Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [71]
“Did she always wear that color?”
“Shades of it, yeah; it was like—’er trademark. Why you so keen ter know about ’er anyway? She ain’t bin ’ere in, oh, two or three years.”
“Which? Two, or three?”
“Well if yer want it that precise, guv, three, I reckon.”
“And you’ve not seen or heard of her since then?”
“Come ter think of it, no I ’aven’t.” His faced relaxed into a grin. “Maybe she married well. Sometimes they do. Maybe she’s a duchess sitting in some grand ’ouse by now, ordering around the likes o’ you an’ me.”
Pitt pulled a face. The chance was slight at best, and they both knew it; it was far more likely she had lost her looks by disease, or assault, in a fight with another prostitute or a pimp who felt he had been cheated, a lover whose demands had become too perverted or possessive; or that she had simply moved downmarket from a hotel such as this to a simple brothel. He did not mention the possibility of treason or murder; that would complicate the question unnecessarily.
The doorman looked at him closely. “Why you after ’er, guv? She puttin’ the black on someone?”
“It’s a possibility,” Pitt conceded. “It’s a definite possibility.” He took out one of his new cards and gave it to the man. “If you see her again, tell me. Bow Street Police Station. Just say you’ve seen Cerise again.”
“That ’er name? What’s it worth?”
“It’ll do. And it’s worth my goodwill—which, believe me, is a lot better than my ill will.”
“You wouldn’t pick on me, just ’cause I ain’t seen someone! I can’t see ’er if she in’t ’ere! An’ you wouldn’t want lies, now, would yer?”
Pitt did not bother to answer. “What theaters and music halls do your clients patronize?”
“Geez!”
Pitt waited.
The man bit his lip. “Well, if ye’re after ’er yer call Cerise, I ’eard she bin ter the Lyceum, an’ I suppose she tried the ’alls, although don’t ask me which ones ’cause I dunno.”
Pitt’s eyebrows rose. “The Lyceum? A lady of courage to ply her trade there.”
“I told yer, she ’ad class.”
“Yes you did. Thank you.”
The man tipped his hat a little sarcastically. “Thank you, guv!”
Pitt left him and went out into the street again. The fog wrapped round him again like a cold muslin, damp and clinging to the skin.
So Cerise had both courage and style. She was certainly not Veronica York on a mere affair with Julian Danver! If it was Veronica, then she led a secret life of the sort to scandalize the Foreign Office to the core of its collective soul. For a diplomat to have a wife who was a practicing prostitute, of whatever price or degree of discrimination, was impossible. He would be dismissed instantly, and ruined.
Neither was she Harriet Danver pursuing her affair with Felix Asherson, although he had never actually thought that. Charlotte had said Harriet was in love; as yet he had no knowledge of whether Asherson returned her feelings. But either way, that answer offered no explanation as to why Cerise should be in the York house.
No, it seemed she was what he had first thought, a woman who used her beauty and unusual quality of allure to trap and then blackmail her Foreign Office lovers for the secrets of their work. Robert York had refused, either immediately or after some time, and as a result either she herself or perhaps her accomplices had had to murder him to avoid betrayal.
It was getting dark and the fog was beginning to freeze, the air filling with tiny pellets of ice, which sent shivers through him as they crept into the folds of his muffler and touched his skin. He began to walk briskly north into Regent Street, then turned left towards Oxford Circus. There were other people he could ask: upmarket prostitutes who would know the competition and be able to tell him more about Cerise, where she plied her trade, what clients she chose, whether she only picked men who were of use to her, and whether she was a real threat to the others by taking general business.
An hour later, after some persuasive argument and the exchange of more money, he sat in an overheated, overfurnished