Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [49]
“Pitt, is it? Gwyneth said you’ve called about someone’s death. Is that so?”
“Yes, Mr. O’Neil,” Pitt replied. “Mr. Justice Stafford. He died very suddenly in the theater last week. I daresay you are already aware of that.”
“Ah—I cannot say that I am. I suppose I may have read it in the newspapers. Of course I’m very sorry, but I didn’t know the man.” He had a very slight accent, little more than a music in his voice which Pitt struggled to place.
“But you met with him the day he died,” he pointed out.
O’Neil looked uncomfortable, but his dark eyes did not leave Pitt’s face.
“Indeed I did, but he called on me over a matter of … I suppose you would call it business. I had never seen him before, and I never saw him again.” He smiled fleetingly. “Not what you would call a friend, Mr. Pitt.”
Pitt placed the accent. It was County Antrim.
“I apologize if I gave the wrong impression to your maid.” He smiled back. “I meant only that he was someone about whom you might have relevant information.”
O’Neil’s eyebrows shot up, high and arched. “He didn’t discuss his health with me! And I have to say, he looked very well. Not a young man, of course, and I daresay a pound or two heavy, but none the worse for that.”
“What did he discuss with you, Mr. O’Neil?”
O’Neil hesitated, then slowly his expression eased and the amusement in it was undisguised. He turned from the window and regarded Pitt curiously.
“I imagine you may know that already, Mr. Pitt, or you would not be here at all. It seems he was still interested in the death of poor Kingsley Blaine five years ago. I cannot think why, except that that unfortunate woman, Miss Macaulay, won’t let go of it. And I daresay Mr. Stafford wanted to end the talk and the questions about it once and for all. Let the dead bury the dead, and all that—don’t you agree?”
“Is that what he said?”
“Well, now, he didn’t tell me in so many words, you understand.” O’Neil walked across the room, his confidence apparent in the ease of his bearing. He sat sideways on the arm of one of the big chairs. He looked at Pitt with courteous interest. “He asked me about it all, of course. And I told him the same as I told the police, and the courts, at the time. There isn’t anything else I can say.” He waved at Pitt to sit in one of the chairs. “He was all very civil, very pleasant,” he went on. “But he didn’t say why he was asking. But then I don’t suppose it’s the way of gentlemen of his sort of position to confide in the likes of us, who are just the poor general public.” He said it all with a smile, but Pitt could imagine he was disturbed by having the matter raised again, and not knowing for what reason. It can only have been painful. If Stafford was trying to lay the matter to rest, it would not have hurt him to have said so to O’Neil. On the other hand, if Stafford had been planning to reopen the case, he might well not wish to mention that.
“Do you mind telling me what he said to you, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt sat down at last, specifically invited.
“Well, certainly I have no objection to your knowing, sir,” O’Neil replied, watching Pitt’s face closely in spite of his casual attitude. “But it would be a courtesy, you understand, if you were to tell me why. I would surely take it kindly.”
“Of course.” Pitt crossed his legs and smiled, looking directly at him. “Mr. Stafford was murdered that evening.”
“Good God! You don’t say so!” If O’Neil was not surprised he was a superlative actor.
“Very regrettable,” Pitt answered. “At the theater.”
“Indeed. And him a supreme court judge, and all. What kind of a blackguard would kill a judge, and him an old man too—or at least an old man from where you and I stand.” O’Neil pulled a face. “Was it robbery, then?”
“No—he was poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” There was a widening of surprise in his dark eyes. “Well, by all the saints—what an extraordinary thing to do. And why was he poisoned? Was it a case he was on,