by Perry, Anne
“Oh dear! I’m sure as I don’t know who’s dead. You’d better come in, and I’ll tell Mr. O’Neil as you’re here.” She opened the door wide for him, put the card on the silver card tray, and conducted him to the morning room. It was somber, fireless, but immaculately clean, and decorated in a highly conservative and traditional style. The furniture was large, mostly carved oak, and covered with every conceivable kind of picture and ornament, trophies of every visit, relative and family event for at least four decades. The chair backs were protected by embroidered antimacassars edged with very worn crochetwork. The high ceiling was coffered in deep squares, giving the room a classical appearance belied by the ornate brass light brackets. There were no flowers on the side table, but a stuffed weasel under a glass dome. It was a very common sort of domestic decoration, but looking into its bright, artificial eyes, Pitt found it both repulsive and sad. He had grown up on a large country estate, where his father had been gamekeeper, and he could so easily visualize the creature in the wild, savagely alive. This motionless and rather dusty relic of its being was horribly offensive.
The door opened while he was still looking at the weasel, and he turned around to see the maid’s polite face.
“If you would like to come this way, sir, Mr. O’Neil will see you.”
“Thank you.” Pitt followed her back across the hallway and into a high-ceilinged square room looking onto an extremely neat garden where autumn flowers grew in paradelike rows.
The furniture inside the room was large and heavy, one sideboard reaching above eight feet high and decked with all manner of dishes, tureens and gravy boats. The curtains were swathed and looped in a wealth of fabric in wines and golds. Family photographs in silver frames covered the tops of other tables and bureaus, and there were several framed samplers on the walls.
Devlin O’Neil stood by the window and turned to face Pitt as soon as he heard the door. He was slender, perhaps a fraction over average height, and casually but most expensively dressed in a check jacket of fine wool, and a fresh Egyptian cotton shirt. The price of his boots would have fed a poor family for a week. He was dark haired and dark eyed, with a face full of humor and undisciplined imagination, although at the moment his expression was concerned.
“Pitt, is it? Gwyneth said you’ve called about someone’s death. Is that so?”
“Yes, Mr. O’Neil,” Pitt replied. “Mr. Justice Stafford. He died very suddenly in the theater last week. I daresay you are already aware of that.”
“Ah—I cannot say that I am. I suppose I may have read it in the newspapers. Of course I’m very sorry, but I didn’t know the man.” He had a very slight accent, little more than a music in his voice which Pitt struggled to place.
“But you met with him the day he died,” he pointed out.
O’Neil looked uncomfortable, but his dark eyes did not leave Pitt’s face.
“Indeed I did, but he called on me over a matter of … I suppose you would call it business. I had never seen him before, and I never saw him again.” He smiled fleetingly. “Not what you would call a friend, Mr. Pitt.”
Pitt placed the accent. It was County Antrim.
“I apologize if I gave the wrong impression to your maid.” He smiled back. “I meant only that he was someone about whom you might have relevant information.”
O’Neil’s eyebrows shot up, high and arched. “He didn’t discuss his health with me! And I have to say, he looked very well. Not a young man, of course, and I daresay a pound or two heavy, but none the worse for that.”
“What did he discuss with you, Mr. O’Neil?”
O’Neil hesitated, then slowly his expression eased and the amusement in it was undisguised. He turned from the window and regarded Pitt curiously.
“I imagine you may know that already, Mr. Pitt, or you would not be here at all. It seems he was still interested in the death of poor Kingsley Blaine five years ago. I cannot think why, except that that unfortunate woman, Miss Macaulay, won’t let go of it. And I daresay Mr. Stafford wanted to end the talk and the questions about it once and for all. Let the dead bury the dead, and all that—don’t you agree?”
“Is that what he said?”
