In the evening, when the children had gone up to bed, exhausted, clutching their presents, Charlotte, Pitt, and Emily took out a giant jigsaw puzzle of the coronation of Queen Victoria. They sat up till midnight, when Emily finally put in the last piece with a crow of triumph.
Two days later, in a crisp north wind that froze the slush on the pavements into slippery, crackling ridges and scattered ice from the gutter like broken glass, Pitt went back to work. After leaving various instructions regarding the other burglaries in his charge, he left Bow Street for Hanover Close. He was increasingly curious to meet the Yorks, and he had an idea.
A somewhat surprised cabbie set him down in the calm, elegant Close with its Georgian facades and the complicated filigree of bare, black trees against a heavy white sky. He opened his mouth to ask Pitt if he was sure this was where he meant to be, then saw the look on his face and changed his mind. The cabbie took the money and slapped the reins on the horse’s faintly steaming rump.
Pitt walked up to the front door, prepared for the scorn of the footman, who would tell him a policeman’s place—if he must come at all—was at the tradesmen’s entrance in back. He was used to this sort of treatment, but he still felt his shoulders tighten.
The door opened almost immediately and a footman in his late twenties failed to keep the slight surprise out of his face.
“My name is Thomas Pitt.” Pitt did not mention rank yet. “It is possible I may have some information about a matter of interest to Mr. York. I would be obliged if you would ask if I may see him.”
The footman did not dare turn down such a request without reference to his master, a fact which Pitt had counted on.
“If you will wait in the morning room, sir, I will inquire.” The footman stepped back and opened the door invitingly. He had a tray in his hand, but Pitt did not have a card to place on it. Perhaps that was something he should consider: just a plain one, with his name and nothing else.
The morning room was spacious and comfortable, a man’s room, with cool green furnishings and sporting prints on the walls. There were leather-bound books in two glass-fronted cases and a rather fine sphere on a table by the window, with all the nations of the empire marked in red, and encircled by vast reaches of Canada, Australasia, India, most of Africa all the way up to Egypt, and islands in every ocean. An engraved brass meridian encircled it.
The footman hovered. “May I tell Mr. York what the matter is in connection with?” he said earnestly.
“With the death of Mr. Robert York,” Pitt answered, stretching the truth only slightly.
The footman found no reply to that, bowed very minutely, and left, closing the door behind him.
Pitt knew he would not have long to wait, and there would be little point in studying the books to learn the personalities of those in the house. Handsome books were all too often purchased for their appearance rather than their content. Instead he rehearsed again what he intended to say, preparing himself to lie to a man for whom he felt profound pity, and might well develop a liking.
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.
