Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [50]
“I don’t know, Mr. O’Neil. That is one of the reasons I would very much like to know what he said to you that afternoon.”
O’Neil’s stare did not waver in the slightest. His intelligent, volatile face was far more controlled than Pitt had first thought, and yet for all the natural charm, there was nothing ingenuous in it.
“Of course you would,” he answered readily. “And so would I, were I in your position. I’ll be happy to oblige you, Mr. Pitt.” He shifted position very slightly. “He first asked me if I recalled the night Kingsley Blaine was murdered. All this was after the pleasantries had been exchanged, of course. To which I said that I most certainly did—as if I would be able to forget it, for all that I tried hard enough! Then he asked me to recount it all for him, which I did.”
“Could you recount it for me, please, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt interrupted.
“If you wish. Well, it was early autumn, but I daresay you know that. Kingsley and I had decided to go to the theater.” He shrugged expressively, lifting his shoulders high and turning out his hands, palms upwards. “He was married, but I was fancy-free. For all that, he was very enamored of the actress Tamar Macaulay, and he intended to go backstage after the show and visit with her. He had a gift which he proposed to give her, and no doubt he foresaw that she would be suitably grateful for it.”
“What was it?” Pitt interrupted again.
“A necklace. Do you not know that?” He looked surprised. “Of course you do! Yes, a very handsome piece. Belonged to his mother-in-law, rest her soul. And for sure he shouldn’t have been giving it away to another woman. But then we all do foolish things at times. The poor devil’s dead and answered for it now.” He stopped for a moment, regarding Pitt with interest.
“Indeed.” Pitt felt compelled at least to acknowledge that he had heard.
“But then he and I had something of a disagreement—nothing much, you understand, just a wager on the outcome of a fight.” He grinned. “An exhibition of the noble art of pugilism, to you, Mr. Pitt. We disagreed as to who had won—and he refused to pay me, although according to the rules, the money was mine.”
O’Neil pushed out his lower lip ruefully. “I left the theater early in something of a temper, and went to a house of pleasure.” He smiled candidly, covering whatever embarrassment he might have felt. “Kingsley stayed with Tamar Macaulay, and left very late, so I gather. At least that was the testimony of the doorman. Kingsley, poor soul, was given a message, purporting to be from me, that he should meet me at a gambling club we both frequented in those days.” He winced. “The way to it led through Farriers’ Lane, and we all know what happened there.”
“Was the message written or verbal?”
“Oh, verbal—all word of mouth.”
“But you didn’t see Mr. Blaine again?”
“Not alive, no, the poor soul.”
“Was that all the judge asked you?”
“The judge?” O’Neil’s dark eyes widened. “Oh—poor Mr. Stafford, you mean? Yes, I think so. Frankly it seemed something of a waste of time to me. The case is closed. The verdict was given, and there was no real question about it. The police found the right fellow. Poor devil lost his head and ran amok.” He pulled a slight face. “Not a Christian, you know. Different ideas of right and wrong, I daresay. They hanged him—no choice. Evidence was conclusive. That must have been what Mr. Stafford had in mind to do—prove it so even Miss Macaulay would have to admit it to herself and leave off pestering everyone.”
That could so easily be the truth. Pitt had come because it was an obvious duty to retrace Stafford’s steps. Someone that day had put liquid opium into his flask, or Livesey and his friend would have been poisoned when they drank from it earlier. But he had also hoped to learn something that would tell him whether Stafford intended to reopen the case or to close it forever. Perhaps that was a forlorn hope? O’Neil had been one of the original suspects. He would hardly wish the matter raised again.
Pitt looked at where O’Neil was lounging easily in the other large