Silence in Hanover Close (6 page)

“You are very kind,” Charlotte said between her teeth.

Veronica leaned forward. She really was a beautiful woman, her face combining both fragility of bone with strength of mouth and eye. Her manner was as friendly as if they had known each other for some time. Charlotte found herself hoping Pitt would find her blameless enough to satisfy the people at the Foreign Office. The thought of their judgments lit a spark of anger inside her.

“Perhaps you would care to come with me,” Veronica offered. “I should be delighted to have your company. We could make all the remarks we wished and be utterly frank about what we like and dislike.” She did not look at her mother-in-law, but raised one slender shoulder in the smallest gesture of exclusion.

“I should be delighted,” Charlotte accepted sincerely. “It would be the greatest pleasure.” She was aware of Jack coughing in the chair next to hers and reaching for a handkerchief to hide his smile.

“Then it is settled,” Veronica said firmly. “It is not a favorite outing of Mama-in-law’s. I am sure she will be grateful for being spared it this year.”

“I have accompanied you to many places that were not especially to my liking!” Mrs. York said with cold eyes on Veronica. “And doubtless will do so again. Family responsibilities are something one never grows out of, nor is one able to escape them. I am sure you would agree with me, Miss Barnaby?” She spoke to Charlotte, but it was Veronica her glance fell on first, before turning with a change of expression so slight it was barely definable. Charlotte had the sudden, intense feeling that the two women disliked each other, perhaps even more than that.

Veronica stiffened, and a tightness crept into her neck, the long line of her throat, and her passionate mouth. She said nothing. Charlotte believed they were speaking of something quite different, and for all the tension between them and the underlying violence, they understood each other perfectly.

“Of course,” Charlotte murmured. After all, she was supposed to have spent the last two years nursing a sickly relative. What sacrifice to duty could an unmarried woman have greater than that? “Families are bound by both love and obligation.” It was almost time for them to leave. She must make one last effort at learning something deeper, beyond this sharp, unhappy impression. She discreetiy glanced rapidly round the room, without turning her head. She noticed an ormolu clock. If she were going to lie, she might as well do it in the grand manner.

“Oh what a delightful clock,” she said admiringly. “My cousin used to have one very like that, only a trifle smaller, I think, and one of the figures was clothed differently.” She shivered to add verisimilitude. “Unfortunately it was taken in a robbery. Such a dreadful experience.” She ignored Jack’s horrified expression and plunged on. “Quite as painful as the loss of possessions was the awful feeling that someone had broken into your house and perhaps actually stood within yards of your bedroom as you lay asleep! It took us all ages before we could retire again with the slightest peace of mind.” Through her lashes she was watching their faces. She was rewarded by a gasp from Veronica and a sudden rigidity in Mrs. York’s body under its folds of sumptuous silk. “We called the police, of course,” she went on relentlessly, “but no one was caught. And none of our precious things was ever recovered.”

Veronica opened her mouth, sat perfectly still, then closed it without speaking.

“What a misfortune for you.” Mrs. York’s voice was quite low, but there was a curious edge to it, and her words were unusually distinct, as if her control over them were precarious. “I am afraid it is part of present-day life. One is seldom as safe as one imagines. Be thankful, Miss Barnaby, that it was only goods of which you were robbed.”

Charlotte maintained her facade of innocence, although it stabbed her conscience. She gazed back at Mrs. York in bewilderment. Jack had already affected ignorance of the affair, so he could not now help. Charlotte saw the color drain from Veronica’s face. Again she seemed about to speak but then to lose the words. She raised her eyes to her mother-in-law, then before their glances met she looked away again.

Finally it was the older woman who broke the hot silence.

“My son was killed by an intruder in the house, Miss Barnaby. It is something we still find too distressing to discuss. That is what made me say you were fortunate to have lost only material possessions.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” Charlotte said instantly. “Please forgive me for having brought you pain. How could I have been so clumsy.” A real feeling of guilt was burning inside her already. Not everything can be justified by the need for solutions to mysteries, however intriguing, or needed for Emily’s sake.

“You could not know,” Veronica said huskily. “Please do not feel at fault. I promise you, we do not hold you so.”

