Silence in Hanover Close Read online

  The Stoat’s eyes glazed a little.

  “Murder’s not good for business,” Pitt said very quietiy. “Gives robbery a bad name.”

  “Bring on the scran!” the little man snapped, then licked his lips and smiled. “Yer right—it’s clumsy and it in’t necessary.” He watched with rapture as his plate was set in front of him, inhaling the delicate steam and sucking his teeth as the cider was poured, eyeing it right to the brim of the tankard.

  “What do you know about it, Stoat?” Pitt asked before he took the first mournful.

  The Stoat’s eyes opened very wide. They were a clear gray; the redeeming feature of a cramped face, they must once have been handsome. He filled his mouth with food and chewed slowly, rolling it round his tongue.

  “Nuffin’,” he said at last. “And that in’t nuffin’, if yer sees wot I mean. Usual yer ’ears a word, if not straight orf, men in a munf er two. Or if ’e’s in lavender ’cos it turned a bit nasty, men a year, mebbe. But vis ’un clean mizzled!”

  “If he was in lavender in some nethersken, you’d know?” Pitt pressed. “In lavender” meant in a hiding place from the police, but the Stoat was indicating that this particular thief had vanished.

  The Stoat filled his mouth again and spoke round the food with difficulty. “ ’Course I’d know!” he said contemptuously. “Know every slapbang, lurk, nethersken, flash ’ouse, and paddyken fer miles.”

  Pitt understood him. He was referring to cheap eating houses, hiding places, low lodging houses, criminal pubs, and taprooms.

  “An’ I tell yer vis,” the Stoat went on, sipping his cider appreciatively. “ ’E weren’t no professional. From wot I ’ear ’e got no crow, no snakesman, and ’oo but a fool’d go in the front like ’e did in a place like ’anover Close? Yer gotta know the crushers’d be rahnd every bleedin’ twenty minutes!”

  A snakesman was a thin or underdeveloped child who could creep through the bars of a window and, once inside, open the doors for the real thief. A crow was a lookout, frequently a woman, to warn of police or strangers approaching. Pitt already knew the thief was no professional from P.C. Lowther, but it was interesting that the Stoat knew this also. “So he was an amateur,” he said. “Has he done anything else, anything since?”

  The Stoat shook his head, his mouth full. He swallowed. “Told yer—mizzled. Never done nuffink afore ner since. ’E in’t on our patch, Mr. Pitt. I never ’eard o’ ven fings fenced, ner no one in lavender ’cos o’ the feller topped—an’ vey would be. It’s no stretch in Coldbath, ner even takin’ ve boat like it used ter be: murder’s croppin’ business, no cockchafers ner scroby, just Newgate, and a long drop early one mornin’ wiv a rope collar. A long drop and only the devil ter catch yer.”

  “Cockchafer” was the graphic term for the treadmill used in prisons, a device to keep a man perpetually in motion; “scroby” meant the prison sentence of the lash.

  The Stoat sat back and patted his belly. “Vat was a fair tightener, Mr. Pitt,” he said, gazing at his empty plate. “I’d ’elp yer if I could. Ve best I can tell yer is ter look fer some toff wot fought as thievin’ was simple and tried ’is ’and at it an’ fahnd it weren’t.” He pulled over the plate of spotted dick pudding, thick with fruit, and dipped his spoon in it, then looked up with a sudden idea. “Or mebbe the lady o’ ve ’ouse ’ad a lover, an’ ’e did away wiv ’er ’usband, an’ it weren’t nuffink ter do wiv thievin’ at all. ’Ad yer fought o’ vat, Mr. Pitt? It ain’t one of ve family, vat I know.”

  “Yes Stoat, I had thought of it,” Pitt said, pushing the cream across to him.

  The Stoat grinned, showing sharp, gappy teeth, and poured the cream generously. “Y’in’t daft, fer a crusher, is yer!” he said with grudging respect.

  Pitt believed the Stoat, but even so he felt compelled to pursue any other contacts he had right up until Christmas Eve. He found nothing but a blank ignorance and a total absence of fear, which was in itself a kind of evidence. He tramped miles through dingy alleys behind the grand façades of the great streets; he questioned pimps, fences, footpads, and keepers of bawdy houses, but no one told him anything of a thief who had broken into Hanover Close and tried to sell or dispose of the missing property, or who was hiding from a murder charge. The whole underworld turned a dirty, conniving, but quite innocent face to his inquiries.

