Silence in Hanover Close (29 page)

The following evening he walked slowly through the fine ice-cold drizzle, woolen muffler high round his ears, along a gray alley in the district of Seven Dials. He knew why the man had chosen this part of the city; it was, as the flower girl had said, where the news sheets were printed and the natural headquarters of the running patterers. They made their living selling news or song sheets by the yard, constantly on the move crying the thrills and dramas within their pages. Most were based on the latest crime—the more gruesome, the better. Occasionally it was love letters of the utmost indiscretion. They might be of a famous person, an international beauty, or more tantalizingly an unnamed “lady of this neighborhood—to a gentleman not a hundred miles away!” If the truth were currently a little flavorless, then they had wit and imagination enough to retell some of the old favorites: wronged women who murdered either their faithless lovers, or the poor infants of the union, which well told, would bring tears to many a reader’s eye. Running patterers were usually men of some enterprise and a keen observation of human nature; it did not surprise Pitt that it should be one of these who had noticed and remembered Cerise. The man’s occupation was the retelling of tales of passion, murder, and beautiful women.

It was bitterly cold, and the narrow alleys made funnels for the wind. The dim figures Pitt passed were hunched forward, heads sunk into their shoulders, faces averted. In doorways sleepers piled together like sacks for the heat of each other’s bodies. The splinters of a broken gin bottle caught a gleam of light from a gas lamp.

Pitt found the Triple Plea after only one false turn. Pushing his way through the raucous drinkers in the public bar, he reached the counter. The landlord, in a beer-stained calico apron, shirt sleeves at half mast, looked at his unfamiliar face warily.

“Yeah?”

“Anyone asking for me?” Pitt asked quietly. “Name’s Pitt.”

“An’ why should I know that? I in’t a public service!”

“Oh, but you are.” Pitt forced a civil expression to his face. He fished in his pocket and brought out a sixpence. “And services should be paid for, when they’re worth it. When someone does ask, you tell me. Meantime I’ll have a cider.”

The man eyed the money ungraciously, pulled a draft cider into a tankard, and pushed it across. “There y’are. ’Is name’s Black Sam, an’ ’e’s over in the corner wiv a blue shirt and a brown coat—an’ the cider’ll be extra.”

“Naturally,” Pitt agreed, and added another tuppence. He took the glass and sipped from it gingerly. Actually it was rough and sweet, and surprisingly good. Taking a long drink, he made his way quite slowly over to the corner indicated, his eyes roaming to find the patterer. Several of the men here were probably of that occupation; they were not far from the printing houses, and they had the mobile faces, the quick eyes and lean figures of men who were constantly on the move.

He saw a man with an unusually dark complexion and a bright blue shirt sitting over a jar of ale. Almost immediately their eyes met, and Pitt knew it was S. Smith; there was an air of waiting in him, a restless scanning of faces. Pitt forced his way through and stopped in front of the cramped table.

“Mr. Smith?”

“That’s right.”

“Pitt. You said that for a consideration you could help me.”

“So I can. Drink yer cider; then when I leave, foller me out a minute or two be’ind. Don’t want ter give folks reason ter think, thinkin’ in’t good fer ’em. I’ll be outside on the street opposite. I ’ope yer’ve brought summink gen’rous wiv yer? I don’t give no credit. Noos is noos, an’ I makes me livin’ by it.”

“Sometimes it is,” Pitt said coolly. “Sometimes it’s lies. I’ve heard plenty of good cocks before.” A “cock” was a colorful melodrama invented when real news was slow; there were several famous ones making the rounds.

Black Sam smiled, showing crooked teeth that were surprisingly clean. “Sure. But they’re fer entertainin’ ladies as like a good cry an’ no ’arm done if the story is a bit—decorated like. That’s art.”

“Quite. Well, I’d like nature, or nothing.”

“Oh, you’ll get it, don’t fret.” And he stood up, tipped his mug back and drained it to the last drop, set it back on the bench, and pushed past Pitt without looking at him again. A moment later he had disappeared.

Pitt finished his cider without hurrying, then edged his way out into the night. The fine drizzle had stopped and it was beginning to freeze over. There were no stars because of the pall of smoke that hung over the city from the tens of thousands of chimneys. He could see the dim outline of Black Sam on the far curb. He crossed over and approached him.

“How much?” Sam said pleasantly without moving.

“If I find the woman in the pink dress and she’s the right one, half a crown.”

