Farriers' Lane tp-13

by Perry, Anne

  Farriers' Lane

  ( Thomas Pitt - 13 )

  Perry, Anne

  A Fawcett Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1993 by Anne Perry

  Excerpt from Treason at Lisson Grove copyright © 2011 by Anne Perry.

  Excerpt from Execution Dock copyright © 2009 by Anne Perry.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  FAWCETT is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-76772-1

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1_r1

  Praise for Anne Perry’s

  Charlotte and Thomas Pitt

  mysteries

  BELGRAVE SQUARE

  “So pulsates with the sights and sounds of Victorian London that the reader soon gets caught up in Anne Perry’s picaresque story of life, love, and murder that involves both the upper and lower classes of that colorful era.”

  —The Pittsburgh Press

  HIGHGATE RISE

  “When it comes to the Victorian mystery, Anne Perry has proved that nobody does it better. Once again, her recreation of its manners and morality, fashions and foibles is masterful.”

  —The San Diego Union-Tribune

  BETHLEHEM ROAD

  “Perry once again demonstrates her true and lively passion…. Her finely drawn characters couldn’t be more comfortable within the customs and sensibility of their historical period.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  SILENCE IN HANOVER CLOSE

  “[A] complex, gripping and highly satisfying mystery … An adroit blend of thick London atmosphere and a convincing cast … A totally surprising yet wonderfully plausible finale.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  By Anne Perry

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group:

  Featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt

  THE CATER STREET HANGMAN

  CALLANDER SQUARE

  PARAGON WALK

  RESURRECTION ROW

  BLUEGATE FIELDS

  RUTLAND PLACE

  DEATH IN THE DEVIL’S ACRE

  CARDINGTON CRESCENT

  SILENCE IN HANOVER CLOSE

  BETHLEHEM ROAD

  HIGHGATE RISE

  BELGRAVE SQUARE

  FARRIERS’ LANE

  THE HYDE PARK HEADSMAN

  TRAITORS GATE

  PENTECOST ALLEY

  ASHWORTH HALL

  BRUNSWICK GARDENS

  BEDFORD SQUARE

  HALF MOON STREET

  THE WHITECHAPEL CONSPIRACY

  SOUTHAMPTON ROW

  SEVEN DIALS

  LONG SPOON LANE

  BUCKINGHAM PALACE GARDENS

  Featuring William Monk

  THE FACE OF A STRANGER

  A DANGEROUS MOURNING

  DEFEND AND BETRAY

  A SUDDEN, FEARFUL DEATH

  THE SINS OF THE WOLF

  CAIN HIS BROTHER

  WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE

  THE SILENT CRY

  A BREACH OF PROMISE

  THE TWISTED ROOT

  SLAVES OF OBSESSION

  FUNERAL IN BLUE

  DEATH OF A STRANGER

  THE SHIFTING TIDE

  DARK ASSASSIN

  The World War I Novels

  NO GRAVES AS YET

  SHOULDER THE SKY

  ANGELS IN THE GLOOM

  AT SOME DISPUTED BARRICADE

  WE SHALL NOT SLEEP

  The Christmas Novels

  A CHRISTMAS JOURNEY

  A CHRISTMAS VISITOR

  A CHRISTMAS GUEST

  A CHRISTMAS SECRET

  A CHRISTMAS BEGINNING

  A CHRISTMAS GRACE

  For my mother

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books by this Author

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Excerpt from Treason at Lisson Grove

  Excerpt from Execution Dock

  1

  “ISN’T HE SUPERB?” Caroline Ellison whispered to her daughter Charlotte. “He conveys so much feeling with the simplest word or a gesture!”

  They were side by side in the red plush box in the theater in the semidarkness. It was late autumn and since there was no heating the air was cold. By the end of the first act the press of the crowd had warmed the stalls, but up here in the first tier of boxes it was different. The movement of applause and the stamping of feet then had helped, but now the drama was tense again, and the buzz of excitement shivery.

