Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [120]
“That must be the same man that upset you so much, ma’am. No wonder! I suppose we should all be grateful he didn’t lose control of himself with you, or heaven knows, you might be like that poor woman. Except of course I can’t imagine you wearing such an unflattering color. From the description it was wicked.”
“Stop it!” Veronica’s voice rose close to a scream. “Stop it! What does it matter what color she wore?” Her face was white as a sheet, her eyes glittering. “You are talking about a human being who’s been murdered! Life just— snatched ...”
Emily’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, ma’am! Oh, ma’am, I’m terribly sorry! I clean forgot about Mr. York! Oh, I am so terribly sorry—please forgive me. I’ll do anything ...” She stopped, as though she were too upset to speak, and simply gazed at Veronica through her spread fingers. Did her dreadful pallor reflect the memory of Robert’s death, or was it a sign of guilt? Surely there was panic in her expression; had Veronica known Cerise, and did she know now who had killed her?
For several seconds they stood staring at each other, Veronica in shocked silence, Emily studying her through wide eyes, affecting abject contrition. At last it was Veronica who spoke. She sat down on the side of the bed and Emily automatically began to undo her boots for her.
“I—I didn’t know anything about it,” Veronica said very quietly. “I don’t see the newspapers, and Papa-in-law didn’t mention it. Did they describe her, this woman”—she swallowed—“in pink?”
“Oh yes, ma’am.” Emily recalled everything she could of the descriptions of Cerise. “She was tall, rather on the thin side, not at all full-figured, especially for a—a woman of pleasure, but she had a very beautiful face.” She looked up from the boots, buttonhook in hand, and saw Veronica’s horrified eyes. Her protruding leg was rigid, and her knuckles on the side of the bed were white.
“And of course she was wearing that peculiar color of very violent magenta pink,” Emily finished. “I think ‘cerise’ is the right name for it.”
Veronica made a little sound as if she were about to cry out, but tension strangled the word in her throat.
“You look terrible shocked, ma’am,” Emily said ruthlessly. “They say she was a woman of the streets, so perhaps she’s no worse off. Quicker than disease.”
“Amelia! You sound as if—”
“Oh no, ma’am!” Emily protested. “Nobody deserves to die like that. I only meant her life was pretty wretched anyway. I know girls who have lost their places, been dismissed without a character, and had to go on the streets like that. They usually die young, either of working twenty hours a day or the pox, or someone kills them.” She kept on watching Veronica’s face and knew she had touched a deep pain, a wound that was still bleeding. She turned the probe. “That policeman said he was questioning her about a crime he was investigating. Perhaps she knew who broke in here and killed poor Mr. York.”
“No.” It was a whisper, little more than a sigh of breath forced between the lips.
Emily waited.
“No.” Veronica seemed to collect her strength. “Policemen must have more than one case at a time. What on earth would a woman like that know of this—of this house?”
“Maybe she knew the thief, ma’am,” Emily suggested. “Perhaps he was her lover.”
For some unfathomable reason Veronica smiled. It was ghastly, like a rictus, but there was the shadow of bitter humor in her eyes. “Perhaps,” she said softly.
Emily knew by some change in the