Belgrave Square (55 page)

“Who are you, sir? Your name.”

“Pitt—Inspector Thomas Pitt, Bow Street.”

“Oh sweet heaven! What a disaster!” The manager’s face drained of all color.

“Don’t be idiotic!” Pitt snapped. “It’s not a crime! The poor man was taken ill, and I happened to be in a nearby box with my family. Even policemen come to the theater, on occasion. Now for goodness sake, man, go and find a doctor!”

The manager’s mouth opened and closed without sound. Then suddenly he gathered up the photographs and pushed them into a drawer, slammed it closed, and was on Pitt’s heels as he went out and along the corridor.

Back in box fourteen Samuel Stafford was now lying well towards the rear, out of the gaze of the inquisitive who might prefer the real drama to the one still following its course on the stage. The actors’ discipline was sufficient to help them ignore any disturbance in the audience. Livesey had taken off his jacket and rolled it up under Stafford’s head and he was kneeling beside him, peering at him with profound concern. Juniper Stafford sat on the other seat, leaning forward,
her face intent on her husband’s comatose form. His breath was even slower and the flush had gone from his skin. He looked white and clammy and he made no movement at all except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His limbs were perfectly still. Charlotte knelt beside Juniper, her arm around her, holding one of her hands.

“The manager has sent for a doctor,” Pitt said quietly, although he knew even as he said it that it would be of little use, and certainly too late.

Livesey felt for Stafford’s pulse and then straightened up, biting his lip. He looked at Pitt. “Thank you,” he said simply. His eyes expressed both the hopelessness of it and the warning not to speak in front of Juniper.

There was a very tentative rap on the door.

“Come in.” Livesey looked at Pitt, then at the door. Surely it was too soon for a doctor, unless he had been not only in the theater, but in this tier of boxes as well.

The door opened, and Pitt recognized the smooth, dark face of Adolphus Pryce, Q.C. The man was embarrassed. His eyes went first to Juniper Stafford, hunched in her seat, clinging to Charlotte, then to the figure of Samuel Stafford on the floor. Even in the poor light reflected from the dim box lamps, and up from the brilliance of the stage across the auditorium, it was only too obvious he was in an extreme stage of illness.

“What happened?” Pryce asked very quietly. “Can—can I help? Is there—” He broke off. It was perfectly plain there was nothing anyone could do without medical skill, and possibly not even then. “Mrs. Stafford?”

Juniper said nothing but stared at him with huge, desperate eyes.

“Yes,” Charlotte said firmly. “If you would be so kind as to fetch a glass of cold water, and perhaps make sure that Mrs. Stafford’s carriage has no difficulty in reaching the door, so that when it is time to go she does not have to wait.”

“Of course! Yes, yes, naturally I shall.” Pryce seemed to be immensely grateful for something positive to do. He looked for a moment more at Juniper, then turned on his heel and went out so rapidly that he brushed past a short man with gingerish hair in wild disarray and small, plump, very clean hands.

He came in and instinctively addressed Livesey as being the presiding authority in the matter.

“I am Dr. Lloyd. The manager said—Ah! Yes, I see.” He stared down at Stafford on the floor, now scarcely breathing at all. “Oh dear, oh dear me. Yes.” He knelt down, peering at Stafford’s face. “What is it? Do you know? Heart attack, I shouldn’t wonder.” He felt for a pulse, his face looking increasingly worried. “Mr. Justice Stafford, you say? I’m afraid I don’t care for the look of him very much.” He touched Stafford’s pallid face with his hand. “Clammy,” he pronounced, pushing out his lip. “Can you tell me what happened, sir?” This last was addressed to Livesey.

“The onset of the illness appeared quite rapid,” Livesey replied, speaking in a clear voice, but very quietly. “I was sitting in the next box, and I saw him sink forward in his seat, so I came to see if I could be of assistance. At first I thought perhaps a stomach upset, or something of the sort, but I’m afraid now it does seem to be something of a good deal more grave.”

“He does not appear to have … vomited,” the doctor remarked.

“No—no indeed,” Livesey agreed. “And of course it may in fact be his heart as you suggested, but he did not complain of pain while he was conscious, and he seems to have been in something of a stupor since quite early on, almost drowsy, one might say.”

“He was very flushed when I first came,” Pitt offered.

“Oh? And who are you, sir?” Lloyd enquired, turning around and frowning at Pitt. “I apologize, I did not observe you before. I took this gentleman to be in charge.”

“Thomas Pitt,” Pitt replied. “Inspector, with the Bow Street station.”

“Police? Good God!”

“Here in a private capacity,” Pitt replied coolly. “I was with my wife and mother-in-law a few boxes away. I merely came to offer my assistance, or call a doctor, when I observed that Mr. Stafford was ill.”

“Very commendable,” Lloyd said with a sniff, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Don’t want to call in the police over something like this—good heavens! It’s tragic enough as it is. Perhaps someone would be good enough to look after
Mrs.—er—Stafford? There is nothing whatever she can do here, poor creature!”

“Shouldn’t I—I—Oh Samuel!” Juniper caught her breath and pressed a handkerchief up to her mouth.

“I am sure you have already done all you could,” Charlotte said gently, taking her by the arm. “Now it is up to the doctor. And if Mr. Stafford is not awake, he will not miss you. Come with me and let me find you a quiet place to sit until they can tell us something.”

“Do you think so?” Juniper turned to Charlotte with desperate appeal.

“I have no doubt at all,” Charlotte replied, glancing momentarily at Pitt, then back to Juniper. “Come with me. Perhaps Mr. Pryce will have found a glass of water and may even have located your carriage.”

