Silence in Hanover Close

by Anne Perry

  “Come in, Mrs. Pitt,” he said expansively. “Come in and take a seat.” He waved his arm at the leather easy chair, but he did not move to allow her the fire.

  She sat on the edge, upright. The constable closed the door and fled.

  “I’m deeply sorry that I had to send such a message,” Ballarat began before she could speak. “It must have been a dreadful shock for you.”

  “Of course it was,” she agreed. “But that is hardly important. What is happening to Thomas? Don’t they realize who he is? Have you been to Coldbath Fields and told them? Perhaps they don’t believe a letter.”

  “Certainly they know who he is, Mrs. Pitt.” He nodded several times. “Naturally, I made certain of it immediately. But I’m afraid the evidence is quite unarguable. I don’t want to distress you by recounting it. I do think, my dear lady, it would be better if you were to go home, perhaps to your own family, and—”

  “I have no intention of doing anything so perfectly useless as going home to my family!” She tried to swallow back her fury but her voice was shaking. “And I’m perfectly capable of hearing the supposed evidence, whatever it is!”

  He looked uncomfortable, his rather florid face becoming even more mottled. “Ah.” He cleared his throat to give himself time to order his thoughts. “If you will allow me to know better, that is because you do not understand what it is. I assure you, it would be far better if you were to leave your interests in my care, and go home—”

  “What are you doing to show his innocence?” she interrupted fiercely. “You know he didn’t do it! You must find the evidence.”

  “My dear lady”—he held up his hands, plump and well manicured, the firelight catching a gold signet ring—“I must abide by the law, just like everyone else. Of course,” he said carefully and with a patience so obvious she could taste it in the air, “of course I wish to believe the best of him.” He nodded again. “Pitt has been a good police officer for years. He has served the community in many ways.”

  She opened her mouth to retaliate against such condescension, but he was not to be interrupted.

  “But I cannot override the law! If we are to uphold justice, we must abide by due process, like everyone else.” He was well launched now. “We cannot set ourselves above it.” He opened his eyes very wide. “Naturally, I do not for a moment believe Pitt would do such a thing. But with all the best will in the world, I cannot and must not say that I know!” He smiled very slightly, showing the superiority of male reason over emotionalism. “We are not infallible, and my judgment of a man is not enough to clear him before the law—nor should it be.”

  She stood up, facing him with tight, cold rage.

  “No one is asking you to be judge, Mr. Ballarat.” She glared at him. “What I had expected, before I met you, was that you were loyal enough to fight to defend one of your own men, whom you know perfectly well would not have committed such a crime. Even if you did not know him, I would have assumed you would suppose him innocent and do everything to check the evidence over and over again to find the flaws.”

  “Really, my dear,” he said soothingly, taking a step forward and then meeting her eyes and stopping. “Really, my dear lady, you must accept that you do not understand! This is police business, and we are experts—”

  “You are a coward,” she said witheringly.

  He looked startled, then regained his composure with a smooth, glassy gaze. “Of course you are upset. It is to be expected. But believe me, when you have taken a rest and had a little time to think about it—perhaps it would be wise to leave the matter to your father? Or if you have a brother, or brother-in-law?”

  She swallowed hard. “My father is dead, so is my brother-in-law; and I have no brother.”

  “Oh.” He looked confused, an avenue of escape had closed unexpectedly. It was damnable that there was no man to take care of her—for everyone’s sake. “Well . . .” he floundered.

  “Yes?” she inquired, staring at him furiously.

  His eyes wavered and slid away. “I’m sure everything will be done that can be, Mrs. Pitt. But I am also sure you would not wish me to interfere with the law, even if I were able.” He was satisfied with that; his tone grew stronger. “You must compose yourself and trust in us.”

  “I am perfectly composed,” she said chokingly, and left the second half of the reply deliberately unsaid. “Thank you for your time.” And without waiting for him to summon any polite parting words, or offering him her hand, she turned on her heel and went to the door. She flung it open and walked out, leaving it swinging.

