Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [56]
“None. Just a desperate attempt to save the man from hanging. Understandable, I suppose, but futile.”
Pitt took a deep breath. He was achieving nothing. Tact had its limitations.
“Stafford was enquiring into the case again. The day he died he interviewed most of the original suspects.”
Lambert’s face hardened and he sat up a little straighter.
“I don’t know what for!” Already the note of defense was in his voice. “Unless the sister prevailed on him in some way.” He shrugged in an open expression of his dismissal of the whole idea. “She’s a handsome woman, and obsessed with the idea her brother was innocent. It’s an ugly thing to suggest, I know.” Again the edge was there in his tone, the guard against an expected attack. “But it happens. He wouldn’t be the first man to lose his head over a beautiful and determined woman.”
Pitt was irritated, but he tried to conceal it.
“No—of course not. And that may be all it was. But you will understand that if I am to say that, then I must have very good proof. The widow will not accept that easily—nor will his fellows on the bench.” He forced a smile he did not feel. “It calls into question the virtue and good sense of all of them if we say he was simply a fool over a lovely face, and so far forgot his own mind and experience as to reopen a case for such a reason. I shall be in a very unenviable position if I say that and cannot prove it.”
Lambert smiled back, relaxing a little as his mind moved from his own difficulties to Pitt’s.
“You certainly will,” he agreed with a feeling close to relish. “Their lordships will take very unkindly to that. You’ll be looking for a job chasing pickpockets and card sharps in future.”
“Precisely.” Pitt shifted a little in his seat. The room was suffocating. “So can you tell me all you can recall of the Farriers’ Lane murder, then I can tell my superiors he cannot have been following that for any sound reason at all.” Mentally he apologized to Micah Drummond for the implicit slander.
“If you think it will help,” Lambert replied. “It was all very straightforward, although we didn’t expect it to be at the time.”
“Ugly, I should think,” Pitt murmured. “A lot of public outcry.”
“Never known a case like it,” Lambert agreed, moving back in his chair and making himself more comfortable. He understood what Pitt wanted now, and more importantly, why. “Except the Whitechapel murders—but of course they never caught the Ripper, poor devils. A few resignations over that.”
“But you caught your man.”
Lambert’s eyes were sharp and clear hazel, meeting Pitt’s with appreciation of all that was unsaid as well as the surface conversation between them.
“We did—and I got promoted. But it was all above-board.” The edge came back into his voice. “The evidence was incontrovertible. I can’t say we didn’t have some luck, we did. But we also did a damnably good job! My men were excellent—disciplined, dedicated, and kept their tempers in difficult conditions. A lot of public hysteria. Lot of terror. Some very nasty incidents down the east end. Couple o’ synagogues broken into, windows smashed, a pawnbroker near beaten to death. Posters all over the place and writing on walls. Some newspapers even called for all Jews to be run out of the city. Very ugly—but you can’t blame them. It was one o’ the worst murders in London.” He was watching Pitt closely, studying his face, reading his expression.
Pitt tried to iron out his emotions and look impassive, and he was almost sure he failed.
“Yes?” he said politely. “I know the body of Kingsley Blaine was found in Farriers’ Lane—by whom?”
Lambert recalled himself to the details with an effort. “The blacksmith’s boy early in the morning,” he replied. “Gave the poor lad a turn he didn’t get over as long as we knew him. Heard that after the trial he left London and went to the country. Sussex way.”
“No one else passed through Farriers’ Lane that night?