Silence in Hanover Close

8

PITT CHOSE TO WALK to Mayfair. It was not a pleasant day; a flat, gray sky closed over the city like a heavy lid and the wind scythed across the park, stinging his skin above his muffler. It crept into the space round his ears and its coldness hurt, making his body tighten against it. Carriages rattled along Park Lane but he saw no one on foot. It was too cold for pleasure; the street vendors knew there would be no business for them here where residents could afford to ride.

He walked because he was going to the Danvers’, and he was putting off arriving there as long as he could. Dulcie was dead, so there was no one left to ask about Cerise except Adeline Danver. Part of the chill inside him was guilt—Dulcie’s bright, frank face came back to his mind far too easily. If only he had taken the precaution of closing the library door before allowing her to speak! He still did not know which of her two remarks had caused her death—the mention of Cerise, or of the missing necklace. But Pitt’s investigation of Piers York’s affairs had proved him to be more than financially secure, and in spite of his remark to Dulcie, he did not seem to have claimed for the gems.

All inquiries into other friends of Robert York who might have acquired debt and turned to amateur burglary had also proved fruitless so far. Nor had Pitt succeeded in tracing many of the servants who had been employed in Hanover Close at the time, and dismissed soon after. The butler had taken a position in the country, the valet had gone abroad, the maids had disappeared into the vast mass of female labor in London and its environs.

He stopped; he was outside the Danvers’ house already. The air was damp, raw in the throat, with the sour smell of too many fires jetting smoke out into the leaden sky. He could not stand around like a vagrant. Someone held a thread that eventually wound back to murder. If he picked at it, teased it, he thought he might find an end lying with Adeline Danver.

She received him civilly, but with undisguised surprise. He had formed a very clear picture of her in his mind from Charlotte’s description; nevertheless he was taken aback by the sharp intelligence in her rather round eyes under their wispy brows. She was a plainer woman than Charlotte had implied: her nose was tip-tilted and narrow, her chin very receding. It was only when she spoke in a voice of remarkable timbre and diction that he saw her beauty.

“Good afternoon, Inspector. I have no idea how I might be of assistance, but of course I shall try. Please do be seated. I don’t believe I have ever met a policeman before.” She regarded him with open curiosity, as if he were some exotic species of creature imported for her entertainment.

For the first time in years Pitt felt self-conscious; he seemed all hands and feet and coattails. He sat down gingerly, trying to arrange himself with some neatness, and failing.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Not at all.” Her eyes never wavered from his face. “I assume it is about poor Robert York’s death? That is the only crime with which I have even the remotest connection—and believe the, it is remote. But I knew him, of course, although there are many others who knew him far better.” She smiled very slightly. “I suppose I have the advantage of being an observer of life, rather than a player, so perhaps I have seen something that others may have missed.”

He felt transparent, guilty of great insensitivity. “Not at all, Miss Danver.” He smiled very faintly. He was not at all sure he should try to be charming—he might end up making a complete fool of himself. “I approach you because I have a very specific question in mind, and you are the person in the house least likely to have any involvement with this event, and therefore to be embarrassed by it, or distressed.”

“You take trouble to be tactful,” she said with a slight nod of approval. “Thank you for not insulting my intelligence with an idle courtesy. What event do you imagine I may know of? I confess I cannot think what it might be.”

“Have you ever seen in this house, alone and not as an ordinary guest, a woman of striking appearance, tall, slender and very dark, wearing a gown of a vivid and unusual shade of magenta or cerise?”

Adeline sat motionless. She might not have been breathing but for the faintest stir of the fichu over her thin, almost bosomless chest.

Pitt waited, staring back at her bright brown eyes. Now there was no possibility of evasion between them. Either she would lie outright, brazenly, or she would tell him the truth.

Outside in the hall a clock struck eleven. The chimes seemed endless, until eventually the last one died away.

“Yes, Mr. Pitt,” she said. “I have seen such a woman. But there is no point whatsoever in your asking me who she is, because I do not know. I have seen her twice in this house, and to the best of my knowledge, I have never seen her anywhere else, either before or since.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “Was she wearing the same clothes on both occasions?”

“No, but it was a very similar shade, one darker than the other, as I recollect. But it was at night, and gaslight can be misleading.”

“Can you describe her for me, all that you do remember?”

“Who is she, Inspector?”

The use of his title set a distance between them again, warning him not to take her for granted.

“I don’t know, Miss Danver. But she is the only clue I have as to who murdered Robert York.”

“A woman?” Her eyes widened. “I assume you are suggesting something sordid.” It was a statement.

He smiled broadly. “Not necessarily, Miss Danver. I think there may gave been a theft, unreported because only Mr. York himself knew of it, and that this woman may have been the thief, or may have witnessed the murder.”

“You are full of surprises,” Adeline Danver conceded with an answering softness touching the corners of her mouth. “And you cannot find this woman?”

“Not so far. I have been singularly unsuccessful. Can you describe her for me?”

“I am fascinated.” She bent her head very slightly to one side. “How do you know she exists?”

“Someone else saw her, in the York house, also by gaslight.”

“And their description is not adequate? Or do you fear they are misleading you deliberately?”

Should he frighten her? Dulcie’s trusting face came back as sharply as if she had gone out of the library door only yesterday.

