Farriers' Lane

by Anne Perry

  The clerk returned with a tray set with a silver swan-necked teapot, a silver cream jug and sugar bowl with tongs, and two china cups and plates and a basin and silver strainer. Two silver teaspoons had handles set with pearl shell. Livesey thanked him absently, and as soon as he left, closing the door silently behind him, Livesey poured tea for himself and Pitt.

  “I observed one or two acquaintances,” Livesey continued, looking at Pitt with mild amusement. “I believe I nodded to a couple of them, then proceeded to my box. Frequently I have guests, but on this occasion my wife was unable to come, and I had not invited anyone myself. I was alone. Which, I suppose, was one of the reasons I considered joining Stafford in the interval. As it was I merely passed some small pleasantry and left him to himself.” He sipped his tea with absentminded pleasure. It was Earl Grey, delicate and expensive.

  “Why was that, sir?” Pitt sat up a little straighter.

  “He went to the smoking room,” Livesey said, shaking his head a little and smiling. “A very public place, Mr. Pitt. The area where gentlemen may retire together to smoke, if they wish to, or to escape feminine company for a few minutes, and possibly to gossip with one another, or transact a little business, if they find it appropriate. There were a great many people there, some of whom I found tedious, and I did not wish to spoil my evening. I looked in, but did not remain.”

  “Did you notice if Mr. Pryce was there?”

  Livesey’s face darkened. “I follow your thoughts, Mr. Pitt. Most regrettable, but I fear now beyond the point where a man of any sense could avoid them. Yes, he was there, and he spoke with Stafford. That much I saw. But I cannot say that I observed any opportunity for him to have touched the flask.” His steady eyes did not leave Pitt’s face. “Personally, I did not see Stafford drink from it. I doubt he necessarily took it out during the interval at all. I think it more likely he drank from it quietly, in the darkness and the privacy of his own box. That is what I should do, rather than be seen to drink from my own flask in a public place, where refreshment could be purchased.” He regarded Pitt with a sad smile, a comment on the weakness of a man not unlike himself, and for whom he felt a certain pity now. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Pitt conceded, sipping his own tea also. It made excellent sense. He had never carried a flask—it was an utterly alien thought—but if he had done so, he would have drunk from it discreetly, in the privacy of a theater box, not in the public smoking room. “How was his manner?”

  “Thoughtful,” Livesey replied after a moment’s consideration, as if reliving a memory. He frowned. “Somewhat preoccupied. I think Pryce would say the same, if he were in a temper to have noticed.”

  Pitt hesitated, considering whether to be obscure or direct: He settled for candor.

  “You think he might have poisoned Stafford?”

  Livesey drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. “I regret it, but it seems a distinct possibility,” he replied, watching Pitt through half-closed eyes. “If it is beyond doubt that someone did.” He drank a little from his tea again.

  “Yes, it is beyond doubt—at least reasonable doubt,” Pitt answered. “It is not a dose any man would take either to dull pain or treat any disease, nor for the mind to escape the trials and disappointments of reality. Nor would one take opium by accident.” He took a little of his own tea, not quite sure if he really liked it. The thick curtains muffled the sounds of the street. He could hear the clock ticking on the bookcase.

  “The only alternative is suicide,” he went on. “Can you think of any reason whatever why Judge Stafford should take his own life—publicly, in his box in the theater, leaving no note and at such distress to his wife? It would be an extraordinary way to do such a thing—even supposing he wished to.”

  “Of course,” Livesey agreed, pulling a small face. “I’m sorry. I was trying to avoid what is unavoidable. Of course he was killed. I am exceedingly grateful it is not my task to find out by whom, but I shall naturally do what I can to assist you.”

  He shifted his weight a trifle in his seat and regarded Pitt across folded hands. “No, Samuel Stafford’s manner seemed to me to be unexceptional. He was courteous but detached. Which was his natural way.” He pursed his lips. “I found nothing unusual in him, certainly no sense of strain or impending disaster. I cannot believe he feared death, or expected it, and least of all that he planned it.”