  The stage was brilliant, the actors vivid figures against the romantic, plyboard scenery. One in particular commanded Caroline’s attention: a man of just over average height, slender, with a sensitive, aquiline face full of humor and imagination, yet haunted with all the possibilities of tragedy. He was Joshua Fielding, principal actor of the company, and Charlotte was now quite certain he was the reason her mother had chosen this particular performance.

  Apparently Caroline was waiting for a reply. Her face was quick and intelligent, but touched with an odd kind of vulnerability, as though Charlotte’s answer might matter to her. She had been widowed a little while now. After the first grief had come a kind of euphoria, a sense of freedom as she realized how much she might do without restraint, since she was her own mistress. She read whatever she pleased, political, contentious, even scandalous. She joined societies and discussed all manner of subjects previously forbidden, and listened to lectures from reformers, travelers and scientists, many accompanied by photographs or slides.

  But perhaps now a little of the pleasure of it was wearing thin and now and again a shadow of loneliness crossed her thoughts.

  “Yes, indeed, Mama,” Charlotte agreed sincerely. “He has a voice I could listen to for hours.”

  Caroline smiled and returned her attention to the stage, for the time being satisfied.

  Charlotte looked sideways at her husband, but Pitt’s eyes were on the occupants of a box some twenty yards away around the same tier of the balcony. One was a man in his early sixties with thinning hair, a broad brow, and at the present moment a fixed expression. He was staring at the stage. The other was a handsome, dark-haired woman, at least twelve or fourteen years younger. Her glittering jewelry caught the light as she fidgeted, turning her head, touching her hair and leaning slightly forward in her seat.

  “Who are they?” Charlotte whispered.

  “What?” Pitt was caught by surprise.

  “Who are they?” she repeated quietly, looking past him to the other box.

  “Oh—” He was a little uncomfortable. The visit to the theater was a gift from Caroline, and he did not wish to appear less than wholly involved in the play in spite of the fact it did not hold him. “A judge at the court of appeal,” he whispered back. “Mr. Justice Stafford.”

  “Is she his wife?” Charlotte asked, seeking the reason for Pitt’s interest.

  He smiled very slightly. “I think so—why?”

  Charlotte glanced towards the box again, only moderately discreetly.

  “Then why are you looking at them?” she asked him, still in a hushed voice. “Who is that in the box just beyond t
hem?”

  “It looks like Mr. Justice Livesey.”

  “Isn’t he young to be a judge? He’s rather handsome, don’t you think? Mrs. Stafford seems to think so too!”

  Pitt turned a little in his seat. Caroline was too absorbed in the stage to notice. He followed Charlotte’s gaze.

  “Not the man with the black hair!” he said under his breath. “The one nearer. The young one is Adolphus Pryce. He is a Queen’s Counsel. Livesey is the big man with white hair.”

  “Oh—well, why are you looking at them anyway?”

  “I was just surprised he was so absorbed in the play,” Pitt replied with a slight shrug. “It’s rather romantic. I wouldn’t have thought it of him. But his eyes haven’t left the stage for ten minutes or more. In fact I haven’t seen him blink!”

  “Perhaps he’s enamored of Tamar Macaulay?” Charlotte said with a little giggle.

  “Who?” Pitt’s face creased with confusion.

  “The actress!” Charlotte was exasperated and for a moment her voice rose. “Really, Thomas! Do pay attention! She is the heroine!”

  “Oh—of course. I forgot her name. I’m sorry,” he apologized contritely. “Be quiet and watch the play.”

  They both faced the front and were silent for nearly a quarter of an hour until a small cry from the Staffords’ box and a hasty, half-muffled activity drew their attention. Even Caroline was caused to look away from the stage.

  “What is it?” she asked anxiously. “What has happened? Is someone ill?”