“Her description was very brief,” he said without moderating the blow at all. “But I can’t go back and ask her again because the day after she spoke to me she fell out of an upstairs window to her death.”

Adeline’s thin cheeks were white. She was well acquainted with tragedy. She was over fifty and had known many deaths, but none of them had left her untouched. Much of her life lay in the triumphs and the sorrows of others; it had had to.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “You are referring to Veronica York’s maid, I assume?”

“Yes.” He did not want to seem melodramatic, foolish. “Miss Danver—” He stopped.

“Yes, Inspector?”

“Please do not speak of our conversation to anyone else, even in your own family. They may inadvertently repeat it, without intending harm.”

Her eyebrows rose and her thin hands gripped the arms of her chair. “Do I understand you correctly?” Her voice was little more than a breath, but still perfectly controlled, beautifully modulated.

“I believe she is still here, somewhere—at times very close,” he replied. “Someone among your family, or your acquaintances knows where she is, who she is—and possibly what really happened on that night three years ago in Hanover Close.”

“It is not I, Mr. Pitt.”

He smiled bleakly. “If I thought it were, Miss Danver, I should not waste my time asking you.”

“But you think one of us, someone I daresay I am fond of, does know this terrible thing?”

“People keep secrets for many reasons,” he replied. “Most often out of fear for themselves, or to protect someone they love. Scandal can blow up out of sins that are very slight—if they catch the imagination. And scandal can be a worse punishment for some than imprisonment or financial loss. The admiration of our peers is a far greater prize than some realize—more blood has been shed for it than is seen, and more pain. Women marry men they do not love rather than be imagined to be unloved. People pretend all the time so that others will imagine they are happy. We need our masks, our small illusions; few of us can bear to go naked into the world’s gaze. And people will kill to keep their clothes.”

She stared at him. “What an odd person you are. Why on earth do you choose to be a policeman?”

He looked down at the carpet. It did not occur to him to evade, still less to lie. “Originally because my father was convicted for something he did not do. The truth has its uses, Miss Danver, and although it can be painful, lies are worse in the end. Though there are times when I hate it, when I learn things I would rather not have to know. But that’s cowardice, because we are afraid of the pain of pitying.”

“And do you expect it to hurt this time, Mr. Pitt?” she asked, her eyes on his face, her thin fingers picking very slightly at the lace in her skirt.

“No,” he said honestly. “No more man the murder already has done. What did she look like, Miss Danver? Could you describe this woman for me?”

She hesitated for a moment, searching her memory. “She was tall,” she said slowly. “I think quite definitely taller than average; she had a kind of grace short women cannot possess. And she was slender, not...” She blinked, grasping for the word which eluded her. “Not voluptuous, and yet she—no. Her voluptuousness was not in her shape but it was there! Quite definitely it was there; it was in the way she moved. She had passion, style, a kind of daring, as if she were dancing a great ballet along a razor’s edge. I’m sorry— do I sound ridiculous?”

“No.” He shook his head without taking his eyes from hers. “No, if what I guess about her is right, then that is a fitting analogy. Go on.”

“She had dark hair, black it seemed in the gaslight. I only caught the briefest glimpse of her face, and I remember she was very beautiful.”

“What sort of face?” Pitt pressed. “There are many kinds of beauty.”

“Unusual,” she said slowly, and he knew she was trying to picture the moment again, the gaslight on the landing, the vivid dress, the turn of the head till she saw the features. “There was a perfect balance between the brow and the nose, the cheek and the curve of the throat; it was all a matter of bones and a sweeping hairline. It was nothing ordinary, like arched eyebrows or a pouting mouth, or dimples. She reminded me vaguely of someone, and yet I am perfectly sure I had never seen her before.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. And you may choose to believe me or not, but it is the truth. It was not Veronica, which I assume you are imagining, and it was most certainly not my niece Harriet.”

“Who did she remind you of? Please try to recall.”

“I have tried, Mr. Pitt. I can only think it may be someone whose picture I have seen. Artists’ impressions can be most misleading. They change so much with the fashion of the times, have you noticed? They paint you as they think you wish to look. But photographs give a remarkable likeness. I am sorry, I have no idea who it is, so there is no purpose in your pressing me. If at any time it comes to me, I shall certainly tell you. That I promise.”

“Then promise me also, Miss Danver, that you will not discuss this with anyone else, nor entrust a message to anyone—anyone at all. I really do mean what I say.” He leaned forward a little. If he frightened her it was a small price to pay for saving her life. “Robert York is dead, and so is Dulcie, both in their own homes, where they thought they were safe. Give me your word, Miss Danver.”

“Very well, Mr. Pitt,” she agreed. “If you really believe it is so serious. I shall discuss it with no one. You may cease to worry about it.” She looked at him levelly, her round, clever eyes very grave. “Good gracious, Mr. Pitt—your concern is a trifle unnerving!”

Outside again in the gray street he turned and walked south. He must find the woman in cerise. He had already exhausted the easier avenues, the hotels and theaters where she would have been most likely to meet her clients. He had questioned the doorkeepers, the prostitutes who might have been her rivals, as well as the pimps and madams. They either did not know her or would not say. It all confirmed what he imagined from the beginning, that she was a spy, not a woman earning her living from prostitution. She was not interested in general trade, only certain men in particular. And she had taken great care not to be traced.