  “And you did not see him drink from the flask?”

  “No. But as I have said, I did not remain in the smoking room.”

  “Mr. Livesey, have you any idea at all as to whether Mr. Stafford was aware of his wife’s relationship with Mr. Pryce, or even suspected it?”

  “Ah.” Livesey’s face darkened and his expression was heavy with sadness and distaste. “That is a much harder question. And it would be natural for you to ask me if knowledge of such a thing would make him despairing enough to take his life. I cannot answer the first question; knowledge is sometimes a very subtle thing, Mr. Pitt, not a matter of yes or no.” He looked at Pitt carefully, as if weighing his perception. “There are many levels of awareness,” he went on, his diction precise, his choice of words exact. “It is unquestionable that he knew his wife was distinctly cool towards him. That part of their relationship was mutual. He retained a regard for her, a respect that had become habit over the years, but he was not enamored of her anymore—if he ever was.” He breathed in deeply. “He required that she behave with decorum and fulfill the role of a judge’s wife that society expected of her—and to the best of my knowledge, this she did.” The frown deepened in his heavy face. The subject obviously was unpleasant to him, and he spoke with feeling. “But he did not require, and indeed did not wish, that she should involve him in profound emotions, or give him a constant companionship.”

  His eyes did not leave Pitt’s face, and Pitt did not move. “Like many marriages which have been most suitable, and not unpleasant over the years, there was no sense of passion in it, no possessiveness of one another. Had she behaved in-discreetly he would have been angry with her. Had she openly flouted all the rules of society and become a scandal, he would have put her away, either by sending her to the country or, if she had proved utterly willful, as a last resort, and if she had justified such an extreme step, by divorcing her. That would have been an embarrassment which he would have sought to avoid.”

  He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “But that did not happen. Had he simply been aware that she was”—his lip curled—“giving her favors to another man, he would have looked the other way and affected not to be aware. Indeed, he may have endeavored to do so to such a degree that it touched no more than the periphery of his consciousness. It is not an uncommon arrangement, especially among those who have been married for some time, and grown”—he searched for a word that was not too indelicate—“a little used to one another.”

  “Then it is unlikely, in your judgment, sir, that he would have been thrown into despair by the discovery that his wife was having an affaire with Mr. Pryce?” Pitt asked.

  “It is inconceivable,” Livesey replied with candor, his eyes wide.

  “If he really was … complacent in the matter,” Pitt pressed, “why would Mrs. Stafford do something so extreme as to murder him?”

  A weary and bitter humor flashed across Livesey’s face and was gone. “Presumably her passion for Mr. Pryce is frantic,” he answered, “and not satisfied by a mere affaire. With Stafford dead, she would be a widow of considerable means, and free to marry Pryce. I imagine in your work, Inspector, you have come across many relationships which began as infatuation, and have ended in sordidness and eventually crime? Unfortunately it is a tale that I have witnessed far more often than I care to, usually selfish, a little shabby, and deeply tragic. It afflicts all ages and classes, I regret to say.”

  Pitt could not argue. “Yes,” he agreed reluctantly. “Yes, I have.”

  “Possibly Pryce was losing some of the heat of his desire,” Livesey continued. “And she fe
ared losing him to a younger woman. Who knows?” He lifted his shoulders a fraction. “The whole matter is dark, and totally tragic. Were poor Stafford not dead, I would have considered it so improbable I should have dismissed the possibility. But he is dead, and we must face the logical conclusions. I regret I cannot say anything more helpful—or less stark in its outcome.”

  “You have been most helpful, sir.” Pitt rose to his feet. “I shall enquire into the nature of this sorry affair and learn all I can about it.”

