Silence in Hanover Close tp-9 Read online

  York stared at him levelly for several seconds, then stood up slowly. “I suppose you know what you’re doing, Mr. Pitt.” There was no slight in his voice; he spoke as one gentleman to another. He pulled the bell rope near the door, and when the footman answered he sent him for Mrs. York.

  She was several minutes in coming, but neither of them spoke again until she appeared. Pitt stood up immediately and regarded her with interest. This was the woman whose composure had so impressed Lowther on the night of her son’s death, and Mowbray the day after. She was of barely average height, her slender build a little thickened at the waist, with well-covered shoulders and a white neck draped in lace, not an old lady’s lace, but expensive, heavy French lace such as Great-aunt Vespasia might have chosen. Even from a distance of several feet Pitt could smell the faintest aroma of an elusive sweet perfume like gardenia. She had smooth, rounded features, an almost Greek nose, and lips that were still well defined. Her skin was flawless, and her hair, though faded in color, still rich-textured and full, with natural wave. She had been a beauty, in her own fashion. She regarded Pitt with cold surprise.

  “Mr. Pitt is from the police,” York said in explanation. “He may have found some of our belongings that were stolen. Can you describe the silver vase? I’m afraid I wouldn’t know it if I saw it.”

  Her eyes widened. “After three years you may be able to return me one silver vase? I am unimpressed, Mr. Pitt.”

  The criticism was just and he knew it. Pitt’s voice sounded sharper than he intended. “Justice is frequently slow, ma’am, and sometimes the innocent suffer as well. I’m sorry.”

  She forced herself to smile, and he respected her for that.

  “It was about nine inches high, on a round base but squared up the body, with a fluted lip. It was solid silver, and took about five or six stems. I usually put roses in it.”

  That was very precise; there was nothing vague or distorted about her description. He looked at her closely. She was intelligent, in complete command of herself, but there was no lack of emotion in her face. In fact Pitt could easily imagine great passion there. He glanced down at the small, strong hands at her sides and saw that they were stiff, but not clenched.

  “Thank you, ma’am. And the crystal paperweight?”

  “Spherical, with two Tudor roses engraved on it, and something else, a ribbon or scroll. It was about three or four inches high, and heavy, of course.” Her brow puckered. “Have you found the thief?” There was a slight tremor in her voice now and a tiny muscle flickered under the pale skin of her temple.

  “No ma’am”-at least that was the absolute truth-“only property, through a dealer in stolen goods. But he may lead us to the thief.”

  York was standing several feet away from her. For a moment Pitt thought he was going to reach out to her in a gesture of comfort, or merely of companionship, but he changed his mind, or else Pitt had misunderstood the slight movement. What lay behind his wry patrician face, her regular, carefully preserved beauty? Did they suspect that their daughter-in-law had had a lover? Or that their son had been murdered for his country’s secrets? Or that some associate, even a family friend, had fallen deeply into debt and had turned in desperation to robbery rather than face the disgrace and perhaps even imprisonment brought by financial ruin?

  He would learn nothing from staring at them. All their nurturing in the cool, obedient childhood of the aristocracy had bred into them self-mastery, the knowledge of duty to dignity and to class. Whatever fear or grief lay inside, no policeman, no gamekeeper’s son was going to see it naked in a wavering voice or a shaking hand. Pitt almost wished Charlotte could see them; she might be able to read far more into their manner.

  He could not prolong it anymore, and he could think of no appropriate excuse to meet the widow. He thanked them and allowed the footman to show him to the door and the gray, ice-whipped street.

  It took him three days to find a vase that fit Mrs. York’s description, and even then it was an inch and a half short and had five sides rather than four, but it was near enough. The paperweight was impossible; the stolen goods hauls presented nothing remotely like it, and he would betray his deceit if he brought one that differed vastly from the description he had been given.

  It was New Year’s Eve and snowing hard. He rode through muffled streets, the wheels of the hansom almost silent in the pall, and stepped out at number 2 Hanover Close a little after three. He had asked the constable on the beat and knew that this was the best opportunity to catch the younger Mrs. York at home, while the elder Mrs. York was out visiting.

