Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 13] Read online

  “Thomas Pitt,” Pitt replied. “Inspector, with the Bow Street station.”

  “Police? Good God!”

  “Here in a private capacity,” Pitt replied coolly. “I was with my wife and mother-in-law a few boxes away. I merely came to offer my assistance, or call a doctor, when I observed that Mr. Stafford was ill.”

  “Very commendable,” Lloyd said with a sniff, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Don’t want to call in the police over something like this—good heavens! It’s tragic enough as it is. Perhaps someone would be good enough to look after Mrs.—er—Stafford? There is nothing whatever she can do here, poor creature!”

  “Shouldn’t I—I— Oh, Samuel!” Juniper caught her breath and pressed a handkerchief up to her mouth.

  “I am sure you have already done all you could,” Charlotte said gently, taking her by the arm. “Now it is up to the doctor. And if Mr. Stafford is not awake, he will not miss you. Come with me and let me find you a quiet place to sit until they can tell us something.”

  “Do you think so?” Juniper turned to Charlotte with desperate appeal.

  “I have no doubt at all,” Charlotte replied, glancing momentarily at Pitt, then back to Juniper. “Come with me. Perhaps Mr. Pryce will have found a glass of water and may even have located your carriage.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t just go home!”

  “Not yet, of course! But if that is what the doctor says, we do not want to have to wait in line, do we?”

  “No—no, I suppose not. Yes, of course, you are right!” And with a little assistance Juniper rose to her feet. After thanking Livesey for his help, and with one more glance at the motionless form of her husband, she smothered a sob and allowed Charlotte to lead her outside.

  Lloyd gave a deep sigh.

  “Now we may get down to business, gentlemen. I gravely fear there is nothing I can do for Mr. Stafford. He is sinking very rapidly, and I have no medicine with me. Indeed I know of none which would help his condition.” He frowned and regarded the now totally inert body of his patient. He touched Stafford’s chest again, then the pulse in his neck, and lastly his wrist, shaking his head gently all the time.

  Livesey stood beside Pitt, his back to the auditorium and the stage where presumably the players were unaware of the nature of the small, dark drama which was coming to a close in one of their boxes.

  “In fact,” Lloyd said after another few moments, “Mr. Justice Stafford has passed away.” He rose to his feet awkwardly, brushing down his trousers to return them to their crease. He looked at Livesey. “Naturally his own physician will be informed, and his poor widow is already aware of the situation, poor woman. I am afraid I cannot pronounce the cause of death; I really have very little idea. There will have to be an autopsy. Very distressing, but it is the law.”

  “Have you no idea?” Pitt frowned. “Is it not an illness you are familiar with?”

  “No sir, it is not!” Lloyd said rather testily. “It is not reasonable to expect any physician to diagnose a disease in a handful of minutes, with no history whatever, and a comatose patient—and all in the half-light of a theater box and a performance going on onstage. Really sir, you ask the impossible!”

  “Not a heart attack, or an apoplexy?” Pitt did not apologize.

  “No sir, not a heart attack, so far as I can see, and not an apoplexy. In fact if I did not know better, I would suspect he had taken some form of opiate, and accidentally prepared an overdose. Except, of course, men of his distinction do not take opium, and most certainly not a dose to produce this effect!”

  “I doubt Mr. Justice Stafford smoked opium,” Livesey said coldly.

  “I did not suggest, sir, that he did!” Lloyd snapped. “In fact I went out of my way to explain to—to Mr.—Mr. Pitt here”—he jerked his head towards Pitt—“that I believed he did not. Apart from that, one could not smoke an amount sufficient to cause death in this manner. One would have to drink a solution of opium. Really—I do not know why we discuss the subject at all!” He lifted his shoulders in a violent shrug. “I do not know the cause of the poor man’s demise. It will require an autopsy. Perhaps his own physician is aware of some condition which may explain it. For now, there is nothing more I can do, and I therefore beg you to excuse me that I may rejoin my family, who are endeavoring to have a rare evening out in each other’s company with a little civilized entertainment.”