  It was a fine, sharp evening, dark by half past four after a pale green sunset. Gas lamps burned yellow, carriages rattled back and forth over a shining film of ice on the cobbles. People called out greetings, drivers shouted abuse, and street sellers cried their wares: hot chestnuts, matches, bootlaces, old lavender, fresh pies, penny whistles, toy soldiers. Here and there little knots of youths sang carols, their voices thin and a little sharp in the frosty air.

  Pitt felt a slow, blessed cleanliness wash over him as the smell of despair receded and the grayness was infused with the beginnings of color. The excitement around him drove out memory and buoyed him up, even expunging the pity and guilt he usually felt when leaving the rookeries and returning to his comfortable home. Today he cast off those feelings like a soiled coat and was left with only gratitude. He flung open the front door and shouted out, “Hello!”

  There was an instant’s silence, then he heard Jemima jump from her stool and the clatter of shoes on linoleum as she ran up the hall to meet him.

  “Papa! Papa, is it Christmas Eve yet? It is, isn’t it!”

  He threw his arms round her and lifted her high into the air. “Yes, my sweetheart, it is! It is Christmas Eve, right now!” He kissed her and held her on his arm, striding into the kitchen. All the lights were blazing. Charlotte and Emily sat at the table, putting the finishing touches on the icing of a great cake, and Gracie was stuffing the goose. Emily had arrived an hour earlier with a footman in tow, laden with colored paper, boxes, and ribbons. Edward, Daniel, and Jemima had clustered round him, speechless with excitement, Edward hopping up and down from one foot to the other, his blond hair flopping on his head like a silver-gold lid. Daniel was doing a little dance on the floor, round and round in circles until he fell over.

  Pitt put Jemima down, kissed Charlotte, welcomed Emily, and acknowledged Gracie’s presence. He took his boots off and stretched out in front of the stove, warming his feet and legs, and watched contentedly as Gracie moved the kettle over onto the hot surface and got down the teapot and his large breakfast cup.

  After the meal he could hardly wait for the children to go to bed so he could bring out his carefully hidden gifts and begin to wrap them up. He and Emily and Charlotte sat round the scrubbed kitchen table, now piled with scissors, bright paper, and pieces of ribbon and string. Every so often someone would disappear into the parlor, demanding not to be disturbed, and returning with a satisfied smile and gleaming eyes.

  They went to bed a little before midnight, and Pitt only heard Charlotte get up once in the pitch darkness when a small voice on the landing asked plaintively, “Isn’t it morning yet?”

  He woke properly at seven to find Daniel at the door in his nightgown and Charlotte fully dressed at the window.

  “I think it’s snowing,” she said softly. “It’s too dark to see, but there’s a sort of gleam in the air.” She turned round and saw Daniel. “Happy Christmas, darling,” she said, bending over to kiss him. He stood still; he was nearly five and not sure about being kissed anymore, at least not in front of other people.

  “Is it Christmas?” he whispered into the soft hair around her cheek.

  “Yes—yes it is! Get up Thomas, it’s Christmas.” She held out her hand to Daniel. “Do you want to come and see what is under the tree in the parlor before you get dressed?”

  He nodded, his wide eyes never leaving her face.

  “Then come on!” And she whisked him out, leaving the door wide open behind her and calling for Edward and Jemima to follow.

  Pitt scrambled out of bed, pulled on his clothes in even worse disarray than usual, and, after splashing his face from the pitcher on
the dresser, ran downstairs. Charlotte, Emily, and the children stood in the parlor staring at the tree and the pile of bright parcels under it. No one spoke.

  “Breakfast first, then church; then we’ll see what’s in there,” Pitt said, breaking the spell. He did not want Emily to turn and see his face, and think of George.

  Jemima opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it.

  “Where’s Gracie?” he asked.

  “I sent her home last night,” Charlotte replied. “With two of us we can do everything quite easily.”

