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 was a trifle presumptuous for a policeman to have a card, but he liked it, and it might justify its expense one day. He had not told Charlotte about it, in case she secretly thought him foolish.
The morning room was unchanged, a banked-up slow fire glowing in the grate. This time Pitt deliberately opened the door to the hall after the maid had gone and stood a little out of the way of it, so that he could overhear any conversation unseen. The visitors were probably irrelevant, but he was curious. There had been no carriages outside, so they must intend staying long enough to be worth sending them round to the mews at the back; that meant more than the half hour or so of a normal afternoon call.
The misunderstanding he hoped for materialized. It was the younger Mrs. York the parlormaid informed, and after nearly ten minutes it was she who came, accompanied by a fair-haired man of about forty with a face not handsome, but of intelligent and compelling cast. They were both civil but extremely guarded.