  This time the door was answered by a pretty young snip of a parlormaid with a crisp lace apron and a cap on her dark head. She eyed Pitt up and down suspiciously, from the tousled hair poking out under his tall hat and his well-cut but ill-used coat, its pockets stuffed with all manner of objects he had thought he might find useful, to Emily’s beautiful boots.

  “Yes sir?”

  He smiled at her. “I have called to see Mrs. York. She is expecting me within these few days.”

  She considered his smile more than the information, which she found hard to believe. “Mrs. York has company at the present, sir, but if you come into the morning room I’ll inform her you are here.”

  “Thank you.” He stepped in and handed her one of the cards he had acquired since his last visit. Perhaps it was a trifle presumptuous for a policeman to have a card, but he liked it, and it might justify its expense one day. He had not told Charlotte about it, in case she secretly thought him foolish.

  The morning room was unchanged, a banked-up slow fire glowing in the grate. This time Pitt deliberately opened the door to the hall after the maid had gone and stood a little out of the way of it, so that he could overhear any conversation unseen. The visitors were probably irrelevant, but he was curious. There had been no carriages outside, so they must intend staying long enough to be worth sending them round to the mews at the back; that meant more than the half hour or so of a normal afternoon call.

  The misunderstanding he hoped for materialized. It was the younger Mrs. York the parlormaid informed, and after nearly ten minutes it was she who came, accompanied by a fair-haired man of about forty with a face not handsome, but of intelligent and compelling cast. They were both civil but extremely guarded.

  Veronica York was indeed a beautiful woman, very slender, with delicate shoulders and bosom, and she moved with an unusual grace. Her face was more sensitive than her mother-in-law’s, more finely boned. It appealed to Pitt instinctively. There was a haunting quality in it, and he had the impression that beneath the calm lay an intense passion, poised to break through.

  “Mr. Pitt?” she said with obvious doubt. “I hope you do not mind, Mr. Danver has accompanied me. I regret I do not recollect our acquaintance.”

  Danver put one arm half round her, as if he would protect her from any attack of discourtesy. But there was no hostility in his face, only caution, and an awareness of her vulnerability.

  “I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized immediately. “It was Mrs. Piers York who was expecting me. I should have made myself plainer. But I expect, if you would not mind, you could assist equally well.” He took the silver vase out of his coat pocket and held it up. “It is possible that this is the vase stolen from you some three years ago. If it is, would you be kind enough to assure yourself, and then confirm it to me?”

  The blood fled from her face and her eyes widened as if he had held up something appalling and incomprehensible.

  Danver tightened his arm round her as though he feared she might faint. Then he turned on Pitt furiously.

  “For heaven’s sake, man, have you no pity at all? You walk in here without the least warning and hold up a vase that was stolen the very night Mrs. York’s husband was violently murdered!” He looked at Veronica York, and his voice rose as he saw her anguish deepen. “I shall complain to your superiors about your gross insensitivity! You might at least have asked for Mr. York!”

  Pit
t did feel compassion for her, but he had felt it for the guilty as well as the innocent many times before. For Julian Danver it was different: either he was a superb actor, or it had not occurred to him that the truth was anything other than what had already been presumed.

  “I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized honestly. “Mr. York told me on a previous visit that he would not know the vase again. It was Mrs. Piers York who described it to me. I can ask a servant, if you prefer: with your permission?”

  Veronica was struggling to master herself. “You are being unfair, Julian,” she said with some difficulty. She swallowed dryly and caught her breath. She was still bloodlessly pale. “Mr. Pitt is only doing his duty. It would not be any less distressing to Mother-in-law.” She raised her eyes to meet Pitt’s, and he was struck again by the power of emotion in her; she was no mere society beauty but a woman who would be unique and compelling anywhere. “I am afraid I am not sure whether it is our vase or not,” she said, struggling to keep her voice in control, “I never took much notice of it. It was in the library, which is a room I did not frequent a great deal. Perhaps if you would ask one of the servants, rather than distress my mother-in-law with seeing it?”

