Silence in Hanover Close

6

FOR ONCE CHARLOTTE managed to contain both her astonishment and her anxiety when she heard from Jack Radley about Emily’s extraordinary decision to disguise herself and go to the Yorks in service. Fortunately Jack had called early in the afternoon, so she had had plenty of time to recover her composure by the time Pitt returned home a little after six. Consequently he knew nothing about it and assumed in contented ignorance that Emily was sitting at home, where all Society and Pitt himself expected her to be.

He was deeply distressed over the death of the maid, Dulcie, not only because he had liked her but because he felt guilty. It was unreasonable, and he told himself so. She might very well have fallen out of her window accidentally and the whole matter was merely one of the numerous domestic tragedies that happen every year; but he could not seem to shake the fear that had she not told him about the strange woman in the house and the missing jewels, and had he not been careless enough to listen to her with the library door open, then she would still be alive.

At first he did not mention her death to Ballarat, sure that he would dismiss it as the Yorks’ misfortune and no business of Pitt’s. And he did not want to run the risk that Ballarat would actually forbid him to look into it.

But as he thought more and more about the woman in cerise, Pitt became convinced he must pursue her identity before he could give any answer to the Foreign Office regarding Veronica York’s reputation, and her suitability to marry a rising diplomat, his determination to keep quiet weakened.

When Ballarat sent for him two days later he was caught mentally on the wrong foot.

“Well, Pitt, you don’t seem to have accomplished much in the York case,” Ballarat began critically. He was standing by the fire, warming the backs of his legs. A malodorous cigar burned in the stone ashtray on his desk. There was a small bronze lion beside it, rampant, one paw in the air.

Pretentious ass! Pitt thought angrily. “I was doing quite well until my principal witness was killed!” he said aloud, and instantly knew he had been unwise.

Ballarat’s face darkened, the blood ruddying his cheeks. He rocked backwards and forwards on his feet very slightly, his hands behind his back. He blocked most of the heat from the rest of the room; with wet boots and trouser legs, Pitt would have welcomed the warmth.

“Witness to what, for heaven’s sake?” Ballarat demanded irritably. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve uncovered some scandal about the Yorks after all, and the man who might have betrayed them has died?”

“No I’m not!” Pitt retorted. “I’m talking about murder. It’s none of the police’s business if they all had lovers; that’s their own affair. But Robert York’s death was murder, and that was our responsibility to clear up, and we haven’t yet.”

“For heaven’s sake, man!” Ballarat interrupted him. “That was three years ago, and we did our best. Some thief broke in and poor York caught him in the act. The wretch will have disappeared into the slums he came from. He might even be dead himself by now. Your trouble is you’re not man enough to admit failure even when it’s obvious to everyone else.” He glared at Pitt, daring him to argue.

Pitt rose to the bait. “And if it was an inside job?” he said rashly. “A friend turned amateur thief, or someone in the house who was in debt and stealing. It wouldn’t be the first time. Or what if Veronica York had a lover, and it was he who murdered her husband? Do you want to know about that, or, assuming it was Julian Danver, would the Foreign Office rather we covered it up?”

A series of expressions chased over Ballarat’s face, first sheer horror, then anger and confusion, then fear, as he understood the full implications of the last possibility. He would be caught between two masters; the Foreign Office, who had ordered the inquiry, and the Home Office, who were in charge of the police and justice. Either one could easily ruin his career. He was furious with Pitt as the instigator of such a dilemma.

Pitt saw this as quickly as Ballarat and took a distinct and deep satisfaction from it, even as he realized that Ballarat would make him the butt of his otherwise impotent anger.

“Damn you, Pitt! You incompetent, interfering . . .” He searched for an adequate word, and failing to find it, began again. “You idiot! That’s a—a totally irresponsible suggestion, and the Yorks, not to mention the Danvers, will sue you for slander if you whisper one word of it to anyone!”

“Shall we decline the case?” Pitt asked sarcastically.

“Don’t be insolent!” Ballarat shouted. Then his duty towards the Home Office, who were, after all, his employers, reasserted itself. Ballarat controlled his temper with an effort. “What conceivable grounds have you for making such an appalling suggestion?”

This time Pitt was less prepared, and Ballarat saw the second of hesitation with victory in his eyes. His body relaxed slightly, becoming more jaunty, and he resumed rocking on the soles of his feet. Still he blocked the fire, glancing down at Pitt’s wet legs with satisfaction.

Pitt tried to organize his thoughts. His reply must be unassailable. “No fence in London has handled or seen any of the goods,” he began. “No thief in the area has heard of them or knows of any strangers working the patch, no one has seen anyone hiding up or running from a murder.” He saw Ballarat’s face hover between belief and disbelief. He was a climber, a currier of favor, and it was a long time since he had been personally involved in the investigation of a crime. But he was neither ignorant nor stupid, and although he profoundly disliked Pitt, deploring his manners and his social judgments, he respected his professional skill.

“The thief knew where to find a first edition among the other books in the library and yet has apparently not disposed of it, and he left all the silver in the dining room,” Pitt went on. “I’ve started looking in their social circle for anyone with debts.” He noticed Ballarat’s alarm with satisfaction. “Discreetly. And I’ve got someone inquiring into York’s own affairs,” he added spitefully. “But the curious circumstance I was investigating was the appearance in the small hours of the morning of a glamorous and furtive woman in a cerise gown—twice at least in the York house, prior to Robert York’s death, and also in the Danver house, again in the small hours of the morning, and again wearing a startling shade of cerise and apparently not wishing to be seen. The maid who described her at the Yorks fell out of a window to her death the day after she spoke to me.”

