Silence in Hanover Close

3

PITT HAD NO IDEA that Charlotte had gone to Hanover Close. He both knew and understood her concern for Emily, and he expected her to use all her powers of judgment and deduction to find out just how Emily felt about Jack Radley and to measure his worthiness if Emily truly cared for him. And if it turned out he was not satisfactory, there would be the major challenge of either dissuading Emily from pursuing it any further or discouraging Radley himself. Pitt suspected that it might well take all Charlotte’s skill to bring the affair to the conclusion that would cause Emily the least pain. Therefore he did not mention the York burglary or Robert York’s death to Charlotte again, nor keep her up to date on his own pursuit of a solution.

Ballarat was evasive about the precise reason for opening the case again; it was unclear whether they hoped to discover who had murdered Robert York at this late date, or whether learning the motive was the real purpose of the investigation. Perhaps they wanted to establish beyond a doubt that it had been no more than a simple robbery that had erupted into unplanned violence, putting an end to the rumors of treason once and for all. Or were they really concerned that Veronica York was somehow involved, the unwitting catalyst of a crime of passion inexpertly covered to look like robbery? Or did they know the truth, and simply wish to make doubly sure it was successfully concealed forever by having the police test it, and if it did not break, then they could rest easy that it was buried beyond anyone’s recall?

Pitt found this last possibility acutely distasteful, and possibly he wronged his superiors by letting it enter his mind, but he was determined to think it through until he could present Ballarat with an answer that was beyond denial or dispute.

He began with the stolen articles, and the curious fact that none of them had turned up in the places one might have expected despite the vigorous search the police had kept up throughout the following year. All the well-known fences, pawnbrokers, and less fastidious collectors of objects d’arts had been questioned at regular intervals as a matter of course, and on each occasion the York pieces had been on the list of goods mentioned.

But Pitt had been in the Metropolitan Police for nearly twenty years and he knew people Ballarat had never heard of, secretive, dangerous people who tolerated him for past and future favors. And it was to these he went while Charlotte was arranging her visit to the drawing rooms of Hanover Close.

He left Bow Street and walked sharply eastward towards the Thames, disappearing into one of the vast dockland slums. He passed crowded, warped buildings, dark under the lowering skies and filled with the sour reek of the fog that crept up from the slow, gray-black water of the river. There were no carriages with lamps and footmen here, only dim wagons laden with bales for the wharves and carts with a few limp vegetables for sale. A tinker with pans clattered as he jiggled over the uneven cobbles, an old-clothes seller shouted, “Ol’ clo’! Ol’ clo’!” in a mournful, penetrating voice. His horse’s hooves had no echo in the drenching gloom.

Pitt walked quickly, his head down and his shoulders hunched. He wore old boots with loose soles and a grimy jacket, torn at the back, which he kept for such visits. He pulled the thin collar up round his ears now, but still the rain trickled down his neck to his back, a wandering, icy finger that made him shudder. No one paid him any attention apart from the occasional glance when a peddlar or coster half hoped he might buy something. But he did not look like a man who had the means to purchase, and with face averted and body tight with the knowledge of the warmth he had left behind, he hurried deeper into the alleys and passages of the warren.

Finally he found the door he sought, its wood black with age and dirt, metal studs worn smooth by countless hands. He knocked sharply twice, and then twice again.

After a moment or two it opened six inches on a chain, stopping with a clunk as it reached its limit. Even though it was midmorning the daylight scarcely penetrated these narrow alleys, their jettied stories almost meeting overhead, eaves forever dripping in incessant, uneven rhythm. A rat squeaked and scuttled away. Someone tripped over a pile of rubbish and swore. In the distant street the wail “Ol’! clo’!” came again, and down on the river the moan of a foghorn. The smell of rot filled Pitt’s throat.

“Mr. Pinhorn,” he said quietly. “A matter of business.”

There was a moment’s silence, then a candle flame appeared in the gloom. He could see little beyond it but the outline of a large, sharp nose and the black sockets of two eyes. But he knew Pinhorn always answered the door himself, afraid that his apprentices would keep the trade for themselves and do him out of a few pence.

“It’s you,” Pinhorn said sourly, recognizing him. “Wotcher want? I got nuffink for yer!”

“Information, Mr. Pinhorn, and a warning for you.”

Pinhorn made a sound deep in his adenoids as if he were going to spit, then changed it into a bark. It expressed ineffable contempt.

“Robbery’s one thing, and murder’s another,” Pitt said carefully, not at all disturbed. He had known Pinhorn for over a decade and this reception was exactly what he expected. “And treason is a third thing, nastier than both.”

Again there was silence. Pitt knew better than to push his case. Pinhorn had fenced stolen goods for forty years; he understood his risks perfectly, or he would not still be alive, a prisoner only of poverty, ignorance and greed. He would be in one of Her Majesty’s prisons, like Coldbath Fields, where labor such as the treadmill or passing the shot would have broken even his thick, hard body.

The chain rattled as he took it off and the door swung wide noiselessly on oiled hinges.

“Come in, Mr. Pitt.”

He locked the door behind him and led the way down a passage piled with old furniture and smelling of mold, round a corner, and into a room that was surprisingly warm. A fire in an open grate shed a flickering light on the stained walls. A piece of heavy red carpet, no doubt garnered from some burglary, lay before the grate between two plush-covered armchairs. All the rest of the room apart from that cleared space was piled with dimly perceived objects: carved chairs, pictures, boxes, clocks, pitchers and ewers, piles of plates. Balanced at a crazy angle, a mirror caught the firelight and winked a red eye.

“Wotcher want, Mr. Pitt?” Pinhorn asked again, eyeing Pitt narrowly. He was a big man, barrel-chested, bullet-headed, his gray hair in a terrier crop such as prisoners wore, although he had never actually been caught or tried. In his youth he had enjoyed something of a reputation as a bareknuckle fighter, and he was still capable of beating a man senseless if he lost his temper, which happened suddenly and violently from time to time.