  But anger was a short comfort. It died quickly when she was out in the icy street, brushed by indifferent people, splashed by a passing carriage when she stood too close to the curb. Gradually, as she walked along the Strand towards the omnibus stop, the meaning of it all sank in: Ballarat was not going to do anything. She had expected him to be only a little less outraged man she was—after all, Pitt was one of his own men, and probably the best. He should have been up in arms, doing everything to get this appalling mistake put right. Instead he was backing out, equivocating, finding excuses for doing nothing. Perhaps he was even relieved that Pitt had been silenced. And how more effectively could Pitt be stopped from asking embarrassing questions or unearthing anything that implicated the Yorks, or the Danvers, or Ballarat’s superiors at the Home Office and the diplomatic departments that had been penetrated by treason?

  She stopped short and a man with a tray of pies bumped into her, swearing in his surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She stood rooted to the gray footpath as people jostled and grumbled past her. Could that be it? Was it conceivable Ballarat himself—No, surely not. He was only weak, and ambitious. But who had murdered Cerise? What had she known that was still so dangerous, even now, that someone had sought her out in a back room in Seven Dials and broken her neck?

  Someone she could still betray—that was obvious. And whoever had done it was afraid Pitt was too close. If it were mere coincidence that she had been murdered just as he reached her, then Ballarat would be doing everything he could to uncover the truth.

  She started to walk again, quickly now. She had hold of a definite fact: Ballarat was part of the conspiracy, either because he was implicated or because he was merely weak.

  She thought the latter. She and Emily must do something about it, there must be ways—

  Then the chill made her gasp. How could she reach Emily? She was a lady’s maid at the Yorks’; she might as well be in France! Charlotte could not even be sure a letter would be given to her promptly.

  “Extra! Extra!” The newsboy’s voice cut into her thoughts as he shouted sharp and high. “Extra! Policeman murders woman in pink! Extra!” He stopped next to her. “ ’Ere, lady, yer wan’ a paper? Thomas Pitt, a famous rozzer, killed a—” He glanced at her face and amended what he had been going to say. “Killed a woman o’ the streets.”

  Her voice barely came through her lips. “No thank you.”

  The boy turned away and drew in his breath to shout again. Then she realized it was foolish to run away from it. If she were to be of any use she needed to know. “Yes please! Yes, I will buy one,” she called after him, fishing in her reticule for a coin and offering it to him.

  “There y’are, lady. Ta.” He gave her a penny change and went on his way. “Extra! Rozzer commits ’orrible murder in Seven Dials!”

  She pushed it under her arm, out of the way. She would rather look at it alone. The omnibus had nearly arrived, and when it came she climbed on, giving her fare to the “cad,” and sat down, this time oblivious of the other passengers.

  When she got off it was raining heavily and she was thoroughly soaked by the time she reached her own front door and got inside. She was greeted almost immediately by Gracie, her eyes red-rimmed and her apron filthy. Charlotte took off her sodden coat and hung it up without caring where it dripped.

  “What is it, Gracie?” she said impatiently.

  “
Oh, ma’am—I’m terrible sorry.” Gracie was on the edge of tears again, her voice thick with crying.

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Biggs ’as gorn, ma’am. Never so much as did the floors. Said she wouldn’t work for nobody what murdered women. I’m terrible sorry, ma’am—I wouldn’t ’a’ told yer, but I ’ad to say as why she went, an’—” She gulped deeply, tears running down her cheeks. “An’ the butcher wouldn’t give no credit. As good as said as ’ow ’e’d sooner we got our meat somewheres else!”

  Charlotte was stunned. She had not even thought of that, and here it was, so soon. She felt breathless and a little sick.

  “Ma’am?” Gracie sniffed fiercely but it did not stop her crying.

  Suddenly Charlotte put her arms round her and they clung to each other, letting the tears come in a storm of misery.

