Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [3]
“Dry enough so you left no footmarks on the carpet either?” Pitt questioned.
“Not a one sir; I thought o’ that.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No, Mr. Pitt. I saw no one meself, and never did find anyone else as ’ad. Y’see ’anover Close is a real close, no through road, so no one as didn’t live there’d ’ave any reason to pass that way, specially in the middle of a winter night. An’ it’s not exac’ly an ’arlots’ patch.”
That was more or less what Pitt had expected to hear, but there was always the chance. He tried the last obvious avenue. “What about the stolen articles?”
Lowther made a face. “Nothin’. An’ we tried ‘ard, because of it bein’ murder.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No, Mr. Pitt. Mr. Mowbray took over talkin’ to the family. ’E could tell you more, maybe.”
“I’ll ask him. Thank you.”
Lowther looked puzzled and only slightly relieved. “Thank you, sir.”
Pitt found Mowbray back in his office.
“Get what you wanted?” Mowbray asked, his dark face puckering into an expression of curiosity and resignation. “Lowther’s a good man: if there’d been anything he’d ’ave found it.”
Pitt sat down as near the fire as he could. Mowbray moved fractionally to make room for him and lifted the teapot, offering more tea by raising his eyebrows. Pitt nodded. It was dark brown, stewed, but it was hot.
“You went the following day?” Pitt pursued the subject.
Mowbray frowned. “Early as seemed decent. Hate having to do that, go and talk to people the moment they’re bereaved, before they’ve even got over the first shock. Still, has to be done. Pity. York himself wasn’t there, only the mother and the widow—”
“Tell me about them,” Pitt interrupted. “Not just the facts; how did they impress you?”
Mowbray took a deep breath and sighed slowly. “The elder Mrs. York was a remarkable woman. Been something of a beauty in ’er day, I should think, still fine-looking, very ...”
Pitt did not prompt him; he wanted Mowbray’s own words.
“Very womanly.” Mowbray was not satisfied with this description. He frowned and blinked several times. “Soft, like—like one of them flowers in the botanical gardens. ...” His face eased with the flash of memory. “Camellias. Pale colors and perfect shape. All ordered, not higgledy-piggledy like a wildflower, or one o’ them late roses that falls open.”
Pitt liked late roses: they were magnificent, exuberant; but it was a matter of taste. Perhaps Mowbray found them a little vulgar.
“What about the widow?” Pitt kept his voice level, trying not to betray any extra interest.
But Mowbray was too perceptive. A very slight smile curved his mouth and he kept his eyes on Pitt’s face.
“She were ’it so ’ard wi’ shock she were as white as a corpse ’erself, I’d swear to that. I’ve seen a lot o’ women in times o’ grief; it’s one o’ the rottenest parts o’ the job. Them as are puttin’ it on tend to weep an’ faint and talk a lot about ’ow they feel. Mrs. York ’ardly spoke a word an’ seemed sort o’ numb. She didn’t look at us, like liars do; in fact I don’t think she cared what we thought.”
Pitt smiled in spite of himself. “Not a camellia?”
A bleak humor flickered at the back of Mowbray’s eyes. “Quite different sort o’ woman altogether, much more . . .”
Again Pitt waited.
“More delicate, more easy to ’urt. I suppose partly because she were younger, o’ course; but I got the feelin’ she didn’t ’ave the same strength inside ’er. But even shocked as she were, she were one o’ the best-lookin’ women I ever seen, tall and very slight, like a spring flower, ’ceptin dark. Fragile, you might say; one of those faces you don’t forget, different from most. ’Igh cheeks, fine bones.” He shook his head a little. “Face all full o’ feelin’.”
Pitt sat quietly for a moment, trying to picture the woman. What did the Foreign Office really fear—murder, treason, or merely scandal? What was the real reason they had asked Ballarat to open this case again now? Was it just to make sure there was nothing sordid that could come