Silence in Hanover Close

by Anne Perry

  “What did you conclude, finally?”

  Mowbray’s eyebrows rose. “Case unsolved,” he said, then hesitated for several seconds, as though weighing whether to commit himself further.

  Pitt finished his tea and set the empty mug on the hearth. “Odd case,” he said casually. “Man knows exactly when to break in without P.C. Lowther seeing him coming or going, even though Lowther passes every twenty minutes; yet instead of going round the back, away from the street, and using a snakesman to wriggle through the pantry bars, or a ratchet and pinion to loosen them, he breaks a front window—and doesn’t even star-glaze it to stop the noise and hide the hole. Yet he knows enough to find a first-edition Swift, which is not an obvious thing at all—Lowther said it was on the shelf with other books—but on the other hand he’s so clumsy he makes enough noise to disturb Robert York, who comes down and catches him. And when York does come, instead of hiding or running away, the intruder attacks him so fiercely he kills him.”

  “And doesn’t sell any of his haul,” Mowbray finished. “I know. Rum, very rum. Wondered if it were someone Mr. York knew personal like, some gentleman ’ard up turned to robbin’ ’is friends. Started lookin’ in that line, very discreet like. Even looked very casual at young Mrs. York’s acquaintances—and got told very gracious and very cool by the powers that be as I should keep to me place and not add to the distress o’ them as is already sufferin’ ’orrible bereavement. Nobody actually said as I was to mark it unsolved; nothin’ so blunt. Just an expression o’ sympathy for the family, and a cold eye on me. But I don’t need to ’ave it spelled out for me.”

  It was what Pitt had expected; he had experienced the same unspoken but unmistakable sort of thing himself. It did not necessarily indicate any suspicion of guilt; just a deference for breeding, money, and the vast indefinable power that went with it.

  “I suppose I had better pursue the next line.” Pitt stood up reluctantly. It was raining outside; he could see the long wet streaks beating against the window, blurring the shadows of the roofs and gables outside. “Thank you for your help, and the tea.”

  “Don’t envy you,” Mowbray said wryly.

  Pitt smiled back. He liked Mowbray and resented having to retrace the man’s steps as though he were in some way incompetent. Damn Ballarat and the Foreign Office!

  Outside Pitt turned up his coat collar, tightened his muffler, and put his head down against the rain. He walked for a little while, feet sloshing up spurts of water, hair dripping down his forehead, thinking over what he had just learned. What was the Foreign Office after? A decent resolution of a case which involved one of their own, so it would cause no future embarrassment, as Ballarat had said? The widow of Robert York was informally betrothed to one Julian Danver. If Danver were headed for an ambassadorship, or higher, no shadow must touch the reputation of any of his family, especially his wife.

  Or had some new discovery pertaining to the murder of Robert York pointed to treason, and were they using Pitt to unravel it for them? He would take the blame for the tragedy and the scandal which would inevitably follow, the careers and reputations ruined.

  It was an ugly job, and everything Mowbray had told him only made it uglier. Who had been the other person in the library, and why?

  Pitt turned from Piccadilly down St. James’s, then across the Mall and down the Horse Guards’ Parade past the,bare trees and wind-whipped grass of the park, up Downing Street to Whitehall and the Foreign Office.

  It took him a quarter of an hour to persuade the right officials and finally to reach the department where Robert York had worked until the time of his death.

  He was met by a distinguished man in his late thirties with black hair, and eyes which at first appeared to be equally dark, but as he turned to the light proved to be a startling, luminous gray. He introduced himself as Felix Asherson and offered to be of any help within his power. Pitt took that for the limited offer it was.

  “Thank you, sir. We have had occasion to look again into the tragic death three years ago of Mr. Robert York.”

  Asherson’s face showed immediate concern, but then it would, in the Foreign Office where impeccable manners were part of his trade. “Have you caught someone?”

  Pitt approached the subject obliquely. “No, I am afraid not, but there were several articles stolen at the time. It seems very possible the burglar was not a casual housebreaker but a person of education, perhaps after something in particular.”