  It was several moments before Charlotte was able to pull herself together, blow her nose, and go into the kitchen. She splashed her face with cold water and rubbed it dry so fiercely her red eyes hardly showed. Ordering Gracie about was a kind of relief, chopping vegetables savagely helped to calm her while she tried to think.

  She told Daniel and Jemima nothing, doing what she could to behave normally. Daniel was too hungry to be observant, but Jemima noticed and asked what was wrong.

  “I have a cold,” Charlotte said, forcing herself to smile. “Don’t worry about it.” She might as well get the initial news over now. She was dreading the lies, but the sooner she started the less horrible it would be. “Papa won’t be home for a few days. He’s away on a very special job.”

  “Is that why you’re unhappy?” Jemima said slowly, watching her.

  The closer she could stay to some kind of truth the better.

  “Yes. But don’t worry—we’ll keep each other company.” She tried to smile and knew it was a disaster.

  Jemima smiled back, and immediately her lip began to tremble. She had always been quick to grasp Charlotte’s mood, whether she understood it or not: she was like a little mirror reflecting gestures, expressions, tones of voice. Now she knew there was something wrong.

  “Yes, I will miss him,” Charlotte repeated. “And I miss Aunt Emily, too, since she went on holiday. Never mind; I shall have to be busy and then the time will pass. Now eat your supper or it will get cold.”

  She bent to her own plate, forcing herself to spoon down the stew and mashed potatoes although she was barely aware of their taste. Her throat ached and her stomach felt like stone.

  She was barely finished when the doorbell rang. Both she and Gracie stopped, fear returning. Who could it be? For one wild moment Charlotte thought perhaps Pitt had been released and somehow lost his key; then she realized it was far more likely to be some neighbor seeking to confirm the worst, full of curiosity and spurious pity, or worse, another tradesman.

  It rang again, more insistently this time.

  She looked at Gracie.

  “Don’t ’ave me answer it, ma’am!” Gracie said urgently. “Y’never know ’oo it is!” She stood up reluctantly. “Less’n I can ’ave yer word ter shut it in their faces if it in’t nobody good. I don’t say as I can be civil wiv ’em!”

  “You have my permission,” Charlotte agreed. “Open it on the chain.”

  “Yes ma’am.” And tightening her apron a little and gritting her teeth, Gracie disappeared up the passage. Jemima and Daniel stopped eating, and they all sat, ears straining to hear, as Grade’s heels clicked on the linoleum. There was a moment’s silence, the rattle of the chain on the door latch, a murmur of voices too indistinct to identify, then another rattle and returning footsteps.

  Charlotte stood up. “Stay here,” she ordered.

  “Who is it, Mama?” Jemima whispered. Daniel stared at her truculently, frightened and ready to fight.

  “I don’t know. Stay here.” And Charlotte went out into the passage just in time to meet Jack Radley as he came, white-faced, ahead of Gracie. He put out his arms and she walked straight into them. He held her tight, saying nothing at all, and Gracie squeezed past with a little sniff of relief. She thought very highly of Charlotte, but it always needed a man to sort things out properly. Thank heaven one had come.

  Charlotte disengaged herself reluctantly. She could not stand here pretending someone else could mend everything.

  “Come into the kitchen,” she said. There was no fire in the parlor—Gracie had not even thought of it—and the weather was too bitter to take anyone into an unheated room. “Gracie, you’d better take the children up and get them ready for bed.”

  “I haven’t had any pudding!” Daniel said with burning injustice.

  It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to tell him he would have to do without, until she looked at his face and saw the fear in it, blind, knowing only that she was frightened, too, and his world was threatened. She made an intense effort and controlled her own feelings.

  “You’re quite right, and I forgot to make any. I’m very sorry. Will you accept a piece of cake instead, if I bring it upstairs for you?”

  He regarded her with great dignity. “Yes, I will,” he conceded, and climbed down from his chair.

  “Thank you.”

  When they had gone she looked at Jack.

  “I read it in the newspaper,” he said quietly. “For God’s sake, what happened?”

