inclined her head towards the interior of the conservatory. “Now you have done your good turn for the day, Miss Barnaby. Either you will call Veronica, or I shall.”
“I will,” Charlotte said obediently, her mind in a whirl. Had Cerise been a lover of Julian’s? Did Veronica know, or guess; was that the ghost she was fighting-an old mistress? Was that why she allowed herself such abandon before an engagement was even announced, let alone a marriage?
If so, then who had killed Robert York, and why?
They were back to treason. Could it possibly be that Veronica herself was hunting her husband’s murderer? Could it be Julian who had killed Robert, and did she know it? Was that the terror consuming her-and what lay between her and Loretta?
“Veronica!” Charlotte said aloud. “Miss Danver says that tea will be served in a few minutes. Veronica!”
8
Pitt chose to walk to Mayfair. It was not a pleasant day; a flat, gray sky closed over the city like a heavy lid and the wind scythed across the park, stinging his skin above his muffler. It crept into the space round his ears and its coldness hurt, making his body tighten against it. Carriages rattled along Park Lane but he saw no one on foot. It was too cold for pleasure; the street vendors knew there would be no business for them here where residents could afford to ride.
He walked because he was going to the Danvers’, and he was putting off arriving there as long as he could. Dulcie was dead, so there was no one left to ask about Cerise except Adeline Danver. Part of the chill inside him was guilt-Dulcie’s bright, frank face came back to his mind far too easily. If only he had taken the precaution of closing the library door before allowing her to speak! He still did not know which of her two remarks had caused her death-the mention of Cerise, or of the missing necklace. But Pitt’s investigation of Piers York’s affairs had proved him to be more than financially secure, and in spite of his remark to Dulcie, he did not seem to have claimed for the gems.
All inquiries into other friends of Robert York who might have acquired debt and turned to amateur burglary had also proved fruitless so far. Nor had Pitt succeeded in tracing many of the servants who had been employed in Hanover Close at the time, and dismissed soon after. The butler had taken a position in the country, the valet had gone abroad, the maids had disappeared into the vast mass of female labor in London and its environs.
He stopped; he was outside the Danvers’ house already. The air was damp, raw in the throat, with the sour smell of too many fires jetting smoke out into the leaden sky. He could not stand around like a vagrant. Someone held a thread that eventually wound back to murder. If he picked at it, teased it, he thought he might find an end lying with Adeline Danver.
She received him civilly, but with undisguised surprise. He had formed a very clear picture of her in his mind from Charlotte’s description; nevertheless he was taken aback by the sharp intelligence in her rather round eyes under their wispy brows. She was a plainer woman than Charlotte had implied: her nose was tip-tilted and narrow, her chin very receding. It was only when she spoke in a voice of remarkable timbre and diction that he saw her beauty.
“Good afternoon, Inspector. I have no idea how I might be of assistance, but of course I shall try. Please do be seated. I don’t believe I have ever met a policeman before.” She regarded him with open curiosity, as if he were some exotic species of creature imported for her entertainment.
For the first time in years Pitt felt self-conscious; he seemed all hands and feet and coattails. He sat down gingerly, trying to arrange himself with some neatness, and failing.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Not at all.” Her eyes never wavered from his face. “I assume it is about poor Robert York’s death? That is the only crime with which I have even the remotest connection-and believe the, it is remote. But I knew him, of course, although there are many others who knew him far better.” She smiled very slightly. “I suppose I have the advantage of being an observer of life, rather than a player, so perhaps I have seen something that others may have missed.”
He felt transparent, guilty of great insensitivity. “Not at all, Miss Danver.” He smiled very faintly. He was not at all sure he should try to be charming-he might end up making a complete fool of himself. “I approach you because I have a very specific question in mind, and you are the person in the house least likely to have any involvement with this event, and therefore to be embarrassed by it, or distressed.”
“You take trouble to be tactful,” she said with a slight nod of approval. “Thank you for not insulting my intelligence with an idle courtesy. What event do you imagine I may know of? I confess I cannot think what it might be.”
“Have you ever seen in this house, alone and not as an ordinary guest, a woman of striking appearance, tall, slender and very dark, wearing a gown of a vivid and unusual shade of magenta or cerise?”
Adeline sat motionless. She might not have been breathing but for the faintest stir of the fichu over her thin, almost bosomless chest.
Pitt waited, staring back at her bright brown eyes. Now there was no possibility of evasion between them. Either she would lie outright, brazenly, or she would tell him the truth.
Outside in the hall a clock struck eleven. The chimes seemed endless, until eventually the last one died away.
“Yes, Mr. Pitt,” she said. “I have seen such a woman. But there is no point whatsoever in your asking me who she is, because I do not know. I have seen her twice in this house, and to the best of my knowledge, I have never seen her anywhere else, either before or since.”
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “Was she wearing the same clothes on both occasions?”
“No, but it was a very similar shade, one darker than the other, as I recollect. But it was at night, and gaslight can be misleading.”
“Can you describe her for me, all that you do remember?”
“Who is she, Inspector?”
The use of his title set a distance between them again, warning him not to take her for granted.
“I don’t know, Miss Danver. But she is the only clue I have as to who murdered Robert York.”
“A woman?” Her eyes widened. “I assume you are suggesting something sordid.” It was a statement.
He smiled broadly. “Not necessarily, Miss Danver. I think there may gave been a theft, unreported because only Mr. York himself knew of it, and that this woman may have been the thief, or may have witnessed the murder.”
“You are full of surprises,” Adeline Danver conceded with an answering softness touching the corners of her mouth. “And you cannot find this woman?”
“Not so far. I have been singularly unsuccessful. Can you describe her for me?”
“I am fascinated.” She bent her head very slightly to one side. “How do you know she exists?”
“Someone else saw her, in the York house, also by gaslight.”
“And their description is not adequate? Or do you fear they are misleading you deliberately?”
Should he frighten her? Dulcie’s trusting face came back as sharply as if she had gone out of the library door only yesterday.
“Her description was very brief,” he said without moderating the blow at all. “But I can’t go back and ask her again because the day after she spoke to me she fell out of an upstairs window to her death.”
Adeline’s thin cheeks were white. She was well acquainted with tragedy. She was over fifty and had known many deaths, but none of them had left her untouched. Much of her life lay in the triumphs and the sorrows of others; it had had to.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “You are referring to Veronica York’s maid, I assume?”
“Yes.” He did not want to seem melodramatic, foolish. “Miss Danver-” He stopped.
“Yes, Inspector?”
“Please do not speak of our conversation to anyone else, even in your own family. They may inadvertently repeat it, without intending harm.”
Her eyebrows rose and her thin hands gripped the arms of her chair. “Do I understand you correctly?” Her