Finding Cerise would be a matter of laborious, detailed police work. He knew at least one place which she had patronized several times, and now he had a close and unusual description. No one in the business of sexual favors for hire was likely to help him further; all the middlemen reaped their profits from silence. But there were always people in a London street who were almost invisible, people who might remember, who made their livelihood from passersby, their hungry eyes watching each one for even the tiniest signs of willingness to buy.

He stepped over to the curb and raised his arm, shouting to a hansom as it plodded along Park Lane through the thickening mist. There was snow in the wind. He climbed in and gave the address of the hotel where he had found the doorman who remembered Cerise, sitting back to wait out the slow, cold journey. This was not the best time to begin—the vendors he wanted would be the ones who worked at night—but he had nothing else to pursue, and there was an urgency inside him.

He stopped short of the hotel itself and left the cab on the comer, opposite a stall where a man wearing a white apron and a black hat with a ribbon round it was selling hot eels. Beside him, a girl ladled out thick pea soup at a halfpenny a cup.

The aroma drifted on the wet air and Pitt automatically reached in his pocket. He had never acquired the native Londoners’ taste for eels, but he was partial to pea soup. A red-faced woman was before him in the queue, but after she was served he produced his halfpenny and took the hot cup gratefully. The liquid was thick and a little lumpy, but the flavor was rich and its warmth rippled through him, creating a tiny heart of strength inside.

“You here in the evenings?” he asked casually.

“Sometimes, in the summer wiv ve eels,” the man answered. “Vis time o’ year anyone wiv an ’ome ter go to is in it! Vem as ’asn’t usual don’t ’ave money neither.”

“Who’d be here in the evening?”

The man went on ladling eels. “Wot time yer talkin’ abaht? Early on, till eight or nine, ’er.” He gestured to a small girl about fifty yards up the pavement, who stood shivering in the cold, a box of sweet violets by her bare feet. She might have been ten or eleven years old.

“I’ll take another cup of soup.” Pitt gave the man a second halfpenny and took the cup from the girl. “Thank you.” He turned to walk away.

“Hey! I want the cup back!” the man shouted behind him.

“You’ll get it,” Pitt said over his shoulder, “when it’s empty.” He approached the flower girl. She was only a few years older than Jemima, with a pinched face and few underclothes beneath her plain dark dress and faded shawl. Her feet were mottled red and blue with extreme cold.

He put the cup of soup down on the pavement and fished in his pocket for two more pennies.

“I’ll have two bunches of violets for my wife,” he said, holding out the coins.

“Thank you, sir.” She took the pennies, glancing at him out of clear blue eyes, then stole a glance at the steaming soup.

He picked it up and took a sip, then set it down again.

“I’ve bought more than I can eat,” he said. “You can finish it if you like.”

She hesitated; nothing came into her life without a price.

“I don’t want it,” he repeated.

Very carefully she reached out her hand and picked it up, still watching him.

“Have you been on this street long?” he asked, knowing as he said it that she was probably too young to be any help to him. But he had bought the soup without thinking of Cerise.

“Two year,” she replied, sipping soup with a slurp and sucking it round her mouth.

“Is it busy in the evenings?”

“Fair.”

“Are there other traders here?”

“Some. ’Bout two or free.”

“Who? What do they sell?”

“There’s a woman wot sells combs, but she goes early. Girl wot sells matches sometimes. An’ o’ course there’s ’im wot sells ’ot plum duff; ’e’s ’ere of an evenin’. An’ sometimes there’s patterers. They moves abaht, mostly from Seven Dials way, ’cause vat’s w’ere the printers is.”

He did not need to question her, he knew what running patterers were: men of prodigious memory and usually a nice turn of humor, who sold red-hot news, generally of crime and seduction. And if there was nothing sufficiently grisly in truth, then they were not above inventing something, replete with detail, and frequently showing pictures.

“Thank you,” he said civilly, picking up the empty cup. “I’ll come back this evening.”

He went home for dinner and gave Charlotte, to her surprise and delight, both bunches of violets. Then at about ten o’clock he forced himself to go out again into the freezing fog.

It was a vile night, and there was no one in the street outside the hotel except a fat, pasty-faced youth selling hot plum duff, a cooked dough filled with sultanas and kept at a good temperature with layers of steaming cloth. The youth was well patronized by the men leaving the hotel, but after half an hour of standing and stamping his feet to keep the circulation going and a couple of brisk turns round the block, Pitt had seen none of the women who used the hotel rooms for their trade.

He questioned the plum duff boy and learned nothing at all. The boy had been there five years, he thought, but he had never noticed a woman in cerise.

The following night he came again, but he was no more successful, and the night after that he went instead to the Lyceum Theatre. He spoke to a seller of peppermint water who had seen someone in brilliant pink but could not recall her height, and rather thought she had had red hair.

Then after midnight, angry with the futility of it all, his feet numb in the settling snow and with his collar up round his ears, he moved forward amid the din of shouting, laughter, and occasional jeers as the theater turned out. He saw a youth selling ham sandwiches and decided to buy one. He was not hungry, but he liked ham. He pushed his way through the throng, jostled by elbows and plump bustles, assaulted by the smell of perfume, sweat, and beery breath till he reached the sandwich man in the street beyond. There was a threepence in his pocket but his fingers were too cold to grasp it.

