6
FOR ONCE CHARLOTTE managed to contain both her astonishment and her anxiety when she heard from Jack Radley about Emily’s extraordinary decision to disguise herself and go to the Yorks in service. Fortunately Jack had called early in the afternoon, so she had had plenty of time to recover her composure by the time Pitt returned home a little after six. Consequently he knew nothing about it and assumed in contented ignorance that Emily was sitting at home, where all Society and Pitt himself expected her to be.
He was deeply distressed over the death of the maid, Dulcie, not only because he had liked her but because he felt guilty. It was unreasonable, and he told himself so. She might very well have fallen out of her window accidentally and the whole matter was merely one of the numerous domestic tragedies that happen every year; but he could not seem to shake the fear that had she not told him about the strange woman in the house and the missing jewels, and had he not been careless enough to listen to her with the library door open, then she would still be alive.
At first he did not mention her death to Ballarat, sure that he would dismiss it as the Yorks’ misfortune and no business of Pitt’s. And he did not want to run the risk that Ballarat would actually forbid him to look into it.
But as he thought more and more about the woman in cerise, Pitt became convinced he must pursue her identity before he could give any answer to the Foreign Office regarding Veronica York’s reputation, and her suitability to marry a rising diplomat, his determination to keep quiet weakened.
When Ballarat sent for him two days later he was caught mentally on the wrong foot.
“Well, Pitt, you don’t seem to have accomplished much in the York case,” Ballarat began critically. He was standing by the fire, warming the backs of his legs. A malodorous cigar burned in the stone ashtray on his desk. There was a small bronze lion beside it, rampant, one paw in the air.
Pretentious ass! Pitt thought angrily. “I was doing quite well until my principal witness was killed!” he said aloud, and instantly knew he had been unwise.
Ballarat’s face darkened, the blood ruddying his cheeks. He rocked backwards and forwards on his feet very slightly, his hands behind his back. He blocked most of the heat from the rest of the room; with wet boots and trouser legs, Pitt would have welcomed the warmth.
“Witness to what, for heaven’s sake?” Ballarat demanded irritably. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve uncovered some scandal about the Yorks after all, and the man who might have betrayed them has died?”
“No I’m not!” Pitt retorted. “I’m talking about murder. It’s none of the police’s business if they all had lovers; that’s their own affair. But Robert York’s death was murder, and that was our responsibility to clear up, and we haven’t yet.”
“For heaven’s sake, man!” Ballarat interrupted him. “That was three years ago, and we did our best. Some thief broke in and poor York caught him in the act. The wretch will have disappeared into the slums he came from. He might even be dead himself by now. Your trouble is you’re not man enough to admit failure even when it’s obvious to everyone else.” He glared at Pitt, daring him to argue.
Pitt rose to the bait. “And if it was an inside job?” he said rashly. “A friend turned amateur thief, or someone in the house who was in debt and stealing. It wouldn’t be the first time. Or what if Veronica York had a lover, and it was he who murdered her husband? Do you want to know about that, or, assuming it was Julian Danver, would the Foreign Office rather we covered it up?”
A series of expressions chased over Ballarat’s face, first sheer horror, then anger and confusion, then fear, as he understood the full implications of the last possibility. He would be caught between two masters; the Foreign Office, who had ordered the inquiry, and the Home Office, who were in charge of the police and justice. Either one could easily ruin his career. He was furious with Pitt as the instigator of such a dilemma.
Pitt saw this as quickly as Ballarat and took a distinct and deep satisfaction from it, even as he realized that Ballarat would make him the butt of his otherwise impotent anger.
“Damn you, Pitt! You incompetent, interfering . . .” He searched for an adequate word, and failing to find it, began again. “You idiot! That’s a—a totally irresponsible suggestion, and the Yorks, not to mention the Danvers, will sue you for slander if you whisper one word of it to anyone!”
“Shall we decline the case?” Pitt asked sarcastically.
“Don’t be insolent!” Ballarat shouted. Then his duty towards the Home Office, who were, after all, his employers, reasserted itself. Ballarat controlled his temper with an effort. “What conceivable grounds have you for making such an appalling suggestion?”
This time Pitt was less prepared, and Ballarat saw the second of hesitation with victory in his eyes. His body relaxed slightly, becoming more jaunty, and he resumed rocking on the soles of his feet. Still he blocked the fire, glancing down at Pitt’s wet legs with satisfaction.
Pitt tried to organize his thoughts. His reply must be unassailable. “No fence in London has handled or seen any of the goods,” he began. “No thief in the area has heard of them or knows of any strangers working the patch, no one has seen anyone hiding up or running from a murder.” He saw Ballarat’s face hover between belief and disbelief. He was a climber, a currier of favor, and it was a long time since he had been personally involved in the investigation of a crime. But he was neither ignorant nor stupid, and although he profoundly disliked Pitt, deploring his manners and his social judgments, he respected his professional skill.
“The thief knew where to find a first edition among the other books in the library and yet has apparently not disposed of it, and he left all the silver in the dining room,” Pitt went on. “I’ve started looking in their social circle for anyone with debts.” He noticed Ballarat’s alarm with satisfaction. “Discreetly. And I’ve got someone inquiring into York’s own affairs,” he added spitefully. “But the curious circumstance I was investigating was the appearance in the small hours of the morning of a glamorous and furtive woman in a cerise gown—twice at least in the York house, prior to Robert York’s death, and also in the Danver house, again in the small hours of the morning, and again wearing a startling shade of cerise and apparently not wishing to be seen. The maid who described her at the Yorks fell out of a window to her death the day after she spoke to me.”
Ballarat stopped rocking and remained motionless, his round little eyes on Pitt’s face. “Veronica York?” he said slowly. “Wouldn’t this maid have recognized her?”
“I would have thought so,” Pitt agreed. “She was the lady’s maid. But people see what they expect to see, and it was only for a moment in the gaslight, and the woman was dressed entirely differently. From the slight description it could have easily been Veronica; same height and build, same coloring.”
“Damnation!” Ballarat swore furiously. “I suppose it couldn’t have been Robert York’s mistress, and Mrs. York knew nothing about her?”
