company, like.”
“Naturally. I don’t expect something for nothing. What does she look like, this woman in pink of yours?”
“Wot does she look like?” His pale eyebrows rose up to his nonexistent hairline. “Geez! Wot do you care? You must ’ave a lot more money than yer look like if yer can afford ter care!”
“I care,” Pitt said between his teeth. “That’s what matters to me.” A good lie came to his mind. “I’m an artist. Now, tell me!”
“All right, all right.” He shrugged genially. “If you say so. But I don’t know why yer want ter paint ’er; she’s as thin as a washboard, don’t ’ave no bosom and no ’ips. But she ’as got a face, I’ll give ’er that. She ’as a curious fine face, an’ black ’air. Now make up yer mind an’ don’t stand ’ere on the doorstep like a fool. I ’an’t got the time, even if you ’ave!”
“I’ll see her,” Pitt said instantly. “I owe Black Sam. Let me go and pay him, then I’ll be back to pay you for your trouble.”
“Then get on wiv it!” Fred urged. “I got work ter do.”
Ten minutes later Pitt, debts discharged, stood in a red-carpeted passageway with faded, dirty footmarks along the center and a gas lamp hissing gently on the wall. He knocked on the door at the end of the passage. Nothing happened. He knocked again, more loudly. Fred had assured him she was there, and he had described her too closely not to know who she was. He had spoken of characteristics Pitt had not even mentioned.
A door opened behind him and a large woman with a cascade of blond hair came out, a shawl wrapped round her more than ample figure, her bare shoulders smooth, rippling with fat.
“Leave off that racket, mister!” she said curtly. “Yer want in, then go in! Door’s not locked. Don’t stand there disturbin’ everyone! I got customers. You sound like a raid, put people off!”
“Yes ma’am,” he said with a lift of excitement. So Cerise was actually in there. In a moment he would see her, and perhaps know the secret of Robert York’s death. He turned away from the blonde, already returning to her customer, and twisted the handle of the door. She was right, it was not locked. It opened easily under his hand and he went in.
The room was more or less what he had expected: comfortable but messy, overfurnished, smelling of perfume, fine dust, and stale sheets. There were too many cushions and too much red. The bed was large and rumpled, two quilts thrown carelessly so he could not see at a glance whether there was anyone lying under them or not. He closed the door behind him.
When he was standing beside the bed he recognized the human outline of the form, and saw a flash of magenta satin, a strand of black hair like a loose band of silk. The woman’s face was turned away.
He was about to address her, then realized he had no idea what her name was. He had thought of her as Cerise. When he knew of her, she had been on the crest of the wave. In three years she had fallen to this. She was hardly the same person. His excitement on the point of discovery was suddenly shot through with pity. The more dashing, the more reckless she had been, the deeper this reduction cut with its tawdry intimacy. She might have been an instrument of treason, a murderess or accessory to murder; still he felt intrusive now.
“Madam,” he said inadequately.
She did not move. She must be very heavily asleep, perhaps even drunk. He leaned forward and touched her shoulder under the quilt, then shook her very slightly.
Still she did not move. He pulled her more strongly, turning her over, revealing the vivid magenta silk bodice with its low neck and slash of fuchsia. She had drunk herself insensible. He leant forward, taking both his hands to her shoulders, and shook her. Her hair fell back off her face and the quilt slipped.
At first he could not believe it. The head lolled a little sideways, unnaturally, not with the unresponsiveness of sleep but the limp finality of death. Her neck was broken. It must have been a single blow of great force. She was thin; he could see now the fragility of her bones. It was hard to tell if she had been beautiful. Without vitality there was only a certain grace of proportion left.
“Oh Gawd!”
For a moment he thought he had spoken himself, then he realized there was someone in the room.
“You bloody fool! Wot yer go an’ do that fer? Poor little bleeder, she never done you no ’arm!”
Pitt straightened up slowly and turned to look at Fred; white-faced, he blocked the door.
“I didn’t kill her,” Pitt said impatiently. “She was dead when I got here. You’d better go out and find a constable. Who came in here before I did?”
“Oh, I’ll send for a rozzer-yer can be sure o’ that!” Fred said savagely. “But I can’t leave you ’ere. Gawd knows ’oo else I might find dead if I did!”
“I didn’t kill her!” Pitt said between his teeth, holding his temper with difficulty. “I found her dead. Go and get the police!”
Fred remained motionless. “And o’ course you’ll wait ’ere for me to come back wiv ’em. You must take me fer a fool!”
Pitt stood up and moved towards him. Instantly Fred stiffened and his fists came up. For the first time Pitt realized that for all his apparent civility, Fred had every intention of stopping him with violence if necessary, and he was built to succeed with it.
“I am the police,” he said abruptly. “We’ve been looking for this woman in connection with a murder, maybe treason.”
“Yeah? An’ I’m the Duke o’ Wellington!” Fred was wedged massively in the doorway, his arms hanging, loosely, in case Pitt should attempt any sudden attack. “Rosie!” he shouted without taking his eyes off Pitt. “Rosie! Come ’ere! Quick!”
Pitt began again, “I am-”
“Shut up, you!” Fred snapped. “Rosie! Get yerself ’ere afore I comes and gets yer!”
The huge blonde appeared, wrapped in a voluminous pink sheet and flushed with irritation. “Look, Fred, I pays good rent ’cos I do the business ’ere! I don’t look to get yelled at an’ disturbed every-” She stopped, sensing something serious. “Wot’s the matter? Wot ’appened?”
“This ’ere geezer done fer the girl wot wears that ’orrible pink color. Strangled ’er, by the looks.”
“Poor little cow.” Rosie shook her head. “In’t no call fer that.”
“Well, go an’ get the rozzers, yer fat bitch!” Fred said angrily. “Don’t just stand there! There’s bin murder!”
“Don’t you go callin’ me names, Fred Bunn!” she said tartly. “An’ I in’t going’ lookin’ fer no rozzers. I’ll send Jacko downstairs.” And wrapping her sheet round her in a more dignified manner she turned her back and went towards the stairs.
Pitt sat down on the edge of the bed. There was no point in arguing with Fred, who was set in his belief. When the police came it would all be sorted out.
Fred leaned against the doorpost. “Wot yer want ter go and do that fer?” he said sadly. “Yer didn’t ’ave to kill ‘er.”
“I didn’t,” Pitt repeated. “I wanted her alive! I needed to ask her some very important questions.”
“Oh, yeah. Treason!” Fred snorted. “Well, ye’re original, I’ll say that for yer. Poor little cow!”
“How long has she been here?” Pitt asked. He might as well make use of the time.
“I dunno. Couple o’ days.”
“Only a couple of days?” Pitt was surprised. “Where was she before that?”
“ ’Ow the ’ell do I know? She paid ’er rent, that’s all I care about.”
Pitt felt inexpressibly weary. It was all so pathetic. Cerise, whatever her name really was, had had a childhood somewhere, then a brief career as a courtesan, glittering by night, perhaps dangerous even then; hidden by day. Then fortune had changed, her looks had faded and she had fallen out of fashion, reduced to the status of an ordinary prostitute. Finally she had had her neck broken in some senseless quarrel in this shabby rented room.
He turned back to look at her. This was the woman who had held such power, briefly, over Robert York and either Julian Danver or Garrard, such power that she had entered their houses, flouting every convention, running desperate risks. What if Veronica had seen her, or Loretta, or even Piers York? Loretta would not have turned the other way as Adeline had; she was of far more ruthless mettle. She would have tackled Robert and told him precisely where he should conduct his amours.
He looked down at the thin form on the bed. Her skin was dark, almost olive, and smooth as an old sepia