“Well, now, he didn’t tell me in so many words, you understand.” O’Neil walked across the room, his confidence apparent in the ease of his bearing. He sat sideways on the arm of one of the big chairs. He looked at Pitt with courteous interest. “He asked me about it all, of course. And I told him the same as I told the police, and the courts, at the time. There isn’t anything else I can say.” He waved at Pitt to sit in one of the chairs. “He was all very civil, very pleasant,” he went on. “But he didn’t say why he was asking. But then I don’t suppose it’s the way of gentlemen of his sort of position to confide in the likes of us, who are just the poor general public.” He said it all with a smile, but Pitt could imagine he was disturbed by having the matter raised again, and not knowing for what reason. It can only have been painful. If Stafford was trying to lay the matter to rest, it would not have hurt him to have said so to O’Neil. On the other hand, if Stafford had been planning to reopen the case, he might well not wish to mention that.
“Do you mind telling me what he said to you, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt sat down at last, specifically invited.
“Well, certainly I have no objection to your knowing, sir,” O’Neil replied, watching Pitt’s face closely in spite of his casual attitude. “But it would be a courtesy, you understand, if you were to tell me why. I would surely take it kindly.”
“Of course.” Pitt crossed his legs and smiled, looking directly at him. “Mr. Stafford was murdered that evening.”
“Good God! You don’t say so!” If O’Neil was not surprised he was a superlative actor.
“Very regrettable,” Pitt answered. “At the theater.”
“Indeed. And him a supreme court judge, and all. What kind of a blackguard would kill a judge, and him an old man too—or at least an old man from where you and I stand.” O’Neil pulled a face. “Was it robbery, then?”
“No—he was poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” There was a widening of surprise in his dark eyes. “Well, by all the saints—what an extraordinary thing to do. And why was he poisoned? Was it a case he was on, do you think?”
“I don’t know, Mr. O’Neil. That is one of the reasons I would very much like to know what he said to you that afternoon.”
O’Neil’s stare did not waver in the slightest. His intelligent, volatile face was far more controlled than Pitt had first thought, and yet for all the natural charm, there was nothing ingenuous in it.
“Of course you would,” he answered readily. “And so would I, were I in your position. I’ll be happy to oblige you, Mr. Pitt.” He shifted position very slightly. “He first asked me if I recalled the night Kingsley Blaine was murdered. All this was after the pleasantries had been exchanged, of course. To which I said that I most certainly did—as if I would be able to forget it, for all that I tried hard enough! Then he asked me to recount it all for him, which I did.”
“Could you recount it for me, please, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt interrupted.
“If you wish. Well, it was early autumn, but I daresay you know that. Kingsley and I had decided to go to the theater.” He shrugged expressively, lifting his shoulders high and turning out his hands, palms upwards. “He was married, but I was fancy-free. For all that, he was very enamored of the actress Tamar Macaulay, and he intended to go backstage after the show and visit with her. He had a gift which he proposed to give her, and no doubt he foresaw that she would be suitably grateful for it.”
“What was it?” Pitt interrupted again.
“A necklace. Do you not know that?” He looked surprised. “Of course you do! Yes, a very handsome piece. Belonged to his mother-in-law, rest her soul. And for sure he shouldn’t have been giving it away to another woman. But then we all do foolish things at times. The poor devil’s dead and answered for it now.” He stopped for a moment, regarding P
itt with interest.
“Indeed.” Pitt felt compelled at least to acknowledge that he had heard.
“But then he and I had something of a disagreement—nothing much, you understand, just a wager on the outcome of a fight.” He grinned. “An exhibition of the noble art of pugilism, to you, Mr. Pitt. We disagreed as to who had won—and he refused to pay me, although according to the rules, the money was mine.”
O’Neil pushed out his lower lip ruefully. “I left the theater early in something of a temper, and went to a house of pleasure.” He smiled candidly, covering whatever embarrassment he might have felt. “Kingsley stayed with Tamar Macaulay, and left very late, so I gather. At least that was the testimony of the doorman. Kingsley, poor soul, was given a message, purporting to be from me, that he should meet me at a gambling club we both frequented in those days.” He winced. “The way to it led through Farriers’ Lane, and we all know what happened there.”
“Was the message written or verbal?”
“Oh, verbal—all word of mouth.”
“But you didn’t see Mr. Blaine again?”
