Read Online Silence in Hanover Close by Anne Perry - Free Book Online Page B

was a thin or underdeveloped child who could creep through the bars of a window and, once inside, open the doors for the real thief. A crow was a lookout, frequently a woman, to warn of police or strangers approaching. Pitt already knew the thief was no professional from P.C. Lowther, but it was interesting that the Stoat knew this also. “So he was an amateur,” he said. “Has he done anything else, anything since?”
    The Stoat shook his head, his mouth full. He swallowed. “Told yer—mizzled. Never done nuffink afore ner since. ’E in’t on our patch, Mr. Pitt. I never ’eard o’ ven fings fenced, ner no one in lavender ’cos o’ the feller topped—an’ vey would be. It’s no stretch in Coldbath, ner even takin’ ve boat like it used ter be: murder’s croppin’ business, no cockchafers ner scroby, just Newgate, and a long drop early one mornin’ wiv a rope collar. A long drop and only the devil ter catch yer.”
    “Cockchafer” was the graphic term for the treadmill used in prisons, a device to keep a man perpetually in motion; “scroby” meant the prison sentence of the lash.
    The Stoat sat back and patted his belly. “Vat was a fair tightener, Mr. Pitt,” he said, gazing at his empty plate. “I’d ’elp yer if I could. Ve best I can tell yer is ter look fer some toff wot fought as thievin’ was simple and tried ’is ’and at it an’ fahnd it weren’t.” He pulled over the plate of spotted dick pudding, thick with fruit, and dipped his spoon in it, then looked up with a sudden idea. “Or mebbe the lady o’ ve ’ouse ’ad a lover, an’ ’e did away wiv ’er ’usband, an’ it weren’t nuffink ter do wiv thievin’ at all. ’Ad yer fought o’ vat, Mr. Pitt? It ain’t one of ve family, vat I know.”
    “Yes Stoat, I had thought of it,” Pitt said, pushing the cream across to him.
    The Stoat grinned, showing sharp, gappy teeth, and poured the cream generously. “Y’in’t daft, fer a crusher, is yer!” he said with grudging respect.
    Pitt believed the Stoat, but even so he felt compelled to pursue any other contacts he had right up until Christmas Eve. He found nothing but a blank ignorance and a total absence of fear, which was in itself a kind of evidence. He tramped miles through dingy alleys behind the grand façades of the great streets; he questioned pimps, fences, footpads, and keepers of bawdy houses, but no one told him anything of a thief who had broken into Hanover Close and tried to sell or dispose of the missing property, or who was hiding from a murder charge. The whole underworld turned a dirty, conniving, but quite innocent face to his inquiries.
    It was a fine, sharp evening, dark by half past four after a pale green sunset. Gas lamps burned yellow, carriages rattled back and forth over a shining film of ice on the cobbles. People called out greetings, drivers shouted abuse, and street sellers cried their wares: hot chestnuts, matches, bootlaces, old lavender, fresh pies, penny whistles, toy soldiers. Here and there little knots of youths sang carols, their voices thin and a little sharp in the frosty air.
    Pitt felt a slow, blessed cleanliness wash over him as the smell of despair receded and the grayness was infused with the beginnings of color. The excitement around him drove out memory and buoyed him up, even expunging the pity and guilt he usually felt when leaving the rookeries and returning to his comfortable home. Today he cast off those feelings like a soiled coat and was left with only gratitude. He flung open the front door and shouted out, “Hello!”
    There was an instant’s silence, then he heard Jemima jump from her stool and the clatter of shoes on linoleum as she ran up the hall to meet him.
    “Papa! Papa, is it Christmas Eve yet? It is, isn’t it!”
    He threw his arms round her and lifted her high into the air. “Yes, my sweetheart, it is! It is Christmas Eve, right now!” He kissed her and held her on his arm, striding into the