Anne Perry - Silence in Hanover Close

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Smith?”

“That’s right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How much?” Sam said pleasantly without moving.

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

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

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

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

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

The patterer stopped and stood still on the grimy pavement.

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

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

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

“Wot fer? I in’t seen you afore!”

“Business,” Pitt replied. “Get him.”

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

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

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

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

“Now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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