from the wide coils of the river that laced through the suburbs, past Chelsea, the Houses of Parliament, the Embankment, Wapping, and Limehouse, down to the Pool of London, Greenwich, and the Arsenal, and finally the estuary.
If Cerise, whoever she was, had dressed as glamorously as Dulcie said, then she had not done it merely to flit around landings in the middle of the night. She had gone out somewhere in public. It was a disguise, an alter ego for some woman who would be known in Society; or else she was a courtesan with whom neither the Yorks nor the Danvers would be seen by their own friends. So where would she have been able to meet her lovers?
He stood on the curb as carriages, hansoms, and carts clopped by him slowly in the yellow mist, looming suddenly and disappearing, swallowed up, the horses only dark shapes and muffled sounds. The road was slimy and more spattered with dung than usual. This was the sort of weather when crossing sweepers got knocked over, sometimes even killed. There was a one-legged sweeper in Piccadilly who had lost his limb that way.
Pitt knew there were hotels, restaurants, and theaters where such assignations could be kept, places where if a gentleman saw an acquaintance both men would have enough tact to overlook the meeting, neither wishing it referred to. These places were dotted round the borders of fashionable London, in the Haymarket, Leicester Square, Piccadilly. He knew where to find them and the touts and doormen to ask.
“Cabbie!” he shouted into the street, catching his breath as the fog threatened to choke him, making him cough. “Cabbie!”
A hansom slowed up and stopped, harness dripping, horse’s head down, driver’s voice disembodied in the gloom.
“Haymarket,” Pitt requested, and climbed in.
It was the following day, the fog still clamped heavily over the city, acrid in the throat, sharp to the nose, before he found his first success. He was in a private hotel a little off Jermyn Street near Piccadilly. The doorman was a richly mustached ex-soldier, with liberal ideas on morality and an injury from the Second Ashanti War which prevented him from doing any physical labor. He was also illiterate, which precluded any clerical work. He was quite amenable to answering Pitt’s questions, for a consideration. Ballarat had been very little help with information or influence, but he had given Pitt as much financial license as he could.
“You’re goin’ back a bit, guv,” the doorman said cheerfully. “But sure I remember ’er. Right ’andsome she was, an’ always wore them sort o’ colors. Looks wicked on most people, but suited ’er summink marvelous. Black ’air and dark eyes she ’ad, an’ graceful as a swan. Tall woman, not a lot o’ shape to ’er, but she ’ad summink special all the same.”
“What sort of something?” Pitt said curiously. He wanted to know what this man thought, his judgment; even with his limited vocabulary, his opinion would be worth a great deal. He knew street women, he watched them every night, and he saw their clients too. He would see them working and yet not be part of it. Few of them would fool him.
The man pulled a slight face as he considered. “Quality,” he said at last. “She ’ad a quality about ’er; never acted like she was ’ustling people, anxious like; it was always them as was after ’er; she didn’t give a cuss.” He shook his head. “It were more’n that, though. It were-it were like she were doin’ it fer fun. Yeah, that’s it-she ’ad fun! She never laughed, not out loud, she ’ad too much class for that. But she were laughing inside, like.”
“Did you ever talk to her?” Pitt pursued.
“Me?” He looked a little surprised. “No, I never did. She didn’t say a lot, and always spoke quiet like. Only saw ’er, oh, maybe ’alf a dozen times.”
“Can you remember who she was with?”
“Different blokes. Elegant-she liked ’em real elegant, didn’t like any scruff. And money o’ course, but then so do they all. No one without a bit o’ real money comes ’ere.” He gave a short laugh.
“Can you describe any of them?”
“Not so’s you’d know ’em again, no.” He smiled.
“Try a little,” Pitt pressed him.
“You couldn’t pay me that much, guv. You goin’ ter give me another job when they throw me out of ’ere an’ black me name?”
Pitt sighed. He had known before he started that describing the woman was very different from being indiscreet about her clients. Clients had money, position, they expected privacy and no doubt bought it for a generous price. Selling the secrets of one would lose the trust of all. “All right,” he conceded. “Be general. Old or young, dark, fair or gray, what sort of height and build?”
“Yer goin’ ter search all London, guv?”
“I can eliminate a few.”
The doorman shrugged. “If yer like. Well, those as I can recall was older, above forty. Don’t think she took ’em fer the money; dunno why, but I ’ad the feelin’ she could afford ter pick and choose.”
“Gray?”
“None I recalls. An’ none ’efty-all on the slim side.” He moved closer to Pitt. “Look, guv, for all I know it could ’ave bin the same gent. It don’t pay me ter peer into their faces! They comes ’ere discreet-that’s what they pays for! Like I said, she could afford ter pick. I always ’ad the feelin’ she was doin’ it fer fun.”
“Did she always wear that color?”
“Shades of it, yeah; it was like-’er trademark. Why you so keen ter know about ’er anyway? She ain’t bin ’ere in, oh, two or three years.”
“Which? Two, or three?”
“Well if yer want it that precise, guv, three, I reckon.”
“And you’ve not seen or heard of her since then?”
“Come ter think of it, no I ’aven’t.” His faced relaxed into a grin. “Maybe she married well. Sometimes they do. Maybe she’s a duchess sitting in some grand ’ouse by now, ordering around the likes o’ you an’ me.”
Pitt pulled a face. The chance was slight at best, and they both knew it; it was far more likely she had lost her looks by disease, or assault, in a fight with another prostitute or a pimp who felt he had been cheated, a lover whose demands had become too perverted or possessive; or that she had simply moved downmarket from a hotel such as this to a simple brothel. He did not mention the possibility of treason or murder; that would complicate the question unnecessarily.
The doorman looked at him closely. “Why you after ’er, guv? She puttin’ the black on someone?”
“It’s a possibility,” Pitt conceded. “It’s a definite possibility.” He took out one of his new cards and gave it to the man. “If you see her again, tell me. Bow Street Police Station. Just say you’ve seen Cerise again.”
“That ’er name? What’s it worth?”
“It’ll do. And it’s worth my goodwill-which, believe me, is a lot better than my ill will.”
“You wouldn’t pick on me, just ’cause I ain’t seen someone! I can’t see ’er if she in’t ’ere! An’ you wouldn’t want lies, now, would yer?”
Pitt did not bother to answer. “What theaters and music halls do your clients patronize?”
“Geez!”
Pitt waited.
The man bit his lip. “Well, if ye’re after ’er yer call Cerise, I ’eard she bin ter the Lyceum, an’ I suppose she tried the ’alls, although don’t ask me which ones ’cause I dunno.”
Pitt’s eyebrows rose. “The Lyceum? A lady of courage to ply her trade there.”
“I told yer, she ’ad class.”
“Yes you did. Thank you.”
The man tipped his hat a little sarcastically. “Thank you, guv!”
Pitt left him and went out into the street again. The fog wrapped round him again like a cold muslin, damp and clinging to the skin.
So Cerise had both courage and style. She was certainly not Veronica York on a mere affair with Julian Danver! If it was Veronica, then she led a secret life of the sort to scandalize the Foreign Office to the core of its collective soul. For a diplomat to have a wife who was a practicing prostitute, of whatever price or degree of discrimination, was impossible. He would be dismissed instantly, and ruined.
Neither was she Harriet Danver pursuing her affair with Felix Asherson, although he had never actually thought that. Charlotte had said Harriet was in love; as yet he had no knowledge of whether Asherson returned her feelings. But either way, that answer offered no explanation as to why Cerise should be in the York house.
