Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [55]
Was that really what those two felt? It was something he would have to pursue, and the thought of it curled his lip with distaste. It was an intrusion he loathed. There were weaknesses in people no third party should know, and that kind of ill-balanced and devouring need for another person was one of them. It did not enlarge the one who felt it, it diminished, and in the end destroyed—as it seemed it had destroyed Juniper Stafford and her lover.
But before he began to search for evidence of that, he would clear the Blaine/Godman case from his mind altogether. He already knew quite a lot about it, but there might be other things, details known only to the police, which altered the picture. Also he wanted to form his own beliefs of the men who had conducted the original investigation, and the pressures they were under then, the area for mistakes, if possible their own impressions.
Consequently he walked slowly towards the main thoroughfare, hands in his pockets, thinking as he went. He did not like retracing other men’s investigations, but he had no choice. Still he would try to do it as tactfully as possible, and he took a long time choosing the words with which he would begin.
He arrived at the Shaftesbury Avenue police station a little before noon.
“Yes sir?” the desk sergeant said politely, his face suitably blank.
“Inspector Pitt, from Bow Street,” Pitt introduced himself. “I have a problem I think you might be able to help me with, if you’d oblige me with your time.”
“Indeed, sir? I’m sure we’ll do what we can. What problem might that be?”
“I’ve got a difficult case to which you might know some background. I’d appreciate speaking with the officer in charge of a case you handled about five years ago. A murder in Farriers’ Lane.”
The desk sergeant’s face darkened. “That was all tidied up at the time, Mr. Pitt. There in’t nothing left over from that one. I was ’ere myself an’ I know all about it.”
“Yes, I know it was,” Pitt agreed soothingly. “It is not a question of who was guilty of that, it is a matter arising out of the conclusion. I need to speak with the officer in charge then, if possible. He’s still in the force?”
“O’ course ’e is—been promoted since then. Did a fine job.” The desk sergeant straightened his shoulders unconsciously and lifted his chin a fraction. “That’s Chief Inspector Lambert. I daresay if ’e can ’elp you with your problem ’e’ll be glad to. I’ll certainly ask ’im for you, Inspector.” And with that very firm putting of Pitt in his place, he retreated into the back regions of the office and returned several minutes later to tell Pitt that if he cared to wait for ten minutes or so, Mr. Lambert would see him.
Pitt accepted with a good grace, even though he itched to retaliate.
He kicked his heels for five minutes, then sat on the wooden bench and waited a further ten minutes, then stood again. Eventually a young constable appeared and conducted him to the small, untidy office where a roaring fire made the room claustrophobically hot after the cold outer office. Charles Lambert received him with a look of guarded civility. He was in his late forties, balding severely, but with good features and clear eyes.
“Good morning—Pitt, isn’t it? Sit down.” He waved towards the only other chair. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Very busy. Lot of nasty robberies. My sergeant says you need a spot of assistance. What can I do for you?”
“I’m working on the murder of Judge Samuel Stafford—”
Lambert’s eyebrows rose. “Didn’t know he was murdered! Thought he died in his box in the theater.”
“He did. Of poison.”
Lambert shook his head, pushing out his lower lip.
“My sergeant mentioned Farriers’ Lane. What has Stafford’s death to do with that?” His voice was guarded. “That was all over five years ago, and he wasn’t the judge anyway. It was Quade—Thelonius Quade. Not that there was any doubt about the verdict, or about the conduct of the trial.”
“But there