Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [67]
It was quarter to one, the wind whining outside and seeking every crack in the windows and every open door to send daggerlike drafts. Sleet battered against the glass when Emily climbed the last bare flight of the attic stairs and crept into her small, icy room. There was only a candle to light it and the bed was so cold it felt wet to the touch.
She took off her outer clothes and pulled on her nightgown over all her underwear, then turned back the blankets and slid into bed. She was so cold she was shaking and the tears came to her eyes in spite of all her determination. She rolled over, burying her face in the frozen pillow, and cried herself to sleep.
6
FOR ONCE CHARLOTTE managed to contain both her astonishment and her anxiety when she heard from Jack Radley about Emily’s extraordinary decision to disguise herself and go to the Yorks in service. Fortunately Jack had called early in the afternoon, so she had had plenty of time to recover her composure by the time Pitt returned home a little after six. Consequently he knew nothing about it and assumed in contented ignorance that Emily was sitting at home, where all Society and Pitt himself expected her to be.
He was deeply distressed over the death of the maid, Dulcie, not only because he had liked her but because he felt guilty. It was unreasonable, and he told himself so. She might very well have fallen out of her window accidentally and the whole matter was merely one of the numerous domestic tragedies that happen every year; but he could not seem to shake the fear that had she not told him about the strange woman in the house and the missing jewels, and had he not been careless enough to listen to her with the library door open, then she would still be alive.
At first he did not mention her death to Ballarat, sure that he would dismiss it as the Yorks’ misfortune and no business of Pitt’s. And he did not want to run the risk that Ballarat would actually forbid him to look into it.
But as he thought more and more about the woman in cerise, Pitt became convinced he must pursue her identity before he could give any answer to the Foreign Office regarding Veronica York’s reputation, and her suitability to marry a rising diplomat, his determination to keep quiet weakened.
When Ballarat sent for him two days later he was caught mentally on the wrong foot.
“Well, Pitt, you don’t seem to have accomplished much in the York case,” Ballarat began critically. He was standing by the fire, warming the backs of his legs. A malodorous cigar burned in the stone ashtray on his desk. There was a small bronze lion beside it, rampant, one paw in the air.
Pretentious ass! Pitt thought angrily. “I was doing quite well until my principal witness was killed!” he said aloud, and instantly knew he had been unwise.
Ballarat’s face darkened, the blood ruddying his cheeks. He rocked backwards and forwards on his feet very slightly, his hands behind his back. He blocked most of the heat from the rest of the room; with wet boots and trouser legs, Pitt would have welcomed the warmth.
“Witness to what, for heaven’s sake?” Ballarat demanded irritably. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve uncovered some scandal about the Yorks after all, and the man who might have betrayed them has died?”
“No I’m not!” Pitt retorted. “I’m talking about murder. It’s none of the police’s business if they all had lovers; that’s their own affair. But Robert York’s death was murder, and that was our responsibility to clear up, and we haven’t yet.”
“For heaven’s sake, man!” Ballarat interrupted him. “That was three years ago, and we did our best. Some thief broke in and poor York caught him in the act. The wretch will have disappeared into the slums he came from. He might even be dead himself by now. Your trouble is you’re not man enough to admit failure even when it’s obvious to everyone else.” He glared at Pitt, daring him to argue.
Pitt rose to the bait. “And if it was an inside job?” he said rashly. “A friend turned