Anne Perry - Silence in Hanover Close

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.