  “I don’t know. A constable came this morning and told me Thomas had been arrested for killing a prostitute in Seven Dials. It must be Cerise. I bought a newspaper myself, but I haven’t had time to look at it yet. I daren’t take it out— Jemima can read. I’ll look at it this evening, and then put it straight into the stove.”

  “I’d put it in the stove now,” he said, biting his lip. “There’s nothing in it you want to read. He went into Seven Dials to find the woman in cerise. He said he was told where she was by a running patterer—a man who sells news stories—and when he went into the house he was shown upstairs to her room. He says he found her dead, neck broken, and the people in the house say she was all right when they last saw her, and no one else went up except regulars, and they are all accounted for.”

  “That can’t be true!”

  “Of course it can’t! They’re lying, and I daresay well paid for it. But for the time being, they won’t be shaken. It’s going to take some work—but we’ll do it. Only this time we don’t have Pitt to help us.”

  She sat down again on one of the kitchen chairs, and he took Gracie’s.

  “Jack, I don’t know where to begin! I went to see Mr. Ballarat. I was sure he would be moving heaven and earth to find the truth, and all he did was talk to me as if I were a child, and tell me to go home and leave everything to him. Only I’d swear he isn’t going to do anything at all. Jack—” She hesitated, wondering if what she was thinking would sound hysterical to him, but what alternative did she have? “Jack, I think he wants Thomas to stay in prison. He’s afraid of him!” She expected disbelief and hurried on to explain herself. “He’s afraid of what Thomas will uncover that’s embarrassing to people who matter, the Yorks and the Danvers, or the people in the Home Office. Ballarat wants to sweep the whole lot under the carpet. He hopes if he says nothing it will all go away, and he’d rather that, and that someone should get away with treason and murder, than be the one who has to expose what everyone will hate! People can be very unjust, they can hate the person who makes them see what they would prefer not to, who topples idols and shows their clay feet. They blame them for the truth, and the responsibility it leaves us. We don’t often forgive those who destroy our illusions. Ballarat doesn’t want to be that person, and he will be, by implication, if Thomas discovers what Cerise knew. That’s why they killed her—it has to be!”

  “Of course it has,” he agreed. He reached out across the table and took her hands, quite gently. It was in no way a familiarity, just friendship, and she found herself gripping him back, hard, hanging on. “Do you want me to fetch Emily?” he asked.

  “Yes—please do. I don’t trus
t myself to go to the Yorks’.” She searched for an excuse. “You’ll have to tell her it’s family illness or something. I don’t know how you’ll explain knowing her, but you can scrape up a good lie before you get there.” The thought of seeing Emily was such a relief, almost like someone lighting a fire in a cold room. Perhaps she would even come and stay with Charlotte. They could work together, as they had done in the past on other cases, ones that mattered infinitely less than this.

  “Then what would you like me to do?” he asked. “I’ve never tried detecting before, and this is a damn sight too important for amateurs, but I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “I don’t know where to begin,” she said, her misery returning. “Cerise is dead. Apart from the murderer she may be the only one who knew the truth.”

  “Well, at least we know she wasn’t the murderer herself,” he pointed out. “Someone killed her, and it would be too much to assume it’s coincidence, just as Thomas found her. And we must suppose someone, almost certainly the same person, killed poor Dulcie.”

  She stared at him. “That means someone in the York house, or one of the Danvers, or Felix or Sonia Asherson.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But what would any of them be doing in a place like Seven Dials?”

  “Murdering Cerise to keep her silent,” he answered very quietly, his face more somber than she had ever seen it. There was an anger in him, a weight she had not found before. “I think that means they knew where she was all the time,” he went on. “They could hardly have run into her by chance.”

  “One of the Yorks, the Danvers, or the Ashersons,” she said again. “Emily—” She stopped. Emily was alone in the York house, unable to defend herself except by a disguise of ignorance, and Pitt was imprisoned in Coldbath Fields awaiting trial for murder. Both could end in death.

  But Emily was free; at least she could fight for herself!