Silence in Hanover Close Read online

  “Thomas,” she began casually. “If the case is really nothing of importance—just a formality, as you said—do you think you will be able to leave it over Christmas?” She did not look up, keeping her eyes on her thread and the delicate gossamer she was sewing.

  “I . . .” He hesitated. “I think there may be more to it than I supposed.”

  Charlotte kept her curiosity subdued with great difficulty. “Oh dear. How is that?”

  “A burglary that is hard to understand.”

  “Oh.” This time she did not need to pretend indifference. Burglaries were impersonal, the loss of possessions held no interest for her. “What was stolen?”

  “Two miniatures, a vase, a paperweight, and a first-edition book,” he replied.

  “What is difficult to understand about that?” Then she looked up and found him smiling. “Thomas?” Instantly she knew there was more, an element of mystery or concealed emotion.

  “The son of the house disturbed the burglar and was killed.” His eyes were steady on hers, speculative. He was amused by her curiosity and her attempts to disguise it, yet he respected her perceptiveness. “And none of the stolen articles ever turned up,” he finished.

  “Yes?” Without realizing it she had let her sewing fall. “Thomas!”

  He slid down into his chair, crossing his legs comfortably, and told her what he knew, adding Ballarat’s warning about discretion and the reputations that could be ruined, and the information that the Foreign Office had mislaid.

  “Mislaid?” she repeated the word skeptically. “Do you mean stolen?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t suppose I ever will. If information was taken it would have been copied, not removed. If Robert York had papers in his house, that might have been what the burglar was after, and he merely took the other things to cover up the fact. More likely it had nothing to do with it.”

  She took up her sewing again, setting it on the side table so she should not lose the needle. “But what in goodness’ name does the Foreign Office expect of you?” she pressed. “If there is a spy, isn’t it desperately important he should be caught, quite apart from his having murdered poor Robert York?”

  “I daresay he has been,” he said ruefully. “And the Foreign Office wishes to keep quiet about it. What they really want is for us to test their skill, make sure the mislaid information is hidden beyond recall. It will do our reputation in the world little good to make such things public. Or perhaps there never was anything missing.”

  “Do you believe that?” she challenged.

  “No. But it may have been carelessness more than deceit.”

  “What are you going to do about Robert York’s murder? Someone killed him.”

  “Follow the burglary as far as I can,” he said with a slight shrug.

  “What is the widow like?” Charlotte was not willing to let it go yet. There must be something interesting that she could relay to Emily.

  “I don’t know. I have had no excuse yet to call on her without making her suspicious, and that is the last thing the Foreign Office wishes. It would immediately raise all sorts of ugly questions. You haven’t mentioned Jack Radley lately. Is Emily still keeping his acquaintance?”

  That was a matter much closer to Charlotte’s heart, and she was prepared to abandon the unpromising mystery for it. Jack Radley had begun as a diversion, someone Emily had flirted with to prove to George that she could be every bit as charming, as poised, as witty as her rival. As the events of the case progressed he had become a prime suspect. But Jack had turned out to be a generous friend, far less superficial and self-seeking than his reputation had led Emily to believe. He had no money and fewer prospects. The obvious thought, unkind as it might be, was that he pursued Emily for the wealth she had inherited on George’s death. His success with women was well known; his vanity might have led him to murder George, then court Emily and marry her.

  He had proved to be quite innocent of any crime, but he was still far from the suitor Society would have wished for Emily when the time was right. Certainly their mother would be appalled!

  None of that bothered Charlotte greatly: whatever people thought, it could not possibly be worse than what they had thought of Charlotte herself for marrying a policeman! Jack Radley was impecunious, but he was very definitely a gentleman; policemen barely ranked above bailiffs and ratcatchers. But was Jack Radley capable of love? To imagine that everyone was, if only given the right companion, was a romantic mistake that was very easily made. But it was still a mistake. Many people desire no more than a convention— the sharing of a home, a social position, children, and the wider family; they do not wish to share their thoughts or their leisure, above all they do not wish to reveal their inner selves, where dreams are held, where they may be known, and thus wounded. They will not take risks. In the end there is no generosity of soul, only safety. There is no giving where there may be cost. Regardless of his charm or his wit, his warm and friendly manner, if Jack Radley was one of these, in the end he would bring Emily only pain. And Charlotte would do everything in her power to prevent that.

  “Charlotte?” Pitt interrupted her thoughts, a little sharply. The answer mattered to him also. He was very fond of Emily, too, and he understood how it would hurt her if Charlotte’s unspoken fear were justified.

  “I think so,” she said quickly. “We haven’t spoken of him much lately, we have been so busy discussing Christmas. She is bringing a goose, and mince puddings.”

  He sank a little lower in the chair and stretched his feet towards the fire. “I think if you want to play detective”—he looked up at her through his lashes—“you would do more good exercising your judgment on Jack Radley than speculating about Mrs. York.”

  She gave him no argument. What he said was undoubtedly true, and although he phrased it gently, it was something in the nature of a command. Beneath his comfortable sprawl and his light manner, Pitt was worried.

