Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [185]
“Yes—I’m sorry. Good day, sir.”
“Interesting, frustrating, interrupted, in patches most stimulating,” Wilde answered. “Good is far too tame and pedestrian a word. Have you no imagination, man?”
Pitt smiled back at him from the doorway. “It is otherwise occupied.”
Wilde waved him out with total agreeability and resumed his work.
Pitt took a hansom straight to Stafford’s house and asked to see Juniper.
“I expected you back, Mr. Pitt,” she said tartly. “I confess to that—but not so soon. I appreciate that you are confounded, but I have done everything I can. I really cannot help you any further.”
“Yes, you can, Mrs. Stafford,” he said quickly. “May I see Mr. Stafford’s valet again? I must know what has happened to Mr. Stafford’s clothes.”
Her face pinched. “Of course you may see the valet if you wish. My husband’s clothes are still here. I have not had the heart to dispose of them yet. It will have to be done, of course, but it is a duty I have not steeled myself for.” She reached for the bell, still looking at him. “May I ask what you hope to learn from them?”
“I would prefer not to say until I am certain,” he answered. “If I might speak to the valet first …”
“If you wish.” There was very little interest in her face or her voice. All the vitality which had been so vivid in her before was drained away, killed. She wanted an end to it, but the details were of no importance anymore.
When the butler answered her summons she ordered him to take Pitt upstairs to the master’s dressing room and have the valet wait upon him there.
When the valet arrived, a little out of breath, he regarded Pitt with perplexity. He was a very stout man with black hair and a homely face, and he did not conceal his surprise at seeing Pitt again.
“Yes sir. What can I do for you?”
“Judge Stafford’s suit the night he died. Where is it now?” Pitt asked.
The man was genuinely shocked.
“That was Mr. Stafford’s best suit, sir! ’ad it made for ’im just a few months back. Best quality wool barathea.”
“Yes, I’m sure, but where is it?”
“ ’E was buried in it, sir. What you’d expect?”
Pitt swore in weariness and exasperation.
The valet stared at him. He was too well trained for anything a man did to shake his composure, unless of course it was another servant, which was entirely a different matter.
“And his cigar case, where is that?” Pitt demanded.
“In ’is dresser, sir, as it ought. I took all ’is things out of ’is pockets, natural.”
“May I see the cigar case?”
The valet’s eyebrows rose. “Yes sir. O’ course you may.” He kept his voice civil, but his belief was plain that Pitt was eccentric at the very least. He went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. He took out a silver cigar case and passed it across.
Pitt opened it with shaking fingers. It was empty. It was foolish, but he was bitterly disappointed.
“What did you take out of this?” he said in a low, tight voice.
“Nothing, sir.” The man was aggrieved.
“Not the best cigars—to smoke yourself?” Pitt pressed, although if he had, it would disprove his theory. “Not a butt?”
“No sir. There weren’t nothing in it! I swear by God it was just like it is now. Empty.”
“The judge smoked half a cigar at the theater that night, and put the other half back in his pocket. What happened to it?”
“Oh, that.” Relief flooded the man’s face. “I threw it out, sir. Couldn’t bury the poor man with a cigar butt in his pocket. Messy thing, it was.”
“Messy? Coming to pieces?” Pitt asked.
“Yes sir.”
“And that suit is still on Mr. Stafford?”
“Yes sir.” The valet stared at him with growing alarm.
“Thank you. That’s all.” And without waiting any further he went downstairs, bade the footman in the hall thank Mrs. Stafford, and took his leave.
“You what?” Drummond demanded incredulously, his face dark.
“I want to exhume the body of Samuel Stafford,” Pitt repeated as calmly as he could, but still his voice shook. “I have to.”
“For the love of God—why? You know what he died of!” Drummond was appalled. He leaned across his desk, staring at Pitt in consternation.