“Have you seen a pair of miniature portraits?” Pitt asked. “Seventeenth-century, man and a woman? Or a silver vase, a crystal paperweight carved with a design of scrolls and flowers, and a first edition of Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift?”

Pinhorn looked surprised. “That all? You come all the way ’ere ter ask me vat? Vat lot in’t worf much.”

“I don’t want them; I just want to know if you’ve heard of them. About three years ago, probably.”

Pinhorn’s eyebrows shot up incredulously. “Free years ago! Yer bleedin’ eejut! D’yer fink I’d ’member vat sort of ’aul fer free years?”

“You remember everything you’ve ever bought or sold, Pinhorn,” Pitt said calmly. “Your trade depends on it. You’re the best fence this side of the river, and you know the worth of everything to the farthing. You’d not forget an oddity like a Swift first edition.”

“Well, I ’an’t ’ad none.”

“Who has? I don’t want it, I just want to know.”

Pinhorn screwed up his little black eyes and wrinkled his great nose suspiciously. He stared at Pitt for several seconds. “You wouldn’t lie ter me, Mr. Pitt, nah would yer? It’d be very unwise, as men I wouldn’t be able ter ’elp yer no more.” He tilted his head to one side. “Might not even be able ter stop yer gettin ’urt on yer little hexpiditions inter places where rozzers in’t nat’ral—like ’ere.”

“Waste of time, Mr. Pinhorn,” Pitt replied with a smile. “Same as you lying to me. Have you heard of the Swift?”

“Wot’s it yer said abaht murder an’ treason? They’re strong words, Mr. Pitt.”

“Hanging words, Mr. Pinhorn,” Pitt elaborated distinctly. “There’s murder for certain, treason only maybe. Have you heard anyone speak of the Swift, anyone at all? You hear most things this side of the river.”

“No I ’an’t!” Pinhorn’s face remained in the same tortured expression of concentration. “If anybody’s fenced any fink like vat, vey done it outside o’ the Smoke, or they done it private to someone as vey already know as wanted it. Although why anybody’d want it stole I dunno; it in’t worf vat much. You said first edition, dincher, not ’andwrit ner nuffink?”

“No, just a first-edition printing.”

“Can’t ’elp yer.”

Pitt believed him. He was not ingenuous enough to believe past gratitude for small favors would have any weight, but he knew Pinhorn wanted him on his side in the future. Pinhorn was too powerful to be afraid of his rivals and he had no conception of loyalty. If he knew anything that it was in his own interest to tell Pitt, he would undoubtedly have done so.

“If I ’ear anyfink I’ll tell yer,” Pinhorn added. “Y’owe me, Mr. Pitt.”

“I do, Mr. Pinhorn,” Pitt said dryly. “But not much.” And he turned round to make his way back to the great wooden door and the dripping alley outside.

Pitt knew many other dealers in stolen goods; there were the dollyshops, those poorest of pawnbrokers, who lent a few pence to people desperate enough to part with even their pots and pans or the tools of their trade in order to buy food. He hated such places, and the pity he felt was like being kicked in the stomach. Because he was helpless, he turned to anger as being better than weeping. He wanted to shout at the rich, at Parliament, at anyone who was comfortable, or who was ignorant of these tens of thousands who clung to life by such a frail and dangerous thread, who had not been bred to afford morality except of the crudest sort.

This time he was free to avoid them, along with the thieves’ kitchens, where kidsmen kept schools of children trained to steal and return the profits to them. Similarly he did not need to scour the slop trade: those who dealt in old clothes, rags, and discarded shoes, taking them apart and making up new articles for the poor, who could afford no better. Often even the worst rags were laboriously unraveled and the fiber rewoven into shoddy—anything to cover those who might otherwise be naked.

The articles from the York house had been taken by a thief not only of taste but also of some literacy, and would have been fenced similarly. They were luxuries that could not be converted into anything useful to the patrons of dollyshops.

He made his way back through the tangle of passageways uphill away from the river towards Mayfair and Hanover Close. Thieves usually worked their own areas. Since he could not trace the goods, the best place to start was with those who knew the patch. If it was one of them, word of the theft would probably have reached the old hands. If it had been an outsider, that too would be known by someone. The police had investigated at the time, it had been no secret. The underworld would have its own information.

It took him half an hour after reaching Mayfair to track down the man he wanted, a skinny, lop-legged little man of indeterminate age called William Winsell and known, contrarily, as the Stoat. He found him in the darkest corner of a tavern of particularly ill repute, staring sourly at half a pint of ale in a dirty mug.

Pitt slid into the vacant seat beside him. The Stoat glared at him with outrage.

“Wot you doin’ ’ere, bleedin’ crusher! ’Oo d’ya fink’ll trust me if vey see me wiv ve likes o’ you?” He looked at Pitt’s fearful clothes. “D’yer fink we don’t granny yer, just ’cos yer aht o’ twig in them togs? Still look like a crusher, wiv yer clean ’ands wot never worked, and crabshells”—he did not even bother to glance at Pitt’s feet—“like ruddy barges! Ruin me, you will!”

“I’m not staying,” Pitt said quietly. “I’m going to the Dog and Duck, a mile away, to have lunch. I thought you might like to join me in, say, half an hour? I’m going to have steak and kidney pudding, hot; Mrs. Billows does that a treat. And spotted dick, made with suet and lots of raisins, and cream. And maybe a couple of glasses of cider, brought up from the West Country.”

The Stoat swallowed hard. “Yer a cruel man, Mr. Pitt. You must want some poor bastard cropped!” He made a sharp gesture with his hand at the side of his throat, like a noose under the ear.

