Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [108]
“Really, my dear,” he said soothingly, taking a step forward and then meeting her eyes and stopping. “Really, my dear lady, you must accept that you do not understand! This is police business, and we are experts—”
“You are a coward,” she said witheringly.
He looked startled, then regained his composure with a smooth, glassy gaze. “Of course you are upset. It is to be expected. But believe me, when you have taken a rest and had a little time to think about it—perhaps it would be wise to leave the matter to your father? Or if you have a brother, or brother-in-law?”
She swallowed hard. “My father is dead, so is my brother-in-law; and I have no brother.”
“Oh.” He looked confused, an avenue of escape had closed unexpectedly. It was damnable that there was no man to take care of her—for everyone’s sake. “Well . . .” he floundered.
“Yes?” she inquired, staring at him furiously.
His eyes wavered and slid away. “I’m sure everything will be done that can be, Mrs. Pitt. But I am also sure you would not wish me to interfere with the law, even if I were able.” He was satisfied with that; his tone grew stronger. “You must compose yourself and trust in us.”
“I am perfectly composed,” she said chokingly, and left the second half of the reply deliberately unsaid. “Thank you for your time.” And without waiting for him to summon any polite parting words, or offering him her hand, she turned on her heel and went to the door. She flung it open and walked out, leaving it swinging.
But anger was a short comfort. It died quickly when she was out in the icy street, brushed by indifferent people, splashed by a passing carriage when she stood too close to the curb. Gradually, as she walked along the Strand towards the omnibus stop, the meaning of it all sank in: Ballarat was not going to do anything. She had expected him to be only a little less outraged man she was—after all, Pitt was one of his own men, and probably the best. He should have been up in arms, doing everything to get this appalling mistake put right. Instead he was backing out, equivocating, finding excuses for doing nothing. Perhaps he was even relieved that Pitt had been silenced. And how more effectively could Pitt be stopped from asking embarrassing questions or unearthing anything that implicated the Yorks, or the Danvers, or Ballarat’s superiors at the Home Office and the diplomatic departments that had been penetrated by treason?
She stopped short and a man with a tray of pies bumped into her, swearing in his surprise.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. She stood rooted to the gray footpath as people jostled and grumbled past her. Could that be it? Was it conceivable Ballarat himself—No, surely not. He was only weak, and ambitious. But who had murdered Cerise? What had she known that was still so dangerous, even now, that someone had sought her out in a back room in Seven Dials and broken her neck?
Someone she could still betray—that was obvious. And whoever had done it was afraid Pitt was too close. If it were mere coincidence that she had been murdered just as he reached her, then Ballarat would be doing everything he could to uncover the truth.
She started to walk again, quickly now. She had hold of a definite fact: Ballarat was part of the conspiracy, either because he was implicated or because he was merely weak.
She thought the latter. She and Emily must do something about it, there must be ways—
Then the chill made her gasp. How could she reach Emily? She was a lady’s maid at the Yorks’; she might as well be in France! Charlotte could not even be sure a letter would be given to her promptly.
“Extra! Extra!” The newsboy’s voice cut into her thoughts as he shouted sharp and high. “Extra! Policeman murders woman in pink! Extra!” He stopped next to her. “ ’Ere, lady, yer wan’ a paper? Thomas Pitt, a famous rozzer,