Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [24]
“She lost her lover and her brother in one act,” Pitt said grimly.
“It would seem so,” Pryce agreed.
“But you said she accepted a valuable piece of jewelry from him—a family heirloom?”
“She says she wore it that evening, for supper, and then insisted he keep it.”
“And did he keep it?” Pitt asked.
Pryce looked surprised. “I have no idea. It was not found on his body. Perhaps Miss Macaulay disposed of it, to lend truth to her story. To the best of my knowledge it has never been seen since.” His face quickened with hope. “Perhaps Stafford had learned something about that. That would make far more sense than some purely medical evidence about Godman which can never be verified. Indeed, that is quite a viable idea.”
“Who knew about the necklace?” Pitt asked, his mind racing over possibilities, new threads that Stafford might have followed till he came close to a truth as yet unguessed, and frightened someone into murder. “It cannot have been long from the time he gave it to her until Godman left the theater.”
“No—it was not,” Pryce agreed quickly. “It was testified to by Miss Macaulay’s dresser, Primrose Walker. She saw Blaine give it to her, and say that it had been in his family for years; in fact it had belonged to his mother-in-law. Miss Macaulay says that is why she gave it back to him, but unfortunately for her, there is no evidence to support that. Unless, of course, Stafford found something.”
“Would he not have told you?”
“Not necessarily. I was prosecuting counsel, Mr. Pitt, not defense. He may well have intended to tell Barton James as soon as he was certain of his own facts. Indeed he did mention that he intended to call upon James in the very near future.” He looked at Pitt with gravity, but there was a growing keenness in his face. “That would explain a great deal, which otherwise seems very odd.” He stopped, as if he feared he might have said too much, and waited for Pitt’s reply.
“Did the police not remark the absence of the necklace at the time?” Pitt questioned, still turning over the facts in his mind.
“No, not that I recall,” Pryce said slowly. “At least they may have done so, but it did not appear in evidence in the trial. Miss Macaulay claimed that she returned it to Blaine, and I think they merely disbelieved her, assuming either that she kept it—it was quite valuable—or that she said that in order to help her brother’s defense.”
“Did it?”
Pryce shrugged ruefully. “Not in the slightest. As I said, she was not believed. Perhaps we owe her an apology.” His face reflected regret, even a touch of pain. “I am afraid I implied that she was of dubious reputation in that regard, and that she would say anything to try to cast doubt on her brother’s guilt. Not an unreasonable assumption in the circumstances, but perhaps not true, for all that.” He winced. “It is a very ugly thought, Mr. Pitt, that one may have used one’s skill to hang an innocent man. The argument that it is one’s profession is not always satisfying.”
Pitt felt an instinctive sympathy with him, and wounding memories of his own came sharply to mind. He liked Pryce, and yet there was something that disturbed him, something very faint, too amorphous to name.
“I understand,” he said aloud. “I face the same.”
“Of course. Of course,” Pryce agreed. “I wish I could tell you more, but that is all I know. I doubt Mr. Stafford knew any more, or he would surely have mentioned it.” He stopped, a shadow in his eyes, for all the easy composure of his bearing. “I—eh—I’m sorry. He was a personal acquaintance.”
“I appreciate your feelings.” Pitt spoke because the situation seemed to require it. He did not often feel himself awkward or at a loss for words. He had faced others’ bereavements so often that, although he had never ceased to care, he had learned what to say. There was something in Pryce that confused him, as, on reflection, there was in Juniper Stafford. Perhaps it was no more than a very natural eagerness