Farrier's Lane (47 page)

“Or hanged Constable Paterson,” Charlotte added impulsively.

Tamar blinked. “Hanged Constable Paterson?” she said confusedly. “Why was he hanged? Was it he who killed Judge Stafford? But why? And how can he be hanged so soon? I didn’t even read of a trial.”

“He was not executed,” Charlotte explained. “He was
murdered. We don’t know why, or by whom, but it seems most probable that it had to do with the Farriers’ Lane case, although of course it is not certain.”

Tamar reached past her and opened the door to the small, cramped dressing room. It was filled with costumes on a rail in one corner, a hamper with petticoats spilling out in another, a table with a mirror, jars of greasepaint and powder, and three stands with wigs. But as she was the leading actress, it was at least private.

“Tell me,” she demanded, leading the way in, pushing a chair around for Charlotte and then leaning backward to close the door again.

“Constable Paterson was the—” Charlotte began.

“I know who he was,” Tamar interrupted. “What happened to him?”

“He was murdered,” Charlotte said simply. “Someone came in the late evening and hanged him from the chandelier fitting in his own bedroom.”

“You mean attacked him?” Tamar was incredulous. “Did he not fight to defend himself?”

“It seems not.” Charlotte shook her head. “Perhaps it was someone he knew, and he did not expect to be harmed, and the person contrived to get behind him and garotte him.”

“I suppose it could have happened like that,” Tamar agreed, coming away from the door into the room. It had an odd smell, unfamiliar, at once musty and exciting. “It is the only thing which seems to make sense,” Tamar went on. “But who, and why? At the time of the trial I certainly hated the man.” Her face wrinkled with the pain of memory. “He hated Aaron so much. He was not dispassionate, he was full of rage, his voice shook when he was in the witness box. I remember him very clearly. And I believe it was he who beat Aaron, although Aaron would never say—at least not to me. But I think that was to protect me.” She stopped, for a moment having to struggle to keep any control at all. She turned away, fumbling for a handkerchief, bumping against one of the wig stands. Suddenly all
the fear and the terror were back again, as if Aaron Godman were still alive, still suffering …

Charlotte could hardly bear to keep silent. It was only the knowledge of Caroline a few yards away, with Joshua Fielding, which held her from telling Tamar now that Aaron was innocent, and at last Pitt could prove it.

Nothing anyone could say would heal the past, words would be stupid and only betray a complete failure to understand. The only balm was to speak of something else.

“Don’t give up hope,” she said quietly to Tamar’s stiff, shaking back. “We are very close to the end now. I cannot yet tell you, but I am not simply speaking to comfort you. It really is close—I give you my word!”

Tamar stood absolutely still, then very slowly she turned around to face Charlotte. For several moments she did not speak but searched Charlotte’s face, trying to judge both her sincerity and her actual knowledge.

“Would it be pointless to ask you how you know?” she said almost under her breath. “Why you can say that?”

“Yes,” Charlotte replied. “If I could tell you I would have. But please believe me—it is true.”

Tamar took a deep breath and then swallowed hard. “Aaron will be cleared?”

“Please, don’t ask me to say any more now—and if you wish it to happen, say nothing to anyone—not even to Mr. Fielding. He may inadvertently say or do something which will ruin everything. I believe that Aaron did not do it—but I have no idea who did.”

Tamar smiled with a sad, ironic humor, sitting a little sideways on the clothes hamper.

“What you mean is you think it may have been Joshua,” she answered.

“Is that impossible?” Charlotte said very quietly.

Tamar sat a little farther back.

“I would like to say that of course it is, but I assume you are asking not for emotions but for reason. No, it is not impossible. He said he did not know whether Kingsley would have married me or not, and would not have interfered anyway; and that he went home straight from the theater that
night. But there is no way he can prove it.” She lifted her chin a little. “I don’t believe it was him, but I don’t imagine that will weigh heavily with you.”

“I cannot allow it to,” Charlotte replied, knowing that was less than the truth. Part of her wished it to be Joshua. It would remove any threat from Caroline. It would end the uncertainty, the odd mixture of loss and anger, tenderness and jealousy. Jealousy! At least she had recognized the feeling, and the very pain of naming it was partially healing.