  However, Charlotte had every intention of combining the two. She could think of no more effective way of seeing enough of Emily to be able to exercise her judgment, as Thomas had said, than to encourage her to play detective in another case. At Christmas, any discussion or judgment would be next to impossible, but later, if Charlotte were to visit Emily at her home, where she might meet Jack Radley herself, she might be in a position to form a more valid opinion of him without being obvious about it.

  She was ready, her plan prepared, when Emily called the following morning, a little after eleven. She came straight into the kitchen in a whirl of black barathea trimmed with black fox fur up to her chin, her fair hair coiled under a sweeping black hat. For a moment Charlotte was envious; the expensive coat looked so indescribably elegant. Then she remembered the reason her sister wore black and was instantly ashamed. Emily looked pale, apart from the spots of color stung into her cheeks by the ice on the wind, and there were gray smudges under her eyes where the skin looked bruised and papery. Charlotte did not need to be told her sister was restless and sleeping too little. Boredom is not by any means the worst of afflictions, but it carries its own kind of debilitation. Christmas would be all too brief, and what would Emily do after that?

  “Have a cup of tea,” Charlotte offered, turning to the big kitchen range without waiting for an answer. “Have you ever been to Hanover Close?”

  Emily took off her coat and sat at the kitchen table, resting her elbows on its scrubbed wood. Her dress beneath the coat was equally elegant, although there were places where she did not fill it out as she used to.

  “No, but I know where it is. Why?” The answering inquiry was merely polite.

  Charlotte plunged in at the deepest point. “There has been a murder there.”

  “In Hanover Close?” This time she had Emily’s full attention. “Good heavens. That’s terribly exclusive. The best possible taste—and money. Who is dead?”

  “Robert York. He used to work at the Foreign Office— until he died, I mean.”

  “How was he killed?
I didn’t read of it.” Normally a lady of Emily’s position would not have read a newspaper at all, apart from perhaps the society pages and the Court Circular. But unlike their papa, George had been very lenient where such things were concerned—as long as she did not offend people by discussing them. And, of course, since his death she did as she pleased.

  Charlotte poured the water from the kettle into the teapot, then placed it on the table with a cream jug and two of her best cups. “It happened three years ago,” she said as carelessly as she could. “Thomas has just been asked to reopen the case, because the widow is to marry again, to someone else in the Foreign Office.”

  Emily perked up. “Is she betrothed yet? I haven’t seen news of that either, and I always read the society pages. That is about the only way I get to hear anything. No one tells me anything anymore; it’s as if the whole subject of relationships between men and women were something I should not be reminded of.” Unconsciously her fist clenched.

  Charlotte noticed it. “That is the point!” she said quickly. “Thomas has been asked to investigate, to see if she is a suitable person to marry someone as important as Mr. Danver will become, when he is promoted.”

  “Might she not be?” Emily asked. “Please do pour the tea, I’m as dry as the Sahara, and it’s had plenty of time to brew. Has she a reputation? I wish I could hear more. I’m so cut off it’s as if I were a leper! Half the people I used to know are embarrassed to see me, and the other half spend their time sitting around solemnly and talking in whispers, as if I were dying myself.” She sniffed fiercely, searching in her reticule for a handkerchief. It was not self-pity so much as the sudden warmth of the kitchen after the cold air in the carriage which provoked the necessity.

  Charlotte shook her head. “No, that’s as much as I have learned, but the crime itself is very unexplained.” She poured the tea and pushed Emily’s cup across towards her, along with a piece of fresh ginger cake, which was taken readily. “It is rather odd.” And she told Emily all that Pitt had told her.

  “Very odd,” Emily agreed at last. “I wonder if she had a lover, and there was a quarrel. I suppose that is really what the Foreign Office wants Thomas to discover, but they are afraid to say so, in case it should get back to Mr. Danver, who would be furious. And of course, it would prejudice him terribly; he would never have any peace of mind at such a slur.”

  “Neither would she!” Charlotte said hotly. “If it is untrue, it could be the most appalling injustice. But I don’t know how Thomas will be able to make any inquiries. It is hardly the thing a policeman can ask of her social acquaintances.”

  Emily smiled. “My dear Charlotte, you don’t need to labor the point so hard. You are being singularly unsubtle, even for you! Of course we will find out. We have done nothing but bake cakes and stitch seams for six months, and I am ready to scream with it. We shall prove Veronica York’s impeccable reputation, or ruin it entirely. Where shall we begin?”

  Charlotte had already anticipated the difficulties. Emily could no longer move in Society as she had when George was alive; and Charlotte, as the wife of a policeman, had not the money to dress appropriately, nor the friends upon whom to call. There was only George’s great-aunt Vespasia, who would understand and assist, but she was over eighty, and since George’s death had taken a less active part in affairs than before. She was devoted to a number of causes, and believed that the battle against poverty and injustice could be tackled through reform of the law. She was currently engaged in a struggle to improve the working conditions in factories which employed children, especially those under the age of ten.

  Charlotte poured more tea into her cup and sipped it. “Are you still in acquaintance with Jack Radley?” She asked, trying to sound casual, as if the question were entirely to do with the problem of Veronica York.