The youth looked at him expectantly. He was thin and there were hectic spots of color in his cheeks. It was a wretched living and Pitt knew it, standing outside in all weather, often half the night, and to make enough to survive they had to buy the meat on the bone and cook it themselves, then cut the sandwiches. He made less than a halfpenny profit on each sandwich sold, and Pitt knew that anything spoiled or lost could wipe out the day’s takings.

“I’ll have two, please.” He gripped the threepenny bit at last and produced it. The youth gave him two sandwiches and a penny change.

“Thank you.” Pitt bit into the first sandwich and found it surprisingly good. “Have you been here long?”

“Abaht eight hour,” the boy replied. “But they’re fresh, guv, I made ’em meself!” He looked anxious.

“They’re excellent,” Pitt agreed with more enthusiasm than he felt for anything except the idea of going home. “I meant, have you had this patch for long? For example, were you here three or four years ago?”

“Oh. Yeah, I bin ’ere since I were fourteen.”

“Do you ever remember seeing a very beautiful woman in a dark, very bright plum pink dress, about three years ago? Very striking woman, tall, with dark hair. Please think carefully, it’s very important.”

“What sort o’ woman, guv? Yer mean one o’ them?” He inclined his head very slightly towards a lush-looking woman with a pile of loose fair hair and rouge on her plump cheeks.

“Yes, but more expensive, more class.”

“One as I saw like that, wearing that sort o’ color, looked more like a lady ter me—though she were with a gent as was never ’er ’usband.”

Pitt deliberately quelled his feeling of excitement.

“How do you know?”

“Gam!” The boy pulled a face of disbelief. “ ’E were all over ’er. Eyes like limpets, ’e ’ad. An’ she were leading ’im on proper; all very tasteful like, but I seen too many not ter know. Some folks ’as class, and some ’asn’t, but it’s all the same in the end. Proper beauty, she were, though.”

“Was she buxom?” Pitt made an hourglass in the air with his hands, almost losing his sandwich in the process.

“No.” The youth’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “No, she weren’t. It were summer an’ she ’ad a real low gown an’ she were right scrawny! But ever so elegant!”

“Tall or short?” Pitt could not keep his voice from rising.

“Tall. Tall as me, I reckon, at least. Why? She someone you know? I an’t seen ’er since then. I can’t ’elp yer. She must ’ave moved uptown, or got married—which in’t likely, ter be honest wiv yer. More like she come to a bad end. Got some sickness, or someone carved ’er up. Mebbe she got the pox, or the cholera.”

“Maybe. Can you describe the man she was with? How did she leave? Which direction did she go?”

“You are keen! I didn’t take no notice o’ the gent she was wiv, ’cept ’e were dead elegant as well. Looked better-class than most yer get rahnd ’ere. ’E weren’t no clerk or tradesman out for an evenin’. ’E were definitely a toff come slummin’. But yer gets a few o’ them, if they wants a bit o’ relaxation wivout the missus, ner anyone as they know as’d tell on ’em.”

“Where did they go? Did they go together?”

The youth looked at Pitt scornfully. “ ’Course they went together! No toff treats no tart to an evenin’ at the theayter, ’owever classy she is, just ter wish ’er good night on the steps arterwards!”

“In a cab, or a carriage?”

“A cab, o’ course! Don’t take their own carriages if’n they’re out on the sly! Use a bit o’ common, guv!”

“Good. Where is the nearest rank of cabs from here?”

“Rahnd the corner an ’baht ’undred yards down the street.”

“Thank you.” And before the youth could express his doubts, Pitt had disappeared into the swirl of falling snow beyond the canopy of the theater.

“Crazy,” the boy said cheerfully and curled his fingers round the pennies in his pocket. “ ’Am sammiches! Fresh ’am sammiches! Only a penny each!”

Over the next two days Pitt plowed through the snow, feet freezing, legs wet from the slush in the gutters, as he coughed in the smoke and fog clamped over the city roofs by an icy sky. He found every cabdriver from the rank and questioned them all. He also found two crossing sweepers who had worked the area at the relevant time. One had come up in the world and had an interest in a hot coffee stall, the other had found a better crossing. None of them could do more than describe Cerise and say that she had arrived at the hotel and the theater in a cab and left in one.

Only one cabbie could remember where he had taken her, and that was to Hanover Close.

Pitt returned home so cold he was sick inside. His hands and feet hurt, and failure seemed to close round him as completely as the thick sourness of the night.

It was long after midnight and the house was silent. Only the light just inside the hall was on. He put his key in the lock, finding it carefully with the tips of his frozen fingers. It took him several moments.

Inside it was warm. Charlotte had banked up the fire and there was a note pinned on the parlor door where he could not miss it.

Dear Thomas,

The kitchen fire is still warm, the kettle is full, and there is hot soup in the pan if you want it. The oddest man came just before dark and left a letter for you. He said he knew about the woman in pink—I suppose he means Cerise. He was a “running patterer,” whatever that is. I left the letter on the parlor mantelpiece.

Wake me up if I can help.

Love, Charlotte

He pushed open the parlor door and felt for the knob of the gas lamp and turned it up. He saw the letter and tore it open, ripping out the paper and straightening it.

Dear Mr. Pitt,

I heard as you been asking around after the woman who wears a strange color of pink, and you are very desirous of finding her. I know where she is, and if you are willing to make it worth my trouble I will take you to her.

