Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [93]
Pitt stared at him, thoughts whirling in his mind, doubts as to what Drummond meant, whether it was just idle complaint because it was a cold, dark day and the case depressed him, or if he really were thinking of retiring to some other pursuit, perhaps out of reach of the tentacles of the Inner Circle and its oppressive, insatiable secret demands. Or if it were all really to do with Eleanor Byam. After the scandal if Drummond were to marry her, he would no longer be able to maintain the social position he now held, and very probably not the professional position either. Pitt felt powerful and conflicting emotions. He was sorry for Drummond, and yet he was surprised how much he found he wanted the post. His pulse was beating faster. There was a new energy inside him.
“That’s a judgment I could not make until I reached that situation.” Pitt chose his words very carefully. He must not betray himself. “And that is not so today.” He made an effort to keep his voice level. “I’ll go back to the Stafford case. Thank you for your advice.” And before Drummond could say any more, he excused himself and went out.
In spite of having agreed with Drummond about Adolphus Pryce, Pitt still chose to go and see the other judges in Aaron Godman’s appeal and the Farriers’ Lane murder. Livesey he had seen already, Oswyn was out of London for the time being, but it was not difficult to find the address of Mr. Justice Edgar Boothroyd, even though he had now retired from the bench.
It took Pitt all morning on the train and then an open dog cart ride in the blustery wind before he finally arrived at the quiet, rambling old house just outside Guildford. An aged housekeeper showed him into a wood-paneled sitting room which in better weather would have opened onto a terrace and then a lawn. Now the wind was blowing dead leaves across the unkempt grass, fading chrysanthemum heads hung shaggy in the flower beds, and starlings squabbled on the stone path, snatching up pieces of bread someone had left for them.
Judge Boothroyd sat in a large armchair by the window, his back to the light, and blinked uncertainly at Pitt. He was a lean man gone to paunchiness, his waistcoat creased over his stomach, his narrow shoulders hunched forward.
“Pitt, did you say?” he asked, clearing his throat almost before he had finished speaking. “Perfectly willing to oblige, of course, but I doubt there’s anything I can do. Retired, you know. Didn’t they tell you that? Nothing to do with the bench anymore. Don’t know anything about it now. Just attend to the garden, and a spot of reading. Nothing much.”
Pitt regarded him with a sense of unhappiness. The room had a stale feeling about it, as if in some way it had been abandoned. It was fairly tidy, but the order in it was sterile, placed by an unloving hand. There was a silver tray with three decanters on the table by the window, all of which were close to empty, and there were smudges on the salver as of a fumbling hand. The curtains were drawn back crookedly and one tie was missing. There was no sweetness in the air.
“It is not a current case, sir.” Pitt added the title to give the man a respect he wanted to feel for him, and could not. “It goes back some five years.”
Boothroyd did not look at him. “I’ve been retired about that long,” he replied. “And my memory is not particularly clear anymore.”
Pitt sat down without being invited. Closer to him, he could see Boothroyd’s face more clearly. The eyes were watery, the features blurred not by age but by drink. He was a profoundly unhappy man, and the darkness inside him permeated the room.
“The Farriers’ Lane case,” Pitt said aloud. “You were one of the judges of appeal.”
“Oh.” Boothroyd sighed. “Yes—yes, but I