  “Wouldn’t she rather have been here, with us?” Pitt thought of the difference between Gracie’s home and this house with its warmth, its happiness, and the goose in the oven.

  “Maybe,” Charlotte agreed, leading the way to the kitchen. “But her mother wouldn’t. Emily gave her a chicken,” she added under her breath, then went on briskly. “Breakfast in thirty minutes. Everyone go and get dressed— come on!” She clapped her hands and Emily took the children back upstairs while she went to prepare porridge, bacon, eggs, toast, marmalade, honey, and tea. Pitt went back up to shave.

  Outside there was a fine dusting of snow and banners of pearl-gray cloud across the winter blue of the sky between the rooftops. They walked together to the church half a mile away. Everywhere bells were ringing; the cold air was full of the sound.

  The service was short, and they sat packed together in the narrow pews while the vicar told the familiar story, the organ pealing out all the familiar hymns. “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” and “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and everyone sang till the sound seemed to roll round them like an ocean.

  They walked back in a shower of snow, making footprints in its newness, taking another look at the pile of parcels under the tree. Then, after a short stage of flurry in the kitchen, they all sat down to roast goose with savory stuffing and all the trimmings, crisp brown roast potatoes and parsnips, and a good French wine, and plum pudding fired with brandy, to the delight of the children, and covered with cream. Charlotte had made it and cut it with great care so everyone got a silver threepence.

  Finally the presents could be kept no longer. Bursting with excitement, they all trooped into the parlor to portion them out and watch as three children tore off paper, scattered it in mounds, and were lost in a daze of boundless wonder. For Daniel there were the engine and wagons Pitt had made him and a jack-in-the-box Emily had brought; for Edward a box of bricks of every color, shape and size which Pitt had carved and painted, and a set of tin soldiers from Emily; and for Jemima a doll for whom Charlotte had sewn three different outfits of clothing, and from Emily a kaleidoscope which when she shook it and held it to her eye presented an ever-changing magic world of glittering designs.

  From Charlotte’s mother they each had books: Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland for Jemima; Charles Kingsley’s The Water Babies for Daniel; and Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island for Edward.

  Charlotte was thrilled with her pink alabaster vase, and the garnet brooch Emily gave her; and Emily was equally delighted with the lace collar from Pitt and Charlotte. Pitt was totally happy with the shirts Charlotte had sewn for him, and the gleaming leather Wellington boots Emily had brought. He thanked her for them sincerely, not only for the gift, but for the tact she had shown in not giving too much. She knew quite well that as a constable, Pitt had earned about the same as a chimney sweep, and even now as an inspector his entire month’s salary was less than her month’s dress allowance.

  Emily in turn was grateful for the emotional warmth and the sense of belonging, and she let them see her pleasure as the most delicate way of thanking them. When the flurry of gifts and thank-yous subsided at last, they sat in front of the fire, sparing no expense in letting it roar red and yellow up the chimney. Emily and Charlotte talked and Pitt dozed with his feet on the fender.

  In the evening, when the children had gone up to bed, exhausted, clutching their presents, Charlotte, Pitt, and Emily took out a giant jigsaw puzzle of the coronation of Queen Victoria. They sat up till midnight, when Emily finally put in the last piece with a crow of triumph.

  Two days later, in a crisp north wind that froze the slush on the pavements into slippery, crackling ridges and scattered ice from the gutter like broken glass, Pitt went back to work. After leaving various instructions regarding the other burglaries in his charge, he left Bow Street for Hanover Close. He was increasingly curious to meet the Yorks, and he had an idea.

  A somewhat surprised cabbie set him down in the calm, elegant Close with its Georgian façades and the complicated filigree of bare, black trees against a heavy white sky. He opened his mouth to ask Pitt if he was sure this was where he meant to be, then saw the look on his face and changed his mind. The cabbie took the money and slapped the reins on the horse’s faintly steaming rump.

  Pitt walked up to the front door, prepared for the scorn of the footman, who would tell him a policeman’s place—if he must come at all—was at the tradesmen’s entrance in back. He was used to this sort of treatment, but he still felt his shoulders tighten.

  The door opened almost immediately and a footman in his late twenties failed to keep the slight surprise out of his face.