“Not alive, no, the poor soul.”
“Was that all the judge asked you?”
“The judge?” O’Neil’s dark eyes widened. “Oh—poor Mr. Stafford, you mean? Yes, I think so. Frankly it seemed something of a waste of time to me. The case is closed. The verdict was given, and there was no real question about it. The police found the right fellow. Poor devil lost his head and ran amok.” He pulled a slight face. “Not a Christian, you know. Different ideas of right and wrong, I daresay. They hanged him—no choice. Evidence was conclusive. That must have been what Mr. Stafford had in mind to do—prove it so even Miss Macaulay would have to admit it to herself and leave off pestering everyone.”
That could so easily be the truth. Pitt had come because it was an obvious duty to retrace Stafford’s steps. Someone that day had put liquid opium into his flask, or Livesey and his friend would have been poisoned when they drank from it earlier. But he had also hoped to learn something that would tell him whether Stafford intended to reopen the case or to close it forever. Perhaps that was a forlorn hope? O’Neil had been one of the original suspects. He would hardly wish the matter raised again.
Pitt looked at where O’Neil was lounging easily in the other large chair. If he was nervous he hid it better than anyone Pitt had ever seen. He looked casual, rueful, polite; a man dealing generously with a most unpleasant subject, yielding to an obligation socially demanded of him and which he understood without resentment.
“Did he ask you anything in any way new, Mr. O’Neil?” Pitt smiled bleakly, trying to keep an air as if he knew something he had not yet revealed.
O’Neil blinked. “No, not that I can think of. It all seemed to be old ground to me. Oh—he did ask if Kingsley carried a stick or a cane of any sort. But he didn’t say why he wanted to know.”
“And did Mr. Blaine carry a stick?”
“No.” O’Neil pulled a face. “He was not the kind of man to enter into a fight with anyone. It was a personal murder, Mr. Pitt. If anyone is trying to say it was a struggle, a face-to-face fight of any sort, then they’re just dreaming.” All the light vanished out of his expression and he leaned forward. “It was brutal, swift and complete. I saw the body.” He was pale now. “I was the one who went to identify him. He had no family other than his wife and his father-in-law. It seemed the decent thing that I should do. There was no other mark on him, Mr. Pitt. Just the stab wound that killed him, in his side and up to the heart … and the—the nails in his hands and feet.” He shook his head. “No—no, there was no way it was a battle involving two men both armed. He did not defend himself.”
“Did Mr. Stafford not say why he asked?”
“No—no, he didn’t. I asked him, but he evaded an answer.”
Pitt could think of no reason why Stafford should make such an enquiry. Had it something to do with the medical evidence he had questioned? He must find Humbert Yardley and ask him.
“What was Kingsley Blaine like, Mr. O’Neil?” he resumed. “I don’t have the advantage of knowing anything about him at all. Was he a large man?”
“Oh.” O’Neil was taken aback. “Well—taller than I am, but loose limbed, if you know what I mean.” He looked at Pitt questioningly. “Not an athlete, more of a … well, speak no ill of the dead—and he was a friend of mine—but more of a dreamer, you know?” He rose to his feet with some grace. “Would you like to see a photograph of him? We have a few in the house.”
“Have you?” Pitt was surprised, although it was surely not unreasonable. The men had been friends.
“But of course,” O’Neil said quickly. “After all, he lived here all his married life—which God bless him was only a couple of years.”
Pitt was surprised. There had been nothing about this in the notes he had read.
“This was Kingsley Blaine’s house?”
“Ah no.” O’Neil was obviously amused at Pitt’s confusion. “The house belongs to my father-in-law, Mr. Prosper Harrimore. And of course my grandmother-in-law, Mrs. Adah Harrimore, lives here too.” He smiled again with total candor. “I married Kingsley’s widow. You didn’t know that?”
“No,” Pitt admitted, rising to his feet also. “No, I didn’t. Did Mr. Stafford speak to any of the rest of your … family?”