Ballarat stopped rocking and remained motionless, his round little eyes on Pitt’s face. “Veronica York?” he said slowly. “Wouldn’t this maid have recognized her?”

“I would have thought so,” Pitt agreed. “She was the lady’s maid. But people see what they expect to see, and it was only for a moment in the gaslight, and the woman was dressed entirely differently. From the slight description it could have easily been Veronica; same height and build, same coloring.”

“Damnation!” Ballarat swore furiously. “I suppose it couldn’t have been Robert York’s mistress, and Mrs. York knew nothing about her?”

“Possibly. But what was she doing in the Danver house?”

“Obvious—Danver’s sister!”

“She’s a loose woman?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Who goes in for married diplomats, first Robert York, now Felix Asherson?”

Ballarat scowled. “What about Felix Asherson? What has he to do with it?”

Pitt sighed. “Harriet Danver is in love with him. Don’t ask me how I know; I do. And I think it’s pretty unlikely she was the woman in cerise, but if she was, then the Foreign Office should know.”

“Damn it, Pitt! It could be this woman in cerise is just some daft relative who likes to dress up and creep about. Lots of families have their embarrassments; a damn nuisance, but no actual harm.”

“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “She may be just gently mad. Or she may be an expensive harlot who entertained Robert York, or conceivably his father”—he saw Ballarat’s face darken but he did not stop—“or Julian Danver, or Garrard Danver. And maybe Dulcie Mabbutt fell out of the window in a curiously timed domestic accident.” He held Ballarat’s eyes. “Or maybe the woman in cerise was a procurer or carrier of treason, a blackmailer or a lover, and she was working on Robert York before she either murdered him herself, or some of her colleagues did.”

“Good God—are you saying young Danver was her master?” Ballarat exploded.

“No.” For once Pitt could deny it honestly. “I don’t see why he should need to be. Isn’t he in the Foreign Office as well?”

“Another traitor?” Ballarat’s jaw set. His cigar was crumbling away to little rings of ash unnoticed.

“Maybe?”

“All right! All right!” Ballarat’s voice rose. “Find out who she was! The security of the empire may be involved. But if you want to keep your job, Pitt, be discreet. If you’re clumsy I can’t and won’t protect you. Do you understand me clearly?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Pitt said with open sarcasm. It was the first time he had called Ballarat sir in years; he had always managed to evade it without being downright rude.

“My pleasure, Pitt,” Ballarat replied, showing his teeth. “My pleasure!”

Pitt left the Bow Street station and stepped out into a pea soup fog feeling savage and determined. There was always Charlotte, and he would certainly rely upon her judgment as much as possible. He had to admit now that he was glad she had been able to connive an invitation to the Yorks’ and the Danvers’. At least she might give him an informed opinion of Veronica York’s character, and whether she had been devastated by her husband’s death or freed by it to marry Julian Danver. If the latter were true, then the woman had remarkable control to have waited a full three years and behaved throughout with such apparent decorum. Or had Julian insisted upon that, in order to keep his career? All the same, it was remarkable if there had been no indiscretion, no self-indulgence in all that time. Especially if Veronica had been the woman who dressed dramatically in cerise for her assignations.

Or perhaps she still did, and that had made waiting bearable for her.

The fog in the Strand was so thick he could not see across to the opposite pavement. It hung, thick and yellow-gray, full of the fumes from thousands of smoking chimneys, as the film suspended in the dampness rose up from the wide coils of the river that laced through the suburbs, past Chelsea, the Houses of Parliament, the Embankment, Wapping, and Limehouse, down to the Pool of London, Greenwich, and the Arsenal, and finally the estuary.

If Cerise, whoever she was, had dressed as glamorously as Dulcie said, then she had not done it merely to flit around landings in the middle of the night. She had gone out somewhere in public. It was a disguise, an alter ego for some woman who would be known in Society; or else she was a courtesan with whom neither the Yorks nor the Danvers would be seen by their own friends. So where would she have been able to meet her lovers?

He stood on the curb as carriages, hansoms, and carts clopped by him slowly in the yellow mist, looming suddenly and disappearing, swallowed up, the horses only dark shapes and muffled sounds. The road was slimy and more spattered with dung than usual. This was the sort of weather when crossing sweepers got knocked over, sometimes even killed. There was a one-legged sweeper in Piccadilly who had lost his limb that way.

Pitt knew there were hotels, restaurants, and theaters where such assignations could be kept, places where if a gentleman saw an acquaintance both men would have enough tact to overlook the meeting, neither wishing it referred to. These places were dotted round the borders of fashionable London, in the Haymarket, Leicester Square, Piccadilly. He knew where to find them and the touts and doormen to ask.

“Cabbie!” he shouted into the street, catching his breath as the fog threatened to choke him, making him cough. “Cabbie!”

A hansom slowed up and stopped, harness dripping, horse’s head down, driver’s voice disembodied in the gloom.

“Haymarket,” Pitt requested, and climbed in.

It was the following day, the fog still clamped heavily over the city, acrid in the throat, sharp to the nose, before he found his first success. He was in a private hotel a little off Jermyn Street near Piccadilly. The doorman was a richly mustached ex-soldier, with liberal ideas on morality and an injury from the Second Ashanti War which prevented him from doing any physical labor. He was also illiterate, which precluded any clerical work. He was quite amenable to answering Pitt’s questions, for a consideration. Ballarat had been very little help with information or influence, but he had given Pitt as much financial license as he could.

