Thomas & Charlotte Pitt 29 - Death On Blackheath (10 page)

‘Ships?’ Stoker said quietly. ‘What kind of ships?’

The waiter grinned. ‘Paper ones, mate. Pictures of all kinds o’ ships: big ones, little ones, foreign ones what sail out east, like up an’ down the Nile. She kept ’em an’ stuck ’em in a book. Learned all about ’em, she did. Could tell yer where they went an’ ’oo sailed ’em. Will yer be wantin’ another pint, then?’

‘No, thank you,’ Stoker declined, but he pulled a sixpence out of his pocket and put it on the table. ‘But here’s for the last one, and have one yourself.’

The waiter snatched it up instantly and smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. You’re a gent.’

Stoker went outside into the rising wind, walking down towards the river to catch a ferry across. He would have a better chance of finding a cab on the other side for the long ride home.

By the time he reached the north bank and climbed the steep stairs up to the road the night was clear. The moon lit the water so he could see the real ships riding on the tide, dark hulls on the silver, black spars against a paler sky.

Pitt was at the Kynaston house on Shooters Hill by half-past eight the next morning. Any later and he might have missed Kynaston himself, and Rosalind would almost certainly refuse to see him without her husband present.

This time, at Pitt’s request they met in Kynaston’s study. Pitt had no time alone in the room, which he would have preferred. However, even as they spoke he looked more closely at what he was able to see without obviously staring.

Kynaston sat behind his desk. It was a large, comfortable piece of furniture with a patina of age, and suitably untidy. The sand tray, sealing wax, pens and inkwells were easily to hand, not set straight since last used. The books on the shelf behind were there for reference, not ornament. The sizes were odd, the subjects aligned rather than the appearance. There were several paintings on the walls, some of ships, or seascapes, one of a striking snowscape with trees, and mountains of some height in the distance, like the ones pictured in the morning room.

Certainly it was not a depiction of any part of Britain.

Kynaston saw Pitt looking at it.

‘Beautiful,’ Pitt said quickly, racing in his memory to find some comment from his earlier days in the police when he had dealt with theft, frequently of works of art. ‘The clarity of the light is extraordinary.’

Kynaston looked at him with a spark of sudden interest. ‘It is, isn’t it!’ he agreed. ‘You get it in the far north, almost luminous like that.’

Pitt frowned. ‘But it’s not Scotland, surely? The scale is more than artistic licence …’

Kynaston smiled. ‘Oh, no, it’s pretty accurate. It’s Sweden. I’ve been there, very briefly. My brother, Bennett, bought that one. He …’ A shadow of pain crossed his face as if the sharpness of loss suddenly revisited him. He took a breath and started again. ‘He spent some time there, and grew to love the landscape, especially the light. As you observed, it is quite individual.’ A pleasure came back into his voice, the timbre completely different. ‘He always used to say that great art is distinguished by a universality, some passion in it that speaks to all kinds of people; combined with something unique to the artist that makes it totally personal, the sensitivity of one man, an individual eye.’ He stopped as if memory filled him and the present time and place were forgotten.

Pitt waited, not because he expected to deduce anything of value either from what Kynaston had said, or the way in which he had said it, but because to have interrupted with some trivial comment would have broken the possibility of any understanding between them.

Instead he let his eye wander a little towards the other pictures in the room. The pride of place above the mantelpiece was taken by a head and shoulders portrait of a man of about thirty, bearing so strong a resemblance to Kynaston that for a moment Pitt thought that it was he, and the artist was taking too much of a liberty, perhaps for dramatic effect. Kynaston was striking-looking, but this man was handsome, an idealised version with thicker hair and bolder eyes, a face of almost visionary intensity, and dark-eyed, where Kynaston’s eyes were blue.

Kynaston followed his gaze.

‘That’s Bennett,’ he said quietly. ‘He died a few years ago. But I expect you know that.’

‘Yes,’ Pitt answered quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’ He knew nothing of the circumstances, except that they were sudden and tragic, a man of great promise dying on what seemed like the eve of achievement. It had been an illness of some sort. There was no suggestion of scandal.

Kynaston’s face looked bruised, as if the grief were still raw. He made an effort to dismiss it and regain his composure. He raised his eyes and looked squarely at Pitt. ‘But I presume you are here over this wretched body in the gravel pit – again. There is absolutely nothing I can tell you, except that we are missing no more servants.’ He sighed.

