Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [143]
Then she told him what she proposed to do next.
Ballarat agreed to see her with reluctance.
“My dear Mrs. Pitt, I am sorry you have been caused such distress, believe me,” he protested. “But there is really nothing I can do for you.” He rocked backwards and forwards on the soles of his feet and stood again in front of the fire. “I wish you wouldn’t harrow yourself in this way! Why don’t you go and stay with your family until, er ...” He stopped, realizing he had painted himself into a corner.
“Until they hang my husband,” she finished for him flatly.
He was acutely uncomfortable. “My dear lady, that is quite—”
She stared at him, and he had the grace to blush. But she had not come to antagonize him, and giving free rein to her feelings was self-indulgent and stupid. “I’m sorry,” she apologized with difficulty, swallowing her loathing of him because his fear was so much greater than his loyalty. “I came to tell you I have discovered something which I felt I must tell you immediately.” She ignored his exasperated expression and went on. “The woman in pink who was killed in Seven Dials was not the same woman in cerise whom Dulcie saw in the York house and Miss Adeline Danver saw on the landing in the Danver house. That woman is still alive, and is the witness that Thomas was looking for.”
A twinge of pity touched his face and vanished again. “Witness to what, Mrs. Pitt?” he asked with an effort at patience. “And even if we could find this mysterious woman—if she exists—it would hardly help Pitt. The evidence is still there that he killed the woman in Seven Dials, whoever she was.” He sounded eminently reasonable, certain of his lightness.
“Yes it is!” Charlotte’s voice was rising and there was a sharp note of panic in it in spite of herself. “Someone dressed that woman in a pink dress and killed her to protect the real Cerise, and to get rid of Thomas at the same time. Don’t you see?” she asked, her tone scathing with sarcasm. “Or do you imagine Thomas pushed the maid out of the window as well? And presumably killed Robert York too—God knows why.”
Ballarat put his hands up ineffectually, as if he would pat her, then saw the passion in her eyes and backed away instead. “My dear lady, you are overwrought. It’s very understandable, in your circumstances, and believe me, I have the deepest pity.” He drew breath again and steadied himself. Reason must be paramount. “Robert York was killed by a burglar, and the maid fell quite accidentally.” He nodded. “It does happen sometimes, unfortunately. Extremely sad, but not in the least criminal. And really, my dear lady, Miss Adeline Danver is quite elderly, and I believe not the most reliable witness.”
Charlotte stared at him in disbelief at first, and then with sickening comprehension. Either he was frightened of all the unpleasantness, the anger, the blame if it were true and there really was treason in the Foreign Office—or else he was part of it! She looked at his rounded jowls, his blustery complexion, his lidless brown eyes, round as buttons. She could not believe he was a brilliant enough actor to seem so much the ambitious man tricked and caught out of his depth. For a second that passed like a ripple of wind over the surface of a pond, she was sorry for him; then she remembered Pitt’s bruised face and the fear she had seen in his eyes.
“You are going to feel very foolish when this is all over,” she said icily. “I had thought you had more love for your country than to allow treason to flourish merely because up-rooting it might prove distasteful, and embarrass certain people whose favor you would like to keep.”
Ballarat’s face mottled purple as a turkey cock, and he took a step forward. “You insult me, madam!” he said furiously.
“I’m glad!” She glared at him with scorching contempt, cutting off his words. “I had feared I merely spoke the truth; prove the wrong and no one will be happier than I. In the meantime I believe what I see. Good day, Mr. Ballarat.” She walked out without