Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [26]
The Honorable Piers York appeared within five minutes. He was tall, with the build of a man who had been slender in his prime. Approaching seventy, he held himself erect, except for a slight rounding of the shoulders, and his lean face was full of a wry, private humor, which was deeply ingrained beneath the present patina of grief and the years of self-restraint.
“Mr. Pitt?” he inquired curiously, closing the door and indicating one of the armchairs in a tacit invitation. “John said you have something to say about my son’s death. Is that correct?”
Pitt felt more ashamed than he had expected, but it was too late to withdraw now without explaining his lie. “Yes sir.” He swallowed. “It is possible that some of the articles stolen may have been discovered. If you would give me a closer description of the vase and the paperweight . . . ?”
York’s eyes were puzzled. The shadow of loss was there, also a gleam of something which might have been humor or irony as he took in Pitt’s shining and perfectly fitted boots.
“Are you from the police?” he asked.
Pitt felt the heat in his face. “Yes sir.”
York sat down with an elegant movement despite a faint stiffness in his back. “What have you found?”
Pitt had his story prepared. He sat down opposite and avoided York’s eyes as he replied. “We have found a great deal more stolen property lately, and among it are several pieces of silver and crystal.”
“I see.” York smiled bleakly. “I can’t see that it matters much now. They were not of great value. It was just a small vase; can’t really remember the thing myself. The paperweight had engraving on it, I think, flowers or something. I wouldn’t go to too much trouble, Mr. Pitt. Surely you must have more important work.”
There was no alternative but to say it. “It may be through the articles that we can trace the thief, and thus the man who killed your son,” he explained gravely.
York smiled, polite but weary. He had already divorced the matter from his emotions. “After three years, Mr. Pitt? Surely it will have changed hands many times since then.” It was an observation, not a question.
“I don’t think so, sir. We have many contacts with the dealers in stolen goods.”
“I suppose it is necessary?” York said with a sigh. “I really don’t give a damn about the vase, and I’m sure my wife doesn’t either. Robert was our only son; can’t we . . .” His words died away.
Was it necessary? Would the whole charade he had planned really lead to any information about Robert York’s murderer? Would it even shed any light on the possible involvement of his widow? Was it not merely a further exercise in pain inflicted upon a family that was already deeply hurt?
But there was something different about this crime. It was not a common housebreaking. He believed Pinhorn, the Stoat, and all the others who said it had not sprung from the underworld. Perhaps an acquaintance of the York household had turned to sudden crime, and when Robert had recognized him, the burglar had killed Robert in his panic, rather than be betrayed. Or else it was a murder first and a burglary second: Robert York had surprised his wife with a lover, and the perpetrator had taken the articles to mask the real crime. Or worse still, perhaps it had been premeditated.
There was, of course, the possibility feared by the Foreign Office: that the real theft involved papers Robert York had taken home, and not only was this murder, but also treason.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is necessary,” Pitt said firmly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I am sure even in her grief Mrs. York would not wish a murderer to go free when there is a possibility we may catch him.”
York stared at him levelly for several seconds, then stood up slowly.