The Honorable Piers York appeared within five minutes. He was tall, with the build of a man who had been slender in his prime. Approaching seventy, he held himself erect, except for a slight rounding of the shoulders, and his lean face was full of a wry, private humor, which was deeply ingrained beneath the present patina of grief and the years of self-restraint.
“Mr. Pitt?” he inquired curiously, closing the door and indicating one of the armchairs in a tacit invitation. “John said you have something to say about my son’s death. Is that correct?”
Pitt felt more ashamed than he had expected, but it was too late to withdraw now without explaining his lie. “Yes sir.” He swallowed. “It is possible that some of the articles stolen may have been discovered. If you would give me a closer description of the vase and the paperweight. .?”
York’s eyes were puzzled. The shadow of loss was there, also a gleam of something which might have been humor or irony as he took in Pitt’s shining and perfectly fitted boots.
“Are you from the police?” he asked.
Pitt felt the heat in his face. “Yes sir.”
York sat down with an elegant movement despite a faint stiffness in his back. “What have you found?”
Pitt had his story prepared. He sat down opposite and avoided York’s eyes as he replied. “We have found a great deal more stolen property lately, and among it are several pieces of silver and crystal.”
“I see.” York smiled bleakly. “I can’t see that it matters much now. They were not of great value. It was just a small vase; can’t really remember the thing myself. The paperweight had engraving on it, I think, flowers or something. I wouldn’t go to too much trouble, Mr. Pitt. Surely you must have more important work.”
There was no alternative but to say it. “It may be through the articles that we can trace the thief, and thus the man who killed your son,” he explained gravely.
York smiled, polite but weary. He had already divorced the matter from his emotions. “After three years, Mr. Pitt? Surely it will have changed hands many times since then.” It was an observation, not a question.
“I don’t think so, sir. We have many contacts with the dealers in stolen goods.”
“I suppose it is necessary?” York said with a sigh. “I really don’t give a damn about the vase, and I’m sure my wife doesn’t either. Robert was our only son; can’t we. .” His words died away.
Was it necessary? Would the whole charade he had planned really lead to any information about Robert York’s murderer? Would it even shed any light on the possible involvement of his widow? Was it not merely a further exercise in pain inflicted upon a family that was already deeply hurt?
But there was something different about this crime. It was not a common housebreaking. He believed Pinhorn, the Stoat, and all the others who said it had not sprung from the underworld. Perhaps an acquaintance of the York household had turned to sudden crime, and when Robert had recognized him, the burglar had killed Robert in his panic, rather than be betrayed. Or else it was a murder first and a burglary second: Robert York had surprised his wife with a lover, and the perpetrator had taken the articles to mask the real crime. Or worse still, perhaps it had been premeditated.
There was, of course, the possibility feared by the Foreign Office: that the real theft involved papers Robert York had taken home, and not only was this murder, but also treason.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is necessary,” Pitt said firmly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I am sure even in her grief Mrs. York would not wish a murderer to go free when there is a possibility we may catch him.”
York stared at him levelly for several seconds, then stood up slowly. “I suppose you know what you’re doing, Mr. Pitt.” There was no slight in his voice; he spoke as one gentleman to another. He pulled the bell rope near the door, and when the footman answered he sent him for Mrs. York.
She was several minutes in coming, but neither of them spoke again until she appeared. Pitt stood up immediately and regarded her with interest. This was the woman whose composure had so impressed Lowther on the night of her son’s death, and Mowbray the day after. She was of barely average height, her slender build a little thickened at the waist, with well-covered shoulders and a white neck draped in lace, not an old lady’s lace, but expensive, heavy French lace such as Great-aunt Vespasia might have chosen. Even from a distance of several feet Pitt could smell the faintest aroma of an elusive sweet perfume like gardenia. She had smooth, rounded features, an almost Greek nose, and lips that were still well defined. Her skin was flawless, and her hair, though faded in color, still rich-textured and full, with natural wave. She had been a beauty, in her own fashion. She regarded Pitt with cold surprise.
“Mr. Pitt is from the police,” York said in explanation. “He may have found some of our belongings that were stolen. Can you describe the silver vase? I’m afraid I wouldn’t know it if I saw it.”
Her eyes widened. “After three years you may be able to return me one silver vase? I am unimpressed, Mr. Pitt.”
The criticism was just and he knew it. Pitt’s voice sounded sharper than he intended. “Justice is frequently slow, ma’am, and sometimes the innocent suffer as well. I’m sorry.”
She forced herself to smile, and he respected her for that.
“It was about nine inches high, on a round base but squared up the body, with a fluted lip. It was solid silver, and took about five or six stems. I usually put roses in it.”
That was very precise; there was nothing vague or distorted about her description. He looked at her closely. She was intelligent, in complete command of herself, but there was no lack of emotion in her face. In fact Pitt could easily imagine great passion there. He glanced down at the small, strong hands at her sides and saw that they were stiff, but not clenched.
“Thank you, ma’am. And the crystal paperweight?”
“Spherical, with two Tudor roses engraved on it, and something else, a ribbon or scroll. It was about three or four inches high, and heavy, of course.” Her brow puckered. “Have you found the thief?” There was a slight tremor in her voice now and a tiny muscle flickered under the pale skin of her temple.
“No ma’am”-at least that was the absolute truth-“only property, through a dealer in stolen goods. But he may lead us to the thief.”
York was standing several feet away from her. For a moment Pitt thought he was going to reach out to her in a gesture of comfort, or merely of companionship, but he changed his mind, or else Pitt had misunderstood the slight movement. What lay behind his wry patrician face, her regular, carefully preserved beauty? Did they suspect that their daughter-in-law had had a lover? Or that their son had been murdered for his country’s secrets? Or that some associate, even a family friend, had fallen deeply into debt and had turned in desperation to robbery rather than face the disgrace and perhaps even imprisonment brought by financial ruin?
He would learn nothing from staring at them. All their nurturing in the cool, obedient childhood of the aristocracy had bred into them self-mastery, the knowledge of duty to dignity and to class. Whatever fear or grief lay inside, no policeman, no gamekeeper’s son was going to see it naked in a wavering voice or a shaking hand. Pitt almost wished Charlotte could see them; she might be able to read far more into their manner.
He could not prolong it anymore, and he could think of no appropriate excuse to meet the widow. He thanked them and allowed the footman to show him to the door and the gray, ice-whipped street.
It took him three days to find a vase that fit Mrs. York’s description, and even then it was an inch and a half short and had five sides rather than four, but it was near enough. The paperweight was impossible; the stolen goods hauls presented nothing remotely like it, and he would betray his deceit if he brought one that differed vastly from the description he had been given.
It was New Year’s Eve and snowing hard. He rode through muffled streets, the wheels of the hansom almost silent in the pall, and stepped out at number 2 Hanover Close a little after three. He had asked the constable on the beat and knew that this was the best opportunity to catch the younger Mrs. York at home, while the elder Mrs. York was out visiting.
This time the door was answered by a pretty young snip of a parlormaid with a crisp lace apron and a cap on her dark head. She eyed Pitt up and down suspiciously, from the tousled hair poking out under his tall hat and his well-cut but ill-used coat, its pockets stuffed with all manner of objects he had thought he might find useful, to Emily’s beautiful boots.
“Yes sir?”
He smiled at her. “I have called to see Mrs. York. She is expecting me within these few days.”
She considered his smile more than the information, which she found hard to believe. “Mrs. York has company at the present, sir, but if you come into the morning room I’ll inform her you are here.”
“Thank you.” He stepped in and handed her one of the cards he had acquired since his last visit. Perhaps it