  “Yes, it looks like it,” Pitt replied, pushing his chair back as if to rise, and then changing his mind. “I think Judge Stafford seems to be unwell.”

  Indeed, Mrs. Stafford was on her feet, leaning over her husband in some agitation, attempting to loosen his collar and speaking to him in a low, urgent voice. However, he made no response except a spasmodic jerking of his limbs, not wildly, but as if he were in some distress. The same fixed, immobile expression remained on his face, as if he still could not bear to drag his attention from the stage and the figures on it playing out their own predetermined drama.

  “Should we help?” Charlotte whispered doubtfully.

  “What could we do?” Pitt looked worried, his face puckered. “He probably needs a doctor.” But even as he said it he pushed his chair farther back and rose to his feet. “I’d better see if she wishes someone to call for one. And they may need assistance to help him to a more private place, where he can lie down. Please excuse me to Caroline.” And without waiting any longer he slipped out of the back of the box.

  Once outside he hurried along the wide passageway, counting the doors until he came to the right one. There was no point in knocking; the woman had all she could cope with in trying to help her husband without coming to open a door which would not be locked anyway. In fact it was already ajar; he simply pushed it wide and went in.

  Samuel Stafford was slumped in the chair, his face very flushed. Even from the doorway Pitt could hear his labored breathing. Juniper Stafford was at the far side of the box now, leaning against the rail, her hands up to her face, knuckles white. She seemed almost paralyzed with fear. Next to Stafford, half kneeling on the floor, was Mr. Justice Ignatius Livesey.

  “Can I be of help?” Pitt asked quickly. “Have you sent for a doctor, or would you like me to?”

  Livesey looked around, startled. Obviously he had not heard Pitt come in. He was a big man, broad-headed with a powerful face, with short nose and fleshy jaw. It was a face of conviction and courage, perhaps uncertain temper, belonging to a man of intense and sudden moods who commanded others with ease.

  “Yes, send for a doctor,” he agreed quickly after only a glance at Pitt to assure himself he was a gentleman, and not merely a curious intruder. “I am not a medical man, and I fear there is little I can do.”

  “Of course. I’ll send my wife to be with Mrs. Stafford.”

  Livesey’s face showed acute surprise.

  “You know him?”

  “Only by repute, Mr. Livesey,” Pitt said with the barest smile. The man in the chair was sliding farther down and his breathing was becoming slower. Without wasting any more time Pitt went out again, and passing his own box pushed the door open.

  “Charlotte, it’s serious,” he said urgently. “I think the poor man may be dying. You’d better go and be with Mrs. Livesey.”

  Caroline looked around at him anxiously.

  “Stay here, Mama-in-law,” Pitt answered the unspoken question. “I’m going for a doctor, if there is one here.”

  Charlotte stood up and went outside with him, turning to the Staffords’ box at a run, her skirts swinging. Pitt went the other way around towards the management offices. He found the right door, knocked sharply, then went in without waiting for an answer.

  Inside a man with a magnificent mustache looked up angrily from the desk where he was studying some very indiscreet photographs.

  “How dare you, sir!” he protested, half rising to his feet. “This is—”

  “An emergency,” Pitt said without bothering to smile. “One of your patrons, in box fourteen, is extremely ill. In fact I fear he may well be dying. Mr. Justice Stafford—”

  “Oh my God!” The manager was aghast. “How appalling! What a scandal! People are so superstitious. I—”

  “Never mind that,” Pitt interrupted. “Is there a doctor in the theater? If not, you had better send for the nearest one as fast as you can. I am going back to see if I can do anything.”

  “Who are you, sir? Your name.”

  “Pitt—Inspector Thomas Pitt, Bow Street.”

  “Oh, sweet heaven! What a disaster!” The manager’s face drained of all color.

  “Don’t be idiotic!” Pitt snapped. “It’s not a crime! The poor man was taken ill, and I happened to be in a nearby box with my family. Even policemen come to the theater, on occasion. Now for goodness sake, man, go and find a doctor!”

