voice was little more than a breath, but still perfectly controlled, beautifully modulated.
“I believe she is still here, somewhere-at times very close,” he replied. “Someone among your family, or your acquaintances knows where she is, who she is-and possibly what really happened on that night three years ago in Hanover Close.”
“It is not I, Mr. Pitt.”
He smiled bleakly. “If I thought it were, Miss Danver, I should not waste my time asking you.”
“But you think one of us, someone I daresay I am fond of, does know this terrible thing?”
“People keep secrets for many reasons,” he replied. “Most often out of fear for themselves, or to protect someone they love. Scandal can blow up out of sins that are very slight-if they catch the imagination. And scandal can be a worse punishment for some than imprisonment or financial loss. The admiration of our peers is a far greater prize than some realize-more blood has been shed for it than is seen, and more pain. Women marry men they do not love rather than be imagined to be unloved. People pretend all the time so that others will imagine they are happy. We need our masks, our small illusions; few of us can bear to go naked into the world’s gaze. And people will kill to keep their clothes.”
She stared at him. “What an odd person you are. Why on earth do you choose to be a policeman?”
He looked down at the carpet. It did not occur to him to evade, still less to lie. “Originally because my father was convicted for something he did not do. The truth has its uses, Miss Danver, and although it can be painful, lies are worse in the end. Though there are times when I hate it, when I learn things I would rather not have to know. But that’s cowardice, because we are afraid of the pain of pitying.”
“And do you expect it to hurt this time, Mr. Pitt?” she asked, her eyes on his face, her thin fingers picking very slightly at the lace in her skirt.
“No,” he said honestly. “No more man the murder already has done. What did she look like, Miss Danver? Could you describe this woman for me?”
She hesitated for a moment, searching her memory. “She was tall,” she said slowly. “I think quite definitely taller than average; she had a kind of grace short women cannot possess. And she was slender, not…” She blinked, grasping for the word which eluded her. “Not voluptuous, and yet she-no. Her voluptuousness was not in her shape but it was there! Quite definitely it was there; it was in the way she moved. She had passion, style, a kind of daring, as if she were dancing a great ballet along a razor’s edge. I’m sorry- do I sound ridiculous?”
“No.” He shook his head without taking his eyes from hers. “No, if what I guess about her is right, then that is a fitting analogy. Go on.”
“She had dark hair, black it seemed in the gaslight. I only caught the briefest glimpse of her face, and I remember she was very beautiful.”
“What sort of face?” Pitt pressed. “There are many kinds of beauty.”
“Unusual,” she said slowly, and he knew she was trying to picture the moment again, the gaslight on the landing, the vivid dress, the turn of the head till she saw the features. “There was a perfect balance between the brow and the nose, the cheek and the curve of the throat; it was all a matter of bones and a sweeping hairline. It was nothing ordinary, like arched eyebrows or a pouting mouth, or dimples. She reminded me vaguely of someone, and yet I am perfectly sure I had never seen her before.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. And you may choose to believe me or not, but it is the truth. It was not Veronica, which I assume you are imagining, and it was most certainly not my niece Harriet.”
“Who did she remind you of? Please try to recall.”
“I have tried, Mr. Pitt. I can only think it may be someone whose picture I have seen. Artists’ impressions can be most misleading. They change so much with the fashion of the times, have you noticed? They paint you as they think you wish to look. But photographs give a remarkable likeness. I am sorry, I have no idea who it is, so there is no purpose in your pressing me. If at any time it comes to me, I shall certainly tell you. That I promise.”
“Then promise me also, Miss Danver, that you will not discuss this with anyone else, nor entrust a message to anyone-anyone at all. I really do mean what I say.” He leaned forward a little. If he frightened her it was a small price to pay for saving her life. “Robert York is dead, and so is Dulcie, both in their own homes, where they thought they were safe. Give me your word, Miss Danver.”
“Very well, Mr. Pitt,” she agreed. “If you really believe it is so serious. I shall discuss it with no one. You may cease to worry about it.” She looked at him levelly, her round, clever eyes very grave. “Good gracious, Mr. Pitt-your concern is a trifle unnerving!”
Outside again in the gray street he turned and walked south. He must find the woman in cerise. He had already exhausted the easier avenues, the hotels and theaters where she would have been most likely to meet her clients. He had questioned the doorkeepers, the prostitutes who might have been her rivals, as well as the pimps and madams. They either did not know her or would not say. It all confirmed what he imagined from the beginning, that she was a spy, not a woman earning her living from prostitution. She was not interested in general trade, only certain men in particular. And she had taken great care not to be traced.
Finding Cerise would be a matter of laborious, detailed police work. He knew at least one place which she had patronized several times, and now he had a close and unusual description. No one in the business of sexual favors for hire was likely to help him further; all the middlemen reaped their profits from silence. But there were always people in a London street who were almost invisible, people who might remember, who made their livelihood from passersby, their hungry eyes watching each one for even the tiniest signs of willingness to buy.
He stepped over to the curb and raised his arm, shouting to a hansom as it plodded along Park Lane through the thickening mist. There was snow in the wind. He climbed in and gave the address of the hotel where he had found the doorman who remembered Cerise, sitting back to wait out the slow, cold journey. This was not the best time to begin-the vendors he wanted would be the ones who worked at night-but he had nothing else to pursue, and there was an urgency inside him.
He stopped short of the hotel itself and left the cab on the comer, opposite a stall where a man wearing a white apron and a black hat with a ribbon round it was selling hot eels. Beside him, a girl ladled out thick pea soup at a halfpenny a cup.
The aroma drifted on the wet air and Pitt automatically reached in his pocket. He had never acquired the native Londoners’ taste for eels, but he was partial to pea soup. A red-faced woman was before him in the queue, but after she was served he produced his halfpenny and took the hot cup gratefully. The liquid was thick and a little lumpy, but the flavor was rich and its warmth rippled through him, creating a tiny heart of strength inside.
“You here in the evenings?” he asked casually.
“Sometimes, in the summer wiv ve eels,” the man answered. “Vis time o’ year anyone wiv an ’ome ter go to is in it! Vem as ’asn’t usual don’t ’ave money neither.”
“Who’d be here in the evening?”
The man went on ladling eels. “Wot time yer talkin’ abaht? Early on, till eight or nine, ’er.” He gestured to a small girl about fifty yards up the pavement, who stood shivering in the cold, a box of sweet violets by her bare feet. She might have been ten or eleven years old.
“I’ll take another cup of soup.” Pitt gave the man a second halfpenny and took the cup from the girl. “Thank you.” He turned to walk away.
“Hey! I want the cup back!” the man shouted behind him.
“You’ll get it,” Pitt said over his shoulder, “when it’s empty.” He approached the flower girl. She was only a few years older than Jemima, with a pinched face and few underclothes beneath her plain dark dress and faded shawl. Her feet were mottled red and blue with extreme cold.
He put the cup of soup down on the pavement and fished in his pocket for two more pennies.
“I’ll have two bunches of violets for my wife,” he said, holding out the coins.
“Thank you, sir.” She took the pennies, glancing at him out of clear blue eyes, then stole a glance at the steaming soup.
He picked it up and took a sip, then set it down again.
“I’ve bought more than I can eat,” he said. “You can finish it if you like.”
She hesitated; nothing came into her life without a price.
“I don’t want it,” he repeated.
Very carefully she reached out her hand and picked it up, still watching him.
“Have you been on this street long?” he asked, knowing as he said it that she was probably too young to be