“You’re goin’ back a bit, guv,” the doorman said cheerfully. “But sure I remember ’er. Right ’andsome she was, an’ always wore them sort o’ colors. Looks wicked on most people, but suited ’er summink marvelous. Black ’air and dark eyes she ’ad, an’ graceful as a swan. Tall woman, not a lot o’ shape to ’er, but she ’ad summink special all the same.”

“What sort of something?” Pitt said curiously. He wanted to know what this man thought, his judgment; even with his limited vocabulary, his opinion would be worth a great deal. He knew street women, he watched them every night, and he saw their clients too. He would see them working and yet not be part of it. Few of them would fool him.

The man pulled a slight face as he considered. “Quality,” he said at last. “She ’ad a quality about ’er; never acted like she was ’ustling people, anxious like; it was always them as was after ’er; she didn’t give a cuss.” He shook his head. “It were more’n that, though. It were—it were like she were doin’ it fer fun. Yeah, that’s it—she ’ad fun! She never laughed, not out loud, she ’ad too much class for that. But she were laughing inside, like.”

“Did you ever talk to her?” Pitt pursued.

“Me?” He looked a little surprised. “No, I never did. She didn’t say a lot, and always spoke quiet like. Only saw ’er, oh, maybe ’alf a dozen times.”

“Can you remember who she was with?”

“Different blokes. Elegant—she liked ’em real elegant, didn’t like any scruff. And money o’ course, but then so do they all. No one without a bit o’ real money comes ’ere.” He gave a short laugh.

“Can you describe any of them?”

“Not so’s you’d know ’em again, no.” He smiled.

“Try a little,” Pitt pressed him.

“You couldn’t pay me that much, guv. You goin’ ter give me another job when they throw me out of ’ere an’ black me name?”

Pitt sighed. He had known before he started that describing the woman was very different from being indiscreet about her clients. Clients had money, position, they expected privacy and no doubt bought it for a generous price. Selling the secrets of one would lose the trust of all. “All right,” he conceded. “Be general. Old or young, dark, fair or gray, what sort of height and build?”

“Yer goin’ ter search all London, guv?”

“I can eliminate a few.”

The doorman shrugged. “If yer like. Well, those as I can recall was older, above forty. Don’t think she took ’em fer the money; dunno why, but I ’ad the feelin’ she could afford ter pick and choose.”

“Gray?”

“None I recalls. An’ none ’efty—all on the slim side.” He moved closer to Pitt. “Look, guv, for all I know it could ’ave bin the same gent. It don’t pay me ter peer into their faces! They comes ’ere discreet—that’s what they pays for! Like I said, she could afford ter pick. I always ’ad the feelin’ she was doin’ it fer fun.”

“Did she always wear that color?”

“Shades of it, yeah; it was like—’er trademark. Why you so keen ter know about ’er anyway? She ain’t bin ’ere in, oh, two or three years.”

“Which? Two, or three?”

“Well if yer want it that precise, guv, three, I reckon.”

“And you’ve not seen or heard of her since then?”

“Come ter think of it, no I ’aven’t.” His faced relaxed into a grin. “Maybe she married well. Sometimes they do. Maybe she’s a duchess sitting in some grand ’ouse by now, ordering around the likes o’ you an’ me.”

Pitt pulled a face. The chance was slight at best, and they both knew it; it was far more likely she had lost her looks by disease, or assault, in a fight with another prostitute or a pimp who felt he had been cheated, a lover whose demands had become too perverted or possessive; or that she had simply moved downmarket from a hotel such as this to a simple brothel. He did not mention the possibility of treason or murder; that would complicate the question unnecessarily.

The doorman looked at him closely. “Why you after ’er, guv? She puttin’ the black on someone?”

“It’s a possibility,” Pitt conceded. “It’s a definite possibility.” He took out one of his new cards and gave it to the man. “If you see her again, tell me. Bow Street Police Station. Just say you’ve seen Cerise again.”

“That ’er name? What’s it worth?”

“It’ll do. And it’s worth my goodwill—which, believe me, is a lot better than my ill will.”

“You wouldn’t pick on me, just ’cause I ain’t seen someone! I can’t see ’er if she in’t ’ere! An’ you wouldn’t want lies, now, would yer?”

Pitt did not bother to answer. “What theaters and music halls do your clients patronize?”

“Geez!”

Pitt waited.

The man bit his lip. “Well, if ye’re after ’er yer call Cerise, I ’eard she bin ter the Lyceum, an’ I suppose she tried the ’alls, although don’t ask me which ones ’cause I dunno.”

Pitt’s eyebrows rose. “The Lyceum? A lady of courage to ply her trade there.”

“I told yer, she ’ad class.”

“Yes you did. Thank you.”

The man tipped his hat a little sarcastically. “Thank you, guv!”

Pitt left him and went out into the street again. The fog wrapped round him again like a cold muslin, damp and clinging to the skin.

So Cerise had both courage and style. She was certainly not Veronica York on a mere affair with Julian Danver! If it was Veronica, then she led a secret life of the sort to scandalize the Foreign Office to the core of its collective soul. For a diplomat to have a wife who was a practicing prostitute, of whatever price or degree of discrimination, was impossible. He would be dismissed instantly, and ruined.