  “I do not envy you.” Livesey reached for the bell and rang it to summon the clerk. “You might begin with my wife, who is both observant and discreet. She was well acquainted with Juniper Stafford, but she will tell you the truth, without gossiping further to damage reputations unnecessarily.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Pitt said with sincere gratitude. “That will be a most excellent place to begin.”

  He accepted Livesey’s advice, and began after luncheon in the early afternoon, straightening his tie, pulling his jacket a little more to the square, and moving several small articles from one pocket to another to balance them and lessen the bulges, giving his boots a hasty brush on the backs of his trousers and running his fingers through his hair, the last of these efforts making things considerably worse than before. This time he took a hansom, not the public omnibus, and alighted in the highly fashionable Eaton Square and presented himself at the front door of number five. The bell was answered by a smart footman, who was tall and slender with excellent legs, well displayed by the silk stockings of his livery.

  “Yes sir?” He had just the right touch of superciliousness that verged on the offensive without ever quite toppling over into it. He was employed in a very superior household, and would make certain that callers were aware of that.

  “Good afternoon,” Pitt said with a smile he did not feel, but it gave him the considerable satisfaction of unnerving the man. People did not smile at footmen. He smiled even more widely, showing his teeth. “My name is Thomas Pitt.” He produced his card and placed it on the proffered silver tray. “Mr. Justice Livesey was kind enough to suggest that Mrs. Livesey might be able to provide me with some information which I require in the cause of justice. Would you be good enough to ask her if she will receive me, to that end?”

  The footman’s composure was severely shaken. Who on earth was this impertinent fellow who stood on the steps smiling from ear to ear with a confidence he had no right to? Possibly the judge really had sent him? He would like to have packed him off with some very well chosen words, but he dared not. Society was definitely declining and values going to the dogs.

  “Yes sir,” he said sourly. “I will certainly ask, but I cannot say what the answer will be.”

  “Of course not,” Pitt agreed reasonably. “At least not until you do ask!”

  The footman snorted, turned on his heel and disappeared, leaving Pitt on the step. There was a bootboy standing at the far side of the hall staring uncomfortably, to see that Pitt did not dart in and steal the ornaments or the sticks in the hall stand.

  The footman reappeared after only a few moments, replaced the card tray on the hall table, and came to Pitt, regarding him with displeasure.

  “Mrs. Livesey is at home and will see you, if you will follow me?” He held out his hand for Pitt’s hat and coat.

  “Thank you,” Pitt accepted, passing them over. He was not especially surprised. Curiosity was frequently more powerful than social niceties, particularly with wives of a certain level in society, who had too little to occupy their time, and even less to fill their minds. Anything unexpected or new had a value purely for that reason.

  The house was solid, old-fashioned and extremely comfortable. The room to which Pitt was shown was large, with windows along one side, and yet at first glance it did not seem large. The huge mantel dominated one wall and was flanked by bookcases to the ceiling. Dark upholstered armchairs were supplemented by very beautiful upright chairs with carved wooden backs like church windows. Everywhere there were omaments, tapestries, potted plants, but the single most interesting feature was a transitional light fixture depended from the center of the ceiling. It was designed to function both with electricity and with gas, the arms for gas pointing upwards, the bulbs for electricity down. It was only the second one Pitt had ever seen.

  Mariah Livesey herself was a handsome woman with thick gray-white hair with a heavy wave most becomingly swept back off her brow. Her features were well proportioned and agreeable. In fact looking at her Pitt thought she was quite probably better looking now than in her youth, when she might well have been comparatively ordinary. Years of comfort and security of status had given her an ease of manner, and expensive clothes of refined taste had given her distinction. She regarded him with barely concealed curiosity.

  “Yes, Mr. Pitt? My footman tells me my husband advised you to come to me for some information. Is that correct?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Pitt replied, standing upright, but not in any way to attention. “I left his chambers very shortly before luncheon and he suggested I should begin my search with you. It is a most delicate matter, which clumsily handled would ruin a lady’s reputation, perhaps quite unjustifiably. He said that you would be both candid and discreet.”