  He sniffed. “I am extremely sorry for your loss, and regret profoundly I could not prevent it, but it was too late—far too late. My card.” He produced one like a conjurer and presented it to Livesey. “Good day, sir—Mr. Pitt!” And with that he stood to attention smartly, then bustled out and closed the door behind him, leaving Pitt and Livesey alone with the body of Samuel Stafford.

  Livesey looked very grave, his skin pale, his body tired and yet tense, broad shoulders sagging a little, his head forward, the dim lights strong on his thick hair. Slowly he put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a slim chased-silver hip flask. He held it out to Pitt.

  “This is Stafford’s,” he said grimly, meeting Pitt’s eyes. “I saw him drink from it just after the end of the interval. It is a hideous thought, but there may be something in it which caused his illness. Perhaps you should take it and have it examined—even if only to exclude it.”

  “Poison?” Pitt asked gravely. He looked down at Stafford. The more he considered the course of events he had observed, the less absurd did Livesey’s words seem. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, of course. You are quite right. It must at least be considered, even if only to prove it was not so. Thank you.”

  He took the flask and looked at it, turning it over in his hands. It was very slim, very expensive, chased in silver and engraved with Samuel Stafford’s name and the date of its having been given to him, February 28, 1884; a recent gift, over five and a half years ago. It was a beautiful thing to be a vehicle of death. “I’ll have it examined, of course,” he went on. “In the meanwhile perhaps we had better find out what we can about Mr. Stafford’s evening and precisely what happened.”

  “Of course,” Livesey agreed. “And arrange for the body to be taken away discreetly. I shall have to explain to Mrs. Stafford why it cannot go to his home until it has been examined for the cause of death. How very distressing for her! The whole business is most grieving. Is there any lock to this door?”

  Pitt turned around and looked at it.

  “No, only an ordinary latch. I’ll wait here until you can inform the management and have a constable sent. We cannot leave it open.”

  “No, naturally not. I’ll go now.” And without waiting any further Livesey went out and disappeared, leaving Pitt alone just as the curtain fell to a long and enthusiastic round of applause.

  When Charlotte left the box with Juniper Stafford she met Adolphus Pryce almost immediately, returning with a goblet of water held out in front of him. He looked extremely agitated and his dark eyes gazed at Juniper with something that, were it not ridiculous to think it, Charlotte would have taken for fear.

  “My dear—Mrs. Stafford,” he said jerkily. “Is there anything at all I can do to be of service to you? Your coachman has been told and he will bring your carriage to the front the moment you wish it. How is Mr. Stafford?”

  “I don’t know,” Juniper answered in a voice that caught in her throat. “He … looked … very ill! It was so—sudden!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Adolphus said again. “I had no idea he was in poor health—none at all.” He held out the goblet of water.

  Juniper’s eyes met his on a long, painful look. She took the goblet with both hands, the light catching on her rings. Her gorgeous dress now seemed ridiculously out of place. “No—of course not,” she said hastily. “Neither—neither had I! That is what is so absurd.” Her voice rose to a high, desperate pitch and broke off. She forced herself to drink a sip of the water.

  Adolphus stared at her. Charlotte might not have been there at all for any awareness he showed of her. All his int
ense emotion was centered on Juniper, and yet he did not seem to know what else to say.

  “The doctor will do all that can be done,” Charlotte said. “It would be best if we were to find a quiet place where we can await the outcome, don’t you think?”

  “Yes—yes, of course,” Adolphus agreed. Again he looked at Juniper. “If … if there is anything, Mrs. Stafford? At least, please let me know … how he is.”

  “Of course I will, Mr. Pryce. You are most kind.” Juniper looked at him with a sort of desperation. Then clinging to Charlotte’s arm she turned and walked away towards a small private room off the foyer where refreshments had been taken only an hour earlier. The manager stood in the doorway, wringing his hands and making inarticulate sounds of general anxiety.

  It seemed an age to Charlotte that they sat there. Occasionally she took the goblet from Juniper, then handed it back, making small, meaningless remarks and trying to be of comfort without giving any foolish promises of a happy ending she believed could not possibly be.

  Eventually Ignatius Livesey came. His face was very grave and Charlotte knew the instant she saw him that Stafford was dead. Indeed when Juniper looked up, the hope died out of her before she spoke. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, the tears brimming over and running down her cheeks.

