Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [7]
“I understand that, Mrs. Stafford.” Pitt sat down without being asked, so that he was looking directly at her, instead of obliging her to stare up at him. “I am deeply sorry to have to trouble you at this most painful time, but if I were to leave it until later, you may by then have forgotten some small detail which would provide an answer.” He looked at her closely. She was very pale and her hands were shaking, but she seemed composed, and still suffering too much shock to have given way to weeping or the anger that so often follows bereavement.
“Mrs. Stafford, what did your husband eat for dinner before he came to the theater?”
She thought for a moment. “Saddle of mutton, horseradish sauce, vegetables. Not a heavy meal, Mr. Pitt, and not an overindulgence.”
“Did you have the same?”
“Yes—exactly. A great deal less, of course, but exactly the same.”
“And to drink?”
She drew her brows down in puzzlement. “He took a little claret, but it was opened at the table and poured straight from the bottle. It was in excellent condition. I had half a glass myself. He did not take too much, I assure you! And he always drank very moderately.”
“What else?”
“A chocolate pudding, and a fruit sorbet. But I had some also.”
Pitt caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see Livesey touching his hip pocket.
Pitt continued grimly. “Did your husband carry a hip flask, Mrs. Stafford?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “Yes—yes, he did. A silver one. I gave it to him some four or five years ago. Why?”
“Did he fill it himself?”
“I imagine so. I really don’t know. Why, Mr. Pitt? Do you … do you wish to see it?”
“I already have it, thank you. Do you know if he drank from it this evening?”
“I didn’t see him, but it is most likely he did. He—he liked a small—” She stopped, her voice shaking and uncertain. She required a moment or two to regain her composure.
“Can you tell me what he did during the day, Mrs. Stafford, all that you know.”
“What he did?” She looked doubtful. “Well, yes, if you wish. But I don’t understand why—”
“It is possible that he was poisoned, Mrs. Stafford,” Livesey said gravely, still standing near the door. “It is a most distressing thought, but I am afraid we must face it. Of course the medical examiner may find some disease of which we are unaware, but until that time we have to act in a way that takes account of all possibilities.”
She blinked. “Poisoned? Who would poison Samuel?”
Pryce fidgeted from one foot to the other, staring at Juniper, but he did not interrupt.
“You can think of no one?” Pitt drew her attention back again. “Do you know if he was presently engaged in a case, Mrs. Stafford?”
“No—no, he was not.” She seemed to find it easier to speak while her mind was concentrating on practical details and answers to specific questions. “That woman came to see him again. She has been pestering him for several months now. He seemed most upset by her, and after she left, he went out almost immediately.”
“What woman, Mrs. Stafford?” Pitt said quickly.
“Miss Macaulay,” she replied. “Tamar Macaulay.”
“The actress?” He was startled. “Do you know what she wanted?”
“Oh yes, of course.” Her eyebrows rose as if the question were unexpected. She had assumed Pitt would know. “About her brother.”
“What to do with her brother, Mrs. Stafford?” Pitt asked patiently, reminding himself she was desperately newly bereaved, and should not be required to make sense as others might. “Who is her brother? Is he presently lodging an appeal?”
A flicker of hard, almost bitter humor lit her face for a moment.
“Hardly, Mr. Pitt. He was hanged five years ago. She wishes—wished Samuel to reopen the case. He was one of the judges of his appeal, which was denied. It was a very terrible murder. I think if the public could have hanged him more than once, they would have.”
“The Godman case,” Livesey put in behind Pitt. “The murder of Kingsley Blaine. I daresay you recall it?”