  Asherson waited patiently. “Indeed? And you didn’t know that at the time?”

  “We did, sir. But I have been asked by certain persons in authority”—he hoped Asherson’s Whitehall training in discretion was sufficient to keep him from asking who —“to pursue the matter again.”

  “Oh.” Asherson’s face tightened almost imperceptibly, just a faint movement of muscles around the jaw, a thickening of the neck, so the stiff wing collar hugged the skin. “How can we help you?”

  Interesting how he used the plural, making himself a representative of the office, not personally involved.

  Pitt selected his words carefully. “Since the burglar chose the library and not one of the more obvious rooms, like the dining room, where the silver was, we have to consider that he may have been looking for documents, perhaps something Mr. York was working on at the time.”

  Asherson was noncommittal. “Indeed?”

  Pitt waited.

  Asherson took a deep breath. “I suppose that’s possible— I mean, he may have hoped to find something. Does it help now? After all, it was three years ago.”

  “We never abandon a murder case,” Pitt replied blandly. Yet they had buried this one after six fruitless months. Why had they opened it again now?

  “No—no, of course,” Asherson conceded. “What can the Foreign Office do to assist you?”

  Pitt decided to be blunt. He smiled very slightly, holding Asherson’s eye. “Has any information been missed from this office since Mr. York first came to work here? I appreciate that you may not be able to tell when it was taken, only when the discovery was made.”

  Asherson hesitated. “You make us sound remarkably inefficient, Inspector. We do not mislay information; it is far too important.”

  “So if information has reached unauthorized places, then it was deliberately given?” Pitt asked innocently.

  Asherson breathed out slowly, grasping for time to think. Confusion was momentarily naked in his face. He did not know what Pitt was leading up to, nor why.

  “There has been information ...” Pitt said gently, testing, making it something between a question and a statement.

  Asherson affected immediate ignorance. “Has there? Then perhaps that was why poor Robert was murdered. If he took papers home with him, and somehow people got to know of it, a thief may have . . .” He left the rest unsaid.

  “Then he could have taken such papers home on several occasions?” Pitt pursued. “Or are you suggesting it might have been only once, and by some extraordinary chance the thief chose the precise night?”

  It was preposterous, and they both knew it.

  “No, of course not.” Asherson smiled faintly. He was caught, but if he was resentful, he hid it superbly. “I really don’t know what happened, but if he was indiscreet, or had friends who were unworthy of his trust, it hardly matters now. The poor man is dead, and the information cannot have reached our enemies or we should have suffered for it by now. And we haven’t. That I can tell you with certainty. If there really were such an attempt, it was abortive. Can’t you leave his memory in peace—not to mention his family?”

  Pitt stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Asherson. You have been most frank. Good day, sir.” And he left the uncertain-looking Asherson standing on the bright blue and vermillion Turkish carpet in the middle of the floor.

  Back at Bow Street in the icy dusk, Pitt climbed the stairs to Ballarat’s office and knocked on the door. At the command he went in.

  Ballarat was standing in front of the fire, blocki
ng it. His room was quite different from the functional quarters of the lesser police on the beat, downstairs. The broad desk was inlaid with green leather, the chair behind it was padded and moved comfortably on a swivel. There was the stub of a cigar in the stone ashtray. Ballarat was of average height, portly, a trifle short in the leg. But his rich side whiskers were immaculately barbered and he smelled of cologne. His clothes were perfectly pressed, from his bright oxblood boots to the matching brown tie round his stiff white collar. He was the antithesis of the disheveled Pitt, whose every garment was at odds with another, pockets weighted down by nameless objects. Even now, a piece of string trailed from one, and a hand-knitted muffler half obscured his soft collar.

  “Well?” Ballarat demanded irritably. “Close the door, man! I don’t want half the station listening. The matter is confidential, I told you that before. Well, what have you got?”

  “Very little,” Pitt replied. “They were pretty thorough at the time.”

