Farrier's Lane by Anne Perry Page A

wasn’t, I assure you!” There was an urgency in her now, as if she thought he doubted her. “I have never known such a public fury over a crime—other than the Whitechapel murders, of course. And even so, there was an element of blasphemy in this which outraged people in quite a different way. Even gentle and pious people could not wait for him to be hanged.”
    “Except Tamar Macaulay,” he observed.
    She winced. “It is an abominable thought that she may have been right, is it not?”
    “Indeed!” he said with a sudden surge of feeling. “In many ways far worse than the original crime.”
    She looked uncomprehending.
    “The murder of Kingsley Blaine was the murder of one man,” he explained with a bitter smile. “The murder, if you like, of Aaron Godman was the slow, judicial passion incurred by the fear and rage, and misjudgment, of a nation and what purports to be the justice system it practices. Tohave criminals is a sad fact of humanity. To have laws which, when tested to their limit, exact an irretrievable punishment from an innocent person, in order to assuage our own fears, is a tragedy of a far greater order. We all consented to it; we are all tainted.”
    She looked very pale, her eyes hollow, skin tight on her throat.
    “Mr. Pitt, that is—that is simply dreadful! Poor Samuel; if he feared that, no wonder he was so disturbed.”
    “He was disturbed?”
    “Oh yes, he has been anxious about the case for some time.” She looked down at the rich carpet. “Of course I was not sure to begin with whether it was simply that he was afraid Miss Macaulay was going to revive the subject in the public mind again and try to bring the law into disrepute. And of course that would have caused him great concern.” She met Pitt’s eyes. “He loved the law. He had given most of his life to it, and he held it in reverence above all things. It was like a religion to him.”
    He hesitated; the next thought that came to the edge of his mind was difficult to put to her without being offensive.
    She was staring at him, waiting for his response, her eyes still haunted by fear.
    “Mrs. Stafford,” he began awkwardly, “I hardly know how to ask you, and I do not wish to be insulting, but—but is it possible he—he intended to protect the reputation of the law—in people’s eyes …” He stopped.
    “No, Mr. Pitt,” she said quietly. “You did not know Samuel, or you would not need to ask. He was a man of total integrity. If he had further evidence that convinced him Aaron Godman might not have been guilty, he would have made it public, whatever the risk to the reputation of the law, or of any individual barrister or the original trial judge, or indeed to himself. But if he had such evidence, he would surely already have made it known. I think perhaps he had only a suspicion, and now he is—gone—we may never know what it was.”
    “Except by retracing his steps,” Pitt replied. “And if it is necessary, then I shall do that.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Pitt.” She forced herself to smile. “You have been most considerate, and I have every faith you will handle the whole matter in the best way possible.”
    “I will certainly try,” he replied, conscious already that his findings might be far from what she could wish or foresee, it would not be easy to learn what Samuel Stafford had discovered so long after the event, and which had caused someone such terror they had again resorted to murder. He looked at her handsome face with its dark brows and well-proportioned bones, and saw the calmness in her eyes for the first time since he had seen her in her theater box watching the stage, before Stafford was taken ill. He felt guilty, because she placed a trust in him he doubted he would be able to honor.
    He bade her good-bye with haste, because it embarrassed him, and after a brisk walk, took a hansom cab east again to the chambers of Adolphus Pryce, Q.C. They were in one of the larger Inns of Court, close by the