If you are interested come to the Triple Plea public house in Seven Dials tomorrow evening about six o’clock.

S. Smith

Pitt smiled and folded the letter carefully, putting it in his pocket. He tiptoed through to the kitchen.

The following evening he walked slowly through the fine ice-cold drizzle, woolen muffler high round his ears, along a gray alley in the district of Seven Dials. He knew why the man had chosen this part of the city; it was, as the flower girl had said, where the news sheets were printed and the natural headquarters of the running patterers. They made their living selling news or song sheets by the yard, constantly on the move crying the thrills and dramas within their pages. Most were based on the latest crime—the more gruesome, the better. Occasionally it was love letters of the utmost indiscretion. They might be of a famous person, an international beauty, or more tantalizingly an unnamed “lady of this neighborhood—to a gentleman not a hundred miles away!” If the truth were currently a little flavorless, then they had wit and imagination enough to retell some of the old favorites: wronged women who murdered either their faithless lovers, or the poor infants of the union, which well told, would bring tears to many a reader’s eye. Running patterers were usually men of some enterprise and a keen observation of human nature; it did not surprise Pitt that it should be one of these who had noticed and remembered Cerise. The man’s occupation was the retelling of tales of passion, murder, and beautiful women.

It was bitterly cold, and the narrow alleys made funnels for the wind. The dim figures Pitt passed were hunched forward, heads sunk into their shoulders, faces averted. In doorways sleepers piled together like sacks for the heat of each other’s bodies. The splinters of a broken gin bottle caught a gleam of light from a gas lamp.

Pitt found the Triple Plea after only one false turn. Pushing his way through the raucous drinkers in the public bar, he reached the counter. The landlord, in a beer-stained calico apron, shirt sleeves at half mast, looked at his unfamiliar face warily.

“Yeah?”

“Anyone asking for me?” Pitt asked quietly. “Name’s Pitt.”

“An’ why should I know that? I in’t a public service!”

“Oh, but you are.” Pitt forced a civil expression to his face. He fished in his pocket and brought out a sixpence. “And services should be paid for, when they’re worth it. When someone does ask, you tell me. Meantime I’ll have a cider.”

The man eyed the money ungraciously, pulled a draft cider into a tankard, and pushed it across. “There y’are. ’Is name’s Black Sam, an’ ’e’s over in the corner wiv a blue shirt and a brown coat—an’ the cider’ll be extra.”

“Naturally,” Pitt agreed, and added another tuppence. He took the glass and sipped from it gingerly. Actually it was rough and sweet, and surprisingly good. Taking a long drink, he made his way quite slowly over to the corner indicated, his eyes roaming to find the patterer. Several of the men here were probably of that occupation; they were not far from the printing houses, and they had the mobile faces, the quick eyes and lean figures of men who were constantly on the move.

He saw a man with an unusually dark complexion and a bright blue shirt sitting over a jar of ale. Almost immediately their eyes met, and Pitt knew it was S. Smith; there was an air of waiting in him, a restless scanning of faces. Pitt forced his way through and stopped in front of the cramped table.

“Mr. Smith?”

“That’s right.”

“Pitt. You said that for a consideration you could help me.”

“So I can. Drink yer cider; then when I leave, foller me out a minute or two be’ind. Don’t want ter give folks reason ter think, thinkin’ in’t good fer ’em. I’ll be outside on the street opposite. I ’ope yer’ve brought summink gen’rous wiv yer? I don’t give no credit. Noos is noos, an’ I makes me livin’ by it.”

“Sometimes it is,” Pitt said coolly. “Sometimes it’s lies. I’ve heard plenty of good cocks before.” A “cock” was a colorful melodrama invented when real news was slow; there were several famous ones making the rounds.

Black Sam smiled, showing crooked teeth that were surprisingly clean. “Sure. But they’re fer entertainin’ ladies as like a good cry an’ no ’arm done if the story is a bit—decorated like. That’s art.”

“Quite. Well, I’d like nature, or nothing.”

“Oh, you’ll get it, don’t fret.” And he stood up, tipped his mug back and drained it to the last drop, set it back on the bench, and pushed past Pitt without looking at him again. A moment later he had disappeared.

Pitt finished his cider without hurrying, then edged his way out into the night. The fine drizzle had stopped and it was beginning to freeze over. There were no stars because of the pall of smoke that hung over the city from the tens of thousands of chimneys. He could see the dim outline of Black Sam on the far curb. He crossed over and approached him.

“How much?” Sam said pleasantly without moving.

“If I find the woman in the pink dress and she’s the right one, half a crown.”

“An’ wot’s ter stop yer sayin’ it in’t the right one?”

Pitt had already thought of that. “My reputation. If I fiddle you out of what’s rightly yours for services rendered, no one’ll give the information in the future, and then I can’t do my job.”

Sam thought it over for a moment, but he was not long in his decision. Word spread fast among people who lived on the edge between survival and despair, and he made his own way by judging people. “Yer on,” he agreed. “Follow me.” And at last he straightened up and began to walk with a gait that was a deceptively rapid kind of lope. Pitt was hard pressed to keep up with him; although he was used to being on his feet all day it was with a measured tread, even back when he had been a constable. Now he was accustomed to riding, and the patterer’s speed left him breathless.