“An’ wot’s ter stop yer sayin’ it in’t the right one?”

Pitt had already thought of that. “My reputation. If I fiddle you out of what’s rightly yours for services rendered, no one’ll give the information in the future, and then I can’t do my job.”

Sam thought it over for a moment, but he was not long in his decision. Word spread fast among people who lived on the edge between survival and despair, and he made his own way by judging people. “Yer on,” he agreed. “Follow me.” And at last he straightened up and began to walk with a gait that was a deceptively rapid kind of lope. Pitt was hard pressed to keep up with him; although he was used to being on his feet all day it was with a measured tread, even back when he had been a constable. Now he was accustomed to riding, and the patterer’s speed left him breathless.

Fifteen minutes later they were almost at the far side of Seven Dials and in a more salubrious neighborhood, but still the streets were narrow and a practiced eye could recognize cheap lodging houses, and several that were almost certainly used as brothels. If Cerise were here then she had indeed fallen on hard times since the days of the Lyceum and the hotel where the doorkeeper had remembered her.

The patterer stopped and stood still on the grimy pavement.

“Up them stairs,” Black Sam said smoothly. He might have been on an evening’s stroll for any difference the run had made to him. “Knock on the door at the top an’ ask ter see Fred. ’E’ll tell yer where yer party is. I’ll wait ’ere, and if ’e does, I’ll trust yer ter come back down an’ give the the ’alf crown. Can’t say fairer than that. If ’e don’t, then we’ve ’ad a nice walk fer nuffin.”

Pitt hesitated, but it was hardly worth the haggling. Wordlessly he went across to the steps indicated and climbed them slowly, making as little noise as possible. The door at the top was heavy and closed. He knocked hard, hurting his knuckles. After a moment it opened and a thin youth with a knife scar across his cheek looked at him without interest.

“I want to see Fred,” Pitt said, standing well back.

“Wot fer? I in’t seen you afore!”

“Business,” Pitt replied. “Get him.”

“Fred! Geezer ’ere for yer—says it’s business!” the youth shouted.

Pitt waited for several minutes in silence before Fred appeared. He was rotund, red-faced and surprisingly agreeable. He smiled toothlessly. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for a woman in a pink dress, very vivid dark pink. Black Sam said you know where I can find her.”

“Yeah, that’s right. She rents a room orf me.”

“Now?”

“Yeah o’ course now! Wot’s the matter wiv yer? Think I’m daft?”

“Is she there now, in this room of yours?”

“Yeah. But I don’t let just anybody in. Mebbe she’ll see yer, an’ mebbe she won’t. She might already ’ave company, like.”

“Naturally. I don’t expect something for nothing. What does she look like, this woman in pink of yours?”

“Wot does she look like?” His pale eyebrows rose up to his nonexistent hairline. “Geez! Wot do you care? You must ’ave a lot more money than yer look like if yer can afford ter care!”

“I care,” Pitt said between his teeth. “That’s what matters to me.” A good lie came to his mind. “I’m an artist. Now, tell me!”

“All right, all right.” He shrugged genially. “If you say so. But I don’t know why yer want ter paint ’er; she’s as thin as a washboard, don’t ’ave no bosom and no ’ips. But she ’as got a face, I’ll give ’er that. She ’as a curious fine face, an’ black ’air. Now make up yer mind an’ don’t stand ’ere on the doorstep like a fool. I ’an’t got the time, even if you ’ave!”

“I’ll see her,” Pitt said instantly. “I owe Black Sam. Let me go and pay him, then I’ll be back to pay you for your trouble.”

“Then get on wiv it!” Fred urged. “I got work ter do.”

Ten minutes later Pitt, debts discharged, stood in a red-carpeted passageway with faded, dirty footmarks along the center and a gas lamp hissing gently on the wall. He knocked on the door at the end of the passage. Nothing happened. He knocked again, more loudly. Fred had assured him she was there, and he had described her too closely not to know who she was. He had spoken of characteristics Pitt had not even mentioned.

A door opened behind him and a large woman with a cascade of blond hair came out, a shawl wrapped round her more than ample figure, her bare shoulders smooth, rippling with fat.

“Leave off that racket, mister!” she said curtly. “Yer want in, then go in! Door’s not locked. Don’t stand there disturbin’ everyone! I got customers. You sound like a raid, put people off!”

