Farrier's Lane (52 page)

Joe stopped suddenly, holding Gracie close to him, but their own breathing was too loud for them to know whether they could hear Prosper’s footsteps behind them or not.

“People,” Gracie gasped. “If we could find a street wif people we’d be safe. ’e wouldn’t dare do nuffink to us in front o’ people.”

“Yeah ’e would,” Joe said bitterly. “ ’E’d yell “Thief!’ an’ tell everyone we’d nicked ’is watch or summink, an’ they’d ’elp ’im.”

She knew immediately that was true.

“C’mon,” he said urgently. “We gotta go east. If we get inter our own patch ’e’ll never find us.” And he set off
again, this time walking rapidly with Gracie, breathless, running every now and then to keep up, still clutching her boots under her arm and her skirt bunched up to keep from falling over it. By the time they were back in the street, they realized they had left Prosper behind.

“Bloomsbury,” she said when she could catch her breath. “We gotter get ter Bloomsbury, then we’ll be safe.”

“Why?”

“That’s w’ere me master lives. ’e’ll fix it,” she gasped.

“Yer said before as it were yer mistress.”

“So it is—but the master’s the one ter take care o’ Mr. ’Arrimore. C’mon. Don’t argue wif me. We gotter get an omnibus ter Bloomsbury!”

“Yer got money?” he demanded, stopping and glaring backwards over his shoulder.

“Course I ’ave. An’ I can’t run no further.”

“Never mind, yer won’t ’ave ter,” he said softly. “Yer not bad, fer a girl. C’mon. We’ll get an omnibus at the next place fer stoppin’ one.”

She gave him a huge smile, overwhelmed with relief.

Without warning he leaned forward and kissed her. His lips were cold, but he was very gentle and after a moment the warmth came through with a sweetness that ran inside her like singing and fire, and she kissed him back, dropping the boots on the pavement.

Then suddenly he drew away, blushing furiously, and stalked off, leaving her to pick up the boots and run behind him. She caught up at the corner of the thoroughfare where the omnibuses ran past.

Half an hour later they stood in Charlotte’s kitchen, shivering cold, wet through, scratched, dirty, clothes torn, but safe.

Joe was appalled when he recognized Pitt and realized he was right in the camp of the enemy, but it was too late to retreat, and the blessed warmth removed the last of his instinctive horror.

“Where in the name of heaven have you been?” Charlotte demanded furiously, her voice thick with fear and relief. “I was worried sick about you!”

Pitt put his hand on her shoulder and the pressure of it silenced her.

“What happened, Gracie?” he asked levelly, standing in front of her. “What have you been doing?”

Gracie took a deep breath and looked directly at him. She was overwhelmingly relieved to be safe, she was in awe of Pitt, she knew she would have to face Charlotte some time, and she was also proud of herself.

“Joe and me went to see Mr. ’Arrimore, as killed poor Mr. Blaine, sir. And Joe took a real good look at ’im, an’ ’e knows it were ’im that night, sir, and ’e’ll swear to it in court.”

Joe opened his mouth to argue, then regarded Gracie’s determined little figure and thought better of it.

Pitt looked at him enquiringly. “Is that true? Was it Mr. Harrimore you saw that night?”

“Yes sir, it were,” Joe answered dutifully.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yessir. An’ ’e knew it too. It were plain in ’is face, an’ ’e followed us. Came after us more’n a couple o’ miles, ’e did. Reckon as if ’e’d caught us we’d ‘a’ bin nailed ter some stable door too.” He shuddered at the thought, as if a bitter cold had struck him even in the warm kitchen.

Charlotte opened her mouth to say something, but instead told Gracie to take off her wet boots and put them in front of the grate. Then she went to put the kettle to the front of the stove and got some bread and butter and jam.

“And you will swear to it now?” Pitt pressed.

Joe glanced at Gracie. “Yeah—if I ’ave ter.”

“Good.” Pitt turned to Gracie. “You have been very clever, and very brave,” he said solemnly.

She flushed with pleasure, her frozen feet tingling.

“You have done an excellent piece of detective work,” he added.

She stood if possible even straighter, staring up at him.

“And you have also lied to Mrs. Pitt as to where you were going and why, put your life in danger, not to mention Joe’s life, and very possibly given yourself pneumonia. And
if you ever do it again I shall discipline you to within an inch of your life. Do you understand me, Gracie?”