Neither was she Harriet Danver pursuing her affair with Felix Asherson, although he had never actually thought that. Charlotte had said Harriet was in love; as yet he had no knowledge of whether Asherson returned her feelings. But either way, that answer offered no explanation as to why Cerise should be in the York house.

No, it seemed she was what he had first thought, a woman who used her beauty and unusual quality of allure to trap and then blackmail her Foreign Office lovers for the secrets of their work. Robert York had refused, either immediately or after some time, and as a result either she herself or perhaps her accomplices had had to murder him to avoid betrayal.

It was getting dark and the fog was beginning to freeze, the air filling with tiny pellets of ice, which sent shivers through him as they crept into the folds of his muffler and touched his skin. He began to walk briskly north into Regent Street, then turned left towards Oxford Circus. There were other people he could ask: upmarket prostitutes who would know the competition and be able to tell him more about Cerise, where she plied her trade, what clients she chose, whether she only picked men who were of use to her, and whether she was a real threat to the others by taking general business.

An hour later, after some persuasive argument and the exchange of more money, he sat in an overheated, overfurnished little room off New Bond Street. The woman in the pink chair opposite him was well past her prime, her bosom overflowing from the strict corsets and loose flesh visible under her chin had lost its elasticity, but she was still handsomer than most women ever are. There was an ease about her, from years of being desired, but the bright bitterness in her eyes reflected the underlying knowledge that she had not been loved. She picked at some candied fruit in a pink tissue-lined box. “Well?” she said guardedly. “What do you want, luv? It isn’t my style to tell tales.”

“I don’t want tales.” Pitt did not waste his time or insult her with flattery they both knew he did not mean. “I want a woman who almost certainly tried putting on the black. That’s bad for your trade; you don’t need that sort.”

She pulled a face and ate another piece of fruit, nibbling all round the edges before putting the center whole into her mouth. Had her walk of life been different, led to different dress, less paint on her skin, the hardness of survival out of her eyes and the small lines now clearly formed round the corners of her lips, she might have been one of her generation’s great beauties. The thought passed through Pitt’s mind with irony and sadness as he watched her eat.

“Go on,” she prompted. “I don’t need telling my business. If I wasn’t the best you wouldn’t be ’ere asking me favors. I don’t need your money. I earn more in a day than you do in a month.”

Pitt did not bother to remark that her risks were higher and her time short. She knew it.

“A woman who always wore a shade of cerise, dark or light, anything from plum to magenta, always something that color. She was tall and slender, not much flesh on her, but loads of style, dark eyes and black hair. Have you ever seen her, or heard your girls mention her?”

“Doesn’t sound like she’d ’ave much to offer. Thin, black ’air?”

“Oh, she had something,” Pitt said with certainty, and in spite of himself Veronica York’s face with its high cheekbones and haunting eyes came back to his mind. Could she have been Cerise, and have killed Robert when he discovered that? He looked at the lush, feminine woman in the pink chair opposite him, with her glowing, almost Titian hair and her apple-blossom skin. “She had fire, and style,” he finished.

The woman’s eyes opened wide. “Know ’er well, did yer?”

Pitt smiled. “I never met her. I’m going on the impression she made on others.”

She gave a little laugh, part derision and part genuine humor. “Well, if she put the black on people she was a fool! That’s a sure way ter kill business. In the long run it’s suicide. I don’t know anything about ’er. Sorry luv.”

Pitt did not know if he was pleased or disappointed. He had to find Cerise, and yet he did not want her to be Veronica York.

“Are you sure?” he said automatically. “It may be three years back.”

“Three years! Well, why didn’t yer say so?” She reached for another piece of fruit and bit into it. She had beautiful teeth, white and even. “I thought yer meant now! There was one like that about three or four years ago. Terrible color she wore, but she could carry it. Black ’air an’ eyes, thin as a washboard, need pounds of ’orse ’air to pad ’er out. But she ’ad fire, the sort that comes from inside; yer can’t get it out of a pot or in a glass. All the champagne in London wouldn’t give it yer. Lit up like she enjoyed ’erself every minute, like she was ’avin’ the time of ’er life, on the edge o’ danger and loved it. Mind, she were a real beauty, none o’ yer powder an’ paint jobs. Bones to break yer ’eart, she ’ad.”

Pitt felt suddenly suffocated in this overstuffed room, and at the same time there was a coldness inside him. “Tell me more about her,” he said quietly. “How often did you see or hear of her; where, who with, and have you any idea what happened to her?”

The woman hesitated, her eyes wary.

“I’ll be very unpleasant if I have to,” Pitt said levelly. “It’s murder. I’ll turn over this entire place and make such a fuss none of your clients will dare come back.”

“All right!” she snapped angrily. But there was no outrage in her; that required the element of surprise, and she had known the dangers too long and felt them too often for that. “All right! I an’t seen or ’eard of ’er in three years, an’ only a few times before that. She weren’t reg’lar. In fact, for what it’s worth it’s my opinion she weren’t professional anyway; that’s why I never took no trouble to find out more about ’er. She weren’t no rival. She didn’t take gen’ral trade; just paraded around, showed off, and picked up one or two. All in all she were good fer us, ’cause she drew attention, stirred up appetites, and then left. More for us.”

“Did you see her with anyone you can remember? It’s important.”

She considered for several minutes and Pitt did not hurry her.

“Seen ’er once with a real elegant gent, good-looker. One of the other girls said she’d seen ’er with ’im before, because she’d tried to pick ’im up ’erself, but ’e ‘ad eyes for Cerise and no one else.”