Fifteen minutes later they were almost at the far side of Seven Dials and in a more salubrious neighborhood, but still the streets were narrow and a practiced eye could recognize cheap lodging houses, and several that were almost certainly used as brothels. If Cerise were here then she had indeed fallen on hard times since the days of the Lyceum and the hotel where the doorkeeper had remembered her.

The patterer stopped and stood still on the grimy pavement.

“Up them stairs,” Black Sam said smoothly. He might have been on an evening’s stroll for any difference the run had made to him. “Knock on the door at the top an’ ask ter see Fred. ’E’ll tell yer where yer party is. I’ll wait ’ere, and if ’e does, I’ll trust yer ter come back down an’ give the the ’alf crown. Can’t say fairer than that. If ’e don’t, then we’ve ’ad a nice walk fer nuffin.”

Pitt hesitated, but it was hardly worth the haggling. Wordlessly he went across to the steps indicated and climbed them slowly, making as little noise as possible. The door at the top was heavy and closed. He knocked hard, hurting his knuckles. After a moment it opened and a thin youth with a knife scar across his cheek looked at him without interest.

“I want to see Fred,” Pitt said, standing well back.

“Wot fer? I in’t seen you afore!”

“Business,” Pitt replied. “Get him.”

“Fred! Geezer ’ere for yer—says it’s business!” the youth shouted.

Pitt waited for several minutes in silence before Fred appeared. He was rotund, red-faced and surprisingly agreeable. He smiled toothlessly. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for a woman in a pink dress, very vivid dark pink. Black Sam said you know where I can find her.”

“Yeah, that’s right. She rents a room orf me.”

“Now?”

“Yeah o’ course now! Wot’s the matter wiv yer? Think I’m daft?”

“Is she there now, in this room of yours?”

“Yeah. But I don’t let just anybody in. Mebbe she’ll see yer, an’ mebbe she won’t. She might already ’ave company, like.”

“Naturally. I don’t expect something for nothing. What does she look like, this woman in pink of yours?”

“Wot does she look like?” His pale eyebrows rose up to his nonexistent hairline. “Geez! Wot do you care? You must ’ave a lot more money than yer look like if yer can afford ter care!”

“I care,” Pitt said between his teeth. “That’s what matters to me.” A good lie came to his mind. “I’m an artist. Now, tell me!”

“All right, all right.” He shrugged genially. “If you say so. But I don’t know why yer want ter paint ’er; she’s as thin as a washboard, don’t ’ave no bosom and no ’ips. But she ’as got a face, I’ll give ’er that. She ’as a curious fine face, an’ black ’air. Now make up yer mind an’ don’t stand ’ere on the doorstep like a fool. I ’an’t got the time, even if you ’ave!”

“I’ll see her,” Pitt said instantly. “I owe Black Sam. Let me go and pay him, then I’ll be back to pay you for your trouble.”

“Then get on wiv it!” Fred urged. “I got work ter do.”

Ten minutes later Pitt, debts discharged, stood in a red-carpeted passageway with faded, dirty footmarks along the center and a gas lamp hissing gently on the wall. He knocked on the door at the end of the passage. Nothing happened. He knocked again, more loudly. Fred had assured him she was there, and he had described her too closely not to know who she was. He had spoken of characteristics Pitt had not even mentioned.

A door opened behind him and a large woman with a cascade of blond hair came out, a shawl wrapped round her more than ample figure, her bare shoulders smooth, rippling with fat.

“Leave off that racket, mister!” she said curtly. “Yer want in, then go in! Door’s not locked. Don’t stand there disturbin’ everyone! I got customers. You sound like a raid, put people off!”

“Yes ma’am,” he said with a lift of excitement. So Cerise was actually in there. In a moment he would see her, and perhaps know the secret of Robert York’s death. He turned away from the blonde, already returning to her customer, and twisted the handle of the door. She was right, it was not locked. It opened easily under his hand and he went in.

The room was more or less what he had expected: comfortable but messy, overfurnished, smelling of perfume, fine dust, and stale sheets. There were too many cushions and too much red. The bed was large and rumpled, two quilts thrown carelessly so he could not see at a glance whether there was anyone lying under them or not. He closed the door behind him.

When he was standing beside the bed he recognized the human outline of the form, and saw a flash of magenta satin, a strand of black hair like a loose band of silk. The woman’s face was turned away.

He was about to address her, then realized he had no idea what her name was. He had thought of her as Cerise. When he knew of her, she had been on the crest of the wave. In three years she had fallen to this. She was hardly the same person. His excitement on the point of discovery was suddenly shot through with pity. The more dashing, the more reckless she had been, the deeper this reduction cut with its tawdry intimacy. She might have been an instrument of treason, a murderess or accessory to murder; still he felt intrusive now.

“Madam,” he said inadequately.

She did not move. She must be very heavily asleep, perhaps even drunk. He leaned forward and touched her shoulder under the quilt, then shook her very slightly.

Still she did not move. He pulled her more strongly, turning her over, revealing the vivid magenta silk bodice with its low neck and slash of fuchsia. She had drunk herself insensible. He leant forward, taking both his hands to her shoulders, and shook her. Her hair fell back off her face and the quilt slipped.

At first he could not believe it. The head lolled a little sideways, unnaturally, not with the unresponsiveness of sleep but the limp finality of death. Her neck was broken. It must have been a single blow of great force. She was thin; he could see now the fragility of her bones. It was hard to tell if she had been beautiful. Without vitality there was only a certain grace of proportion left.