“No, of course not.” Tamar squared her shoulders and smiled. She stood up again, the wicker of the hamper squeaking. “Shall we take some tea? I am sure you must be cold, and quite ready to sit comfortably and talk of something more cheerful …” She hesitated at the door.

“Yes?” Charlotte waited.

“If I can help, you will tell me?” Tamar asked anxiously.

“Of course.”

    Caroline was still standing on the edge of the stage when Joshua Fielding turned and smiled at her. He must have known she was there, even though his attention had apparently been on the other actors. She felt a sudden warmth, as if the sun had come out from the clouds. She wanted to move forward to him, but reticence held her back.

He waited a few moments, speaking to Clio, then an older actress, congratulating her with a touch on the arm. Mr. Passmore addressed them all, except Tamar, who had disappeared, giving last-minute instructions for the evening’s performance, encouragement, criticism, praise, prophecy of a magnificent success, carefully guarded by superstitious formulae against the bad luck of overconfidence. Amulets were touched, hands went to pockets for lucky pieces to reassure for the umpteenth time that they were still there. When he had finished he turned away, a large figure in a frock coat and flowing tie, and Joshua came over to Caroline.

But instead of greeting her with words of welcome and enquiry as ordinary courtesy dictated, he simply met her eyes, the questions understood between them. It was a familiarity
which warmed her far more than she expected, and left her wishing for words, and finding none of them satisfactory.

“Was that Charlotte I saw with you?” Joshua asked quietly.

“Yes—yes, she wished to come.”

He took her by the arm and guided her away from the stage wings towards the audience seats, out of earshot of the others, and into the half shadow.

“Is she still pursuing Kingsley’s death?” he asked very quietly, his voice filled with anxiety.

“Of course,” she replied, meeting his eyes. “We can hardly give up.”

“I don’t think she needs to anymore.” He spoke as if he were feeling his way through complicated thoughts. “Since Judge Stafford’s death the police are involved. It is no longer as if it could be forgotten or marked as closed. Poor Aaron cannot be blamed for this. Please, Caroline, persuade her to leave it to those whose profession it is.”

“But they have not been very successful so far,” she reasoned. She felt a stab of guilt towards Pitt, but her fear for Joshua far outweighed it. “They have not succeeded yet. It does not appear they suspect either Mrs. Stafford or Mr. Pryce, in fact the very contrary. They are persuaded they are innocent.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certainly I am sure. Thomas would not lie to me.”

He smiled, a mixture of affection and amusement. “Are you sure, my dear? Might he not tell you something less than the truth, in the knowledge that you have formed a friendship for Tamar”—he colored very faintly—“and for me, which might incline you to be biased in the matter?”

She felt the heat burn in her cheeks. “He might well tell me less than the truth, but he would not fabricate something gratuitously,” she replied. “I have come to know him quite well over the years. He was certainly not my choice of a husband for my daughter, it is true, but I have learned that there are occasions when a man who is socially unsuitable may make one far happier than any man one’s friends or
one’s family may have chosen—” She stopped, realizing she had spoken her thoughts too frankly. They were capable of interpretation for herself, as well as for Charlotte.

He made as if to respond, then changed his mind, cleared his throat and began again, but she did not miss the momentary flash of laughter in his eyes.

“All the same, I think it would be well for Charlotte to leave the matter,” he said gravely. “It may become dangerous. If it was not Aaron, then it was someone else, someone who obviously does not hesitate to kill again, and again, if he feels endangered. I have no idea whether Charlotte will come close enough to him for that, but she may, even without knowing it. She and Clio have become friendly with Kathleen O’Neil. I can only imagine it is to pursue Devlin. If he realizes that, or only fears it …” He left the rest unsaid.

Caroline was torn. Was Charlotte really in danger? More than she had been in every other case in which she had helped? Who would suspect a woman, an ordinary wife and mother? “Of being overly inquisitive, perhaps,” she said aloud. “Of being vulgar in her curiosity. Of trying to intrude where she has no—no right of background or breeding.” How disloyal she sounded. “But that is not dangerous, merely undignified and possibly absurd.”

“Judge Stafford is dead, and so, I read, is Constable Paterson,” he pointed out.

“But they were officers of the law,” she argued vehemently. “And you say she and Miss Farber are pursuing Devlin O’Neil. But the police are far more likely to pursue you. Have you no fear for yourself?”