But he had not said the one thing she really feared—that she would be dismissed. He had very carefully not said that.

“Yes sir,” she said with an attempt at meekness which failed utterly. “Thank you, sir. An’ I won’t do it again, sir.”

He grunted doubtfully.

The kettle started to whistle and Charlotte made the tea and brought it to the kitchen table along with the bread and jam.

Joe ate almost before it was on his plate, and Gracie sat holding her steaming mug in her cold fingers, its warmth aching through her as life came back to her hands. She smiled across at Joe, and he smiled back for a moment before looking away.

“I had better find some dry clothes for you.” Charlotte looked dubiously at Joe. “Although I don’t know where from. And you will go to your bed,” she said to Gracie. “I’ll tell you when you can get up again.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Pitt sat on the edge of the table.

“Will you go an’ arrest ’im, sir?” Gracie asked.

“Of course.”

“In the morning?”

“No,” Pitt replied with distaste, hunching his shoulders and standing down off the table. “Now, before he takes alarm and runs off.”

“You’re not going alone!” Charlotte’s voice was sharp with fear.

“No, of course not,” he assured her. “But don’t wait up for me.” He kissed her quickly, bade good-night to Gracie and Joe, and went out of the kitchen door and along the hallway to collect his coat, hat and scarf.

    It was the best part of an hour before Pitt and two constables took a hansom to Markham Square. It was late, bitterly cold, with a steady drizzle soaking everything, glistening on the footpaths and making hazy swirls of rain
around the street lamps. Wet leaves clogged the gutters on the more gracious avenues and only a stray carriage disturbed the silence. Curtains were drawn and light escaped in a few thin cracks.

Pitt lifted the heavy knocker on the door. One constable stood by the areaway steps, just in case Harrimore should choose to come out that way and attempt to escape. The other was posted at the mews entrance.

After a considerable time a footman opened the door and regarded Pitt’s looming shape suspiciously.

“Yes sir?”

“Good evening. My name is Pitt, from the metropolitan police. I require to speak to Mr. Prosper Harrimore.”

“I’m sorry sir, but Mr. ’Arrimore has retired for the night. You’ll ’ave to come back in the morning.” He made as if to close the door again.

Pitt stepped forward, to the man’s alarm.

“That won’t do.”

“It’ll ’ave to do, sir! I told you, Mr. ’Arrimore ’as retired!”

“I have two constables with me,” Pitt said grimly. “Don’t oblige me to make a scene in the street.”

The door swung wide and the footman retreated, his face pale. Pitt followed him into the hall, beckoning to the constable by the area steps to follow him.

“You had better waken Mr. Harrimore and ask him to come downstairs,” he said quietly. “Constable, go with him.”

“Yes sir.” The constable obliged reluctantly and the footman, looking acutely unhappy, went up the broad wooden staircase.

Pitt waited at the bottom. Once or twice his eyes wandered around the walls looking at paintings, finely carved doorways, an elegant dado, but every few moments he looked back at the stair again. He saw the sticks in the hall stand and went over to them, examining them one by one. The third was beautifully balanced, with a silver top. It was a moment or two before he realized it was also a sword. Very slowly, feeling a little sick, he pulled it out. The blade
was long and very fine, its steel gleaming in the light. It was clean all but for a tiny brown mark around the band where the blade met the hilt. The blood would have run down the shaft when he put it down to crucify Blaine.

He was facing the dining room door when he heard the sound above him and looked up sharply. Devlin O’Neil stood with his hand on the newel post at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a dressing robe and looked anxious.

“What brings you here at this time of night, Inspector? Don’t say there’s been another murder.”

“No, Mr. O’Neil. I think you had better be prepared to look after your wife, and your grandmother-in-law.”

“Has something happened to Prosper?” He started down rapidly. “The butler told me he went out some time ago, and I didn’t hear him return. What was it? A street accident? How badly is he hurt?” He missed his step a little on the last stair and stumbled into Pitt, only catching himself by snatching at the newel at the bottom.

“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Neil,” Pitt went on, and some sense of real tragedy in his voice must have struck O’Neil. His face lost every vestige of color and he stared at Pitt without speaking. “I am afraid I have come to arrest Mr. Harrimore,” Pitt went on. “For the murder of Kingsley Blaine, five years ago, in Farriers’ Lane.”

