Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [2]
Pitt did not need to ask what star-glazing was; many expert thieves used the trick of pasting paper over glass to hold all the shards while cutting a neat, silent circle which could be lifted out so a hand could be inserted to open the latch. A master cracksman could do the job in fifteen seconds.
“I asked the footman if they ’ad one o’ them telephone instruments,” Lowther continued. “ ’E said as they ’ad, so I went out o’ the libr’y an’ told ’im to stay at the door. I found the instrument and called the station an’ reported the crime. Then the butler came down—’e must ’ave ’eard the noise and when the footman didn’t go back upstairs, ’e come ter see what was goin’ on. ’E formally identified the dead man as Mr. Robert York, the son o’ the Honorable Piers York, the master o’ the ’ouse. But ’e was away from ’ome on business, so there was nothin’ for it but to tell the elder Mrs. York, the victim’s mother. The butler sent for ’er lady’s maid, in case she were overcome at the news. But when she came down and we ’ad ter tell ’er, she were very calm, very dignified.” He sighed in admiration. “Makes yer realize what real Quality is. She were white as a ghost an’ looked like she were dead ’erself, poor soul, but she never wept in front of us, just asked ’er maid to steady ’er a bit.”
Pitt knew of many great women who were bred to bear physical pain, loneliness, or bereavement by always showing the world a serene face, shedding all their tears in private. They were the sort of women who had sent their husbands and sons to battle on the fields of Waterloo and Balaklava, or to explore the Hindu Kush or find the source of the Blue Nile, and then to settle and administer the empire. Many had gone themselves into unknown lands, enduring appalling privation and the loss of every familiar sight and sound. In his mind Mrs. York was such a woman.
Lowther went on quietly, recalling the somber house and its grief. “I asked them if anything were missing as they knew. It were ’ard to ’ave ter ask a lady at such a time, but we ’ad ter know. She were quite calm and jus’ walked round the room careful like, and she told us that as far as she could say, there was two silver framed minicher portraits dated 1773, a crystal paperweight engraved with a design o’ scrolls and flowers, a small silver jug used fer fla’hers—and that weren’t ’ard ter come at, because the fla’hers theirselves was on the floor and the water spilled on the carpet; don’t know ’ow we missed seein’ it before—an’ a first edition of a book by Jonathan Swift. She said as she couldn’t see anythin’ else.”
“Where was the book kept?”
“On the shelves with the other books, Mr. Pitt—which means as ’e knew it were there! I asked, and she said as it didn’t look nothin’ special from the back of it you’d see ordinary.”
“Ah.” Pitt let out his breath slowly. He changed the subject.
“Was the dead man married?” he asked.
“Oh yes. But I didn’t disturb ’is wife, poor creature. She ’adn’t woke, an’ I couldn’t see no point in ’avin’ ter tell ’er in the middle o’ the night. Better to let ’er own family do that.”
Pitt could hardly blame him. Having to tell the sad news to the loved ones of the victim was one of the hardest duties in a murder case; the only thing even more difficult was seeing the faces of those who loved the guilty when at last they understood.
“Material evidence?” he said aloud.
Lowther shook his head. “Nothin’, sir; least nothin’ as means much. There weren’t nothin’ in the ’ouse as didn’t belong, nothin’ to show the intruder went anywhere ’cept the libr’y. No footmarks, no ’airs nor bits o’ cloth, nothin’ ter see. Followin’ day, we asked all the servants in the ’ouse, but they ’eard nothin’. No one ’eard the winder break. But then servants sleeps at the top o’ the ’ouse, up in the attics like, so maybe they wouldn’t.”
“Anything outside?” Pitt pressed.
Lowther shook his head again. “Nothin’ sir. No footmarks outside the winder,