“Perhaps, in the end,” Pitt agreed. “Right now it’s only burglary information. Dog and Duck, half an hour. Be there, Stoat, or I shall have to come and see you somewhere less agreeable—and less private.” He stood up, and without looking backwards, head down, he pushed his way through the drinkers and out into the street.

Thirty-five minutes later he was in the more salubrious parlor of the Dog and Duck, with a mug of cider, bright and clear as an Indian summer, in front of him, when the Stoat crept in nervously, ran his fingers round his grimy collar as if easing it from his neck, and wriggled onto the seat opposite him. He glanced round once or twice, but saw only dull, respectable minor traders and clerks; no one he knew.

“Steak and kidney pudding?” Pitt offered unnecessarily.

“Wotcher want orf of me first?” the Stoat said suspiciously, but his nostrils were wide, sucking in the delicious aroma of fresh, sweet food. It was almost as if the steam itself fed him. “ ’Oo’re yer after?”

“Someone who robbed a house in Hanover Close three years ago,” Pitt replied, nodding over the Stoat’s head to the landlord.

The Stoat swiveled round furiously, his face suddenly creasing with outrage. “ ’Oo’re yer signin’ at?” he snarled. “ ’Oozat?”

“The landlord.” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to eat?”

The Stoat subsided, vaguely pink under the gray of his skin.

“A robbery three years ago in Hanover Close,” Pitt repeated.

The Stoat sneered. “Free years ago? Bit slow, incher? Runnin’ be’ind vese days, are we? Wot was took?”

Pitt described the articles in some detail.

The Stoat’s lip curled. “ Yer in’t after vem fings! Ye’re after ’oo croaked ve geezer wot caught ’em at it!”

“I’d be interested,” Pitt conceded. “But primarily I’m concerned to prove someone innocent.”

“Vat’s a turnup!” the Stoat said cynically. “Friend o’ yours?”

“Hungry?” Pitt smiled. The landlord appeared with two steaming dishes piled high with meat, gravy, and feather-light suet crust. A few green vegetables decorated the side, and a maid stood by with an earthenware jug of cider sweet as ripe apples.

The Stoat’s eyes glazed a little.

“Murder’s not good for business,” Pitt said very quietiy. “Gives robbery a bad name.”

“Bring on the scran!” the little man snapped, then licked his lips and smiled. “Yer right—it’s clumsy and it in’t necessary.” He watched with rapture as his plate was set in front of him, inhaling the delicate steam and sucking his teeth as the cider was poured, eyeing it right to the brim of the tankard.

“What do you know about it, Stoat?” Pitt asked before he took the first mournful.

The Stoat’s eyes opened very wide. They were a clear gray; the redeeming feature of a cramped face, they must once have been handsome. He filled his mouth with food and chewed slowly, rolling it round his tongue.

“Nuffin’,” he said at last. “And that in’t nuffin’, if yer sees wot I mean. Usual yer ’ears a word, if not straight orf, men in a munf er two. Or if ’e’s in lavender ’cos it turned a bit nasty, men a year, mebbe. But vis ’un clean mizzled!”

“If he was in lavender in some nethersken, you’d know?” Pitt pressed. “In lavender” meant in a hiding place from the police, but the Stoat was indicating that this particular thief had vanished.

The Stoat filled his mouth again and spoke round the food with difficulty. “ ’Course I’d know!” he said contemptuously. “Know every slapbang, lurk, nethersken, flash ’ouse, and paddyken fer miles.”

Pitt understood him. He was referring to cheap eating houses, hiding places, low lodging houses, criminal pubs, and taprooms.

“An’ I tell yer vis,” the Stoat went on, sipping his cider appreciatively. “ ’E weren’t no professional. From wot I ’ear ’e got no crow, no snakesman, and ’oo but a fool’d go in the front like ’e did in a place like ’anover Close? Yer gotta know the crushers’d be rahnd every bleedin’ twenty minutes!”

A snakesman was a thin or underdeveloped child who could creep through the bars of a window and, once inside, open the doors for the real thief. A crow was a lookout, frequently a woman, to warn of police or strangers approaching. Pitt already knew the thief was no professional from P.C. Lowther, but it was interesting that the Stoat knew this also. “So he was an amateur,” he said. “Has he done anything else, anything since?”

The Stoat shook his head, his mouth full. He swallowed. “Told yer—mizzled. Never done nuffink afore ner since. ’E in’t on our patch, Mr. Pitt. I never ’eard o’ ven fings fenced, ner no one in lavender ’cos o’ the feller topped—an’ vey would be. It’s no stretch in Coldbath, ner even takin’ ve boat like it used ter be: murder’s croppin’ business, no cockchafers ner scroby, just Newgate, and a long drop early one mornin’ wiv a rope collar. A long drop and only the devil ter catch yer.”

“Cockchafer” was the graphic term for the treadmill used in prisons, a device to keep a man perpetually in motion; “scroby” meant the prison sentence of the lash.

The Stoat sat back and patted his belly. “Vat was a fair tightener, Mr. Pitt,” he said, gazing at his empty plate. “I’d ’elp yer if I could. Ve best I can tell yer is ter look fer some toff wot fought as thievin’ was simple and tried ’is ’and at it an’ fahnd it weren’t.” He pulled over the plate of spotted dick pudding, thick with fruit, and dipped his spoon in it, then looked up with a sudden idea. “Or mebbe the lady o’ ve ’ouse ’ad a lover, an’ ’e did away wiv ’er ’usband, an’ it weren’t nuffink ter do wiv thievin’ at all. ’Ad yer fought o’ vat, Mr. Pitt? It ain’t one of ve family, vat I know.”

“Yes Stoat, I had thought of it,” Pitt said, pushing the cream across to him.

The Stoat grinned, showing sharp, gappy teeth, and poured the cream generously. “Y’in’t daft, fer a crusher, is yer!” he said with grudging respect.

