Silence in Hanover Close
Anne Perry
Dedicated to
Aunt Ina
who was part of the inspiration
for Great-aunt Vespasia
Contents
1
2
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12
1
“POLICE STATION, SIR!” the cabbie said loudly, even before the horse’s feet were still. His voice was thick with distaste; he did not like these places. The fact that this one was located in the aristocratic elegance of Mayfair was no compensation.
Pitt climbed out, paid him, and went up the stone steps and in through the doors.
“Yes sir?” the sergeant at the desk said without interest.
“I am Inspector Pitt from Bow Street,” Pitt said crisply. “I’d like to see the senior officer in charge.”
The sergeant took a deep breath, eyeing Pitt critically. He did not meet the sergeant’s conception of a senior officer, not by a long way: he was quite casual. In fact he was downright scruffy, clothes all a mismatch, pockets full of rubbish. The man let the force down. Looked as if he’d never met with a barber’s scissors—more like a pair of garden shears. Still, the sergeant had heard Pitt’s name and spoke with some respect.
“Yes sir. That would be Inspector Mowbray. I’ll let ’im know you’re ’ere. Can I tell ’im what for, sir?”
Pitt smiled dryly. “No, I’m sorry. It’s a confidential matter.”
“Is that so, sir.” The sergeant turned stolidly and went out, leaving Pitt standing until he returned several minutes later, still without haste. “If you go through that door, second on the left, sir, Inspector Mowbray will see you.”
Mowbray was a very dark, balding man with an intelligent face; he looked decidedly curious when Pitt came in and closed the door.
“Pitt,” he introduced himself, and held out his hand.
“Heard of you.” Mowbray took Pitt’s hand firmly. “What can I do?”
“I need to see the records of your investigation of a burglary in Hanover Close, about three years ago—October seventeenth, 1884, to be precise.”
Mowbray’s face showed rueful surprise. “Bad business, that. Don’t often get murder in a household burglary, not in this area. Ugly, very ugly. Never found a thing.” His eyebrows rose hopefully. “Have you got something? One of the stolen pieces turned up at last?”
“No, nothing at all. Sorry,” Pitt apologized. He felt both guilty for taking the man’s case from him and angry because this further poking around was evasive, not his real purpose, and probably futile anyway.
Pitt hated the way he had been brought into the case. Mowbray should have been the one doing this, but because the case involved the delicate question of a woman’s reputation, a distinguished victim from a powerful family, and above all the almost inaudible whisper of the possibility of treason, the Foreign Office had used its influence to place the investigation through Ballarat, where they felt they could keep some control over it. Superintendent Ballarat was a man with excellent judgment of what his superiors required, and a rich ambition to rise high enough in his profession to become socially acceptable, perhaps even a self-made gentleman. He did not realize that those he most wished to impress were always able to distinguish a man’s origins simply by the way he carried himself, by the turn of a vowel in his mouth.
Pitt was a gamekeeper’s son who had grown up on a large country estate. He had been educated as a companion to the son of the house and had a manner acceptable to the gentry. He had also married considerably above himself, gaining an understanding of a social class closed to most ordinary policemen. Ballarat disliked Pitt and resented his manner, which he considered insolent. But Ballarat was obliged to admit that Pitt was
