Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [6]
“No, of course not.” Asherson smiled faintly. He was caught, but if he was resentful, he hid it superbly. “I really don’t know what happened, but if he was indiscreet, or had friends who were unworthy of his trust, it hardly matters now. The poor man is dead, and the information cannot have reached our enemies or we should have suffered for it by now. And we haven’t. That I can tell you with certainty. If there really were such an attempt, it was abortive. Can’t you leave his memory in peace—not to mention his family?”
Pitt stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Asherson. You have been most frank. Good day, sir.” And he left the uncertain-looking Asherson standing on the bright blue and vermillion Turkish carpet in the middle of the floor.
Back at Bow Street in the icy dusk, Pitt climbed the stairs to Ballarat’s office and knocked on the door. At the command he went in.
Ballarat was standing in front of the fire, blocking it. His room was quite different from the functional quarters of the lesser police on the beat, downstairs. The broad desk was inlaid with green leather, the chair behind it was padded and moved comfortably on a swivel. There was the stub of a cigar in the stone ashtray. Ballarat was of average height, portly, a trifle short in the leg. But his rich side whiskers were immaculately barbered and he smelled of cologne. His clothes were perfectly pressed, from his bright oxblood boots to the matching brown tie round his stiff white collar. He was the antithesis of the disheveled Pitt, whose every garment was at odds with another, pockets weighted down by nameless objects. Even now, a piece of string trailed from one, and a hand-knitted muffler half obscured his soft collar.
“Well?” Ballarat demanded irritably. “Close the door, man! I don’t want half the station listening. The matter is confidential, I told you that before. Well, what have you got?”
“Very little,” Pitt replied. “They were pretty thorough at the time.”
“I know that, damn it! I’ve read the papers on the case!” Ballarat pushed his short fingers further into his pockets, fists clenched. He rocked back and forth very slightly on the balls of his feet. “Was it a chance break-in? Some amateur who got caught in the act and panicked, killing young York instead of escaping like a professional? I’m sure any connection with the Foreign Office was coincidental. I have been told by the highest authority,” and he repeated the words, rolling them on his tongue, “the highest authority, that our enemies have no knowledge of the work York was engaged in.”
“More probably some friend of York’s who ran up a debt and turned his hand to burglary to try to get out of it,” Pitt answered frankly, and saw the look of displeasure on Ballarat’s face. “He knew where the first-edition Swift was.”
“Inside help,” Ballarat said immediately. “Bribed a servant.”
“Possibly. Assuming there was a servant who knew a first-edition Swift when she saw it. Not the sort of thing the Honorable Piers York would discuss with the tweeny.”
Ballarat opened his mouth to tell Pitt not to be sarcastic with him, then thought better of it and changed course. “Well, if it was one of their social acquaintances, you’d better be damn careful in your questions, Pitt! This is a very delicate investigation we’ve been entrusted with. A careless word and you could ruin reputations—not to mention your own career.” He looked increasingly uncomfortable, his face flushed to a dull purplish hue. “All the Foreign Office wants us to establish is that there was nothing—untoward, nothing unseemly in Mrs. York’s conduct. It is no part of your business to blacken the name of a dead man, an honorable man who gave distinguished service to his queen and to his country.”
“Well, there has been information disappearing from the Foreign Office,” Pitt said, his voice rising in frustration, “and the burglary at the York house needs a great deal more explanation than it’s had so far.”
“Then get on with it, man!” Ballarat snapped. “Either find out which friend it was, or better still, prove it wasn’t a friend at all! Clear Mrs.