  “Of course.” Pitt had hoped to find an excuse to speak to the servants, and this was ideal. “If you will instruct your butler or housekeeper that you have given your permission, I shall go through to the servants quarters and perhaps find the housemaid who dusted the library at that time.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, unable to hide her relief. “Yes, that would be an excellent idea.”

  “I’ll attend to it,” Danver offered. “Would you prefer to go to your room for a while, my dear? I’ll make your apologies to Harriet and Papa.”

  She swung round quickly, “Please don’t tell them.”

  “Of course not,” he assured her. “I’ll merely say you felt a little faint and went to lie down for half an hour and will rejoin them later. Would you like me to call for your maid, or your mother-in-law?”

  “No!” This time there was a fierceness in her voice, and her hand on his arm was clawlike in its grip. “No-please don’t! I shall be perfectly all right. Don’t disturb anyone else. I shall go up for a little eau de cologne and then return to the withdrawing room. If you will be kind enough to call Redditch and explain to him about Mr. Pitt and the vase?”

  He acquiesced with some reluctance, uncertainty still plain in his face.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” she said courteously, turning away. Danver opened the door for her, and she disappeared into the hall.

  Danver rang for the butler, a mild, slightly anxious-looking man of middle age who still retained some of the bewildered innocence of extreme youth. It was an odd combination in the dignity and responsibility of his position. Pitt’s errand was explained to him, Danver excused himself, and Pitt was conducted across the hall, through the green baize door, and into the housekeeper’s sitting room, which was unoccupied at present.

  “I’m not sure who was downstairs maid at the time, sir,” the butler said dubiously. “Most of the staff have changed since Mr. Robert was killed. I’m new myself; so is the housekeeper. But the scullery maid was here then. She might remember.”

  “If you would?” Pitt agreed.

  He was left for some twenty minutes to sit and wait, turning over his thoughts on Veronica York, until at last a pleasant-looking girl in her early twenties came in. She was wearing a blue stuff gown and a small white apron and cap. Obviously she was not the scullery maid; her looks were trim and soft and her hands were not reddened by constant water. It had been a long time since she had scrubbed a floor. The butler came with her, presumably to make sure she was discreet in her answers.

  “I’m Dulcie, sir,” she said with a tiny bob. Policemen did not rank a full curtsy; they were something like servants themselves. “I was the tweeny ’ere when Mr. Robert was killed. There’s only me and Mary, the scullery maid, left. Mr. Redditch said as I could ’elp you, sir?”

  It was a pity the butler remained, but Pitt should have expected that: any senior servant in his position would have.

  “Yes, if you please.” Pitt took out the silver vase again and held it up for her. “Look at this carefully, Dulcie, and tell me if it is the vase that used to be in the library, up to the time of Mr. Robert York’s death.”

  “Oh!” She looked startled. Apparently Redditch had been very fair and told her only that she was wanted because she had been a housemaid three years ago. Her eyes widened and fixed on the vase in Pitt’s hand. She did not touch it.

  “Well, Dulcie?” Redditch prompted. “Is that the vase, girl? You must have dusted it often enough.”

  “It’s very like it, sir, but I don’t think that’s it. Like I remember it, it had four sides to it. But I could be wrong.”

  It was the best answer she could have given. It allowed him to pursue the subject.

  “Never mind,” he said easily, smiling at her. “Just think back to what you used to do three years ago. Do you remember that week?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, her voice hushed.

  “Tell me something about it. Were there many visitors to the house?”

  “Oh yes.” Memory brought a momentary smile to her face. “There was lots of people then.” The light vanished. “Of course, after Mr. Robert’s death all that stopped, only people coming to give their condolences.”

  “Ladies calling in the afternoons?” Pitt suggested.

  “Yes, most days, either on Mrs. Piers or Mrs. Robert. There was usually one of them in, and one out paying visits ’erself.”