“Did you ever learn her name?”

“No.”

“Anything about her?”

“No, ’cept what I told yer.”

“All right, you know the world, and the business. What’s your best guess? What sort of woman was she, and what happened to her?”

The woman laughed abruptly, then the bitterness softened into pity, for herself and all those who shared her lot, even peripherally. “I dunno,” she said. “Could be dead, for all I know, or more like come down in the world. Life in this business can be short. ’Ow the hell do I know what ’appened to ’er, poor bitch?”

“She was different, you said that; so did the others who saw her. What’s your best guess as to where she came from? Come on, Alice, I need to know, and you’ve the best chance of being right.”

She sighed. “My guess is she was Quality out slumming it, God knows why. Maybe she was just bent that way. Some is. Although why any woman that’s got a roof over ’er ’ead and food for the rest of ’er life should want ter risk it is beyond me. Still, I reckon insanity can ’it the Quality like the rest of us. Now that’s all, I in’t got nothing else to add to it. You ’ad your time; I got things to do. I bin more’n fair— an I ’ope you’ll remember that.”

Pitt stood up. “I will,” he promised. “As far as I know, you keep a lodging house. Good day.”

He spent two more days going from one place to another in the haunts of the demimonde, the theaters and restaurants where such women plied their trade, and he heard occasional mention of Cerise or someone who might have been her or might not, but he learned nothing that added to what he already knew. No one remembered who she had been with, whether it was several men or only a few, although it was certainly more than one in every account. No one knew her name nor where she came from. She was tolerated because she came very seldom and robbed them of little business. It was a hard world and they expected competition. If a man preferred one woman to another there was nothing to be done about it except in extreme cases; usually it was better to take defeat gracefully. Scenes embarrassed the clientele.

Whether any of the men with her had been Robert York it was impossible to say. She frequented places where he was likely to have been, but then so had half London Society, at least among the men. The descriptions of her companions were general enough to have fit him, or Julian Danver, or Garrard Danver, or even Felix Asherson—or just about anyone else with elegance and money.

In the early evening of the second day, a little after six, as the fog cleared at last, leaving only a few dark pockets, Pitt took a cab to Hanover Close, this time not to the York house but further along, to where Felix Asherson lived. Pitt had chosen to see him at home in order to form a more complete impression of the man, to make some judgment as to his circumstances and possibly his character. Away from the formal and rather intimidating atmosphere of the Foreign Office he might be more inclined to relax his caution. In his own home he would feel safer and could be certain none of his colleagues would interrupt, perhaps suspecting him of indiscreet disclosures to the police. Also, inside the house Pitt might form a more precise picture of his financial situation. There was still the possibility that Robert York had surprised a friend burgling his house and his recognition had sparked a murder. Pitt had not forgotten that possibility.

He knocked on the front door and waited till a footman came.

“Yes, sir?” There was no expression in the polite inquiry.

Pitt produced one of his cards.

“Thomas Pitt. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with Mr. Asherson, if he is free. It concerns one of his colleagues at the Foreign Office.” That was literally true, if not true in its implication.

“Yes, sir. Will you come in, sir, and I will inform Mr. Asherson you are here.” He looked at Pitt dubiously. His boots were not Emily’s new ones; those were too good for all the walking he had been doing lately, and he did not want to wear them out. His jacket was serviceable but no more; only his hat was of quality. He was not library material; the morning room was good enough for him. “If you will come this way, sir?”

The fire had died to a few embers but the room was still warm, at least compared with the cab Pitt had just taken. He found the room pleasant enough, modest compared with the Yorks’, but agreeably furnished, and with at least one good picture on the wall. If Asherson were short of money he could have sold it for enough to keep a housemaid for several years. So much for debt.

The door opened and Asherson came in, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. It was a handsome face, but too volatile. There was something uncertain about it. Pitt would not want to rely on this man in a crisis.

“Good evening, Mr. Asherson,” he said pleasantly. “Sorry to disturb you at home, but the matter is delicate, so I thought it would be more private here than at the Foreign Office.”

“Oh damn!” Asherson pushed the door closed behind him. “Are you still ferreting around after poor old York’s killer? I told you before I didn’t know anything remotely useful. I still don’t.”

“I’m sure you aren’t aware of knowing anything,” Pitt agreed.

“And what do you mean by that?” Asherson was plainly annoyed. “I wasn’t there that night, and nobody’s told me anything.”

“I know a great deal more than when I first spoke to you, sir,” Pitt said, watching Asherson’s face. The gas lamps threw shadows in the room, exaggerating his expression as a yellow gleam highlighted the planes of his cheeks and nose and created darkness where sunlight would have eliminated it. “There was a woman who seems to have had a role in it.”

Asherson’s eyes widened. “In York’s death? You don’t mean it was a woman burglar? I didn’t know there were such things.” There was nothing but surprise in his face.

“The burglary may be incidental, Mr. Asherson. Possibly even the murder was too. Perhaps the only thing that really mattered was the treason.”

Asherson stood absolutely motionless; not a muscle moved in his face or his body. It was an unnatural stillness, a silence that hung too long. Pitt could hear the hiss of the gas in the lamps on the wall and a slight sound as the coals settled in the hearth.

“Treason?” Asherson said at last.

Pitt did not know how far he dared stretch the truth. He decided to evade an answer. “What was Robert York working on before he was killed?” he asked.