  “I know that, damn it! I’ve read the papers on the case!” Ballarat pushed his short fingers further into his pockets, fists clenched. He rocked back and forth very slightly on the balls of his feet. “Was it a chance break-in? Some amateur who got caught in the act and panicked, killing young York instead of escaping like a professional? I’m sure any connection with the Foreign Office was coincidental. I have been told by the highest authority,” and he repeated the words, rolling them on his tongue, “the highest authority, that our enemies have no knowledge of the work York was engaged in.”

  “More probably some friend of York’s who ran up a debt and turned his hand to burglary to try to get out of it,” Pitt answered frankly, and saw the look of displeasure on Ballarat’s face. “He knew where the first-edition Swift was.”

  “Inside help,” Ballarat said immediately. “Bribed a servant.”

  “Possibly. Assuming there was a servant who knew a first-edition Swift when she saw it. Not the sort of thing the Honorable Piers York would discuss with the tweeny.”

  Ballarat opened his mouth to tell Pitt not to be sarcastic with him, then thought better of it and changed course. “Well, if it was one of their social acquaintances, you’d better be damn careful in your questions, Pitt! This is a very delicate investigation we’ve been entrusted with. A careless word and you could ruin reputations—not to mention your own career.” He looked increasingly uncomfortable, his face flushed to a dull purplish hue. “All the Foreign Office wants us to establish is that there was nothing—untoward, nothing unseemly in Mrs. York’s conduct. It is no part of your business to blacken the name of a dead man, an honorable man who gave distinguished service to his queen and to his country.”

  “Well, there has been information disappearing from the Foreign Office,” Pitt said, his voice rising in frustration, “and the burglary at the York house needs a great deal more explanation than it’s had so far.”

  “Then get on with it, man!” Ballarat snapped. “Either find out which friend it was, or better still, prove it wasn’t a friend at all! Clear Mrs. Veronica York of the slightest possible mark against her character, and we’ll all be thanked.”

  Pitt opened his mouth to retort, but saw the pointlessness of it reflected in Ballarat’s black eyes. He swallowed his temper. “Yes sir.”

  He went out with his mind seething. Then the cold air hit his face, stinging with rain, and he was jostled by passersby on the dark pavements. He heard carriages clattering by, saw shops with windows lit and gas lamps burning in the streets, smelled chestnuts roasting on a brazier. Pitt heard someone singing a carol, and he was overtaken by other things. He imagined his children’s faces on Christmas morning. They were old enough now to be excited; already Daniel asked every night if it was Christmas tomorrow yet, and Jemima, with a six-year-old’s elder-sister superiority, told him he must wait. Pitt smiled. He had made a wooden train for Daniel, with an engine and six carriages. He had bought a doll for Jemima, and Charlotte was sewing dresses, petticoats, and a fine bonnet for her. Lately he had noticed that when he came in unexpectedly she pushed her sewing in a bundle under a cushion, and looked up far too innocently at him.

  His smile broadened. He knew she was making something for him. He was particularly pleased with what he had found for her, a pink alabaster vase about nine inches high, simple and perfect. It had taken him seven weeks to save up enough. The only problem was Emily, Charlotte’s widowed sister. She had married for love, but her husband George had had both title and wealth. After the shock of her bereavement last summer it was only natural that she and her five-year-old son, Edward, should come on Christmas Eve to spend the holiday with her sister.

  But what could Pitt possibly afford to give Emily that would please her?

  He had still not solved the problem when he arrived at his front door. Pitt took off his wet coat and hung it on the hook, undid his sodden boots, and started towards the kitchen in his stocking feet.

  Jemima met him halfway along the passage, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

  “Papa, isn’t it Christmas yet? Isn’t it even Christmas Eve?”

  “Not yet.” He swung her up into his arms and hugged her.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, my sweetheart, I’m sure.” He carried her into the kitchen and put her down. Gracie, the maid, was upstairs with Daniel. Charlotte was alone, surveying the final touches to her Christmas cake, a wisp of hair curling over her brow. She smiled at him. “Any interesting cases?”