“No—no, not at all. He came later in the day, about four o’clock. I was home from a most agreeable late luncheon. He had sent a message ’round to my club. I preferred to meet him here rather than there.” He went over to the door and opened it. “Didn’t know what he wanted then, except that it was to do with Kingsley. It was not something I wished to discuss in public, or to remind my friends of, if I were fortunate enough that they had forgotten.”
“And the other members of the family were not at home?” Pitt went through and into the hall.
O’Neil followed him. “No—my wife was out calling upon friends, my grandmother-in-law was taking a carriage ride, and my father-in-law was at his place of business. He has interests in a trading emporium in the City.”
Pitt stood back for O’Neil to lead the way across the very fine hall, flagged in black and white with a magnificent stair rising to a wide gallery above. “I should be obliged to see a photograph,” he said. He had no specific idea as to what he could learn from it, but he wanted to see Kingsley Blaine; he wanted at least an impression of the man who was at the heart of this tragedy which it seemed was still so dangerously alive five years after Blaine himself was dead and Aaron Godman hanged for his murder.
“Ah well, then,” O’Neil said cheerfully, his good humor apparently returned. “I’ll show you, with pleasure.” And he opened the door and led Pitt into another larger and warmer room where a fire burned in the hearth, crackling noisily, flames leaping, and a young woman with fair brown hair and unusually high cheekbones sat on a padded stool, beside her a dark, curly-haired child of about two years old. Another child, whom Pitt judged to be about four, sat on the carpet in front of her, a thin, brightly colored book in her hands. She was quite different in appearance: Her hair was ash fair with only the slightest wave in it, and she had solemn blue eyes.
“Hello, my pretty,” O’Neil said cheerfully, patting her head.
“Hello, Papa,” she replied happily. “I’m reading a story to Mama and James.”
“Are you indeed?” O’Neil said with admiration, not questioning her truthfulness. “What is it about, then?”
“A princess,” the child answered without hesitation. “And a fairy prince.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous, sweetheart.”
“Grandpapa gave me the book.” She held it up with pride. “He said I could be a princess like that, if I’m good.”
“And so you can, my love, so you can,” O’Neil assured her. “Kathleen, my dear,” he said to the woman, “this is Mr. Pitt, who has called on a matter of business. Mr. Pitt, may I present my wife.”
“How do you do, Mrs. O’Neil
,” Pitt replied courteously. So this was Kathleen Blaine O’Neil. She was pretty, very womanly, and yet there was strength in the cast of her features, not masked by the soft chin and the gentle eyes.
“How do you do, Mr. Pitt,” she said without any expression except a slight curiosity.
“Mr. Pitt is interested in photography,” O’Neil said, keeping his back to Kathleen and facing Pitt. “There are one or two good pictures in here I wished to show him.”
“Of course.” Kathleen smiled at Pitt. “Please be welcome, Mr. Pitt. I hope they are of help to you. Do you take many photographs? I expect you have met some interesting people?”
Pitt hesitated only a moment. “Yes, Mrs. O’Neil, I have certainly met some very interesting people, with quite unique faces, both good and bad.”
She continued to regard him without making any further remark.
“This is one that you might like,” O’Neil said casually, and Pitt moved over beside him in front of a large, silver-framed photograph of a young woman, who was immediately recognizable as Kathleen O’Neil, in a very formal gown. Behind her was a man of apparently the same age, tall, still with the slenderness of youth, fair, wavy hair falling slightly over his left brow. It was a handsome face, good-humored, emotional, full of an easy, romantic sensuality. Pitt did not need to ask if it were Kingsley Blaine. He would ask O’Neil later, privately, if Blaine were the father of the elder child with the fair hair, but it would only be a formality; the answer was plain.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “An excellent picture. I am most obliged, Mr. O’Neil.”
Kathleen was regarding him with interest.
“Is it helpful to you, Mr. Pitt? He was my first husband. He died about five years ago.”
Pitt felt an abysmal hypocrite. Words raced through his mind. He should tell her he knew, but how without embarrassing O’Neil?
O’Neil came to his rescue.
“Mr. Pitt knows that, my dear,” he said to his wife. “I explained to him.”