Again Asherson hesitated. If he said he did not know, Pitt would have to believe him.

“Africa,” he answered finally. “The, er . . .” He bit bis lower lip gently. “The partition of Africa between Germany and Britain. Or perhaps it would be more fortunate to phrase it as the division of spheres of influence.”

Pitt smiled. “I take the point. Is it confidential? Secret?”

“Very!” There was a shadow of humor in his alarm, perhaps at Pitt’s ignorance. “Good God, if all the terms of a treaty we’d accept were known to the Germans in advance, it would ruin our bargaining position, but far, far worse than that would be the impression it would make on the rest of the world, particularly France. If the French were to make our deliberations public, the rest of Europe would prevent us from making the agreement at all.”

“Three years ago,” Pitt reaffirmed, watching his face.

“Oh yes, it’s not a hasty negotiation; it’s not all over in a few months, you know.”

There had been hesitation in his face, a shadow of doubt— or cunning? There was a lie in it somewhere, a deceit by implication if not in actual words.

Pitt took a guess, but he made it a statement rather than a question, as if he already knew. “And some of this information has leaked through. Your negotiations have not been without difficulty.”

“Yes,” Asherson said slowly. “Only odd pieces—they could even be educated guesses. They’re not fools.”

Pitt knew what Asherson was doing: he was building escape routes—but for whom? Robert York was dead. Was Asherson using him as a decoy for someone who was still alive? Himself? Cerise? Veronica? One of the Danvers?

“When was the last instance in which this information might have been stolen and passed to the Germans?” Pitt asked. “I presume we can be certain it was not given to the French?”

“Oh . . .” Asherson was confused. “Yes, it certainly wasn’t given to the French, but the Germans, I don’t know. It isn’t possible to say. Information like that may not be used for some time after it is received.”

That was true, but Pitt believed it was also an evasion. Was Asherson just naturally reluctant to trust anyone outside his own office, or was he still protecting someone?

Pitt tried approaching it from another direction. “It hasn’t seriously impeded your negotiations?”

“No,” Asherson agreed quickly. “As I said, it could even be the natural ability of the Germans. It isn’t the French, that is certain.”

“Then it’s hardly worth murdering over.”

“What?”

“Not worth murdering to hide,” Pitt repeated carefully.

Asherson said nothing. His lips tightened and he stared back across the lamplit room. Pitt waited.

“No,” Asherson said at last. “I think you must be mistaken. It was a burglary that went wrong.”

Pitt shook his head. “No, Mr. Asherson, that is one thing it was not. If it wasn’t treason then it was murder, personal and intentional, by someone who knew Robert York.”

Again Asherson waited, men his face eased. Pitt could spot the exact moment the idea came to him. “You mean York was robbed by someone he knew, some acquaintance who had been to the house and knew where to look for valuables?”

“No. All they took amounted to barely a hundred pounds at best, less by the time it would have been fenced—which it wasn’t.”

“Fenced?”

“Resold to a receiver of stolen goods.”

“Wasn’t it?” he said carefully. “Can you know that?”

“Yes, Mr. Asherson.”

“Oh.” Asherson looked down at the floor, his face heavy with concentration. The gaslight caught the curious gray of his eyes and the black lashes.

Again Pitt stood motionless, allowing the silence to settle. Somewhere out in the hall a servant’s feet made a brisk sound on the parquet floor; the sound died away again along the passage as a door thudded.

At last Asherson reached his decision. He faced Pitt.

“Other information has gone missing,” he said very quietly. “More important information. But none of it has ever been acted on by our enemies, as far as we can tell. God knows why not.”

Pitt was not surprised, but it gave him no satisfaction. He had still hoped he was wrong, that some other explanation would present itself. Was this the whole truth yet, or only part of it? He looked at Asherson’s grim, unhappy expression and believed at least this much was honest, as far as it went.

“And would you know?” he asked.

“Yes.” This time Asherson did not hesitate. “Yes. Papers that have been temporarily missing, a copy replaced instead of the original. Don’t ask me for anything more; I can’t tell you.”

“No doubt they’ll use it when they’re ready,” Pitt said, flatly. “Perhaps if they used it now you’d know their source, and they’re protecting him as long as he’s useful.”

Asherson sank down onto the arm of one of the chairs, sitting awkwardly. “This is awful. I had hoped it was simply Robert’s carelessness, but if he really was murdered over it, then that doesn’t seem reasonable. God, what a tragedy!”

“And none of it has gone since his death?”

Asherson shook his head.

“Have you seen a beautiful woman, tall and slim with dark hair, wearing an unusual shade of cerise?”

Asherson looked at him incredulously. “What?”

“A sort of hot bluish pink, like magenta or cyclamen.”

“I know what color cerise is, you fool!” He shut his eyes suddenly. “Damn it! I’m sorry. No, I haven’t seen her. What the hell does that have to do with it?”

“It seems likely it was this woman who lured York into betrayal of his country,” Pitt replied. “He may have been having an affair with her.”

Asherson looked surprised. “Robert? I never saw him take the slightest notice of any woman but Veronica. He—he just wasn’t a womanizer. He was very discriminating, a quiet sort of man with excellent taste. And Veronica adored him.”

“It seems he was two men,” Pitt said sadly. He would not tell Asherson that it could have been Veronica herself in cerise. If Asherson had not thought of it, it would not help. And just in case Asherson himself were the traitor, no need to warn him of Pitt’s closeness.

