Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [68]
A series of expressions chased over Ballarat’s face, first sheer horror, then anger and confusion, then fear, as he understood the full implications of the last possibility. He would be caught between two masters; the Foreign Office, who had ordered the inquiry, and the Home Office, who were in charge of the police and justice. Either one could easily ruin his career. He was furious with Pitt as the instigator of such a dilemma.
Pitt saw this as quickly as Ballarat and took a distinct and deep satisfaction from it, even as he realized that Ballarat would make him the butt of his otherwise impotent anger.
“Damn you, Pitt! You incompetent, interfering . . .” He searched for an adequate word, and failing to find it, began again. “You idiot! That’s a—a totally irresponsible suggestion, and the Yorks, not to mention the Danvers, will sue you for slander if you whisper one word of it to anyone!”
“Shall we decline the case?” Pitt asked sarcastically.
“Don’t be insolent!” Ballarat shouted. Then his duty towards the Home Office, who were, after all, his employers, reasserted itself. Ballarat controlled his temper with an effort. “What conceivable grounds have you for making such an appalling suggestion?”
This time Pitt was less prepared, and Ballarat saw the second of hesitation with victory in his eyes. His body relaxed slightly, becoming more jaunty, and he resumed rocking on the soles of his feet. Still he blocked the fire, glancing down at Pitt’s wet legs with satisfaction.
Pitt tried to organize his thoughts. His reply must be unassailable. “No fence in London has handled or seen any of the goods,” he began. “No thief in the area has heard of them or knows of any strangers working the patch, no one has seen anyone hiding up or running from a murder.” He saw Ballarat’s face hover between belief and disbelief. He was a climber, a currier of favor, and it was a long time since he had been personally involved in the investigation of a crime. But he was neither ignorant nor stupid, and although he profoundly disliked Pitt, deploring his manners and his social judgments, he respected his professional skill.
“The thief knew where to find a first edition among the other books in the library and yet has apparently not disposed of it, and he left all the silver in the dining room,” Pitt went on. “I’ve started looking in their social circle for anyone with debts.” He noticed Ballarat’s alarm with satisfaction. “Discreetly. And I’ve got someone inquiring into York’s own affairs,” he added spitefully. “But the curious circumstance I was investigating was the appearance in the small hours of the morning of a glamorous and furtive woman in a cerise gown—twice at least in the York house, prior to Robert York’s death, and also in the Danver house, again in the small hours of the morning, and again wearing a startling shade of cerise and apparently not wishing to be seen. The maid who described her at the Yorks fell out of a window to her death the day after she spoke to me.”
Ballarat stopped rocking and remained motionless, his round little eyes on Pitt’s face. “Veronica York?” he said slowly. “Wouldn’t this maid have recognized her?”
“I would have thought so,” Pitt agreed. “She was the lady’s maid. But people see what they expect to see, and it was only for a moment in the gaslight, and the woman was dressed entirely differently. From the slight description it could have easily been Veronica; same height and build, same coloring.”
“Damnation!” Ballarat swore furiously. “I suppose it couldn’t have been Robert York’s mistress, and Mrs. York knew nothing about her?”
“Possibly. But what was she doing in the Danver house?”
“Obvious—Danver’s sister!”
“She’s a loose woman?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Who goes in for married diplomats, first Robert