Veronica York was indeed a beautiful woman, very slender, with delicate shoulders and bosom, and she moved with an unusual grace. Her face was more sensitive than her mother-in-law’s, more finely boned. It appealed to Pitt instinctively. There was a haunting quality in it, and he had the impression that beneath the calm lay an intense passion, poised to break through.
“Mr. Pitt?” she said with obvious doubt. “I hope you do not mind, Mr. Danver has accompanied me. I regret I do not recollect our acquaintance.”
Danver put one arm half round her, as if he would protect her from any attack of discourtesy. But there was no hostility in his face, only caution, and an awareness of her vulnerability.
“I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized immediately. “It was Mrs. Piers York who was expecting me. I should have made myself plainer. But I expect, if you would not mind, you could assist equally well.” He took the silver vase out of his coat pocket and held it up. “It is possible that this is the vase stolen from you some three years ago. If it is, would you be kind enough to assure yourself, and then confirm it to me?”
The blood fled from her face and her eyes widened as if he had held up something appalling and incomprehensible.
Danver tightened his arm round her as though he feared she might faint. Then he turned on Pitt furiously.
“For heaven’s sake, man, have you no pity at all? You walk in here without the least warning and hold up a vase that was stolen the very night Mrs. York’s husband was violently murdered!” He looked at Veronica York, and his voice rose as he saw her anguish deepen. “I shall complain to your superiors about your gross insensitivity! You might at least have asked for Mr. York!”
Pitt did feel compassion for her, but he had felt it for the guilty as well as the innocent many times before. For Julian Danver it was different: either he was a superb actor, or it had not occurred to him that the truth was anything other than what had already been presumed.
“I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized honestly. “Mr. York told me on a previous visit that he would not know the vase again. It was Mrs. Piers York who described it to me. I can ask a servant, if you prefer: with your permission?”
Veronica was struggling to master herself. “You are being unfair, Julian,” she said with some difficulty. She swallowed dryly and caught her breath. She was still bloodlessly pale. “Mr. Pitt is only doing his duty. It would not be any less distressing to Mother-in-law.” She raised her eyes to meet Pitt’s, and he was struck again by the power of emotion in her; she was no mere society beauty but a woman who would be unique and compelling anywhere. “I am afraid I am not sure whether it is our vase or not,” she said, struggling to keep her voice in control, “I never took much notice of it. It was in the library, which is a room I did not frequent a great deal. Perhaps if you would ask one of the servants, rather than distress my mother-in-law with seeing it?”
“Of course.” Pitt had hoped to find an excuse to speak to the servants, and this was ideal. “If you will instruct your butler or housekeeper that you have given your permission, I shall go through to the servants quarters and perhaps find the housemaid who dusted the library at that time.”
“Yes,” she agreed, unable to hide her relief. “Yes, that would be an excellent idea.”
“I’ll attend to it,” Danver offered. “Would you prefer to go to your room for a while, my dear? I’ll make your apologies to Harriet and Papa.”
She swung round quickly, “Please don’t tell them.”
“Of course not,” he assured her. “I’ll merely say you felt a little faint and went to lie down for half an hour and will rejoin them later. Would you like me to call for your maid, or your mother-in-law?”
“No!” This time there was a fierceness in her voice, and her hand on his arm was clawlike in its grip. “No— please don’t! I shall be perfectly all right. Don’t disturb anyone else. I shall go up for a little eau de cologne and then return to the withdrawing room. If you will be kind enough to call Redditch and explain to him about Mr. Pitt and the vase?”
He acquiesced with some reluctance, uncertainty still plain in his face.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” she said courteously, turning away. Danver opened the door for her, and she disappeared into the hall.
Danver rang for the butler, a mild, slightly anxious-looking man of middle age who still retained some of the bewildered innocence of extreme youth. It was an odd combination in the dignity and responsibility of his position. Pitt’s errand was explained to him, Danver excused himself, and Pitt was conducted across the hall, through the green baize door, and into the housekeeper’s sitting room, which was unoccupied at present.
“I’m not sure who was downstairs maid at the time, sir,” the butler said dubiously. “Most of the staff have changed since Mr. Robert was killed. I’m new myself; so is the housekeeper. But the scullery maid was here then. She might remember.”
“If you would?” Pitt agreed.
He was left for some twenty minutes to sit and wait, turning over his thoughts on Veronica York, until at last a pleasant-looking girl in her early twenties came in. She was wearing a blue stuff gown and a small white apron and cap. Obviously she was not the scullery maid; her looks were trim and soft and her hands were not reddened by constant water. It had been a long time since she had scrubbed a floor. The butler came with her, presumably to make sure she was discreet in her answers.
“I’m Dulcie, sir,” she said with a tiny bob. Policemen did not rank a full curtsy; they were something like servants themselves. “I was the tweeny ’ere when Mr. Robert was killed. There’s only me and Mary, the scullery maid, left. Mr. Redditch said as I could ’elp you, sir?”
It was a pity the butler remained, but Pitt should have expected that: any senior servant in his position would have.
“Yes, if you please.” Pitt took out the silver vase again and held it up for her. “Look at this carefully, Dulcie, and tell me if it is the vase that used to be in the library, up to the time of Mr. Robert York’s death.”
“Oh!” She looked startled. Apparently Redditch had been very fair and told her only that she was wanted because she had been a housemaid three years ago. Her eyes widened and fixed on the vase in Pitt’s hand. She did not touch it.
“Well, Dulcie?” Redditch prompted. “Is that the vase, girl? You must have dusted it often enough.”
“It’s very like it, sir, but I don’t think that’s it. Like I remember it, it had four sides to it. But I could be