“I am sure your sensitivity will prevent you from raising the subject again,” Mrs. York said levelly, and Charlotte felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

Veronica was quick to see her embarrassment and rushed to ease it. “That hardly needs to be said, Mama-in-law!” Her tone carried reproof, and the undertone of dislike was there again, bleak and painful in this opulent and comfortable room. It was not a flash of irritation but a long-lived and bitter thing, surfacing suddenly. “I am sure Miss Barnaby needs to feel no blame for having mentioned her own misfortune; how could she have known of our—our tragedies? One cannot cease from all conversation in case it should waken a painful memory in someone else.”

“I believe that was the substance of my remark.” Mrs. York stared at her daughter-in-law, her brilliant eyes almost hypnotic in their concentration. “If Miss Barnaby is the person of sensibility I take her to be, having discovered our loss, she will not mention any subject close to it again while in our company. Surely that is plain enough?”

Veronica turned to Charlotte and put out her hand. “I hope you will call on us again, Miss Barnaby, and that you will come to the academy with me. I most sincerely meant my invitation; it was not merely a pleasantry.”

“I shall be delighted,” Charlotte said, taking the offered hand warmly. “It will be the greatest pleasure, and I look forward to it.” She rose. It was now time to leave; after that conversation it was the only possible course. Jack rose also and together they expressed their thanks and good wishes, and five minutes later they were in the chilly carriage with the clatter of hooves and the hissing of wheels in the rain. Charlotte wrapped the rug round herself more tightly, but nothing could keep all the icy spears of the draft away. Next time she borrowed a gown from Emily she would take a fur muff to go with it!

“I assume you will be going to the academy with Veronica?” Jack said after a moment or two.

“Of course!” She turned in her seat to look at him. “Don’t you think there is a great deal between Veronica and Mrs. York which the police could never discover? I think they both know something about the night of the burglary—although how we’ll ever learn it I can’t imagine.”

P
ITT HAD NO IDEA
that Charlotte had gone to Hanover Close. He both knew and understood her concern for Emily, and he expected her to use all her powers of judgment and deduction to find out just how Emily felt about Jack Radley and to measure his worthiness if Emily truly cared for him. And if it turned out he was not satisfactory, there would be the major challenge of either dissuading Emily from pursuing it any further or discouraging Radley himself. Pitt suspected that it might well take all Charlotte’s skill to bring the affair to the conclusion that would cause Emily the least pain. Therefore he did not mention the York burglary or Robert York’s death to Charlotte again, nor keep her up to date on his own pursuit of a solution.

Ballarat was evasive about the precise reason for opening the case again; it was unclear whether they hoped to discover who had murdered Robert York at this late date, or whether learning the motive was the real purpose of the investigation. Perhaps they wanted to establish beyond a doubt that it had been no more than a simple robbery that had erupted into unplanned violence, putting an end to the rumors of treason once and for all. Or were they really concerned that Veronica York was somehow involved, the unwitting catalyst of a crime of passion inexpertly covered to look like robbery? Or did they know the truth, and simply wish to make doubly sure it was successfully concealed forever by having the police test it, and if it did not break, then they could rest easy that it was buried beyond anyone’s recall?

Pitt found this last possibility acutely distasteful, and possibly he wronged his superiors by letting it enter his mind, but he was determined to think it through until he could present Ballarat with an answer that was beyond denial or dispute.

He began with the stolen articles, and the curious fact that none of them had turned up in the places one might have expected despite the vigorous search the police had kept up throughout the following year. All the well-known fences, pawnbrokers, and less fastidious collectors of objects d’arts had been questioned at regular intervals as a matter of course, and on each occasion the York pieces had been on the list of goods mentioned.

But Pitt had been in the Metropolitan Police for nearly twenty years and he knew people Ballarat had never heard of, secretive, dangerous people who tolerated him for past and future favors. And it was to these he went while Charlotte was arranging her visit to the drawing rooms of Hanover Close.