“Oh Gawd!”

For a moment he thought he had spoken himself, then he realized there was someone in the room.

“You bloody fool! Wot yer go an’ do that fer? Poor little bleeder, she never done you no ’arm!”

Pitt straightened up slowly and turned to look at Fred; white-faced, he blocked the door.

“I didn’t kill her,” Pitt said impatiently. “She was dead when I got here. You’d better go out and find a constable. Who came in here before I did?”

“Oh, I’ll send for a rozzer—yer can be sure o’ that!” Fred said savagely. “But I can’t leave you ’ere. Gawd knows ’oo else I might find dead if I did!”

“I didn’t kill her!” Pitt said between his teeth, holding his temper with difficulty. “I found her dead. Go and get the police!”

Fred remained motionless. “And o’ course you’ll wait ’ere for me to come back wiv ’em. You must take me fer a fool!”

Pitt stood up and moved towards him. Instantly Fred stiffened and his fists came up. For the first time Pitt realized that for all his apparent civility, Fred had every intention of stopping him with violence if necessary, and he was built to succeed with it.

“I am the police,” he said abruptly. “We’ve been looking for this woman in connection with a murder, maybe treason.”

“Yeah? An’ I’m the Duke o’ Wellington!” Fred was wedged massively in the doorway, his arms hanging, loosely, in case Pitt should attempt any sudden attack. “Rosie!” he shouted without taking his eyes off Pitt. “Rosie! Come ’ere! Quick!”

Pitt began again, “I am—”

“Shut up, you!” Fred snapped. “Rosie! Get yerself ’ere afore I comes and gets yer!”

The huge blonde appeared, wrapped in a voluminous pink sheet and flushed with irritation. “Look, Fred, I pays good rent ’cos I do the business ’ere! I don’t look to get yelled at an’ disturbed every—” She stopped, sensing something serious. “Wot’s the matter? Wot ’appened?”

“This ’ere geezer done fer the girl wot wears that ’orrible pink color. Strangled ’er, by the looks.”

“Poor little cow.” Rosie shook her head. “In’t no call fer that.”

“Well, go an’ get the rozzers, yer fat bitch!” Fred said angrily. “Don’t just stand there! There’s bin murder!”

“Don’t you go callin’ me names, Fred Bunn!” she said tartly. “An’ I in’t going’ lookin’ fer no rozzers. I’ll send Jacko downstairs.” And wrapping her sheet round her in a more dignified manner she turned her back and went towards the stairs.

Pitt sat down on the edge of the bed. There was no point in arguing with Fred, who was set in his belief. When the police came it would all be sorted out.

Fred leaned against the doorpost. “Wot yer want ter go and do that fer?” he said sadly. “Yer didn’t ’ave to kill ‘er.”

“I didn’t,” Pitt repeated. “I wanted her alive! I needed to ask her some very important questions.”

“Oh, yeah. Treason!” Fred snorted. “Well, ye’re original, I’ll say that for yer. Poor little cow!”

“How long has she been here?” Pitt asked. He might as well make use of the time.

“I dunno. Couple o’ days.”

“Only a couple of days?” Pitt was surprised. “Where was she before that?”

“ ’Ow the ’ell do I know? She paid ’er rent, that’s all I care about.”

Pitt felt inexpressibly weary. It was all so pathetic. Cerise, whatever her name really was, had had a childhood somewhere, then a brief career as a courtesan, glittering by night, perhaps dangerous even then; hidden by day. Then fortune had changed, her looks had faded and she had fallen out of fashion, reduced to the status of an ordinary prostitute. Finally she had had her neck broken in some senseless quarrel in this shabby rented room.

He turned back to look at her. This was the woman who had held such power, briefly, over Robert York and either Julian Danver or Garrard, such power that she had entered their houses, flouting every convention, running desperate risks. What if Veronica had seen her, or Loretta, or even Piers York? Loretta would not have turned the other way as Adeline had; she was of far more ruthless mettle. She would have tackled Robert and told him precisely where he should conduct his amours.

He looked down at the thin form on the bed. Her skin was dark, almost olive, and smooth as an old sepia print over her shoulders. But above the brilliant magenta ribbon round her neck it was already coarse-textured, and there were fine lines in her face, purplish shadows under her eyes. The bones were delicate, the mouth full-lipped, but it was hard to tell now if she had once been beautiful. But life could have wrought magic. She might have had wit, that rare smile that lights a face, the gift for listening with the kind of attention that makes the speaker feel for a moment that he is the center of all laughter and wisdom. Pretty faces were a shilling a dozen, charm was something else altogether.

Poor Cerise.

Pitt was jerked out of his thoughts by the heavy tramp of feet in the passage beyond Fred’s motionless figure. He heard Rosie’s voice, shrill and indignant, and somewhere a man wailed.

The constable appeared, his blue cape wet with the fine rain and his bull’s-eye lantern at his belt, truncheon ready in his hand.

“Well?” he demanded. “Where’s this ’ere woman you said as was dead, then?”

