is absurd—I didn’t—but I did see him hand it to someone else, a Mr. Richard Gibson. I only know the judge from his obituary photograph in the newspapers, but Gibson I have met. Stafford took the flask out of his pocket and passed it to this acquaintance, who thanked him and took a good-sized gulp from it before handing it back.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at Pitt curiously. “I assume that means that someone poisoned it after that? I don’t envy you. I did not know opium would kill anyone so rapidly. But I assure you that is what happened.” He leaned back a fraction, concentrating on his inner vision. “I can see it quite clearly in my mind. Stafford gave the flask to this man, who drank from it and handed it back. Stafford didn’t drink from it himself. He was smoking, a large cigar. The bell rang for the second act, and Stafford took the cigar out of his mouth, pulled a face as if he disliked it, then knocked the burning end off and put it in his jacket pocket.” He frowned.
“You mean in his cigar case,” Pitt corrected.
“No, I don’t,” Wilde said. “I mean in his pocket, as I said. Filthy habit. But he didn’t drink, of that I am positive. And Gibson is still alive and flourishing. I saw him only the other day. What a curious circumstance. How do you explain it?”
Pitt was thinking the same thing, ideas half formed whirling in his head.
“You are quite sure?” he asked.
“Of course.” Wilde’s eyebrows rose. “What would be the purpose in inventing such a thing? It is only interesting if it is true.”
Pitt stood up.
Wilde looked up at him, his face alive with interest. “You have thought of something! I can see it in your eyes. What is it? I have provided you with the vital clue! All is revealed—you know the heart of the murderer—and less interesting but more to the point, you know his face.”
“I may.” Pitt smiled in spite of himself. “Certainly I have an idea as to the weapon—”
“Opium in the whiskey flask.”
“Perhaps not. Thank you, Mr. Wilde. You have been of the utmost help. Now if you will excuse me, I have something extremely unpleasant to do.”
“Shall I now have to scan the newspapers