Pitt believed the Stoat, but even so he felt compelled to pursue any other contacts he had right up until Christmas Eve. He found nothing but a blank ignorance and a total absence of fear, which was in itself a kind of evidence. He tramped miles through dingy alleys behind the grand façades of the great streets; he questioned pimps, fences, footpads, and keepers of bawdy houses, but no one told him anything of a thief who had broken into Hanover Close and tried to sell or dispose of the missing property, or who was hiding from a murder charge. The whole underworld turned a dirty, conniving, but quite innocent face to his inquiries.

It was a fine, sharp evening, dark by half past four after a pale green sunset. Gas lamps burned yellow, carriages rattled back and forth over a shining film of ice on the cobbles. People called out greetings, drivers shouted abuse, and street sellers cried their wares: hot chestnuts, matches, bootlaces, old lavender, fresh pies, penny whistles, toy soldiers. Here and there little knots of youths sang carols, their voices thin and a little sharp in the frosty air.

Pitt felt a slow, blessed cleanliness wash over him as the smell of despair receded and the grayness was infused with the beginnings of color. The excitement around him drove out memory and buoyed him up, even expunging the pity and guilt he usually felt when leaving the rookeries and returning to his comfortable home. Today he cast off those feelings like a soiled coat and was left with only gratitude. He flung open the front door and shouted out, “Hello!”

There was an instant’s silence, then he heard Jemima jump from her stool and the clatter of shoes on linoleum as she ran up the hall to meet him.

“Papa! Papa, is it Christmas Eve yet? It is, isn’t it!”

He threw his arms round her and lifted her high into the air. “Yes, my sweetheart, it is! It is Christmas Eve, right now!” He kissed her and held her on his arm, striding into the kitchen. All the lights were blazing. Charlotte and Emily sat at the table, putting the finishing touches on the icing of a great cake, and Gracie was stuffing the goose. Emily had arrived an hour earlier with a footman in tow, laden with colored paper, boxes, and ribbons. Edward, Daniel, and Jemima had clustered round him, speechless with excitement, Edward hopping up and down from one foot to the other, his blond hair flopping on his head like a silver-gold lid. Daniel was doing a little dance on the floor, round and round in circles until he fell over.

Pitt put Jemima down, kissed Charlotte, welcomed Emily, and acknowledged Gracie’s presence. He took his boots off and stretched out in front of the stove, warming his feet and legs, and watched contentedly as Gracie moved the kettle over onto the hot surface and got down the teapot and his large breakfast cup.

After the meal he could hardly wait for the children to go to bed so he could bring out his carefully hidden gifts and begin to wrap them up. He and Emily and Charlotte sat round the scrubbed kitchen table, now piled with scissors, bright paper, and pieces of ribbon and string. Every so often someone would disappear into the parlor, demanding not to be disturbed, and returning with a satisfied smile and gleaming eyes.

They went to bed a little before midnight, and Pitt only heard Charlotte get up once in the pitch darkness when a small voice on the landing asked plaintively, “Isn’t it morning yet?”

He woke properly at seven to find Daniel at the door in his nightgown and Charlotte fully dressed at the window.

“I think it’s snowing,” she said softly. “It’s too dark to see, but there’s a sort of gleam in the air.” She turned round and saw Daniel. “Happy Christmas, darling,” she said, bending over to kiss him. He stood still; he was nearly five and not sure about being kissed anymore, at least not in front of other people.

“Is it Christmas?” he whispered into the soft hair around her cheek.

“Yes—yes it is! Get up Thomas, it’s Christmas.” She held out her hand to Daniel. “Do you want to come and see what is under the tree in the parlor before you get dressed?”

He nodded, his wide eyes never leaving her face.

“Then come on!” And she whisked him out, leaving the door wide open behind her and calling for Edward and Jemima to follow.

Pitt scrambled out of bed, pulled on his clothes in even worse disarray than usual, and, after splashing his face from the pitcher on the dresser, ran downstairs. Charlotte, Emily, and the children stood in the parlor staring at the tree and the pile of bright parcels under it. No one spoke.

“Breakfast first, then church; then we’ll see what’s in there,” Pitt said, breaking the spell. He did not want Emily to turn and see his face, and think of George.

Jemima opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it.

“Where’s Gracie?” he asked.

“I sent her home last night,” Charlotte replied. “With two of us we can do everything quite easily.”

“Wouldn’t she rather have been here, with us?” Pitt thought of the difference between Gracie’s home and this house with its warmth, its happiness, and the goose in the oven.

“Maybe,” Charlotte agreed, leading the way to the kitchen. “But her mother wouldn’t. Emily gave her a chicken,” she added under her breath, then went on briskly. “Breakfast in thirty minutes. Everyone go and get dressed— come on!” She clapped her hands and Emily took the children back upstairs while she went to prepare porridge, bacon, eggs, toast, marmalade, honey, and tea. Pitt went back up to shave.

Outside there was a fine dusting of snow and banners of pearl-gray cloud across the winter blue of the sky between the rooftops. They walked together to the church half a mile away. Everywhere bells were ringing; the cold air was full of the sound.

The service was short, and they sat packed together in the narrow pews while the vicar told the familiar story, the organ pealing out all the familiar hymns. “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” and “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and everyone sang till the sound seemed to roll round them like an ocean.

They walked back in a shower of snow, making footprints in its newness, taking another look at the pile of parcels under the tree. Then, after a short stage of flurry in the kitchen, they all sat down to roast goose with savory stuffing and all the trimmings, crisp brown roast potatoes and parsnips, and a good French wine, and plum pudding fired with brandy, to the delight of the children, and covered with cream. Charlotte had made it and cut it with great care so everyone got a silver threepence.