  “No. An old case that will go nowhere.” He kissed her once; then kissed her again with growing warmth.

  “Nothing?” she persisted.

  “Nothing. It’s only a formality.”

  2

  AT FIRST CHARLOTTE accepted Pitt’s brief dismissal of his new case, because she was preoccupied with Christmas and all the arrangements. There was so much that had to be done in the kitchen: the hiding of carefully wrapped threepenny pieces in the plum pudding, the making of sweets, jam for tarts and chopped fruits for mince pies. And there were presents to finish and wrap in colored paper. On top of that, everything must be kept secret, to be a surprise on the day.

  At any other time she would have been more inquisitive, and considerably more persistent. In the past Charlotte had involved herself in some of Thomas’s most complex and personally tragic cases, drawn in by deliberate curiosity or outrage at some event. It was only last summer that her sister Emily’s husband had been murdered, and that case had seemed endless. Emily herself had been the main suspect. George had had a short-lived but intense affair with Sybilla March, and Emily was the only one who knew it had ended the night before he died. Who could be expected to believe her when all the evidence was to the contrary? And Emily, in her efforts to win back George’s attention, had been so indiscreet with Jack Radley that she had deliberately given everyone the impression that she herself was romantically involved.

  Charlotte had never been so afraid as during that period, nor felt true tragedy as close. When their elder sister Sarah had died it had been a loss, sudden and stark, but imposed from outside, a chance event that might have stricken anyone. George’s death was different. It had seemed a failure from within; all their assumptions about safety and love had been shattered in a simple, reverberating act, touching everything and marring it all with doubt. What lack in Emily, what emptiness in the trust she had thought so deep, had turned George to another woman with such passion? Their reconciliation after had been so brief, so delicate and so private it had not had time to blossom, and no one else had known of it. And the next morning George was dead.

  There had been no pity, no attention of concerned friends as when Sarah died. Rather there had been suspicion, even hate, all sorts of old enmities and mistakes raked up and added to in the fear that blame would run over and scald everyone, leaving other people’s secrets and weaknesses exposed—as indeed they had been.

  It was six months ago now, and Emily had recovered from the shock. The social acceptance had returned; indeed, people
fell over themselves to make up for their guilt at having been suspicious and their social cowardice at the time. But for all that, Society still required that widows be seen to mourn, especially those of men from old and titled families such as the Ashworths. The fact that Emily was not yet thirty would not in any way excuse her from remaining at home, receiving only relatives, and wearing unrelieved black. She must not attend any social functions that might appear frivolous or enjoyable, and she must maintain an attitude of gravity at all times.

  She was finding it almost unendurable. To begin with, as soon as George’s murderer was found and the matter closed, she had gone into the country with Edward, to be alone and spend her time helping him to understand the death of his father and his own new position. With the autumn she had returned to the city, but all the usual parties, operas, balls, and soirées were closed to her. The friends who did call on her were sober to the point of stultification, and no one gossiped or discussed fashion or the latest play, or who was flirting with whom, considering those topics too trivial to disturb her grief. The time Emily spent sitting at home writing letters, playing the piano, or stitching endless needlework felt like a constant scraping of the skin, the source of a raging discontent.

  Naturally Charlotte had invited Emily to come for Christmas with Edward, who would find the company of other children the best present of all.

  But what about after Christmas? Emily would have to return to the Ashworth town house, alone and bored to tears!

  And to tell the truth, as deeply as she loved her home and her children, six months of uninterrupted domesticity was beginning to hang a little heavily on Charlotte also. She had asked Pitt about his new case with more than wifely concern—there was as well a desire for adventure in the question.

  The following evening, Charlotte prepared her ground a little more carefully. She waited until after dinner, when they were sitting in front of the parlor fire; the children were long in bed, and she was carefully stitching butterfly ornaments to put on the Christmas tree.