“Oh, I couldn’t just go home!”

“Not yet, of course! But if that is what the doctor says, we do not want to have to wait in line, do we?”

“No—no, I suppose not. Yes, of course, you are right!” And with a little assistance Juniper rose to her feet. After thanking Livesey for his help, and with one more glance at the motionless form of her husband, she smothered a sob and allowed Charlotte to lead her outside.

Lloyd gave a deep sigh.

“Now we may get down to business, gentlemen. I gravely fear there is nothing I can do for Mr. Stafford. He is sinking very rapidly, and I have no medicine with me. Indeed I know of none which would help his condition.” He frowned and regarded the now totally inert body of his patient. He touched Stafford’s chest again, then the pulse in his neck, and lastly his wrist, shaking his head gently all the time.

Livesey stood beside Pitt, his back to the auditorium and the stage where presumably the players were unaware of the nature of the small, dark drama which was coming to a close in one of their boxes.

“In fact,” Lloyd said after another few moments, “Mr. Justice Stafford has passed away.” He rose to his feet awkwardly, brushing down his trousers to return them to their crease. He looked at Livesey. “Naturally his own physician will be informed, and his poor widow is already aware of the situation, poor woman. I am afraid I cannot pronounce
the cause of death; I really have very little idea. There will have to be an autopsy. Very distressing, but it is the law.”

“Have you no idea?” Pitt frowned. “Is it not an illness you are familiar with?”

“No sir, it is not!” Lloyd said rather testily. “It is not reasonable to expect any physician to diagnose a disease in a handful of minutes, with no history whatever, and a comatose patient—and all in the half-light of a theater box and a performance going on on stage. Really sir, you ask the impossible!”

“Not a heart attack, or an apoplexy?” Pitt did not apologize.

“No sir, not a heart attack, so fer as I can see, and not an apoplexy. In fact if I did not know better, I would suspect he had taken some form of opiate, and accidentally prepared an overdose. Except, of course, men of his distinction do not take opium, and most certainly not a dose to produce this effect!”

“I doubt Mr. Justice Stafford smoked opium,” Livesey said coldly.

“I did not suggest, sir, that he did!” Lloyd snapped. “In feet I went out of my way to explain to—to Mr.—Mr. Pitt here”—he jerked his head toward Pitt—“that I believed he did not. Apart from that, one could not smoke an amount sufficient to cause death in this manner. Once would have to drink a solution of opium. Really—I do not know why we discuss the subject at all!” He lifted his shoulders in a violent shrug. “I do not know the cause of the poor man’s demise. It will require an autopsy. Perhaps his own physician is aware of some condition which may explain it. For now, there is nothing more I can do, and I therefore beg you to excuse me that I may rejoin my family, who are endeavoring to have a rare evening out in each other’s company with a little civilized entertainment.”

He sniffed. “I am extremely sorry for your loss, and regret profoundly I could not prevent it, but it was too late—far too late. My card.” He produced one like a conjurer and presented it to Livesey. “Good day, sir—Mr. Pitt!” And with that he stood to attention smartly, then bustled out and closed the door behind him, leaving Pitt and Livesey alone with the body of Samuel Stafford.

Livesey looked very grave, his skin pale, his body tired and yet tense, broad shoulders sagging a little, his head forward, the dim lights strong on his thick hair. Slowly he put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a slim chased-silver hip flask. He held it out to Pitt.

“This is Stafford’s,” he said grimly, meeting Pitt’s eyes. “I saw him drink from it just after the end of the interval. It is a hideous thought, but there may be something in it which caused his illness. Perhaps you should take it and have it examined—even if only to exclude it.”

“Poison?” Pitt asked gravely. He looked down at Stafford. The more he considered the course of events he had observed, the less absurd did Livesey’s words seem. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes of course. You are quite right. It must at least be considered, even if only to prove it was not so. Thank you.”

He took the flask and looked at it, turning it over in his hands. It was very slim, very expensive, chased in silver and engraved with Samuel Stafford’s name and the date of its having been given to him, February 28, 1884; a recent gift, over five and a half years ago. It was a beautiful thing to be a vehicle of death. “I’ll have it examined, of course,” he went on. “In the meanwhile perhaps we had better find out what we can about Mr. Stafford’s evening and precisely what happened.”

“Of course,” Livesey agreed. “And arrange for the body to be taken away discreetly. I shall have to explain to Mrs. Stafford why it cannot go to his home until it has been examined for the cause of death. How very distressing for her! The whole business is most grieving. Is there any lock to this door?”

Pitt turned around and looked at it.

“No, only an ordinary latch. I’ll wait here until you can inform the management and have a constable sent. We cannot leave it open.”

“No, naturally not. I’ll go now.” And without waiting any further Livesey went out and disappeared, leaving Pitt alone just as the curtain fell to a long and enthusiastic round of applause.

On a sunless street deep in London’s dangerous slums, a respected solicitor is found dead—and beside him lies the barely living body of his son.

THE SILENT CRY
by
ANNE PERRY

The police are baffled until shrewd investigator William Monk uncovers a connection between them and a series of rapes and beatings of local prostitutes.

Then it becomes shockingly clear that the son must have killed his own father….

Published by The Random House Publishing Group. Available wherever books are sold.

The gathering at the country estate of Charlotte Pitt’s wealthy sister has the appearance of a smart autumn house party. In reality, the guests are Irish Protestants and Catholics in reluctant parley over home rule for Ireland, a problem that has plagued the British Isles since the reign of Elizabeth I. When the meeting’s moderator, a government bigwig, is found murdered in his bath, the negotiations seem doomed.