  “Dinner parties?”

  “Not very often. More often they dined out, or went to the theater.”

  “But some came here?”

  “Of course!”

  “Mr. Danver?”

  “Mr. Julian Danver, and ’is father Mr. Garrard, and Miss ’arriet,” she replied quickly. “And Mr. and Mrs. Asherson.” She mentioned half a dozen more names which Pitt wrote down under the disapproving eye of the butler.

  “Now see if you can recall a particular day,” he went on, “and go through your duties one by one.”

  “Yes, sir.” She looked at her folded hands and recited slowly, “I got up at ’alf past five and came downstairs to clean out all the grates, taking out the cinders to the back. Mary’d give me a cup o’ tea, then I’d make sure all the ’arths was clean and things blacked as should be, and the brasses, firedogs, and the like polished, and I’d lay the fires and light them so when the family came down in the rooms’d be warm. I’d make sure the footman brought in the coals and the scuttles was full-sometimes you ’ave to be be’ind them all the time. Then after breakfast I’d start dusting and cleaning-”

  “Did you clean the library?” He had to press for an identification to justify his position.

  “Yes sir-sir! I remember now: that’s very like the vase we ’ad, but it in’t it!”

  “You’re sure?” the butler put in sharply.

  “Yes, Mr. Redditch. That in’t our vase; I’d swear to it.”

  “Thank you.” Pitt could think of nothing else to ask. At least he had some names and could begin looking for a possible amateur thief. He stood up and thanked them.

  Redditch relented.

  “Would you like a cup of tea in the kitchen, Mr. Pitt?”

  Pitt accepted immediately. He was thirsty, and he would very much like a hot cup of tea. He would also like an opportunity to observe as many of the servants as he could.

  Half an hour later, after three cups of tea and two slices of Madeira cake, he went back to the main hallway and opened the library door. It was a gracious room, lined with bookshelves on two sides, the third taken up with windows from floor to ceiling curtained in rust red velvet. On the fourth side was a huge marble fireplace flanked by semicircular tables inlaid with exotic wood. There was a massive desk in oak and green leather, its back to the windows, and three large leather-covered armchairs.

  Pitt stood in the middle of t
he floor, imagining the scene on the night Robert York was killed. He heard a slight sound behind him and turned to find the maid, Dulcie, in the doorway. As soon as he saw her she came in. Her brow was puckered and her eyes bright.

  “There was something else?” he asked quickly, sure he was right.

  “Yes sir. You asked about guests, people callin’ ’ere …”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, that week was the last time I saw ’er, or anything belonging to ’er.” She stopped, biting her lip, suddenly uncertain whether she should be so indiscreet.

  “Saw who, Dulcie?” He must be gentle, not attach too much importance to it and frighten her. “Saw who?”

  “I don’t know ’er name. The woman what wore the cerise-colored gowns, always something o’ that shade. She weren’t a guest-at least, she never came in the front door with other people, and I never saw ’er face except that one time in the light from the gas lamp on the landing; there she was one moment, and gone a second later. But she wore cerise always, either a gown or gloves or a flower or something. I know Miss Veronica’s things, and she ’adn’t nothing that color. But I found a glove one day in the library, ’alf under one of them cushions.” She pointed to the furthest chair. “And once there was a piece o’ ribbon.”

  “Are you sure they weren’t the elder Mrs. York’s?”

  “Oh yes, sir. I knew the lady’s maids then, and we talked about the mistresses’ clothes. It’s a hard color, that; I know as neither of them wore it. It was the woman in cerise, sir, but ’oo she was I swear I don’t know. ’Cept she came and went like a shadow, like no one should see ’er, and I ’aven’t seen ’er since that week, sir. I’m sorry as it weren’t the right vase, sir. I wish as you could catch ’ooever done it. It in’t the silver: Mr. Piers says as you can always get money from the insurance, like ’e did when Mrs. Loretta lost ’er pearls with the sapphire clip.” She bit her lip and suddenly stopped.