“Caroline!” He took both her hands in his, gently but holding her too hard for her to withdraw. “Caroline! Of course I have. But what kind of friend would you consider me if I placed my own fear of being suspected ahead of Charlotte’s danger from whoever really killed Kingsley—and the others? Please, tell her she must leave the matter altogether. I am too afraid that it may really have been Devlin O’Neil. I cannot think of anyone else it could be—except
some madman. But if it was that, there would surely have been others the same, and there have not been.”

“And what about you?” she said urgently, still in her own mind clinging to the hope that Charlotte might solve it, as she had other crimes in the past. “The police were wrong once, and there was nobody who could save Aaron.”

“I know that, my dear, but it does not alter the situation.” His voice was very gentle, his hands over hers warm, but his hold was hard and there was no wavering in his eyes. “I know the police suspect me. I will at least have a trial, and a chance to appeal. Whoever is killing people will not give Charlotte as much.”

“No,” she said quietly. “No, I suppose not. I will tell her.”

He smiled, letting go of her hands but at the same time taking her arm. “Shall we go somewhere pleasant and take afternoon tea? We can forget the world and its dangers and suspicions, tonight’s performance, and simply think how much we enjoy talking. There are so many other things.” He started to move and pull her gently with him. “I have just read a fascinating book about a journey of the imagination. Quite impossible to turn into a play, of course, but I am still enormously enriched to have read it. Provoked all kinds of thoughts—and questions. I shall tell you about it, if I may? I want to know what you think.”

Caroline gave in to the sheer pleasure of it. Why not? She wished this sweet intimacy could last forever, but she was realist enough to know that of course Grandmama was right; it was a dream, a delusion, and waking would be much the colder afterwards. But it was not afterwards yet, and she would give all her heart to it while she could.

“Of course,” she agreed with a smile. “Please tell me.”

    “You ’aven’t said anyfink about the murder for days, ma’am,” Gracie said to Charlotte the next morning as they were working in the kitchen. Gracie was cleaning the knives with Oakey’s Wellington knife polish, made of emery and black lead; and Charlotte cleaned the spoons and
forks with a homemade mixture of hartshorn powder, water and alcohol.

“That is because I haven’t learned anything further,” she explained, pulling a face. “We know it wasn’t Aaron Godman, but we are no nearer knowing who it really was.”

“Don’t we know nuffink at all?” Gracie said, squinting around the knife she was holding up.

“Yes, of course we know some things,” Charlotte replied, polishing industriously. “It was someone who knew his name and that he was at the theater, and deliberately sent him to a place where he would pass through Farriers’ Lane to get there. And to do what was done to him, they must have hated him very much indeed.” She reached for a fresh cloth to raise a shine. “Apart from the obscenity of it, it would be dangerous to remain there any longer than necessary after having killed him. The rage must have outweighed the sense of self-preservation.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Gracie said with feeling. “If I’d just murdered someone I wouldn’t ’ang around to nail ’im up to a door—which can’t ‘a’ bin easy!” She tipped more polish out of the tin into a saucer. “I’d ’ave been out o’ mere as fast as me legs ’d carry me! Afore anyone else came an’ found me there!”

“So it was someone so overcome with hatred they would rather take the risk, or else they didn’t even think of it,” Charlotte concluded.

“Or else …” Gracie rubbed the knife blade furiously. It was already shining. “Or else it were someone wot ’ad another reason for doin’ it—like to put the blame on someone else. Which since poor Godman was ’anged fer it, worked very well.”

“But how did crucifying him put the blame on Aaron Godman?” Charlotte asked, passing the buffing cloth to Gracie.

“Well, it made everyone think it were someone as were Jewish,” Gracie reasoned.

“But a Christian person wouldn’t do that, surely?”

“Maybe ’e would! Maybe that’s exactly what ’e would do, if ’e ’ated Jews and wanted ’em blamed.”

“Why would anyone hate Jews that much?” But already Charlotte’s mind was racing over the Harrimores, Adah’s beliefs, Devlin O’Neil’s knowledge that Kingsley Blaine was in love with Tamar Macaulay, a Jewess. Perhaps in some twisted way he had hated not only Blaine but all the theater people, and when he killed Blaine he had suddenly thought of a way to implicate someone else in the crime.