“Oh God!” O’Neil slid as if his legs had buckled beneath him, and sat in a heap on the bottom stair, his head in his hands. “That’s—that’s—” Perhaps he had been going to say “impossible,” but some recollection or instinct stopped him, and the words died in his throat.

“I think you had better have the footman fetch you a stiff brandy, and then be prepared to look after Mrs. Harrimore and your wife,” Pitt said gently. “They are going to need you.”

“Yes.” O’Neil swallowed and coughed. “Yes—I’ll do that. Would you be kind enough to—no, I’ll do it myself.” And rather awkwardly he climbed to his feet again and stumbled across the hall to pull the bell rope.

He had just let it go when Prosper appeared at the top of the stairs, followed right on his heels by the constable. He
looked bewildered, as though walking in his sleep. He came down slowly, holding on to the rail for support.

“Mr. Harrimore …” Pitt began. He looked at Harrimore’s face. It was curiously dead; only his eyes were frantic, full of darkness and pain. “Mr. Harrimore,” Pitt repeated quietly. He hated this even more than first telling the bereaved. “I am arresting you for the murder of Kingsley Blaine, five years ago, in Farriers’ Lane, and of Judge Samuel Stafford, and of Police Constable Derek Paterson in his home. I would advise you to come without resisting, sir. It will distress your family more than is necessary, and it will be hard enough for them as it is.”

Prosper stared at him as if he had not heard, or not understood.

Adah was coming down the stairs, clinging to the banister, her face ashen, her long gray hair over her shoulders in a thin braid, a shawl hanging open to show the thick fabric of her nightgown.

At last Devlin O’Neil came to life. He moved from where he had been standing by the bell rope and came towards the stairs.

“You shouldn’t be here, Grandmama-in-law,” he said gently. “Go back up to bed. I’ll come and tell you what’s happened. You go back and keep warm now.”

Adah waved her hand at him absently, as if to shoo him away. Her eyes were on Pitt.

“Are you taking him?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Yes ma’am. I have no alternative.”

“It’s my fault,” she said simply. “He did it, but it’s my fault, my guilt before God.”

Devlin O’Neil made as if to grasp at her, but she brushed him off, still staring at Pitt.

“Is it?” Pitt stared back at her tormented face. He did not need to know, but he knew she was going to tell him, and that the compulsion was beyond her to stop. Half a century of guilt and agony had to find release.

“I knew he was defiled before he was born,” she said. “You see my husband lay with a Jewess, and then with me while I was carrying him. I knew what would happen. I
tried to get rid of him.” She shook her head. “I tried everything I knew—but I failed. He was born anyway—but deformed, twisted, like you see. I didn’t know he killed Kingsley, but I feared it. It was history all over again, do you see?” She stared at him, searching his face to be certain he understood.

“Yes,” Pitt said very quietly, sick with the misery of it. “I see.” He imagined Adah as a young woman, betrayed, bitter, believing without question the superstition she had been taught, hating the child inside her and terrified of the contamination she truly believed in, alone in some bathroom trying desperately to abort the baby in her womb.

He touched her arm, holding her. “There is nothing you can do now. Go back to bed. It’s over.”

She turned and looked at Prosper and for a moment their eyes met. Neither of them spoke. Then like a very old woman she did as Pitt had bidden her, and climbed back up the stairs, her feet leaden, her back bowed. Never once did she look behind her.

“I did not kill Judge Stafford,” Prosper said, staring at Pitt. “I swear by God, I did not. Nor did I kill Paterson. And I can prove it.”

It was a moment before Pitt fully comprehended what he had said, and that he meant it.

“But you killed Kingsley Blaine.”

“Yes—God help me. He deserved it!” His face came to life at last, his mouth twisted with anger and pain. “He was betraying my daughter with that Jewess. And doing to my grandchildren what my father did to me.” Suddenly the hatred vanished, leaving him wide-eyed. “But I did not kill Stafford! I never saw him within weeks of the day he died. And I didn’t kill Paterson. I was at a friend’s house all evening, and there are twenty men and women who will swear to that.”

Pitt’s mind was whirling. If Prosper had not killed Stafford, or Paterson, then who had—and why? For heaven’s sake—why?

Wordlessly he took Prosper by the arm and the constable fell in beside him on the right, and they walked to the front
door past Devlin O’Neil, still stunned, his robe slack, oblivious of the cold. The constable opened the front door, and the three of them stepped outside back into the rain, Pitt carrying the sword stick.