Pitt decided bluntness was the only course open to him. Tact would allow Kynaston to dismiss him.

‘We know a little more about her now,’ he replied with a slight smile, as if they were discussing something trivial and not particularly unpleasant. ‘She had no signs of disease, or of life on the streets in any manner. In fact, she was well fed and well cared for, very clean apart from the surface dirt of having lain in the gravel pit. She did have slight burns on her hands, as many maids do who have occasion to do a lot of ironing. Such burns are distinct from those of a cook or a scullery maid.’

Kynaston paled. ‘Are you saying it was Kitty? How could it be? She was only just found!’

‘Indeed,’ Pitt nodded. ‘But the police surgeon says that she actually died at least two or three weeks earlier, and was kept in a cold place, sufficiently sealed that no animals or insects could get to her. This is all information I imagine you would prefer Mrs Kynaston did not have to know …’

‘Good God, man! What on earth are you suggesting?’ Kynaston was now ashen. He searched for words and was unable to find any.

‘That it is possible that the body is Kitty Ryder’s, and that her disappearance, most probably her murder, is a very ugly issue. Your work for the Government is sensitive. There are those who disapprove of it. This is not going to be dealt with quietly and discreetly,’ Pitt replied, ‘unless we can prove almost immediately that her death had nothing whatever to do with her employment or residence in this house. I know of no way of doing that, beyond damaging speculation, except to find out exactly what really did happen – and possibly, that the woman in the gravel pit is not Kitty at all. To do that, I need to know all that I can about her: not in polite whispers, but openly and provably, the less attractive as well as the good.’

Kynaston looked as if he had been struck and was still absorbing the pain, unable to respond.

‘Why …’ he stammered. ‘Why in God’s name would anyone kill the poor girl and leave her body in the gravel pit … weeks after she was—’ He stopped.

‘I don’t know,’ Pitt responded. ‘Obviously there are many things we do not know, and we need to learn them as soon and as completely as possible. Stoker will do all he can to learn about Kitty and to follow up on the young man she was courting, in the possibility that she is alive and well, or if not, that it was he who killed her, or someone she met after she left here …’

‘And you?’ Kynaston asked hoarsely.

‘I shall do what I can here, on the much worse assumption that the body is hers, and that she was killed because of her associations here.’ He met Kynaston’s eyes and saw the fear in them. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘But the scrutiny is bound to be close – and unpleasant. The only defence is to be prepared.’

Kynaston leaned back in his chair slowly and let out his breath. ‘All right. What is it you wish to know? I hope you will have the decency to keep my wife out of this as much as possible.’ That was a statement, almost an order.

‘As much as possible, of course,’ Pitt agreed, thinking how different Rosalind Kynaston was from Charlotte. Charlotte would resent being kept out of it, protected from reality, as she would see it. And she would unquestionably think the murder of a servant in her house to be her business.

‘Murders have motive,’ Pitt said. ‘And usually some event that caused them to happen at the time and place in which they did. I would like to see your diary, and that of Mrs Kynaston, for the two or three weeks before Kitty disappeared, please, sir.’

‘Neither my wife nor her engagements can have any effect on—’ Kynaston began.

Pitt raised his eyebrows very slightly. ‘You think Miss Ryder’s death may have more to do with your life than with your wife’s?’ he said with some surprise.

‘I don’t think it has anything to do with this house at all!’ Kynaston snapped. ‘It is you who are supposing it.’

‘No, sir, I am supposing that the police and the newspapers will take a close, and possibly prurient interest in all events in this house, and we need to be able to answer every question, preferably with corroboration, even with proof, before they are allowed to do that in print.’

Kynaston flushed. He picked up a leather-bound book from the desk near his elbow and passed it across to Pitt.

‘Thank you.’ Pitt took it and rose to his feet. ‘If you can give me a place where I can read it, or take any notes that are necessary, I’ll return it to you before I leave. Perhaps you would be kind enough to lend me Mrs Kynaston’s diary as well, then I can accomplish this exercise all at the same time?’

Kynaston’s face tightened. ‘I can’t see how it can help anything, but I suppose you know what you’re doing.’ He did not sound as if he believed it. ‘My appointments are quite public.’

Pitt thanked him without adding anything.