  “I am extremely sorry,” Livesey said quietly. “It pains me to have to tell you that he has gone. The only comfort I can offer you is that it was quite peaceful and he will have felt no pain or distress except momentarily, and that was so short as to be forgotten in an instant.” He filled the doorway, a figure of judicial calm, a stability in a dreadfully changing world. “He was a very fine man who served the law with great distinction for over forty years, and he will be remembered with honor and gratitude. England is a better place, and society wiser and more just because of his life. That must be of great comfort to you, when this time of grief has lessened, and it will lessen with time. It is a legacy not every woman may boast, and you may justly be proud.”

  She stared at him. For a moment she tried to speak. It was painful to observe. Charlotte longed to help her.

  “That is most generous of you,” she said to Livesey, gripping Juniper’s hand and holding it hard. “Thank you for coming on what must be a most difficult errand. Now perhaps if there is nothing more to do here, you would be kind enough to send a message so Mrs. Stafford’s carriage may be brought. I imagine the doctor will take care of—of arrangements here?”

  “Indeed,” Livesey acknowledged. “But …” His face shadowed. “I regret the police may wish to ask a few questions, because it was so sudden.”

  Juniper found her voice; perhaps surprise was momentarily greater than grief.

  “The police? Whatever for? Who— I mean, why are they here? How do they even know? Did you …?”

  “No—it is quite fortuitous,” Livesey said quickly. “It is Mr. Pitt, who came to your assistance.”

  “What questions?” Juniper glanced at Charlotte, looking confused. “What is there to ask?”

  “I imagine he will wish to know what Samuel ate or drank in the last few hours,” Livesey replied gently. “Perhaps what he had done during the day. If it is possible for you to compose yourself sufficiently to give him answers, it will help.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to say something, a protest of sorts, but no words came to her that were not futile. Stafford had died suddenly and without any cause that could be identified. It was unavoidable that there should be some formal investigation. Livesey was right; the sooner it could be settled, the sooner some sort of natural grief could begin, and then in time the start of healing.

  The door opened and Pitt came in, closely followed by Adolphus Pryce.

  Juniper looked up quickly, but at Pryce; then as if by an effort of will, away again.

  “Mr. Pitt?” she said slowly. “I understand you are from the police. Mr. Livesey tells me you need to ask me some questions about … about Samuel’s death.” She took a deep breath. “I will tell you whatever I can, but I don’t know anything that could help you. I had no idea he was ill. He never gave me the slightest indication …”

  “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?”

  Pitt thought for a moment. A vague recollection came back to him, of horror and outrage, articles in the paper, one or two very ugly incidents in the street, Jews being mobbed. “In Farriers’ Lane?” he said aloud.

  “That’s right,” Juniper agreed. “Well, Tamar Macaulay was his sister. I don’t know why they had different names, but actors aren’t ordinary people anyway. You never know what is real with them, and what is not. And of course they are Jews.”

  Pitt shivered. There seemed a sudden coldness in the room, as if a breath of hate and unreason had come in through the open door, but Livesey had closed it. He looked at Charlotte and saw in her eyes a shadow of fear, as if she too had felt something new and dark.

  “It was a very shocking case,” Livesey said quietly, his voice grave and with an edge of anger in it. “I don’t know why the poor woman didn’t leave it alone and let it die in everyone’s memory, but some compulsion drives her to keep on raising it, trying to get it reopened.” His face was dark with distaste, as if he would step back from the useless pain of it, did not duty prevent him. “She had some lunatic idea it would clear his name.” He lifted his heavy shoulders a fraction. “Whereas, of course, the truth is the wretched man was as guilty as the devil, and it was proved beyond any doubt at all, reasonable or unreasonable. He had his day in court, and his appeal. I know the facts, Pitt, I sat on the appeal myself.”

  Pitt acknowledged the information with a nod, and turned back to Juniper.

  “And Miss Macaulay came to see Mr. Stafford again today?”

  “Yes—early in the afternoon. He was very disturbed by it.” She took a deep breath and steadied herself, gripping Charlotte’s hand. “He went out immediately after, saying he must see Mr. O’Neil, and Mr. Fielding.”