“Well, he’s dead now.” Asherson stood up. “Let the poor devil rest in peace. You won’t find your mysterious woman in Hanover Close. I’m sorry I can’t help.”

“You have helped, Mr. Asherson.” Pitt said smiling bleakly. “Thank you for your frankness, sir. Good evening.”

Asherson did not reply, but stepped back so Pitt could pass him and go out of the door. In the hall a footman appeared from the shadows and showed him to the step and the dark street beyond.

Outside in the Close the last fog had blown away in the north wind, bitter as the Pole, and the stars were glittering in a sky barely marred by an occasional smear of smoke. Ice crackled underfoot in the frozen puddles and gutters. Pitt stepped out briskly; in a tidier man it could almost have been called a march.

He climbed the immaculate porch steps of number two and pulled the brass bell. When the footman opened the door he knew precisely what he was going to say, and to whom.

“Good evening. May I see Mr. York please? I require his permission to speak to his staff about one of them who may have had knowledge of a crime. It is most urgent.”

“Er, yes sir. I ’spect you may.” The youth looked taken aback. “You’d better come in. Library fire’s lit, sir; you can wait in there.”

It was a few minutes until Piers York came in, his benign, slightly quizzical face marked with an unusual frown. “What is it this time, Pitt? Not the damn silver again, surely?”

“No sir.” He stopped, hoping York would not press the point. But he stood staring at Pitt, his eyebrows raised, his eyes small and gray and intelligent. There was no avoiding an answer.

“Treason and murder, sir.”

“Balderdash!” York said smartly. “I doubt the servants even know what treason is, and they never leave this house except on their half days off, which are only twice a month.” His eyebrows rose even higher. “Or are you suggesting this treason took place here?”

Pitt knew he was on very dangerous ground. All Ballarat’s warnings jangled in his ears.

“No sir, I think an agent of treason may have visited your house, unknown to you. Your maid Dulcie Mabbutt saw her; others may have.”

“Saw her?” York’s eyebrows shot up. “Good God! You mean a woman? Well, Dulcie can’t help you, poor child. She fell out of one of the upstairs windows and died. I’m sorry.” His face was pinched and sad. Pitt found it impossible to believe he was not genuinely grieved. Probably he knew nothing about any of it—Cerise, or Robert’s or Dulcie’s death. He was a banker; he alone of the men in the case had nothing to do with the Foreign Office, and Pitt could not imagine a spy wasting her energies on this wry, rather charming man well into his sixties. And he had too much innate humor to harbor the vanity necessary to be so ridiculous.

“I know Dulcie is dead,” Pitt agreed. “But she may have confided to the other maids. Women do talk to each other.”

“Where and when did Dulcie see this woman of yours?”

“Upstairs on the landing,” Pitt replied. “In the middle of the night.”

“Good heavens! What on earth was Dulcie doing out of her own room in the middle of the night? Are you sure she wasn’t dreaming?”

“This woman’s been seen elsewhere, sir, and Dulcie’s description was very good.”

“Well, go on, man!”

“Tall and slender, with dark hair, very beautiful, and wearing a gown of a startling shade of fuchsia or cerise.”

“Well, I certainly haven’t seen her.”

“May I speak to some of your girls who might have been friendly with Dulcie, and then perhaps to the younger Mrs. York? I believe Dulcie was her maid.”

“I suppose so—if it’s necessary.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He spoke to the upstairs maid, the downstairs maid, the laundry maid, the other lady’s maid, the kitchen maid, the scullery maid, and finally the tweeny, but it seemed Dulcie had been remarkably discreet and had kept total confidence on all that she saw of her mistress’s household. He wished she had been less honorable, and yet there was a kind of bitter satisfaction in it. Virtue of any sort kept its sweetness whatever surrounded it. He saved the questions about Dulcie’s death for Veronica. If she was innocent it was cruel, but he could not afford kindness now.

Her mother-in-law was out, the first stroke of good fortune Pitt had had in some time, and Veronica received him in the boudoir.

“I don’t know how I can help you, Mr. Pitt,” she said gravely. She was dressed in deep forest green, which heightened her slightly ethereal quality. She was pale, her eyes shadowed as if she had slept badly, and she remained standing some distance from him, not facing him but staring at a gold-framed seascape on the wall. “I see no purpose in going over and over the tragedies of the past. Nothing will bring my husband back, and we don’t care about the silver or the book. We would much prefer not to be constantly reminded of it.”

He hated what he was doing, but he knew of no other way. If he had pressed harder and been cleverer, if he had solved it the first time, Dulcie would still be alive.

“I’m here about Dulcie Mabbutt, Mrs. York.”

She turned quickly. “Dulcie?”

“Yes. While she was in this house she saw something of great importance. How did she die, Mrs. York?”

Her gaze did not waver, and she was so pale anyway he could detect no change in her aside from the distress he would have seen in almost anyone. “She leaned too far out of a window and lost her balance,” she replied.

“Did you see it happen?”

“No—it was in the evening, after dark. Perhaps in the daylight—perhaps she would have seen what she was doing and it would not have happened.”

“Why should she lean so far out of a window?”

“I don’t know! Maybe she saw something, someone.”

“In the dark?”

She bit her lip. “Perhaps she dropped something.”

Pitt did not pursue it; the unlikeliness was obvious enough. “Who was in the house that evening, Mrs. York?”

“All the servants, of course; my parents-in-law, and dinner guests—perhaps Dulcie was talking to one of the footmen or coachmen of the guests.”