  “My name is Thomas Pitt.” Pitt did not mention rank yet. “It is possible I may have some information about a matter of interest to Mr. York. I would be obliged if you would ask if I may see him.”

  The footman did not dare turn down such a request without reference to his master, a fact which Pitt had counted on.

  “If you will wait in the morning room, sir, I will inquire.” The footman stepped back and opened the door invitingly. He had a tray in his hand, but Pitt did not have a card to place on it. Perhaps that was something he should consider: just a plain one, with his name and nothing else.

  The morning room was spacious and comfortable, a man’s room, with cool green furnishings and sporting prints on the walls. There were leather-bound books in two glass-fronted cases and a rather fine sphere on a table by the window, with all the nations of the empire marked in red, and encircled by vast reaches of Canada, Australasia, India, most of Africa all the way up to Egypt, and islands in every ocean. An engraved brass meridian encircled it.

  The footman hovered. “May I tell Mr. York what the matter is in connection with?” he said earnestly.

  “With the death of Mr. Robert York,” Pitt answered, stretching the truth only slightly.

  The footman found no reply to that, bowed very minutely, and left, closing the door behind him.

  Pitt knew he would not have long to wait, and there would be little point in studying the books to learn the personalities of those in the house. Handsome books were all too often purchased for their appearance rather than their content. Instead he rehearsed again what he intended to say, preparing himself to lie to a man for whom he felt profound pity, and might well develop a liking.

  The Honorable Piers York appeared within five minutes. He was tall, with the build of a man who had been slender in his prime. Approaching seventy, he held himself erect, except for a slight rounding of the shoulders, and his lean face was full of a wry, private humor, which was deeply ingrained beneath the present patina of grief and the years of self-restraint.

  “Mr. Pitt?” he inquired curiously, closing the door and indicating one of the armchairs in a tacit invitation. “John said you have something to say about my son’s death. Is that correct?”

  Pitt felt more ashamed than he had expected, but it was too late to withdraw now without explaining his lie. “Yes sir.” He swallowed. “It is possible that some of the articles stolen may have been discovered. If you would give me a closer description of the vase and the paperweight . . . ?”

  York’s eyes were puzzled. The shadow of loss was there, also a gleam of something which might have been humor or irony as he took in Pitt’s shining and perfectly fitted boots.

  “Are you from the police?” he asked.

  Pitt felt the heat in his face
. “Yes sir.”

  York sat down with an elegant movement despite a faint stiffness in his back. “What have you found?”

  Pitt had his story prepared. He sat down opposite and avoided York’s eyes as he replied. “We have found a great deal more stolen property lately, and among it are several pieces of silver and crystal.”

  “I see.” York smiled bleakly. “I can’t see that it matters much now. They were not of great value. It was just a small vase; can’t really remember the thing myself. The paperweight had engraving on it, I think, flowers or something. I wouldn’t go to too much trouble, Mr. Pitt. Surely you must have more important work.”

  There was no alternative but to say it. “It may be through the articles that we can trace the thief, and thus the man who killed your son,” he explained gravely.

  York smiled, polite but weary. He had already divorced the matter from his emotions. “After three years, Mr. Pitt? Surely it will have changed hands many times since then.” It was an observation, not a question.

  “I don’t think so, sir. We have many contacts with the dealers in stolen goods.”

  “I suppose it is necessary?” York said with a sigh. “I really don’t give a damn about the vase, and I’m sure my wife doesn’t either. Robert was our only son; can’t we . . .” His words died away.

  Was it necessary? Would the whole charade he had planned really lead to any information about Robert York’s murderer? Would it even shed any light on the possible involvement of his widow? Was it not merely a further exercise in pain inflicted upon a family that was already deeply hurt?

  But there was something different about this crime. It was not a common housebreaking. He believed Pinhorn, the Stoat, and all the others who said it had not sprung from the underworld. Perhaps an acquaintance of the York household had turned to sudden crime, and when Robert had recognized him, the burglar had killed Robert in his panic, rather than be betrayed. Or else it was a murder first and a burglary second: Robert York had surprised his wife with a lover, and the perpetrator had taken the articles to mask the real crime. Or worse still, perhaps it had been premeditated.