“ ’Ere,” Fred answered sullenly. He did not like policemen, and it was grudgingly he conceded the necessity now. “And this is the geezer wot killed ’er—Gawd knows why. But I let ’im in ’ere quarter hour ago, ’cause ’e was askin’ for ’er most partic’lar. Then I ’as ter come up ’ere fer suffink else, and she’s as dead as mutton, poor beggar. So I sends Rosie to tell Jacko ter fetch yer. She’ll tell yer the same.”

The constable pushed past Fred and stared into the room, his round face puckering with a mixture of sadness and distaste. He looked at Pitt and sighed.

“Now wot yer go an’ do a fing like that fer? In’t yer wife, or anyfink like vat, is she?”

“No, or course not!” Pitt said angrily. Suddenly all the pretense seemed ludicrous. “I’m a police officer, Inspector Pitt from the Bow Street station, and we’ve been looking for this woman for weeks. I tracked her down here, but I was too late to stop her being murdered. She was an important witness.”

The constable looked up and down at Pitt’s knitted muffler, his old coat, rather shapeless trousers, and worn boots. Disbelief was patent in his face.

“Check with Bow Street!” Pitt snapped. “Superintendent Ballarat!”

“I’ll take yer ter Seven Dials; they can send ter Bow Street,” the constable said stolidly. “Yer make no fuss and yer won’t get ’urt. Get nasty an’ I’ll ’ave ter get rough wiv yer.” He turned to Fred. “ ’Oo else ’as bin up ’ere since you seen ’er”—he gestured to the dead woman on the bed— “alive?”

“Geez! A little skinny geezer wiv Newgate knockers,” he said, putting his fingers up in a spiral to describe the cheek curls, “fer Clarrie. But she came down an’ fetched ’em. An’ a bald-’eaded feller, ’baht fortyish, fer Rosie, an’ I brought ’im up ’ere and saw ’im inter Rosie’s room. But ’e’s a reg’lar.”

“So no one else ’as bin up ’ere but ’im?”

“An’ the girls,” Fred finished. “Ask ’em.”

“Oh, I will, you can be sure o’ vat. An’ yer better all be ’ere when we wants yer, or yer’ll be ’unted down an’ arrested fer ’idin’ hevidence in a murder—an’ end up in Coldbath Fields, or Newgate.” He looked at Pitt. “Nah, you comin’ quiet, or do I ’ave ter be unpleasant wiv yer? Gimme yer ’ands.”

“What?” Pitt was startled.

“Yer ’ands, mister! You take me for a fool? I in’t a walkin’ yer back through the streets in the dark wivout the bracelets on yer.”

Pitt opened his mouth to protest, then realized the point-lessness of it, and thrust out his hands obediently.

Two hours later, sitting in the Seven Dials police station, still manacled, he was beginning to feel panic rising hot inside him. A message had been sent to Bow Street, and a neatly written answer had been returned. Yes, they knew Thomas Pitt, who answered the description precisely, but they could not agree that he had been sent to arrest anyone. They knew of no prostitute in a pink dress, and as far as they were concerned there was nothing of the sort connected with the case upon which Pitt was working. He had been assigned to look more carefully into the robbery at the home of Piers York in Hanover Close some three years ago, and the murder by an intruder of his son, Robert York. As far as Superintendent Ballarat knew, Pitt had failed to discover anything of material interest. The officer in charge of this unfortunate murder must handle it with all the justice and dispatch of which he was capable. Of course, Superintendent Ballarat wished, as a professional courtesy, to be kept informed of events as they should transpire, with the profound hope that Thomas Pitt was not guilty of anything except foolishness, and perhaps the kind of immorality that men fell prey to from time to time. Nevertheless, justice must be done. There could be no exceptions.

When Fred had first found him Pitt had only been able to think of Cerise, the futility of finding her when it was too late, the shabby reality of death. That they had mistaken him for the murderer had seemed farcical at the time. But now it was becoming appallingly clear that they did not believe him, and all his protestations, instead of making the truth obvious, were falling uselessly on their ears, like the excuses of any other criminal caught red-handed. And Ballarat had no intention of risking Society’s indignation and his superiors’ displeasure by stepping forward to defend Pitt or his actions. He did not want there to have been treason, he did not want to have to investigate the Yorks or the Danvers, or Felix Asherson, and he was only too happy to be rid of the one man who was pressing him to do it. If Pitt were convicted of murder he would be even more effectively silenced than if he were dead.

The sweat broke out on Pitt’s skin, then chilled instantly, leaving him shivering and a little sick. What would happen to Charlotte? Emily would see to her financially, thank God! But what about the disgrace, the public shame? Policemen had few friends; a policeman hanged for murdering a prostitute had none at all. Charlotte would find every hand turned against her: neighbors and erstwhile friends would abhor her; the underworld that normally had some care for its own, who might have given something to an ordinary hanged man’s widow, would have no pity for a policeman’s family. And Daniel and Jemima would grow up with the shadow of the gibbet across their hearts, always hiding who they were, trying to defend him, never really knowing—Pitt stopped; these thoughts were unbearable.

“Come on!” The voice yanked him from his inner misery back to the urgency of the present. “Coldbath Fields fer you; yer can’t sit ’ere all night. Let’s be ’avin’ yer!”

He looked up to see the chill boiled-blue eyes of a constable regarding him with the kind of loathing that police reserve for their own kind who have betrayed everything they have given their lives to preserve.

“On yer feet! Gotter learn ter do as ye’re told, you ’ave!”