“Then they would have raised the alarm when she fell.”

“Oh.” She turned away, blushing at her foolishness. “Of course.”

“Who were your guests?” He knew the answer before she spoke.

“Mr. and Mrs. Asherson, Mr. Garrard Danver and Mr. Julian Danver and the Misses Danver, Sir Reginald and Lady Arbuthnott, and Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Adair.”

“Did any of the other ladies or you yourself wear a gown of a brilliant cerise or magenta color, ma’am?”

“What?” Her voice was barely a whisper, and this time her face was so ashen the skin looked like wax.

“A brilliant cerise or magenta,” he repeated. “It is a bluish pink, the sort of color cinerarias grow.”

She gulped and her lips formed the word no, but no sound came from her throat.

“Dulcie saw a woman in such a dress, Mrs. York, upstairs in this house—” Before he could finish she gasped and pitched forward onto the floor, hands out to save herself, knocking into the chair as she went.

He dived forward too late to catch her, and half falling over the chair himself, knelt down beside her. She was completely unconscious, her face ivory in the gaslight. He uncrumpled her limbs and picked her up. It was awkward, because she was a deadweight, but she was so slender there was hardly any substance to her. He laid her on the sofa, arranged her skirts to cover all but her feet, then rang the bell, almost yanking the cord from the wall.

As soon as the footman appeared Pitt ordered him to get the lady’s maid with some smelling salts. His voice sounded rough, even frightened. He must steady himself. There was a violence of emotion inside him; he feared he had been too clumsy and had provoked the very scandal Ballarat would pay any price to avoid, anger at the loss of life, pity for it, a sense of betrayal because he had not wanted it to be Veronica. But surely the gay and daring Cerise would not have crumpled into a faint at the first suspicion of the law.

The door opened and the lady’s maid came in, a pretty, slight creature with fair hair and—

“God Almighty!” The breath hissed out between his teeth and Pitt felt the room lurch a little round him also. “Emily!”

“Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth and she dropped the bottle of salts. “Thomas.”

“All right!” For a moment there was a silence of utter incredulity. Then his fury broke. “Explain yourself!” he ground out between his teeth.

“Don’t be foolish!” she whispered. “Keep your voice down! What happened to Veronica?” She knelt down, picked up the salts, and unstoppered them, waving them gently under Veronica’s nose.

“She fainted, of course!” Pitt snapped back. “I asked her about Cerise. Emily, you’ve got to get out of here. You must be mad! Dulcie was murdered, and you could be next!”

“I know she was—and I’m not leaving.” Her face was determined as she stared at him defiantly.

“You are!” He grasped her arm.

She snatched it away. “No, I’m not! Veronica isn’t Cerise. I know her far better than you do!”

“Emily—” But it was too late; Veronica was beginning to stir. Her eyes opened, dark with horror. Then, as memory came back and she recognized Pitt and Emily, the mask returned.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pitt,” she said very slowly. “I’m afraid I am not very well. I—I haven’t seen the person you spoke of. I cannot help.”

“Then I’ll not disturb you any further. I’ll leave you with your—maid.” Pitt forced himself to be civil, even gentle. “I apologize for having disturbed you.”

Emily rang the bell for the footman, and when he came she gave him his instructions. “John, please show Mr. Pitt to the front door, and then ask Mary to bring Mrs. York a tisane.”

Pitt glared at her and she looked back with her chin high.

“Thank you,” he said, and followed the footman out.

He took a hansom home and strode up his own hallway to the kitchen.

“Charlotte! Charlotte!”

She turned round with innocent surprise at the rage in his voice, then saw his face.

“You knew!” he said furiously. “You knew Emily was in that house as a maid! God Almighty, have you no wits at all, woman?”

It was the wrong approach and he knew it even as he shouted at her, but he was too angry to control himself.

For a moment she glared back at him, then she changed her mind and lowered her eyes meekly. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I didn’t know until it was too late, I swear, and then there was no point in telling you. You couldn’t have done anything about it.” She looked up with a very small smile. “And she will learn things there that we can’t.”

He gave up, swearing long and savagely under his breath before he ran out of vocabulary he could use in front of Charlotte and accepted the cup of tea she was pouring.

“I don’t give a damn what she learns!” he said fiercely. “Have you thought for one moment in all your idiotic plans about the danger she’s in? For God’s sake, Charlotte, two people have been murdered in that house already! If she were found out, what could you do to help her? Nothing! Nothing at all!” He flung his arm out. “She’s there completely on her own; I can’t get in there. How could you be so bloody stupid?”

“I am not stupid!” she said hotly, indignation bright in her cheeks and eyes. “I didn’t know anything about it—I told you that! I only heard about it afterwards.”

“Don’t equivocate!” he snapped back. “You drew Emily into this; she would never have heard about it if you hadn’t started meddling. Get her out! Sit down now and write to her telling her to go home where she belongs—now!”

Charlotte’s face was set. “There’s no point; she won’t come.”

“Do it!” he roared. “Don’t argue with me, just do it!”

There were tears in her eyes, but no obedience or submissiveness. “She won’t listen to me!” she said furiously. “I know the danger! Do you think I can’t see it? And I know you’re in danger too! I sit at home and wait for you when you’re late, wondering where you are, if you are safe—or lying bleeding in the street somewhere.”

“That’s unfair! And it has nothing to do with Emily,” he answered more levelly. “Get her out, Charlotte.”

“I can’t. She won’t come.”

He said nothing. He was too angry—and too frightened.