He left Bow Street and walked sharply eastward towards the Thames, disappearing into one of the vast dockland slums. He passed crowded, warped buildings, dark under the lowering skies and filled with the sour reek of the fog that crept up from the slow, gray-black water of the river. There were no carriages with lamps and footmen here, only dim wagons laden with bales for the wharves and carts with a few limp vegetables for sale. A tinker with pans clattered as he jiggled over the uneven cobbles, an old-clothes seller shouted, “Ol’ clo’! Ol’ clo’!” in a mournful, penetrating voice. His horse’s hooves had no echo in the drenching gloom.

Pitt walked quickly, his head down and his shoulders hunched. He wore old boots with loose soles and a grimy jacket, torn at the back, which he kept for such visits. He pulled the thin collar up round his ears now, but still the rain trickled down his neck to his back, a wandering, icy finger that made him shudder. No one paid him any attention apart from the occasional glance when a peddlar or coster half hoped he might buy something. But he did not look like a man who had the means to purchase, and with face averted and body tight with the knowledge of the warmth he had left behind, he hurried deeper into the alleys and passages of the warren.

Finally he found the door he sought, its wood black with age and dirt, metal studs worn smooth by countless hands. He knocked sharply twice, and then twice again.

After a moment or two it opened six inches on a chain, stopping with a clunk as it reached its limit. Even though it was midmorning the daylight scarcely penetrated these narrow alleys, their jettied stories almost meeting overhead, eaves forever dripping in incessant, uneven rhythm. A rat squeaked and scuttled away. Someone tripped over a pile of rubbish and swore. In the distant street the wail “Ol’! clo’!” came again, and down on the river the moan of a foghorn. The smell of rot filled Pitt’s throat.

“Mr. Pinhorn,” he said quietly. “A matter of business.”

There was a moment’s silence, then a candle flame appeared in the gloom. He could see little beyond it but the outline of a large, sharp nose and the black sockets of two eyes. But he knew Pinhorn always answered the door himself, afraid that his apprentices would keep the trade for themselves and do him out of a few pence.

“It’s you,” Pinhorn said sourly, recognizing him. “Wotcher want? I got nuffink for yer!”

“Information, Mr. Pinhorn, and a warning for you.”

Pinhorn made a sound deep in his adenoids as if he were going to spit, then changed it into a bark. It expressed ineffable contempt.

“Robbery’s one thing, and murder’s another,” Pitt said carefully, not at all disturbed. He had known Pinhorn for over a decade and this reception was exactly what he expected. “And treason is a third thing, nastier than both.”

Again there was silence. Pitt knew better than to push his case. Pinhorn had fenced stolen goods for forty years; he understood his risks perfectly, or he would not still be alive, a prisoner only of poverty, ignorance and greed. He would be in one of Her Majesty’s prisons, like Coldbath Fields, where labor such as the treadmill or passing the shot would have broken even his thick, hard body.

The chain rattled as he took it off and the door swung wide noiselessly on oiled hinges.

“Come in, Mr. Pitt.”

He locked the door behind him and led the way down a passage piled with old furniture and smelling of mold, round a corner, and into a room that was surprisingly warm. A fire in an open grate shed a flickering light on the stained walls. A piece of heavy red carpet, no doubt garnered from some burglary, lay before the grate between two plush-covered armchairs. All the rest of the room apart from that cleared space was piled with dimly perceived objects: carved chairs, pictures, boxes, clocks, pitchers and ewers, piles of plates. Balanced at a crazy angle, a mirror caught the firelight and winked a red eye.

“Wotcher want, Mr. Pitt?” Pinhorn asked again, eyeing Pitt narrowly. He was a big man, barrel-chested, bullet-headed, his gray hair in a terrier crop such as prisoners wore, although he had never actually been caught or tried. In his youth he had enjoyed something of a reputation as a bareknuckle fighter, and he was still capable of beating a man senseless if he lost his temper, which happened suddenly and violently from time to time.

“Have you seen a pair of miniature portraits?” Pitt asked. “Seventeenth-century, man and a woman? Or a silver vase, a crystal paperweight carved with a design of scrolls and flowers, and a first edition of
Gulliver’s Travels
by Jonathan Swift?”

Pinhorn looked surprised. “That all? You come all the way ’ere ter ask me vat? Vat lot in’t worf much.”