Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [39]
“Charlotte’s mother has conceived an affection for the actor Joshua Fielding,” she said with a tight smile. “She is concerned he may be suspected, both of the Farriers’ Lane murder and of poisoning Stafford.”
He reached for his wineglass.
“I cannot see any likelihood of that,” he said, still looking at her. “If that is what you wish to hear from me. I think Livesey is almost certainly correct, and Mrs. Stafford and Mr. Pryce are either mistaken in their interpretation of his remarks, or something uglier.”
She did not need to ask him what that might be; the possibilities were apparent.
“And if it is Livesey who is incorrect?” she asked him.
Again the darkness came into his face. He hesitated several moments before answering her.
It was on the edge of her tongue to apologize for having raised the subject at all, but they had never skirted truth before. It would be a kind of denial to do it now, the closing of a door which she deeply wished to remain open.
“It was an extremely ugly case,” he said slowly, his eyes searching her face. “One of the most distressing I have ever presided over. It is not just that the crime itself was horrifying, a man nailed against a stable door like a mockery of the crucifixion of Christ, it was the hatred it engendered in the ordinary man in the street.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips, a wry tolerance in it. “It is amazing how many people turn out to have religious susceptibilities when this sort of affront is given, people who customarily do not darken a church doorway from one year’s end to another.”
“It is easier,” she replied frankly, “and often more emotionally satisfying to be mortally offended on behalf of your God than to serve Him by altering one’s style and manner of life—and in a short space, it is certainly much more comfortable. One can feel righteous, very much one who belongs, while heaping vengeance on the heads of sinners. It costs a lot less than giving time or money to the poor.”
He ate the last of his salmon and offered her more wine.
“You are becoming cynical, my dear.”
“I was never anything else”—she accepted the wine—“where the self-proclaimed righteous were concerned. Was the case really so different from most?”
“Yes.” He pushed his plate away and like a shadow the butler removed it. “There was a distinct alien culture which could be blamed,” Thelonius continued grimly, his eyes sad and angry. “Godman was a Jew, and the resultant anti-Semitic emotions were among the most unpleasant manifestations of human behavior that I have seen: anti-Semitic slogans daubed on walls, hysterical pamphlets scattered all over the place, even people hurling stones in the streets at those they took to be Jews—windows smashed in synagogues, one set fire to. The trial was conducted at such a pitch of emotion I feared it would escalate beyond my control.” His face pinched as the memory became sharp in his mind. Vespasia could see in his eyes how much it hurt him.
Saddle of mutton was served in silence and they ignored it. The butler brought red wine.
“I am sorry, Thelonius,” she said gently. “I would not willingly have reawakened such a time.”
“It is not you, Vespasia.” He sighed. “It seems it is circumstances. I don’t know what Stafford could have found. Perhaps there really is new evidence.” A wry expression crossed his face, half amusement, half regret. “It is not anything in the conduct of the original trial.” His smile became more inward, more rueful and apologetic. “You know, for the first time in my life, I considered deliberately letting pass something incorrect, some point that would allow a diligent barrister to find grounds to call for a mistrial, or at least a change of venue. I was ashamed of myself