Norton offered him a small, rather chilly room, which appeared from its furnishings to be a sitting room for summer use, facing on to the garden, and without a fireplace. Pitt thanked him as if he had not noticed the cold.

He read through both the diaries, making notes. He was looking not for Kynaston’s social engagements so much as where they were the same as Rosalind’s and where they were not, and for any discrepancies. He found a few, but they were easily explained as carelessness, even misreading of Kynaston’s own handwriting, the mistaking of a 5 for an 8, a date or an address wrongly copied down.

He smiled as he read Rosalind’s more casual accounts of invitations, and side notes as to what to wear, and why. She was apparently aware that Kynaston was making excuses about certain functions he chose to avoid.

There were also notes in the back of his diary as to purchases, gifts and invitations. Kynaston had a weakness for good brandy and cigars, membership of clubs Pitt knew were extremely expensive, first-night tickets for the best theatres and operas, several appointments with a very good tailor indeed. He was a man who cared about his appearance, and was not loath to indulge his tastes.

There were a few errors and one or two omissions, but it seemed natural for the unedited diaries of a man with very human foibles. Had all details been exact, it would have raised Pitt’s suspicions.

Thoroughly chilled, but determined not to show it, he returned the diaries to Norton and took his leave.

Outside he walked briskly to get warm again, and while irritated that he had found nothing of value, he could not help a certain liking for Dudley Kynaston, and a feeling that perhaps Rosalind was a more interesting woman than her rather colourless appearance suggested.

TWO MORNINGS later, and well into February, Pitt was at his desk reading reports regarding a case in Edinburgh when Stoker knocked. Almost before Pitt had replied, he came in and closed the door behind him. His face was grim and flushed from the sting of the wind in the street.

‘Have you seen the billboards this morning, sir?’ he asked without preamble.

Pitt felt the warmth of the room fade. ‘No, I came by hansom. I wanted to be early and deal with this business in Edinburgh. Why?’ He named his worst fear. ‘They haven’t identified the body as Kitty Ryder, have they?’

‘No, sir.’ Stoker never exaggerated the suspense, which was a quality about him that Pitt valued. ‘But apparently one of the Members of Parliament raised rather a lot of questions about the body we’ve got, and asked what are we doing to ascertain if it is her or not.’

Pitt was stunned. ‘In Parliament?’ he said incredulously. ‘Have they nothing better to do?’ A flicker of expression crossed Stoker’s face and disappeared too rapidly to be readable.

‘“Can the Prime Minister assure us that everything possible is being done to protect not only the safety but the reputation of Mr Dudley Kynaston, a naval inventor of great importance to the safety and welfare of this country?”’ he quoted. ‘That sort of thing, then others asking about his family’s safety, and so on.’ His eyes met Pitt’s squarely; there was no hostility in them, only questions.

Pitt put away the papers to do with the case in Edinburgh. He swore fiercely, and without apology.

‘Exactly my opinion, sir,’ Stoker agreed. There might or might not have been amusement in his eyes.

‘Who was it who was asking these … questions?’ Pitt enquired. ‘Doesn’t the idiot realise that by asking them in Parliament, where they will be reported by the press, he is making Kynaston’s vulnerability all the greater? Sometimes I wonder who the devil elects these people! Don’t they ever look at them first?’

‘That’s rather the trouble, sir,’ Stoker said grimly.

‘Elections?’

Again the smile touched Stoker’s lips, then vanished. ‘No, sir, that’s a separate problem altogether. The MP in the case was Somerset Carlisle, who is really rather good.’

Pitt drew in his breath to respond, and let it out again in a sigh. He would not have described Somerset Carlisle as ‘rather good’. He was brilliant, eccentric, and personally loyal, even when at great cost to himself. He was also unpredictable, unreasonable and beyond anyone’s control, as far as Pitt knew. Even Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould herself, whose friend he had been for years, seemed to exercise very little influence over him.

Stoker was still waiting, but his face reflected his awareness of at least some of the ghosts he was awakening. Pitt hoped fervently that it was not all of them. The whole issue of the supposed resurrectionists should remain well covered over – in fact, completely buried. The long-ago episode in his career involved Somerset Carlisle and corpses that would not remain buried. Stoker did not know of it, or the nature of the detection and scandal it had caused. Pitt would very much rather it remained that way. But if Carlisle were willing to have Pitt, or anyone else, open it up again, then this must be of overpowering importance to him.