Anne Perry - Silence in Hanover Close

Now Cerise herself had been murdered-by whom? The unknown spy master who was afraid Pitt would find her and that she might knowingly or unknowingly betray him?

He was growing confused. It made no sense. If there was such a figure, shadowy, unknown, then that person had no part in the murder of Dulcie. It had to be someone Pitt knew, someone he had already seen and talked to. Dulcie had been killed because she had seen Cerise, there could be no other reason. That was borne out by the fact that Cerise herself had been murdered when it became inevitable that Pitt would find her.

But why had Robert York been killed? Was there something he knew, something he had seen or heard? Was it what he had done, and thus could reveal?

Perhaps there had been a real thief, someone Robert York would have recognized when he interrupted and caught him. Perhaps Cerise had not succeeded in her attempts to seduce him, and had sent a thief instead. Then who was the thief? Someone known to Robert York, strong enough and skilled enough-and cold-blooded enough-to kill him with a single blow, even when he was prepared and presumably on his guard. After all, if you disturb a burglar in your house in the middle of the night, and you recognize him and know his intent, then surely you would understand he could not leave you to reveal him, as you would be bound to?

Julian Danver, Garrard Danver, possibly, although he was twice York’s age-or Felix Asherson? Pitt did not even consider Piers York; he would hardly have needed to offer any explanation for being in the library of his own house, whatever the time of night.

But the Danvers and Asherson all worked at the Foreign Office themselves. It did not make sense that they should steal secrets from Robert York.

Pitt lay awake in the bitter night, hearing the now familiar sounds of uneasy movement, the echo of coughs, groans, someone swearing, and further away a man weeping with hollow, racking sounds of despair.

He was no further forward. The pieces did not fit. Who was Cerise? he wondered, hovering on the borders of sleep, his mind snatching at shadows. It all hinged on her.

In the morning the gray immediacy of the day returned, crowding his senses. He could close his eyes to some of it, even turn his mind from the sounds, becoming numb to the creeping cold, but he could never completely shut out the sour smell. It was there with every breath, the taste of it at the back of his throat, making his stomach querulous.

There was no stillness to think.

With darkness came the illusion of solitude again, and his mind returned to gnaw the question. He turned it over and over and no answer seemed to satisfy him. It still seemed most likely that Robert York had interrupted someone, and he was killed because of his knowledge, as was Dulcie, and, of course, Cerise. But knowledge of what?

The constable returned, graver this time, and he did not mention Ballarat at all.

“So it was the maid, Dulcie, as first told you about this woman in pink, Mr. Pitt?” He frowned, looking at his notebook and then up again. “’Ow did you find ’er in Seven Dials?”

“With a lot of work,” Pitt replied flatly. “I walked the streets asking costers, flower girls, sandwich sellers, theater doormen, prostitutes.”

The constable shook his head slowly. “Must ’a taken a fair while, sir. Weren’t there no better way, nobody as knew nuffink?”

“Nobody who would speak, except Miss Adeline Danver, and she only saw the woman for a moment on the landing in the gaslight.”

“That’d be Mr. Julian Danver’s aunt?”

“Yes. But naturally Miss Danver didn’t know where to find her.”

The constable screwed up his face. “I could check that with ’er, Mr. Pitt.”

“Well, if you do, for God’s sake be careful! The last person to speak to the police about seeing Cerise fell out of a window to her death immediately after.”

The constable sat silently for several moments, then slowly began chewing his pencil. “Who do you reckon she was, this woman you calls Cerise, Mr. Pitt?”

Pitt leaned a little more heavily on his wooden chair.

“I don’t know. But she was beautiful; everyone who saw her said she had style, glamor, a face that one remembered. Felix Asherson admitted there was information missing from his department of the Foreign Office, which is also where Robert York worked.”

The constable took the end of his pencil out of his mouth. There were teeth marks where he had bitten into it.

“Mr. Ballarat didn’t believe that, Mr. Pitt. ’E made some inquiries, very discreet like, in several places, and there’s been no use made of anything that could ’a come from there. And ’e asked them as would know.”

“They don’t have to use it straightaway!” But Pitt felt he was fighting on sinking ground. Ballarat did not want to believe there was treason; he was afraid of facing his superiors and telling them something they would be so loath to believe, something that was frightening and innately a criticism of not only their competence but their honor. He was frightened of their anger, of having to muster arguments to persuade them of such a thing, showing them that the blame would be laid at their door. He wanted to be approved of; he had social ambitions that were far deeper than his professional or financial dreams. He liked good living; he liked petty authority, but he had not the courage for real power: the hazards, the envy, and the unpleasantness that it carried were prices he had no stomach to pay. He had been entrusted to prove there was no treason, or if there had been, that it had been safely covered up, and to discover it now would signal the utmost failure.

The constable was staring at him, chewing his pencil again viciously.

“I dunno much about that, sir. But it all seems a bit unlikely to the. I ’spect what men likes in a lady is as different as what they likes fer their dinner, but she didn’t seem anythink but ordinary ter me: dark ’air, darkish sort o’ skin, bit sallow like-prefer a bit o’ color meself. Not a bad face, but nothin’ special, an’ not much shape to ’er. Not what you’d call ’andsome at all.”

“She had grace,” Pitt said, trying to find words to explain the subtlety Cerise had had in life to this simple, straightforward man. “Spirit. Probably wit.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Pitt, but she looked more like a maid who’d lorst ’er character and taken to the streets to me.”

“She was a courtesan.” He looked at the constable’s earnest, confused face. “A very high-class prostitute, one who selected her own customers-just a few-for a very high price.”

The constable shrugged. “If you say so, Mr. Pitt. But I’ll tell yer this: she’d scrubbed a few floors in ’er time. A look at ’er ’ands and ’er knees’d tell yer that. I seen too many women with them callouses not ter know. They didn’t come from prayin’, that’s for certain.”

Pitt stared at him. “You must be wrong!”

“No, Mr. Pitt. I looked at ’er proper, very careful, poor soul. It’s the job, an’ I knows ’ow ter do it. See, we ’ad no name for ’er”-a flash of pity crossed his face-“we still ’aven’t, come ter that.”

A staggering and dreadful new thought was beginning to take shape in Pitt’s mind: what if it were not the real Cerise he had found, but someone else, a helpless victim left there to fool him? Suppose the whole thing had been contrived to get rid of him, to land him precisely where he was now, in the Steel, helpless, entombed alive. Someone had murdered that wretched woman in order to cripple Pitt. Someone had been watching him, planning for him to arrive and be caught exactly where he was-while the real Cerise was still alive! Did Ballarat know that? Was he deliberately protecting her by turning away from the case, pretending he believed the obvious, and that Pitt was guilty?