Silence in Hanover Close (7 page)

“I don’t want them; I just want to know if you’ve heard of them. About three years ago, probably.”

Pinhorn’s eyebrows shot up incredulously. “Free years ago! Yer bleedin’ eejut! D’yer fink I’d ’member vat sort of ’aul fer free years?”

“You remember everything you’ve ever bought or sold, Pinhorn,” Pitt said calmly. “Your trade depends on it. You’re the best fence this side of the river, and you know the worth of everything to the farthing. You’d not forget an oddity like a Swift first edition.”

“Well, I ’an’t ’ad none.”

“Who has? I don’t want it, I just want to know.”

Pinhorn screwed up his little black eyes and wrinkled his great nose suspiciously. He stared at Pitt for several seconds. “You wouldn’t lie ter me, Mr. Pitt, nah would yer? It’d be very unwise, as men I wouldn’t be able ter ’elp yer no more.” He tilted his head to one side. “Might not even be able ter stop yer gettin ’urt on yer little hexpiditions inter places where rozzers in’t nat’ral—like ’ere.”

“Waste of time, Mr. Pinhorn,” Pitt replied with a smile. “Same as you lying to me. Have you heard of the Swift?”

“Wot’s it yer said abaht murder an’ treason? They’re strong words, Mr. Pitt.”

“Hanging words, Mr. Pinhorn,” Pitt elaborated distinctly. “There’s murder for certain, treason only maybe. Have you heard anyone speak of the Swift, anyone at all? You hear most things this side of the river.”

“No I ’an’t!” Pinhorn’s face remained in the same tortured expression of concentration. “If anybody’s fenced any fink like vat, vey done it outside o’ the Smoke, or they done it private to someone as vey already know as wanted it. Although why anybody’d want it stole I dunno; it in’t worf vat much. You said first edition, dincher, not ’andwrit ner nuffink?”

“No, just a first-edition printing.”

“Can’t ’elp yer.”

Pitt believed him. He was not ingenuous enough to believe past gratitude for small favors would have any weight, but he knew Pinhorn wanted him on his side in the future. Pinhorn was too powerful to be afraid of his rivals and he had no conception of loyalty. If he knew anything that it was in his own interest to tell Pitt, he would undoubtedly have done so.

“If I ’ear anyfink I’ll tell yer,” Pinhorn added. “Y’owe me, Mr. Pitt.”

“I do, Mr. Pinhorn,” Pitt said dryly. “But not much.” And he turned round to make his way back to the great wooden door and the dripping alley outside.

Pitt knew many other dealers in stolen goods; there were the dollyshops, those poorest of pawnbrokers, who lent a few pence to people desperate enough to part with even their pots and pans or the tools of their trade in order to buy food. He hated such places, and the pity he felt was like being kicked in the stomach. Because he was helpless, he turned to anger as being better than weeping. He wanted to shout at the rich, at Parliament, at anyone who was comfortable, or who was ignorant of these tens of thousands who clung to life by such a frail and dangerous thread, who had not been bred to afford morality except of the crudest sort.

This time he was free to avoid them, along with the thieves’ kitchens, where kidsmen kept schools of children trained to steal and return the profits to them. Similarly he did not need to scour the slop trade: those who dealt in old clothes, rags, and discarded shoes, taking them apart and making up new articles for the poor, who could afford no better. Often even the worst rags were laboriously unraveled and the fiber rewoven into shoddy—anything to cover those who might otherwise be naked.

The articles from the York house had been taken by a thief not only of taste but also of some literacy, and would have been fenced similarly. They were luxuries that could not be converted into anything useful to the patrons of dollyshops.

He made his way back through the tangle of passageways uphill away from the river towards Mayfair and Hanover Close. Thieves usually worked their own areas. Since he could not trace the goods, the best place to start was with those who knew the patch. If it was one of them, word of the theft would probably have reached the old hands. If it had been an outsider, that too would be known by someone. The police had investigated at the time, it had been no secret. The underworld would have its own information.

It took him half an hour after reaching Mayfair to track down the man he wanted, a skinny, lop-legged little man of indeterminate age called William Winsell and known, contrarily, as the Stoat. He found him in the darkest corner of a tavern of particularly ill repute, staring sourly at half a pint of ale in a dirty mug.

Pitt slid into the vacant seat beside him. The Stoat glared at him with outrage.

“Wot you doin’ ’ere, bleedin’ crusher! ’Oo d’ya fink’ll trust me if vey see me wiv ve likes o’ you?” He looked at Pitt’s fearful clothes. “D’yer fink we don’t granny yer, just ’cos yer aht o’ twig in them togs? Still look like a crusher, wiv yer clean ’ands wot never worked, and crabshells”—he did not even bother to glance at Pitt’s feet—“like ruddy barges! Ruin me, you will!”

“I’m not staying,” Pitt said quietly. “I’m going to the Dog and Duck, a mile away, to have lunch. I thought you might like to join me in, say, half an hour? I’m going to have steak and kidney pudding, hot; Mrs. Billows does that a treat. And spotted dick, made with suet and lots of raisins, and cream. And maybe a couple of glasses of cider, brought up from the West Country.”

