Free Farrier's Lane by Anne Perry

have intended to tell Barton James as soon as he was certain of his own facts. Indeed he did mention that he intended to call upon James in the very near future.” He looked at Pitt with gravity, but there was a growing keenness in his face. “That would explain a great deal, which otherwise seems very odd.” He stopped, as if he feared he might have said too much, and waited for Pitt’s reply.
    “Did the police not remark the absence of the necklace at the time?” Pitt questioned, still turning over the facts in his mind.
    “No, not that I recall,” Pryce said slowly. “At least they may have done so, but it did not appear in evidence in the trial. Miss Macaulay claimed that she returned it to Blaine, and I think they merely disbelieved her, assuming either that she kept it—it was quite valuable—or that she said that in order to help her brother’s defense.”
    “Did it?”
    Pryce shrugged ruefully. “Not in the slightest. As I said, she was not believed. Perhaps we owe her an apology.” His face reflected regret, even a touch of pain. “I am afraid I implied that she was of dubious reputation in that regard, and that she would say anything to try to cast doubt on her brother’s guilt. Not an unreasonable assumption in the circumstances, but perhaps not true, for all that.” He winced. “It is a very ugly thought, Mr. Pitt, that one may have used one’s skill to hang an innocent man. The argument that it is one’s profession is not always satisfying.”
    Pitt felt an instinctive sympathy with him, and wounding memories of his own came sharply to mind. He likedPryce, and yet there was something that disturbed him, something very faint, too amorphous to name.
    “I understand,” he said aloud. “I face the same.”
    “Of course. Of course,” Pryce agreed. “I wish I could tell you more, but that is all I know. I doubt Mr. Stafford knew any more, or he would surely have mentioned it.” He stopped, a shadow in his eyes, for all the easy composure of his bearing. “I—eh—I’m sorry. He was a personal acquaintance.”
    “I appreciate your feelings.” Pitt spoke because the situation seemed to require it. He did not often feel himself awkward or at a loss for words. He had faced others’ bereavements so often that, although he had never ceased to care, he had learned what to say. There was something in Pryce that confused him, as, on reflection, there was in Juniper Stafford. Perhaps it was no more than a very natural eagerness to have the solution found as soon as possible, scandal avoided, ugly or stupid speculation, so that people might remember Stafford with honor and affection, and the hideous fact of murder could recede into something apart, a tragedy to be dealt with by the law.
    “Thank you for your time, Mr. Pryce.” Pitt rose to his feet. “You have been most generous, and given me much to consider. There were undoubtedly aspects of the Blaine/Godman case that Mr. Stafford would have been justified in pursuing, and evidence to suggest that was what he intended. If the medical examiner’s report requires it, I shall follow them myself.”
    Pryce rose also, offering his hand.
    “Not at all. Please let me know if I can be of any further service, if you need to know anything more about the original case.”
    “Of course. Thank you.”
    Pryce saw him to the door, opening it for him, and the dutiful clerk conducted him through the office to the street.
        However, when Pitt went to see Mr. Justice Livesey in his chambers in the early afternoon, he met with a totally different response. Livesey received him graciously; indeedhe seemed to have been expecting him. His rooms were very spacious, full of autumn sunlight reflecting on polished, inlaid furniture, a bureau of exquisite marquetry in tropical woods, wine-colored leather upholstered chairs, two vases of chrysanthemums. Two magnificent bronzes stood on a low bookcase and a marble mounted clock sat on the mantel.
    “I am