Finally the presents could be kept no longer. Bursting with excitement, they all trooped into the parlor to portion them out and watch as three children tore off paper, scattered it in mounds, and were lost in a daze of boundless wonder. For Daniel there were the engine and wagons Pitt had made him and a jack-in-the-box Emily had brought; for Edward a box of bricks of every color, shape and size which Pitt had carved and painted, and a set of tin soldiers from Emily; and for Jemima a doll for whom Charlotte had sewn three different outfits of clothing, and from Emily a kaleidoscope which when she shook it and held it to her eye presented an ever-changing magic world of glittering designs.

From Charlotte’s mother they each had books: Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland for Jemima; Charles Kingsley’s The Water Babies for Daniel; and Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island for Edward.

Charlotte was thrilled with her pink alabaster vase, and the garnet brooch Emily gave her; and Emily was equally delighted with the lace collar from Pitt and Charlotte. Pitt was totally happy with the shirts Charlotte had sewn for him, and the gleaming leather Wellington boots Emily had brought. He thanked her for them sincerely, not only for the gift, but for the tact she had shown in not giving too much. She knew quite well that as a constable, Pitt had earned about the same as a chimney sweep, and even now as an inspector his entire month’s salary was less than her month’s dress allowance.

Emily in turn was grateful for the emotional warmth and the sense of belonging, and she let them see her pleasure as the most delicate way of thanking them. When the flurry of gifts and thank-yous subsided at last, they sat in front of the fire, sparing no expense in letting it roar red and yellow up the chimney. Emily and Charlotte talked and Pitt dozed with his feet on the fender.

In the evening, when the children had gone up to bed, exhausted, clutching their presents, Charlotte, Pitt, and Emily took out a giant jigsaw puzzle of the coronation of Queen Victoria. They sat up till midnight, when Emily finally put in the last piece with a crow of triumph.

Two days later, in a crisp north wind that froze the slush on the pavements into slippery, crackling ridges and scattered ice from the gutter like broken glass, Pitt went back to work. After leaving various instructions regarding the other burglaries in his charge, he left Bow Street for Hanover Close. He was increasingly curious to meet the Yorks, and he had an idea.

A somewhat surprised cabbie set him down in the calm, elegant Close with its Georgian façades and the complicated filigree of bare, black trees against a heavy white sky. He opened his mouth to ask Pitt if he was sure this was where he meant to be, then saw the look on his face and changed his mind. The cabbie took the money and slapped the reins on the horse’s faintly steaming rump.

Pitt walked up to the front door, prepared for the scorn of the footman, who would tell him a policeman’s place—if he must come at all—was at the tradesmen’s entrance in back. He was used to this sort of treatment, but he still felt his shoulders tighten.

The door opened almost immediately and a footman in his late twenties failed to keep the slight surprise out of his face.

“My name is Thomas Pitt.” Pitt did not mention rank yet. “It is possible I may have some information about a matter of interest to Mr. York. I would be obliged if you would ask if I may see him.”

The footman did not dare turn down such a request without reference to his master, a fact which Pitt had counted on.

“If you will wait in the morning room, sir, I will inquire.” The footman stepped back and opened the door invitingly. He had a tray in his hand, but Pitt did not have a card to place on it. Perhaps that was something he should consider: just a plain one, with his name and nothing else.

The morning room was spacious and comfortable, a man’s room, with cool green furnishings and sporting prints on the walls. There were leather-bound books in two glass-fronted cases and a rather fine sphere on a table by the window, with all the nations of the empire marked in red, and encircled by vast reaches of Canada, Australasia, India, most of Africa all the way up to Egypt, and islands in every ocean. An engraved brass meridian encircled it.

The footman hovered. “May I tell Mr. York what the matter is in connection with?” he said earnestly.

“With the death of Mr. Robert York,” Pitt answered, stretching the truth only slightly.

The footman found no reply to that, bowed very minutely, and left, closing the door behind him.

Pitt knew he would not have long to wait, and there would be little point in studying the books to learn the personalities of those in the house. Handsome books were all too often purchased for their appearance rather than their content. Instead he rehearsed again what he intended to say, preparing himself to lie to a man for whom he felt profound pity, and might well develop a liking.

The Honorable Piers York appeared within five minutes. He was tall, with the build of a man who had been slender in his prime. Approaching seventy, he held himself erect, except for a slight rounding of the shoulders, and his lean face was full of a wry, private humor, which was deeply ingrained beneath the present patina of grief and the years of self-restraint.

“Mr. Pitt?” he inquired curiously, closing the door and indicating one of the armchairs in a tacit invitation. “John said you have something to say about my son’s death. Is that correct?”

Pitt felt more ashamed than he had expected, but it was too late to withdraw now without explaining his lie. “Yes sir.” He swallowed. “It is possible that some of the articles stolen may have been discovered. If you would give me a closer description of the vase and the paperweight . . . ?”

York’s eyes were puzzled. The shadow of loss was there, also a gleam of something which might have been humor or irony as he took in Pitt’s shining and perfectly fitted boots.

“Are you from the police?” he asked.

Pitt felt the heat in his face. “Yes sir.”

York sat down with an elegant movement despite a faint stiffness in his back. “What have you found?”

Pitt had his story prepared. He sat down opposite and avoided York’s eyes as he replied. “We have found a great deal more stolen property lately, and among it are several pieces of silver and crystal.”

“I see.” York smiled bleakly. “I can’t see that it matters much now. They were not of great value. It was just a small vase; can’t really remember the thing myself. The paperweight had engraving on it, I think, flowers or something. I wouldn’t go to too much trouble, Mr. Pitt. Surely you must have more important work.”

There was no alternative but to say it. “It may be through the articles that we can trace the thief, and thus the man who killed your son,” he explained gravely.

York smiled, polite but weary. He had already divorced the matter from his emotions. “After three years, Mr. Pitt? Surely it will have changed hands many times since then.” It was an observation, not a question.

“I don’t think so, sir. We have many contacts with the dealers in stolen goods.”