  Her eyes were bright with interest, and there was the faintest flush in her cheeks.

  “Indeed? How generous of him. I shall endeavor to live up to all that he has said of me. What is your enquiry, Mr. Pitt? I had not realized I knew anything of such a matter.”

  “I am investigating the death of Mr. Justice Stafford.”

  “Oh dear.” Her face darkened. “A dreadful thing—quite dreadful. Please sit down, Mr. Pitt. We cannot discuss this in a few moments. Although I really cannot think that I would be of assistance to you. I know nothing about it at all.”

  “Not knowingly, I’m sure, or you would already have informed us,” Pitt agreed, sitting in the large chair opposite her. “But you are acquainted with both Mr. and Mrs. Stafford, and you no doubt move in the same circles in society.”

  Her face showed complete surprise. “Surely you cannot be suggesting someone from their social acquaintance killed him? That is absurd! You must have misunderstood something my husband said, Mr. Pitt. That is the only possible explanation.”

  “I am afraid that is not possible.” Pitt shook his head, smiling at her sadly. “He was quite plain. If you will permit me to ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course.” She looked puzzled.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Stafford had been married for some considerable time?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, at least twenty years, probably longer.” Her voice lifted in surprise.

  “How would you describe their relationship?”

  Her confusion increased. “Oh—amiable, I should say. There was certainly never any animosity between them, so far as I am aware. If you are thinking of a quarrel, I have to tell you I find it very difficult to believe, if not impossible.” She shook her head a little to emphasize the point.

  “Why do you say that, Mrs. Livesey?” he pressed.

  “Well …” She looked at him with some concentration. Her eyes were neither blue nor gray, but full of perception. He judged she was not a clever woman, but one with considerable judgment of others within her own social knowledge, and an excellent sense of what was fitting.

  “Yes? I would greatly value your candor, ma’am.”

  She hesitated only a moment more, he thought weighing words rather than debating whether to answer him or not.

  “It was not a relationship in which either party had sufficient depth of emotion to quarrel,” she said at length. He thought from her expression she was measuring her words carefully. “It had long since declined to a more comfortable state,” she went on, “where respect and usage had replaced any acute involvement in each other’s day-to-day lives. Juniper always behaved discreetly, and fulfilled her social obligations. She is an excellent hostess, handsome to look at, well dressed, exceedingly well
mannered.” A slight flicker crossed her face and there was a momentary tightness in her mouth. It occurred to Pitt that she was focusing herself to say things which she believed only grudgingly.

  “And to the best of my knowledge, Samuel Stafford was an honorable man, not given to any excesses either personal or financial,” she continued, her expression relaxing a little. “She was always well provided for. If he—if he had any other … women in his life … he was so discreet about them I for one had no idea.” She looked at Pitt, waiting for his comment.

  “Indeed. That is what I had heard elsewhere,” he agreed. “What about Mrs. Stafford’s other relationships?”

  “Oh—well—I suppose you mean Mr. Pryce?” She colored uncomfortably, though it was impossible to say whether it was embarrassment or guilt because she was mentioning it at all.

  “Was there any other?” he enquired.

  “No! No, of course not!” The color in her cheeks deepened.

  “When did she first meet Mr. Pryce, do you know?”

  She sighed and stared out of the window. “I think she had met him several years ago, but the acquaintance was slight, so far as I am aware. They have come to know each other far, far better in the last year and a half.” She stopped abruptly, uncertain how much more to say. She was aware she had spoken unbecomingly vehemently, afraid she had betrayed something in herself, as indeed she had. She looked at Pitt with a furrow between her brows, waiting.

  “In your opinion, Mrs. Livesey, what is Mrs. Stafford’s feeling for Mr. Pryce?” he said gravely. “Please be honest with me. I shall not quote you to anyone; the information is simply so I may learn the truth. In the interest of justice, I have to know.”