Pitt shook his head. “No, Mr. Asherson, that is one thing it was not. If it wasn’t treason then it was murder, personal and intentional, by someone who knew Robert York.”
Again Asherson waited, men his face eased. Pitt could spot the exact moment the idea came to him. “You mean York was robbed by someone he knew, some acquaintance who had been to the house and knew where to look for valuables?”
“No. All they took amounted to barely a hundred pounds at best, less by the time it would have been fenced—which it wasn’t.”
“Fenced?”
“Resold to a receiver of stolen goods.”
“Wasn’t it?” he said carefully. “Can you know that?”
“Yes, Mr. Asherson.”
“Oh.” Asherson looked down at the floor, his face heavy with concentration. The gaslight caught the curious gray of his eyes and the black lashes.
Again Pitt stood motionless, allowing the silence to settle. Somewhere out in the hall a servant’s feet made a brisk sound on the parquet floor; the sound died away again along the passage as a door thudded.
At last Asherson reached his decision. He faced Pitt.
“Other information has gone missing,” he said very quietly. “More important information. But none of it has ever been acted on by our enemies, as far as we can tell. God knows why not.”
Pitt was not surprised, but it gave him no satisfaction. He had still hoped he was wrong, that some other explanation would present itself. Was this the whole truth yet, or only part of it? He looked at Asherson’s grim, unhappy expression and believed at least this much was honest, as far as it went.
“And would you know?” he asked.
“Yes.” This time Asherson did not hesitate. “Yes. Papers that have been temporarily missing, a copy replaced instead of the original. Don’t ask me for anything more; I can’t tell you.”
“No doubt they’ll use it when they’re ready,” Pitt said, flatly. “Perhaps if they used it now you’d know their source, and they’re protecting him as long as he’s useful.”
Asherson sank down onto the arm of one of the chairs, sitting awkwardly. “This is awful. I had hoped it was simply Robert’s carelessness, but if he really was murdered over it, then that doesn’t seem reasonable. God, what a tragedy!”
“And none of it has gone since his death?”
Asherson shook his head.
“Have you seen a beautiful woman, tall and slim with dark hair, wearing an unusual shade of cerise?”
Asherson looked at him incredulously. “What?”
“A sort of hot bluish pink, like magenta or cyclamen.”
“I know what color cerise is, you fool!” He shut his eyes suddenly. “Damn it! I’m sorry. No, I haven’t seen her. What the hell does that have to do with it?”
“It seems likely it was this woman who lured York into betrayal of his country,” Pitt replied. “He may have been having an affair with her.”
Asherson looked surprised. “Robert? I never saw him take the slightest notice of any woman but Veronica. He—he just wasn’t a womanizer. He was very discriminating, a quiet sort of man with excellent taste. And Veronica adored him.”
“It seems he was two men,” Pitt said sadly. He would not tell Asherson that it could have been Veronica herself in cerise. If Asherson had not thought of it, it would not help. And just in case Asherson himself were the traitor, no need to warn him of Pitt’s closeness.
“Well, he’s dead now.” Asherson stood up. “Let the poor devil rest in peace. You won’t find your mysterious woman in Hanover Close. I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“You have helped, Mr. Asherson.” Pitt said smiling bleakly. “Thank you for your frankness, sir. Good evening.”
Asherson did not reply, but stepped back so Pitt could pass him and go out of the door. In the hall a footman appeared from the shadows and showed him to the step and the dark street beyond.
Outside in the Close the last fog had blown away in the north wind, bitter as the Pole, and the stars were glittering in a sky barely marred by an occasional smear of smoke. Ice crackled underfoot in the frozen puddles and gutters. Pitt stepped out briskly; in a tidier man it could almost have been called a march.
He climbed the immaculate porch steps of number two and pulled the brass bell. When the footman opened the door he knew precisely what he was going to say, and to whom.
“Good evening. May I see Mr. York please? I require his permission to speak to his staff about one of them who may have had knowledge of a crime. It is most urgent.”
“Er, yes sir. I ’spect you may.” The youth looked taken aback. “You’d better come in. Library fire’s lit, sir; you can wait in there.”
It was a few minutes until Piers York came in, his benign, slightly quizzical face marked with an unusual frown. “What is it this time, Pitt? Not the damn silver again, surely?”
“No sir.” He stopped, hoping York would not press the point. But he stood staring at Pitt, his eyebrows raised, his eyes small and gray and intelligent. There was no avoiding an answer.
“Treason and murder, sir.”
“Balderdash!” York said smartly. “I doubt the servants even know what treason is, and they never leave this house except on their half days off, which are only twice a month.” His eyebrows rose even higher. “Or are you suggesting this treason took place here?”
Pitt knew he was on very dangerous ground. All Ballarat’s warnings jangled in his ears.
“No sir, I think an agent of treason may have visited your house, unknown to you. Your maid Dulcie Mabbutt saw her; others may have.”
“Saw her?” York’s eyebrows shot up. “Good God! You mean a woman? Well, Dulcie can’t help you, poor child. She fell out of one of the upstairs windows and died. I’m sorry.” His face was pinched and sad. Pitt found it impossible to believe he was not genuinely grieved. Probably he knew nothing about any of it—Cerise, or Robert’s or Dulcie’s death. He was a banker; he alone of the men in the case had nothing to do with the Foreign Office, and Pitt could not imagine a spy wasting her energies on this wry, rather charming man well into his sixties. And he had too much innate humor to harbor the vanity necessary to be so ridiculous.
“I know Dulcie is dead,” Pitt agreed. “But she may have confided to the other maids. Women do talk to each other.”
“Where and when did Dulcie see this woman of yours?”
“Upstairs on the landing,” Pitt replied. “In the middle of the night.”
“Good heavens! What on earth was Dulcie doing out of her own room in the middle of the night? Are you sure she wasn’t dreaming?”
“This woman’s been seen elsewhere, sir, and Dulcie’s description was very good.”
“Well, go on, man!”
“Tall and slender, with dark hair, very beautiful, and wearing a gown of a startling shade of fuchsia or cerise.”
“Well, I certainly haven’t seen her.”
“May I speak to some of your girls who might have been friendly with Dulcie, and then perhaps to the younger Mrs. York? I believe Dulcie was her maid.”
“I suppose so—if it’s necessary.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He spoke to the upstairs maid, the downstairs maid, the laundry maid, the other lady’s maid, the kitchen maid, the scullery maid, and finally the tweeny, but it seemed Dulcie had been remarkably discreet and had kept total confidence on all that she saw of her mistress’s household. He wished she had been less honorable, and yet there was a kind of bitter satisfaction in it. Virtue of any sort kept its sweetness whatever surrounded it. He saved the questions about Dulcie’s death for Veronica. If she was innocent it was cruel, but he could not afford kindness now.
Her mother-in-law was out, the first stroke of good fortune Pitt had had in some time, and Veronica received him in the boudoir.
“I don’t know how I can help you, Mr. Pitt,” she said gravely. She was dressed in deep forest green, which heightened her slightly ethereal quality. She was pale, her eyes shadowed as if she had slept badly, and she remained standing some distance from him, not facing him but staring at a gold-framed seascape on the wall. “I see no purpose in going over and over the tragedies of the past. Nothing will bring my husband back, and we don’t care about the silver or the book. We would much prefer not to be constantly reminded of it.”