Anne Perry - Silence in Hanover Close

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is she, Inspector?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Inspector?”

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

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

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

“It is not I, Mr. Pitt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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