  Emily reached for the ginger cake again. “He calls upon me from time to time. Do you think he might involve himself?” She cut a large slice of the cake and bit into it hungrily.

  “Perhaps he might help us to—to arrange a meeting,” Charlotte suggested.

  “Not us.” Emily made a face. “You.” She poured herself more tea, spilling it. At this she swore, using a word she had heard George use in the stables. Charlotte knew her reaction had nothing to do with the mess in the saucer; she was frustrated by the imprisonment of mourning, and above all the loneliness.

  “I know I shall have to do it this time,” Charlotte agreed. “And you will have to instruct me. I shall gather what information I can, and together we will unravel what it means.”

  It was not like being there herself, catching the nuances of tone, the expression fleeting across the face, the glance from one to another, but Emily knew that Charlotte’s idea was the best she could hope for, and she was grateful for it. It would have been ladylike to wait until Jack Radley called upon her. She did not imagine it would be long before he did; he had made his admiration plain enough six months ago and in the intervening time had visited her on many occasions. It was not the depth of his regard she doubted, but the quality. Did he court her for herself, or because she was George’s widow, with George’s position and George’s money? She enjoyed his company as much as she had ever enjoyed anyone’s—and that was a rather startling admission, considering her suspicions. Put how close is liking to loving?

  When she had married George, he had been the catch of the season. Emily had been perfectly aware of his faults; she had considered them part of the bargain and accepted them graciously. He in turn had proved to be all that she had hoped, and had never criticized any of her imperfections. What had begun as a perfect understanding had grown into something much warmer. Her first perception of him had been as the handsome, reckless Lord George Ashworth, the ideal husband. Her feelings for George had matured into a gentle and loyal love, as she had begun to see the reality of a man who was worldly in sport and finance, charming in society, without the least duplicity in his nature, nor the least subtlety. She had always had enough wisdom to hide the fact that she was probably both more intelligent than he and more courageous. She had also been less tolerant and less generous in her judgments. He had had a quick temper, but it passed like a squall; he had overlooked the foibles of his own class and ignored the weaknesses of others. She did neither. Injustice infuriated her, more now than when she was younger. As time passed she was becoming more like Charlotte, who had always been opinionated, quick to anger, and a fighter against all she perceived to be wrong, even though that perception was sometimes hasty, and far too outspoken. Emily had been more sensible—at least until now.

  Today she sat down and wrote a letter to Jack Radley, inviting him to call upon her at his earliest convenience, and dispatched the footman with it as soon as it was sealed.

  His reply was satisfactorily rapid. He arrived in the early evening, the hour when in happier times she would have been dressing for an evening at dinner, or perhaps a ball or the theater. Now she sat by the fire reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, published the previous year. She was glad to be interrupted; the story was darker and far more frightening than she had supposed, and she could see the elements of tragedy already. She had it in a brown paper cover, in case the servants should be scandalized.

  Jack Radley entered the moment after the parlormaid announced him. He was casually dressed, but his tailor was clearly his chief creditor. The cut of his trousers was immaculate, the jacket fit perfectly. It was his smile she looked to, however, and those remarkable eyes, which were full of concern.

  “Emily, are you all right?” he asked, searching her face. “Your message sounded urgent. Has something happened?”

  She felt a trifle foolish. “I’m sorry. It is not an emergency, and I am perfectly well, thank you. But I am bored to distraction, and Charlotte has discovered a mystery.” There was no point in lying to him; he was too like her to be deceived.

  His face relaxed into a smile and he sat down on the chair opposite her. “A my
stery?”

  She tried to sound nonchalant, suddenly realizing that he might imagine she had dredged up an excuse to call him. “An old murder,” she continued quickly, “that may have a scandal behind it, or may not, in which case an innocent woman might be ruined and unable to marry the man she loves.”

  He looked puzzled. “But what can you do? And how can I help?”

  “There is a great deal the police can discover, of course, about facts,” she explained. “But they can’t make the sort of judgments we might, because it all has to be terribly discreet. “ She saw with a flicker of excitement that she had caught his interest. “And naturally no one would speak in front of the police as they might with us, nor would the police understand the shades of meaning if they did.”

  “But how can we find ourselves in a position to observe these people?” he said seriously. “You haven’t told me who they are—but regardless of that, Emily, you cannot introduce yourself into Society again for some time.” His face tightened, and for an unpleasant moment she feared she saw pity in his eyes. She might have accepted pity from someone else, but coming from Jack it grated surprisingly, like an abrasion of the skin.

  “I know I can’t!” she said, and instantly regretted the tartness in her voice, and yet was unable to stop it. “But Charlotte can, and then we can discuss it together. At least, she can if you will be prepared to help her.”

  He smiled a little ruefully. “I am very good at scraping an acquaintance. Who are they?”

  She looked up at his face, trying to read his expression. His eyelashes still shadowed his cheek the way she remembered. How many other women had thought precisely the same thing? Really, this was the utmost foolishness. Charlotte was right; she needed some occupation for her mind, before it became completely addled!