Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [27]
Pitt had seen such obsession before. It was not impossible to believe. But it did not answer the question of who had killed Stafford, if he had been killed.
“Do you think Stafford told her as much?” he asked, looking up at Livesey.
“And she killed him in rage because he had disappointed her?” Livesey bit his lip, frowning. “It strains the credulity, to be candid. She is obsessed, certainly, but I do not think she is so far unbalanced as to do that. It would have to be proved beyond question before I could accept it.”
“Then what?” Pitt asked. “Mrs. Stafford said he was presently involved in no other appeal. Revenge for some old matter?”
“On a judge of appeal?” Livesey shrugged. “Unlikely—in the extreme. I have heard convicted men make threats against witnesses, the police officer who arrested them, against prosecuting counsel or their own defense counsel, if they believed them inadequate—even against the trial judge, and once against the jury—but never against the judges of appeal! And there are at least five of us on any case. It seems farfetched, Mr. Pitt.”
“Then who?”
Livesey’s face darkened.
“I regret to say this, Mr. Pitt, but I have no alternative. It would seem there is little left but his personal life. Most murders are committed either in the course of a robbery or they are domestic, as I am sure you are already aware.”
Pitt knew it.
“What reason would Mrs. Stafford have for wishing her husband dead?” he asked, watching Livesey’s face.
Livesey raised his eyes from the desk and sighed heavily.
“I dislike intensely having to repeat this. It is shabby and an unworthy thing to say of a colleague or his family. But Mrs. Stafford’s relationship with Mr. Adolphus Pryce is a great deal closer than it would at first appear.”
“Improperly so?” For an instant Pitt was surprised, then small memories came back to his mind: a glance, a quick color in the face, an eagerness, an odd awkward moment, self-consciousness where there was no understandable cause.
“I regret to say it—but yes,” Livesey confessed, his eyes on Pitt’s face. “I had not thought it more than a rash affaire, a season’s lust which would wear itself out as such passions often do. But perhaps it is deeper than that. I do not envy you, Mr. Pitt, but I fear you may be driven to investigating such a possibility.”
It answered many questions, unpleasant as it was.
Livesey was watching him.
“I see you have thought of that also,” he observed. “If Adolphus Pryce tried to convince you that Stafford was reopening the Blaine/Godman case, you may readily appreciate why. Naturally both he and Mrs. Stafford would prefer you to believe it was some guilty and fearful party to that case who had committed the crime of murdering her husband, rather than have you investigate either of them.”
“Of course.” Pitt felt unreasonably oppressed by it. It was foolish. He knew that what Livesey said was true. Now that he saw it, he knew he had been careless not to have noticed the small signs before. He stood up, pushing his chair back a little. “Thank you very much for sparing me time this afternoon, Mr. Livesey.”
“Not at all.” Livesey rose also. “It is a very grave matter, and I assure you I shall give you any assistance within my power. You have only to tell me what I can do.”
And with that Pitt excused himself and left, walking slowly, heavy in thought. It was already late, the sun was low behind the rooftops and a slight mist gathered in the damp streets, smoke