  The manager’s mouth opened and closed without sound. Then suddenly he gathered up the photographs and pushed them into a drawer, slammed it closed, and was on Pitt’s heels as he went out and along the corridor.

  Back in box fourteen Samuel Stafford was now lying well towards the rear, out of the gaze of the inquisitive who might prefer the real drama to the one still following its course on the stage. The actors’ discipline was sufficient to help them ignore any disturbance in the audience. Livesey had taken off his jacket and rolled it up under Stafford’s head and he was kneeling beside him, peering at him with profound concern. Juniper Stafford sat on the other seat, leaning forward, her face intent on her husband’s comatose form. His breath was even slower and the flush had gone from his skin. He looked white and clammy and he made no movement at all except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His limbs were perfectly still. Charlotte knelt beside Juniper, her arm around her, holding one of her hands.

  “The manager has sent for a doctor,” Pitt said quietly, although he knew even as he said it that it would be of little use, and certainly too late.

  Livesey felt for Stafford’s pulse and then straightened up, biting his lip. He looked at Pitt. “Thank you,” he said simply. His eyes expressed both the hopelessness of it and the warning not to speak in front of Juniper.

  There was a very tentative rap on the door.

  “Come in.” Livesey looked at Pitt, then at the door. Surely it was too soon for a doctor, unless he had been not only in the theater, but in this tier of boxes as well.

  The door opened, and Pitt recognized the smooth, dark face of Adolphus Pryce, Q.C. The man was embarrassed. His eyes went first to Juniper Stafford, hunched in her seat, clinging to Charlotte, then to the figure of Samuel Stafford on the floor. Even in the poor light reflected from the dim box lamps, and up from the brilliance of the stage across the auditorium, it was only too obvious he was in an extreme stage of illness.

  “What happened?” Pryce asked very quietly. “Can—can I help? Is there—” He broke off. It was perfectly. plain
there was nothing anyone could do without medical skill, and possibly not even then. “Mrs. Stafford?”

  Juniper said nothing but stared at him with huge, desperate eyes.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said firmly. “If you would be so kind as to fetch a glass of cold water, and perhaps make sure that Mrs. Stafford’s carriage has no difficulty in reaching the door, so that when it is time to go she does not have to wait.”

  “Of course! Yes, yes, naturally I shall.” Pryce seemed to be immensely grateful for something positive to do. He looked for a moment more at Juniper, then turned on his heel and went out so rapidly that he brushed past a short man with gingerish hair in wild disarray and small, plump, very clean hands.

  He came in and instinctively addressed Livesey as being the presiding authority in the matter.

  “I am Dr. Lloyd. The manager said—Ah! Yes, I see.” He stared down at Stafford on the floor, now scarcely breathing at all. “Oh, dear, oh dear me. Yes.” He knelt down, peering at Stafford’s face. “What is it? Do you know? Heart attack, I shouldn’t wonder.” He felt for a pulse, his face looking increasingly worried. “Mr. Justice Stafford, you say? I’m afraid I don’t care for the look of him very much.” He touched Stafford’s pallid face with his hand. “Clammy,” he pronounced, pushing out his lip. “Can you tell me what happened, sir?” This last was addressed to Livesey.

  “The onset of the illness appeared quite rapid,” Livesey replied, speaking in a clear voice, but very quietly. “I was sitting in the next box, and I saw him sink forward in his seat, so I came to see if I could be of assistance. At first I thought perhaps a stomach upset, or something of the sort, but I’m afraid now it does seem to be something a good deal more grave.”

  “He does not appear to have … vomited,” the doctor remarked.

  “No—no, indeed,” Livesey agreed. “And of course it may in fact be his heart as you suggested, but he did not complain of pain while he was conscious, and he seems to have been in something of a stupor since quite early on, almost drowsy, one might say.”