by Anne Perry
An hour later, after some persuasive argument and the exchange of more money, he sat in an overheated, overfurnished little room off New Bond Street. The woman in the pink chair opposite him was well past her prime, her bosom overflowing from the strict corsets and loose flesh visible under her chin had lost its elasticity, but she was still handsomer than most women ever are. There was an ease about her, from years of being desired, but the bright bitterness in her eyes reflected the underlying knowledge that she had not been loved. She picked at some candied fruit in a pink tissue-lined box. “Well?” she said guardedly. “What do you want, luv? It isn’t my style to tell tales.”
“I don’t want tales.” Pitt did not waste his time or insult her with flattery they both knew he did not mean. “I want a woman who almost certainly tried putting on the black. That’s bad for your trade; you don’t need that sort.”
She pulled a face and ate another piece of fruit, nibbling all round the edges before putting the center whole into her mouth. Had her walk of life been different, led to different dress, less paint on her skin, the hardness of survival out of her eyes and the small lines now clearly formed round the corners of her lips, she might have been one of her generation’s great beauties. The thought passed through Pitt’s mind with irony and sadness as he watched her eat.
“Go on,” she prompted. “I don’t need telling my business. If I wasn’t the best you wouldn’t be ’ere asking me favors. I don’t need your money. I earn more in a day than you do in a month.”
Pitt did not bother to remark that her risks were higher and her time short. She knew it.
“A woman who always wore a shade of cerise, dark or light, anything from plum to magenta, always something that color. She was tall and slender, not much flesh on her, but loads of style, dark eyes and black hair. Have you ever seen her, or heard your girls mention her?”
“Doesn’t sound like she’d ’ave much to offer. Thin, black ’air?”
“Oh, she had something,” Pitt said with certainty, and in spite of himself Veronica York’s face with its high cheekbones and haunting eyes came back to his mind. Could she have been Cerise, and have killed Robert when he discovered that? He looked at the lush, feminine woman in the pink chair opposite him, with her glowing, almost Titian hair and her apple-blossom skin. “She had fire, and style,” he finished.
The woman’s eyes opened wide. “Know ’er well, did yer?”
Pitt smiled. “I never met her. I’m going on the impression she made on others.”
She gave a little laugh, part derision and part genuine humor. “Well, if she put the black on people she was a fool! That’s a sure way ter kill business. In the long run it’s suicide. I don’t know anything about ’er. Sorry luv.”
Pitt did not know if he was pleased or disappointed. He had to find Cerise, and yet he did not want her to be Veronica York.
“Are you sure?” he said automatically. “It may be three years back.”
“Three years! Well, why didn’t yer say so?” She reached for another piece of fruit and bit into it. She had beautiful teeth, white and even. “I thought yer meant now! There was one like that about three or four years ago. Terrible color she wore, but she could carry it. Black ’air an’ eyes, thin as a washboard, need pounds of ’orse ’air to pad ’er out. But she ’ad fire, the sort that comes from inside; yer can’t get it out of a pot or in a glass. All the champagne in London wouldn’t give it yer. Lit up like she enjoyed ’erself every minute, like she was ’avin’ the time of ’er life, on the edge o’ danger and loved it. Mind, she were a real beauty, none o’ yer powder an’ paint jobs. Bones to break yer ’eart, she ’ad.”
Pitt felt suddenly suffocated in this overstuffed room, and at the same time there was a coldness inside him. “Tell me more about her,” he said quietly. “How often did you see or hear of her; where, who with, and have you any idea what happened to her?”
The woman hesitated, her eyes wary.
“I’ll be very unpleasant if I have to,” Pitt said levelly. “It’s murder. I’ll turn over this entire place and make such a fuss none of your clients will dare come back.”
“All right!” she snapped angrily. But there was no outrage in her; that required the element of surprise, and she had known the dangers too long and felt them too often for that. “All right! I an’t seen or ’eard of ’er in three years, an’ only a few times before that. She weren’t reg’lar. In fact, for what it’s worth it’s my opinion she weren’t professional anyway; that’s why I never took no trouble to find out more about ’er. She weren’t no rival. She didn’t take gen’ral trade; just paraded around, showed off, and picked up one or two. All in all she were good fer us, ’cause she drew attention, stirred up appetites, and then left. More for us.”
“Did you see her with anyone you can remember? It’s important.”
She considered for several minutes and Pitt did not hurry her.
“Seen ’er once with a real elegant gent, good-looker. One of the other girls said she’d seen ’er with ’im before, because she’d tried to pick ’im up ’erself, but ’e ‘ad eyes for Cerise and no one else.”
“Did you ever learn her name?”
“No.”
“Anything about her?”
“No, ’cept what I told yer.”
“All right, you know the world, and the business. What’s your best guess? What sort of woman was she, and what happened to her?”
The woman laughed abruptly, then the bitterness softened into pity, for herself and all those who shared her lot, even peripherally. “I dunno,” she said. “Could be dead, for all I know, or more like come down in the world. Life in this business can be short. ’Ow the hell do I know what ’appened to ’er, poor bitch?”