“I suppose it is necessary?” York said with a sigh. “I really don’t give a damn about the vase, and I’m sure my wife doesn’t either. Robert was our only son; can’t we . . .” His words died away.

Was it necessary? Would the whole charade he had planned really lead to any information about Robert York’s murderer? Would it even shed any light on the possible involvement of his widow? Was it not merely a further exercise in pain inflicted upon a family that was already deeply hurt?

But there was something different about this crime. It was not a common housebreaking. He believed Pinhorn, the Stoat, and all the others who said it had not sprung from the underworld. Perhaps an acquaintance of the York household had turned to sudden crime, and when Robert had recognized him, the burglar had killed Robert in his panic, rather than be betrayed. Or else it was a murder first and a burglary second: Robert York had surprised his wife with a lover, and the perpetrator had taken the articles to mask the real crime. Or worse still, perhaps it had been premeditated.

There was, of course, the possibility feared by the Foreign Office: that the real theft involved papers Robert York had taken home, and not only was this murder, but also treason.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is necessary,” Pitt said firmly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I am sure even in her grief Mrs. York would not wish a murderer to go free when there is a possibility we may catch him.”

York stared at him levelly for several seconds, then stood up slowly. “I suppose you know what you’re doing, Mr. Pitt.” There was no slight in his voice; he spoke as one gentleman to another. He pulled the bell rope near the door, and when the footman answered he sent him for Mrs. York.

She was several minutes in coming, but neither of them spoke again until she appeared. Pitt stood up immediately and regarded her with interest. This was the woman whose composure had so impressed Lowther on the night of her son’s death, and Mowbray the day after. She was of barely average height, her slender build a little thickened at the waist, with well-covered shoulders and a white neck draped in lace, not an old lady’s lace, but expensive, heavy French lace such as Great-aunt Vespasia might have chosen. Even from a distance of several feet Pitt could smell the faintest aroma of an elusive sweet perfume like gardenia. She had smooth, rounded features, an almost Greek nose, and lips that were still well defined. Her skin was flawless, and her hair, though faded in color, still rich-textured and full, with natural wave. She had been a beauty, in her own fashion. She regarded Pitt with cold surprise.

“Mr. Pitt is from the police,” York said in explanation. “He may have found some of our belongings that were stolen. Can you describe the silver vase? I’m afraid I wouldn’t know it if I saw it.”

Her eyes widened. “After three years you may be able to return me one silver vase? I am unimpressed, Mr. Pitt.”

The criticism was just and he knew it. Pitt’s voice sounded sharper than he intended. “Justice is frequently slow, ma’am, and sometimes the innocent suffer as well. I’m sorry.”

She forced herself to smile, and he respected her for that.

“It was about nine inches high, on a round base but squared up the body, with a fluted lip. It was solid silver, and took about five or six stems. I usually put roses in it.”

That was very precise; there was nothing vague or distorted about her description. He looked at her closely. She was intelligent, in complete command of herself, but there was no lack of emotion in her face. In fact Pitt could easily imagine great passion there. He glanced down at the small, strong hands at her sides and saw that they were stiff, but not clenched.

“Thank you, ma’am. And the crystal paperweight?”

“Spherical, with two Tudor roses engraved on it, and something else, a ribbon or scroll. It was about three or four inches high, and heavy, of course.” Her brow puckered. “Have you found the thief?” There was a slight tremor in her voice now and a tiny muscle flickered under the pale skin of her temple.

“No ma’am”—at least that was the absolute truth—“only property, through a dealer in stolen goods. But he may lead us to the thief.”

York was standing several feet away from her. For a moment Pitt thought he was going to reach out to her in a gesture of comfort, or merely of companionship, but he changed his mind, or else Pitt had misunderstood the slight movement. What lay behind his wry patrician face, her regular, carefully preserved beauty? Did they suspect that their daughter-in-law had had a lover? Or that their son had been murdered for his country’s secrets? Or that some associate, even a family friend, had fallen deeply into debt and had turned in desperation to robbery rather than face the disgrace and perhaps even imprisonment brought by financial ruin?

He would learn nothing from staring at them. All their nurturing in the cool, obedient childhood of the aristocracy had bred into them self-mastery, the knowledge of duty to dignity and to class. Whatever fear or grief lay inside, no policeman, no gamekeeper’s son was going to see it naked in a wavering voice or a shaking hand. Pitt almost wished Charlotte could see them; she might be able to read far more into their manner.

He could not prolong it anymore, and he could think of no appropriate excuse to meet the widow. He thanked them and allowed the footman to show him to the door and the gray, ice-whipped street.

It took him three days to find a vase that fit Mrs. York’s description, and even then it was an inch and a half short and had five sides rather than four, but it was near enough. The paperweight was impossible; the stolen goods hauls presented nothing remotely like it, and he would betray his deceit if he brought one that differed vastly from the description he had been given.

It was New Year’s Eve and snowing hard. He rode through muffled streets, the wheels of the hansom almost silent in the pall, and stepped out at number 2 Hanover Close a little after three. He had asked the constable on the beat and knew that this was the best opportunity to catch the younger Mrs. York at home, while the elder Mrs. York was out visiting.

This time the door was answered by a pretty young snip of a parlormaid with a crisp lace apron and a cap on her dark head. She eyed Pitt up and down suspiciously, from the tousled hair poking out under his tall hat and his well-cut but ill-used coat, its pockets stuffed with all manner of objects he had thought he might find useful, to Emily’s beautiful boots.

“Yes sir?”

He smiled at her. “I have called to see Mrs. York. She is expecting me within these few days.”

She considered his smile more than the information, which she found hard to believe. “Mrs. York has company at the present, sir, but if you come into the morning room I’ll inform her you are here.”

“Thank you.” He stepped in and handed her one of the cards he had acquired since his last visit. Perhaps it was a trifle presumptuous for a policeman to have a card, but he liked it, and it might justify its expense one day. He had not told Charlotte about it, in case she secretly thought him foolish.