The Stoat swallowed hard. “Yer a cruel man, Mr. Pitt. You must want some poor bastard cropped!” He made a sharp gesture with his hand at the side of his throat, like a noose under the ear.

“Perhaps, in the end,” Pitt agreed. “Right now it’s only burglary information. Dog and Duck, half an hour. Be there, Stoat, or I shall have to come and see you somewhere less agreeable—and less private.” He stood up, and without looking backwards, head down, he pushed his way through the drinkers and out into the street.

Thirty-five minutes later he was in the more salubrious parlor of the Dog and Duck, with a mug of cider, bright and clear as an Indian summer, in front of him, when the Stoat crept in nervously, ran his fingers round his grimy collar as if easing it from his neck, and wriggled onto the seat opposite him. He glanced round once or twice, but saw only dull, respectable minor traders and clerks; no one he knew.

“Steak and kidney pudding?” Pitt offered unnecessarily.

“Wotcher want orf of me first?” the Stoat said suspiciously, but his nostrils were wide, sucking in the delicious aroma of fresh, sweet food. It was almost as if the steam itself fed him. “ ’Oo’re yer after?”

“Someone who robbed a house in Hanover Close three years ago,” Pitt replied, nodding over the Stoat’s head to the landlord.

The Stoat swiveled round furiously, his face suddenly creasing with outrage. “ ’Oo’re yer signin’ at?” he snarled. “ ’Oozat?”

“The landlord.” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to eat?”

The Stoat subsided, vaguely pink under the gray of his skin.

“A robbery three years ago in Hanover Close,” Pitt repeated.

The Stoat sneered. “Free years ago? Bit slow, incher? Runnin’ be’ind vese days, are we? Wot was took?”

Pitt described the articles in some detail.

The Stoat’s lip curled. “ Yer in’t after vem fings! Ye’re after ’oo croaked ve geezer wot caught ’em at it!”

“I’d be interested,” Pitt conceded. “But primarily I’m concerned to prove someone innocent.”

“Vat’s a turnup!” the Stoat said cynically. “Friend o’ yours?”

“Hungry?” Pitt smiled. The landlord appeared with two steaming dishes piled high with meat, gravy, and feather-light suet crust. A few green vegetables decorated the side, and a maid stood by with an earthenware jug of cider sweet as ripe apples.

The Stoat’s eyes glazed a little.

“Murder’s not good for business,” Pitt said very quietiy. “Gives robbery a bad name.”

“Bring on the scran!” the little man snapped, then licked his lips and smiled. “Yer right—it’s clumsy and it in’t necessary.” He watched with rapture as his plate was set in front of him, inhaling the delicate steam and sucking his teeth as the cider was poured, eyeing it right to the brim of the tankard.

“What do you know about it, Stoat?” Pitt asked before he took the first mournful.

The Stoat’s eyes opened very wide. They were a clear gray; the redeeming feature of a cramped face, they must once have been handsome. He filled his mouth with food and chewed slowly, rolling it round his tongue.

“Nuffin’,” he said at last. “And that in’t nuffin’, if yer sees wot I mean. Usual yer ’ears a word, if not straight orf, men in a munf er two. Or if ’e’s in lavender ’cos it turned a bit nasty, men a year, mebbe. But vis ’un clean mizzled!”

“If he was in lavender in some nethersken, you’d know?” Pitt pressed. “In lavender” meant in a hiding place from the police, but the Stoat was indicating that this particular thief had vanished.

The Stoat filled his mouth again and spoke round the food with difficulty. “ ’Course I’d know!” he said contemptuously. “Know every slapbang, lurk, nethersken, flash ’ouse, and paddyken fer miles.”

Pitt understood him. He was referring to cheap eating houses, hiding places, low lodging houses, criminal pubs, and taprooms.

“An’ I tell yer vis,” the Stoat went on, sipping his cider appreciatively. “ ’E weren’t no professional. From wot I ’ear ’e got no crow, no snakesman, and ’oo but a fool’d go in the front like ’e did in a place like ’anover Close? Yer gotta know the crushers’d be rahnd every bleedin’ twenty minutes!”

A snakesman 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 kitchen. All the lights were blazing. Charlotte and Emily sat at the table, putting the finishing touches on the icing of a great cake, and Gracie was stuffing the goose. Emily had arrived an hour earlier with a footman in tow, laden with colored paper, boxes, and ribbons. Edward, Daniel, and Jemima had clustered round him, speechless with excitement, Edward hopping up and down from one foot to the other, his blond hair flopping on his head like a silver-gold lid. Daniel was doing a little dance on the floor, round and round in circles until he fell over.

Pitt put Jemima down, kissed Charlotte, welcomed Emily, and acknowledged Gracie’s presence. He took his boots off and stretched out in front of the stove, warming his feet and legs, and watched contentedly as Gracie moved the kettle over onto the hot surface and got down the teapot and his large breakfast cup.

After the meal he could hardly wait for the children to go to bed so he could bring out his carefully hidden gifts and begin to wrap them up. He and Emily and Charlotte sat round the scrubbed kitchen table, now piled with scissors, bright paper, and pieces of ribbon and string. Every so often someone would disappear into the parlor, demanding not to be disturbed, and returning with a satisfied smile and gleaming eyes.