“She was different, you said that; so did the others who saw her. What’s your best guess as to where she came from? Come on, Alice, I need to know, and you’ve the best chance of being right.”
She sighed. “My guess is she was Quality out slumming it, God knows why. Maybe she was just bent that way. Some is. Although why any woman that’s got a roof over ’er ’ead and food for the rest of ’er life should want ter risk it is beyond me. Still, I reckon insanity can ’it the Quality like the rest of us. Now that’s all, I in’t got nothing else to add to it. You ’ad your time; I got things to do. I bin more’n fair— an I ’ope you’ll remember that.”
Pitt stood up. “I will,” he promised. “As far as I know, you keep a lodging house. Good day.”
He spent two more days going from one place to another in the haunts of the demimonde, the theaters and restaurants where such women plied their trade, and he heard occasional mention of Cerise or someone who might have been her or might not, but he learned nothing that added to what he already knew. No one remembered who she had been with, whether it was several men or only a few, although it was certainly more than one in every account. No one knew her name nor where she came from. She was tolerated because she came very seldom and robbed them of little business. It was a hard world and they expected competition. If a man preferred one woman to another there was nothing to be done about it except in extreme cases; usually it was better to take defeat gracefully. Scenes embarrassed the clientele.
Whether any of the men with her had been Robert York it was impossible to say. She frequented places where he was likely to have been, but then so had half London Society, at least among the men. The descriptions of her companions were general enough to have fit him, or Julian Danver, or Garrard Danver, or even Felix Asherson—or just about anyone else with elegance and money.
In the early evening of the second day, a little after six, as the fog cleared at last, leaving only a few dark pockets, Pitt took a cab to Hanover Close, this time not to the York house but further along, to where Felix Asherson lived. Pitt had chosen to see him at home in order to form a more complete impression of the man, to make some judgment as to his circumstances and possibly his character. Away from the formal and rather intimidating
atmosphere of the Foreign Office he might be more inclined to relax his caution. In his own home he would feel safer and could be certain none of his colleagues would interrupt, perhaps suspecting him of indiscreet disclosures to the police. Also, inside the house Pitt might form a more precise picture of his financial situation. There was still the possibility that Robert York had surprised a friend burgling his house and his recognition had sparked a murder. Pitt had not forgotten that possibility.
He knocked on the front door and waited till a footman came.
“Yes, sir?” There was no expression in the polite inquiry.
Pitt produced one of his cards.
“Thomas Pitt. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with Mr. Asherson, if he is free. It concerns one of his colleagues at the Foreign Office.” That was literally true, if not true in its implication.
“Yes, sir. Will you come in, sir, and I will inform Mr. Asherson you are here.” He looked at Pitt dubiously. His boots were not Emily’s new ones; those were too good for all the walking he had been doing lately, and he did not want to wear them out. His jacket was serviceable but no more; only his hat was of quality. He was not library material; the morning room was good enough for him. “If you will come this way, sir?”
The fire had died to a few embers but the room was still warm, at least compared with the cab Pitt had just taken. He found the room pleasant enough, modest compared with the Yorks’, but agreeably furnished, and with at least one good picture on the wall. If Asherson were short of money he could have sold it for enough to keep a housemaid for several years. So much for debt.
The door opened and Asherson came in, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. It was a handsome face, but too volatile. There was something uncertain about it. Pitt would not want to rely on this man in a crisis.
“Good evening, Mr. Asherson,” he said pleasantly. “Sorry to disturb you at home, but the matter is delicate, so I thought it would be more private here than at the Foreign Office.”
“Oh damn!” Asherson pushed the door closed behind him. “Are you still ferreting around after poor old York’s killer? I told you before I didn’t know anything remotely useful. I still don’t.”
“I’m sure you aren’t aware of knowing anything,” Pitt agreed.
“And what do you mean by that?” Asherson was plainly annoyed. “I wasn’t there that night, and nobody’s told me anything.”
“I know a great deal more than when I first spoke to you, sir,” Pitt said, watching Asherson’s face. The gas lamps threw shadows in the room, exaggerating his expression as a yellow gleam highlighted the planes of his cheeks and nose and created darkness where sunlight would have eliminated it. “There was a woman who seems to have had a role in it.”
Asherson’s eyes widened. “In York’s death? You don’t mean it was a woman burglar? I didn’t know there were such things.” There was nothing but surprise in his face.
“The burglary may be incidental, Mr. Asherson. Possibly even the murder was too. Perhaps the only thing that really mattered was the treason.”
Asherson stood absolutely motionless; not a muscle moved in his face or his body. It was an unnatural stillness, a silence that hung too long. Pitt could hear the hiss of the gas in the lamps on the wall and a slight sound as the coals settled in the hearth.
“Treason?” Asherson said at last.
Pitt did not know how far he dared stretch the truth. He decided to evade an answer. “What was Robert York working on before he was killed?” he asked.
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.