The morning room was unchanged, a banked-up slow fire glowing in the grate. This time Pitt deliberately opened the door to the hall after the maid had gone and stood a little out of the way of it, so that he could overhear any conversation unseen. The visitors were probably irrelevant, but he was curious. There had been no carriages outside, so they must intend staying long enough to be worth sending them round to the mews at the back; that meant more than the half hour or so of a normal afternoon call.

The misunderstanding he hoped for materialized. It was the younger Mrs. York the parlormaid informed, and after nearly ten minutes it was she who came, accompanied by a fair-haired man of about forty with a face not handsome, but of intelligent and compelling cast. They were both civil but extremely guarded.

Veronica York was indeed a beautiful woman, very slender, with delicate shoulders and bosom, and she moved with an unusual grace. Her face was more sensitive than her mother-in-law’s, more finely boned. It appealed to Pitt instinctively. There was a haunting quality in it, and he had the impression that beneath the calm lay an intense passion, poised to break through.

“Mr. Pitt?” she said with obvious doubt. “I hope you do not mind, Mr. Danver has accompanied me. I regret I do not recollect our acquaintance.”

Danver put one arm half round her, as if he would protect her from any attack of discourtesy. But there was no hostility in his face, only caution, and an awareness of her vulnerability.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized immediately. “It was Mrs. Piers York who was expecting me. I should have made myself plainer. But I expect, if you would not mind, you could assist equally well.” He took the silver vase out of his coat pocket and held it up. “It is possible that this is the vase stolen from you some three years ago. If it is, would you be kind enough to assure yourself, and then confirm it to me?”

The blood fled from her face and her eyes widened as if he had held up something appalling and incomprehensible.

Danver tightened his arm round her as though he feared she might faint. Then he turned on Pitt furiously.

“For heaven’s sake, man, have you no pity at all? You walk in here without the least warning and hold up a vase that was stolen the very night Mrs. York’s husband was violently murdered!” He looked at Veronica York, and his voice rose as he saw her anguish deepen. “I shall complain to your superiors about your gross insensitivity! You might at least have asked for Mr. York!”

Pitt did feel compassion for her, but he had felt it for the guilty as well as the innocent many times before. For Julian Danver it was different: either he was a superb actor, or it had not occurred to him that the truth was anything other than what had already been presumed.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized honestly. “Mr. York told me on a previous visit that he would not know the vase again. It was Mrs. Piers York who described it to me. I can ask a servant, if you prefer: with your permission?”

Veronica was struggling to master herself. “You are being unfair, Julian,” she said with some difficulty. She swallowed dryly and caught her breath. She was still bloodlessly pale. “Mr. Pitt is only doing his duty. It would not be any less distressing to Mother-in-law.” She raised her eyes to meet Pitt’s, and he was struck again by the power of emotion in her; she was no mere society beauty but a woman who would be unique and compelling anywhere. “I am afraid I am not sure whether it is our vase or not,” she said, struggling to keep her voice in control, “I never took much notice of it. It was in the library, which is a room I did not frequent a great deal. Perhaps if you would ask one of the servants, rather than distress my mother-in-law with seeing it?”

“Of course.” Pitt had hoped to find an excuse to speak to the servants, and this was ideal. “If you will instruct your butler or housekeeper that you have given your permission, I shall go through to the servants quarters and perhaps find the housemaid who dusted the library at that time.”

“Yes,” she agreed, unable to hide her relief. “Yes, that would be an excellent idea.”

“I’ll attend to it,” Danver offered. “Would you prefer to go to your room for a while, my dear? I’ll make your apologies to Harriet and Papa.”

She swung round quickly, “Please don’t tell them.”

“Of course not,” he assured her. “I’ll merely say you felt a little faint and went to lie down for half an hour and will rejoin them later. Would you like me to call for your maid, or your mother-in-law?”

“No!” This time there was a fierceness in her voice, and her hand on his arm was clawlike in its grip. “No—please don’t! I shall be perfectly all right. Don’t disturb anyone else. I shall go up for a little eau de cologne and then return to the withdrawing room. If you will be kind enough to call Redditch and explain to him about Mr. Pitt and the vase?”

He acquiesced with some reluctance, uncertainty still plain in his face.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” she said courteously, turning away. Danver opened the door for her, and she disappeared into the hall.

Danver rang for the butler, a mild, slightly anxious-looking man of middle age who still retained some of the bewildered innocence of extreme youth. It was an odd combination in the dignity and responsibility of his position. Pitt’s errand was explained to him, Danver excused himself, and Pitt was conducted across the hall, through the green baize door, and into the housekeeper’s sitting room, which was unoccupied at present.

“I’m not sure who was downstairs maid at the time, sir,” the butler said dubiously. “Most of the staff have changed since Mr. Robert was killed. I’m new myself; so is the housekeeper. But the scullery maid was here then. She might remember.”

“If you would?” Pitt agreed.

He was left for some twenty minutes to sit and wait, turning over his thoughts on Veronica York, until at last a pleasant-looking girl in her early twenties came in. She was wearing a blue stuff gown and a small white apron and cap. Obviously she was not the scullery maid; her looks were trim and soft and her hands were not reddened by constant water. It had been a long time since she had scrubbed a floor. The butler came with her, presumably to make sure she was discreet in her answers.

“I’m Dulcie, sir,” she said with a tiny bob. Policemen did not rank a full curtsy; they were something like servants themselves. “I was the tweeny ’ere when Mr. Robert was killed. There’s only me and Mary, the scullery maid, left. Mr. Redditch said as I could ’elp you, sir?”

It was a pity the butler remained, but Pitt should have expected that: any senior servant in his position would have.

