Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [131]
“What was yer doin’ in Seven Dials, Mr. Pitt?” The “Mr.” was so habitual he could not drop it, even here. He fiddled with his pencil and avoided Pitt’s eyes.
“I went there with a running patterer because he told me the woman I wanted to question was there,” Pitt had replied irritably. “I already told them that!”
“So you went lookin’ for ’er?”
“I told them that, too!”
“What for, Mr. Pitt?”
“Because she was a witness in the murder of Robert York.”
“Would that be Mr. York of ’anover Close, as was killed by a burglar three years ago?”
“Yes, of course it would!”
“An’ ’ow do yer know that, Mr. Pitt?”
“She was seen in the house.”
“Oh yes? ’Oo saw ’er?”
“Dulcie Mabbutt, the lady’s maid.”
“ ’Ow do yer spell that, sir?”
“Don’t bother; she’s dead. She fell out of a window.”
The constable’s eyes had opened wider and for the first time he looked directly at Pitt. “ ’Ow did that ’appen, sir?”
Was it worth telling him? What if he were the only one who ever came, just as a formality, so all the right papers could be filled in? Now might be the only chance. He must try.
“I think someone overheard her tell me about the woman in cerise.” He watched the constable’s face. “The library door was open.”
“You mean she were pushed?” the constable said carefully.
“Yes.”
The constable concentrated hard. “But this woman in pink was an ’ore, Mr. Pitt. Why should anyone care that much about ’er? Gentlemen ’as their pleasures, we all knows that. If ’e were careless, it’s a domestic matter, in’t it?”
“She wasn’t just a whore,” Pitt had said gravely, keeping his temper because he had to. What could he do to persuade this round-faced constable that there was conspiracy and treason in this ordinary, rather sordid tragedy?
“No, sir?” the constable inquired, his eyes narrowing a little.
“There are secret papers missing from the Foreign Office, from the department where Robert York worked before he was murdered.”
The constable blinked. “You sayin’ as ’e took ’em, Mr. Pitt?”
“I don’t know. Felix Asherson and Garrard Danver also work there, and of course many others. I do know the silver vase and the first-edition book that were reported stolen the night he was killed never turned up at any fence’s or pawnshop in London, and no regular villain anywhere in the city knows anything about them, or about the murder.”
“Are you sure o’ that, sir?” The constable looked dubious.
“Yes I am! What the hell do you think I’ve been doing these past weeks?”
“I see.” The constable licked his pencil but could think of nothing to write.
“No, you don’t see!” Pitt said angrily. “Neither do I. Except Robert York was murdered, Dulcie fell out of a window, and the woman in cerise, who was seen in Hanover Close, had her neck broken in a bawdy house in Seven Dials—just before I got to her.”
“An’ yer still say it weren’t you as done it?” There was no skepticism in his face now; rather he seemed to be looking for confirmation.
“Yes.”
The constable had not pressed the matter any further and had taken his leave with a look of deep concentration on his blunt face.
The days blurred into a long, dark procession. It never seemed light in the Steel. Even the exercise yard was narrow and walled so steeply the frail winter daylight was lost in it, and bent over the back-breaking shot, or huddled with other miserable, sour-smelling prisoners, Pitt felt the darkness creep into his mind like mold. The outside world became remote, a story in a children’s book.
Then gradually, in spite of himself, he was drawn into noticing his fellows: Iremonger, who was middle-aged and pasty-faced, accused of practicing abortion. He proclaimed his innocence with stoic resignation, not expecting to be believed. He obviously knew some medicine and exercised a certain compassion. He knew how to treat the small wounds gained at the crank, the