Silence in Hanover Close
Anne Perry
Dedicated to
Aunt Ina
who was part of the inspiration
for Great-aunt Vespasia
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
1
“POLICE STATION, SIR!” the cabbie said loudly, even before the horse’s feet were still. His voice was thick with distaste; he did not like these places. The fact that this one was located in the aristocratic elegance of Mayfair was no compensation.
Pitt climbed out, paid him, and went up the stone steps and in through the doors.
“Yes sir?” the sergeant at the desk said without interest.
“I am Inspector Pitt from Bow Street,” Pitt said crisply. “I’d like to see the senior officer in charge.”
The sergeant took a deep breath, eyeing Pitt critically. He did not meet the sergeant’s conception of a senior officer, not by a long way: he was quite casual. In fact he was downright scruffy, clothes all a mismatch, pockets full of rubbish. The man let the force down. Looked as if he’d never met with a barber’s scissors—more like a pair of garden shears. Still, the sergeant had heard Pitt’s name and spoke with some respect.
“Yes sir. That would be Inspector Mowbray. I’ll let ’im know you’re ’ere. Can I tell ’im what for, sir?”
Pitt smiled dryly. “No, I’m sorry. It’s a confidential matter.”
“Is that so, sir.” The sergeant turned stolidly and went out, leaving Pitt standing until he returned several minutes later, still without haste. “If you go through that door, second on the left, sir, Inspector Mowbray will see you.”
Mowbray was a very dark, balding man with an intelligent face; he looked decidedly curious when Pitt came in and closed the door.
“Pitt,” he introduced himself, and held out his hand.
“Heard of you.” Mowbray took Pitt’s hand firmly. “What can I do?”
“I need to see the records of your investigation of a burglary in Hanover Close, about three years ago—October seventeenth, 1884, to be precise.”
Mowbray’s face showed rueful surprise. “Bad business, that. Don’t often get murder in a household burglary, not in this area. Ugly, very ugly. Never found a thing.” His eyebrows rose hopefully. “Have you got something? One of the stolen pieces turned up at last?”
“No, nothing at all. Sorry,” Pitt apologized. He felt both guilty for taking the man’s case from him and angry because this further poking around was evasive, not his real purpose, and probably futile anyway.
Pitt hated the way he had been brought into the case. Mowbray should have been the one doing this, but because the case involved the delicate question of a woman’s reputation, a distinguished victim from a powerful family, and above all the almost inaudible whisper of the possibility of treason, the Foreign Office had used its influence to place the investigation through Ballarat, where they felt they could keep some control over it. Superintendent Ballarat was a man with excellent judgment of what his superiors required, and a rich ambition to rise high enough in his profession to become socially acceptable, perhaps even a self-made gentleman. He did not realize that those he most wished to impress were always able to distinguish a man’s origins simply by the way he carried himself, by the turn of a vowel in his mouth.
Pitt was a gamekeeper’s son who had grown up on a large country estate. He had been educated as a companion to the son of the house and had a manner acceptable to the gentry. He had also married considerably above himself, gaining an understanding of a social class closed to most ordinary policemen. Ballarat disliked Pitt and resented his manner, which he considered insolent. But Ballarat was obliged to admit that Pitt was unquestionably the best man for this investigation. He had done so with an ill grace.
Mowbray was staring at Pitt with only slight disappointment, and it quickly disappeared; apparently he had expected nothing. “Oh. Well, you’d better speak to Constable Lowther first; he found the body. And of course you can read the reports that were written at the time. There isn’t much.” He shook his head. “We tried hard, but there were no witnesses, and none of the stolen pieces ever turned up. We thought of the possibility of an inside job—we questioned the entire staff and came up with nothing.”
“I daresay I’ll do the same,” Pitt said in an oblique apology.
“Have a cup of tea while I send for Lowther?” Mowbray offered. “It’s a vile day. I wouldn’t be surprised if it snows before Christmas.”
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted.
Ten minutes later Pitt was sitting in another small, chilly room with a gas lamp hissing on the wall above a scratched wooden table. A thin file of papers rested on it, and opposite Pitt a stiff, self-conscious constable stood at attention, buttons gleaming.
Pitt told him to sit down and be easy.
“Yes sir,” Lowther said nervously. “I can remember that murder in ’anover Close pretty clear, sir. What is it as yer wants ter know?”
“Everything.” Pitt took the teapot and filled a white enamel mug without asking. He passed it to Lowther, who took it with round-eyed surprise. “Thank you, sir.” He swallowed gratefully, composed himself, and began in a low voice, “It was five past three on the mornin’ of October seventeenth, just over three year ago. I were on night duty then, an’ I passed along ’anover Close—”
“How often?” Pitt interrupted.
“Every twenty minutes, sir. Reg’lar.”
Pitt smiled very slightly. “I know that’s what it’s meant to be. Are you sure nothing held you up anywhere that night?” He deliberately gave Lowther the chance to escape blame if necessary without telling less than the truth. “No trouble anywhere?”
“No sir.” Lowther faced him with totally guileless blue eyes. “Sometimes I do get ’eld up, but not that night. I were round exact, give or take no more’n a minute. That was why I noticed the broken winder at number two partic’lar, because I knew it weren’t broke twenty minutes afore. An’ it were a front winder, too, which is kind o’ funny. Burglars usually goes ter the back, wiv a little nipper skinny enough to get through the bars and whip round an’ let ’em in.”
Pitt nodded.
“So I went to the door o’ number two an’ knocked,” Lowther went on. “I ’ad ter raise an ’ell of a row—” He flushed. “Beg yer pardon, sir; a lot o’ noise, before anyone came down. Arter about five minutes a footman opened up. ’Alf asleep, ’e were; ’ad a coat over ’is nightshirt. I told ’im abaht the winder as was broke, an’ ’e was startled like, an’ took me straight to the room at the front, which was the libr’y.” The constable took a deep breath, but his eyes held Pitt’s without wavering. “I saw immediate that there was trouble: two ’ard-back chairs was turned over, lyin’ on their sides, there was ’alf a dozen books knocked on the floor, upset like, and a decanter spilled on a table near the winder as was broke and the glass lyin’ on the floor, shinin’ in the light.”
“Light?” Pitt asked.
“Footman turned up the gas lamps,” Lowther explained. “ ’E were fair shook, I’d swear to that.”
“Then what?” Pitt prompted.
“I went further into the room.” Lowther’s face puckered as the memory of the hard stab of human mortality came back to him. “I saw the body of a man on the floor, sir, ’alf on ’is face, sort o’ legs bent a bit, like ’e’d bin took by surprise from be’ind. ’Is ’ead were matted wi’ blood”—he touched his own right temple at the hairline—“an’ there were a big bronze ’orse on a stand, ’bout ten inches ’igh, lyin’ on the carpet ’bout eighteen inches away from ’im. ’E were wearing a dressin’ robe over a silk nightshirt, an’ ’ad slippers on ’is feet.