“Yes, if you please.” Pitt took out the silver vase again and held it up for her. “Look at this carefully, Dulcie, and tell me if it is the vase that used to be in the library, up to the time of Mr. Robert York’s death.”

“Oh!” She looked startled. Apparently Redditch had been very fair and told her only that she was wanted because she had been a housemaid three years ago. Her eyes widened and fixed on the vase in Pitt’s hand. She did not touch it.

“Well, Dulcie?” Redditch prompted. “Is that the vase, girl? You must have dusted it often enough.”

“It’s very like it, sir, but I don’t think that’s it. Like I remember it, it had four sides to it. But I could be wrong.”

It was the best answer she could have given. It allowed him to pursue the subject.

“Never mind,” he said easily, smiling at her. “Just think back to what you used to do three years ago. Do you remember that week?”

“Oh yes,” she said, her voice hushed.

“Tell me something about it. Were there many visitors to the house?”

“Oh yes.” Memory brought a momentary smile to her face. “There was lots of people then.” The light vanished. “Of course, after Mr. Robert’s death all that stopped, only people coming to give their condolences.”

“Ladies calling in the afternoons?” Pitt suggested.

“Yes, most days, either on Mrs. Piers or Mrs. Robert. There was usually one of them in, and one out paying visits ’erself.”

“Dinner parties?”

“Not very often. More often they dined out, or went to the theater.”

“But some came here?”

“Of course!”

“Mr. Danver?”

“Mr. Julian Danver, and ’is father Mr. Garrard, and Miss ’arriet,” she replied quickly. “And Mr. and Mrs. Asherson.” She mentioned half a dozen more names which Pitt wrote down under the disapproving eye of the butler.

“Now see if you can recall a particular day,” he went on, “and go through your duties one by one.”

“Yes, sir.” She looked at her folded hands and recited slowly, “I got up at ’alf past five and came downstairs to clean out all the grates, taking out the cinders to the back. Mary’d give me a cup o’ tea, then I’d make sure all the ’arths was clean and things blacked as should be, and the brasses, firedogs, and the like polished, and I’d lay the fires and light them so when the family came down in the rooms’d be warm. I’d make sure the footman brought in the coals and the scuttles was full—sometimes you ’ave to be be’ind them all the time. Then after breakfast I’d start dusting and cleaning—”

“Did you clean the library?” He had to press for an identification to justify his position.

“Yes sir—sir! I remember now: that’s very like the vase we ’ad, but it in’t it!”

“You’re sure?” the butler put in sharply.

“Yes, Mr. Redditch. That in’t our vase; I’d swear to it.”

“Thank you.” Pitt could think of nothing else to ask. At least he had some names and could begin looking for a possible amateur thief. He stood up and thanked them.

Redditch relented.

“Would you like a cup of tea in the kitchen, Mr. Pitt?”

Pitt accepted immediately. He was thirsty, and he would very much like a hot cup of tea. He would also like an opportunity to observe as many of the servants as he could.

Half an hour later, after three cups of tea and two slices of Madeira cake, he went back to the main hallway and opened the library door. It was a gracious room, lined with bookshelves on two sides, the third taken up with windows from floor to ceiling curtained in rust red velvet. On the fourth side was a huge marble fireplace flanked by semicircular tables inlaid with exotic wood. There was a massive desk in oak and green leather, its back to the windows, and three large leather-covered armchairs.

Pitt stood in the middle of the floor, imagining the scene on the night Robert York was killed. He heard a slight sound behind him and turned to find the maid, Dulcie, in the doorway. As soon as he saw her she came in. Her brow was puckered and her eyes bright.

“There was something else?” he asked quickly, sure he was right.

“Yes sir. You asked about guests, people callin’ ’ere ...”

“Yes?”

“Well, that week was the last time I saw ’er, or anything belonging to ’er.” She stopped, biting her lip, suddenly uncertain whether she should be so indiscreet.

“Saw who, Dulcie?” He must be gentle, not attach too much importance to it and frighten her. “Saw who?”

“I don’t know ’er name. The woman what wore the cerise-colored gowns, always something o’ that shade. She weren’t a guest—at least, she never came in the front door with other people, and I never saw ’er face except that one time in the light from the gas lamp on the landing; there she was one moment, and gone a second later. But she wore cerise always, either a gown or gloves or a flower or something. I know Miss Veronica’s things, and she ’adn’t nothing that color. But I found a glove one day in the library, ’alf under one of them cushions.” She pointed to the furthest chair. “And once there was a piece o’ ribbon.”

“Are you sure they weren’t the elder Mrs. York’s?”

“Oh yes, sir. I knew the lady’s maids then, and we talked about the mistresses’ clothes. It’s a hard color, that; I know as neither of them wore it. It was the woman in cerise, sir, but ’oo she was I swear I don’t know. ’Cept she came and went like a shadow, like no one should see ’er, and I ’aven’t seen ’er since that week, sir. I’m sorry as it weren’t the right vase, sir. I wish as you could catch ’ooever done it. It in’t the silver: Mr. Piers says as you can always get money from the insurance, like ’e did when Mrs. Loretta lost ’er pearls with the sapphire clip.” She bit her lip and suddenly stopped.

“Thank you, Dulcie.” Pitt looked at her worried face. “You did the right thing to tell me. I shan’t repeat it to Mr. Redditch unless I have to. Now show me to the door, and no one will notice your being here.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir. I . . .” She hesitated a moment, as if she would say more, then changed her mind and bobbed a brief curtsy before leading him out across the large hall and opening the front door.

A moment later he was outside in the silent close, ice crackling under his boots. Who was this woman in cerise, who apparently had never called again after Robert York’s murder, and why had no one else spoken of her?

Perhaps she did not matter; she might be a friend of Veronica’s, a relative with eccentric or unacceptable behavior. Or she might be just what the Foreign Office was concealing and hoping he could not trace—a spy. He would have to speak to Dulcie again, when he knew a little more.