“Yes ma’am,” he said with a lift of excitement. So Cerise was actually in there. In a moment he would see her, and perhaps know the secret of Robert York’s death. He turned away from the blonde, already returning to her customer, and twisted the handle of the door. She was right, it was not locked. It opened easily under his hand and he went in.

The room was more or less what he had expected: comfortable but messy, overfurnished, smelling of perfume, fine dust, and stale sheets. There were too many cushions and too much red. The bed was large and rumpled, two quilts thrown carelessly so he could not see at a glance whether there was anyone lying under them or not. He closed the door behind him.

When he was standing beside the bed he recognized the human outline of the form, and saw a flash of magenta satin, a strand of black hair like a loose band of silk. The woman’s face was turned away.

He was about to address her, then realized he had no idea what her name was. He had thought of her as Cerise. When he knew of her, she had been on the crest of the wave. In three years she had fallen to this. She was hardly the same person. His excitement on the point of discovery was suddenly shot through with pity. The more dashing, the more reckless she had been, the deeper this reduction cut with its tawdry intimacy. She might have been an instrument of treason, a murderess or accessory to murder; still he felt intrusive now.

“Madam,” he said inadequately.

She did not move. She must be very heavily asleep, perhaps even drunk. He leaned forward and touched her shoulder under the quilt, then shook her very slightly.

Still she did not move. He pulled her more strongly, turning her over, revealing the vivid magenta silk bodice with its low neck and slash of fuchsia. She had drunk herself insensible. He leant forward, taking both his hands to her shoulders, and shook her. Her hair fell back off her face and the quilt slipped.

At first he could not believe it. The head lolled a little sideways, unnaturally, not with the unresponsiveness of sleep but the limp finality of death. Her neck was broken. It must have been a single blow of great force. She was thin; he could see now the fragility of her bones. It was hard to tell if she had been beautiful. Without vitality there was only a certain grace of proportion left.

“Oh Gawd!”

For a moment he thought he had spoken himself, then he realized there was someone in the room.

“You bloody fool! Wot yer go an’ do that fer? Poor little bleeder, she never done you no ’arm!”

Pitt straightened up slowly and turned to look at Fred; white-faced, he blocked the door.

“I didn’t kill her,” Pitt said impatiently. “She was dead when I got here. You’d better go out and find a constable. Who came in here before I did?”

“Oh, I’ll send for a rozzer—yer can be sure o’ that!” Fred said savagely. “But I can’t leave you ’ere. Gawd knows ’oo else I might find dead if I did!”

“I didn’t kill her!” Pitt said between his teeth, holding his temper with difficulty. “I found her dead. Go and get the police!”

Fred remained motionless. “And o’ course you’ll wait ’ere for me to come back wiv ’em. You must take me fer a fool!”

Pitt stood up and moved towards him. Instantly Fred stiffened and his fists came up. For the first time Pitt realized that for all his apparent civility, Fred had every intention of stopping him with violence if necessary, and he was built to succeed with it.

“I am the police,” he said abruptly. “We’ve been looking for this woman in connection with a murder, maybe treason.”

“Yeah? An’ I’m the Duke o’ Wellington!” Fred was wedged massively in the doorway, his arms hanging, loosely, in case Pitt should attempt any sudden attack. “Rosie!” he shouted without taking his eyes off Pitt. “Rosie! Come ’ere! Quick!”

Pitt began again, “I am—”

“Shut up, you!” Fred snapped. “Rosie! Get yerself ’ere afore I comes and gets yer!”

The huge blonde appeared, wrapped in a voluminous pink sheet and flushed with irritation. “Look, Fred, I pays good rent ’cos I do the business ’ere! I don’t look to get yelled at an’ disturbed every—” She stopped, sensing something serious. “Wot’s the matter? Wot ’appened?”

“This ’ere geezer done fer the girl wot wears that ’orrible pink color. Strangled ’er, by the looks.”

“Poor little cow.” Rosie shook her head. “In’t no call fer that.”

“Well, go an’ get the rozzers, yer fat bitch!” Fred said angrily. “Don’t just stand there! There’s bin murder!”

“Don’t you go callin’ me names, Fred Bunn!” she said tartly. “An’ I in’t going’ lookin’ fer no rozzers. I’ll send Jacko downstairs.” And wrapping her sheet round her in a more dignified manner she turned her back and went towards the stairs.

Pitt sat down on the edge of the bed. There was no point in arguing with Fred, who was set in his belief. When the police came it would all be sorted out.