Thomas & Charlotte Pitt 29 - Death On Blackheath (25 page)

‘Stoker’s here waiting for you, with a hansom. I’ll make him a cup of tea and a slice of toast while you’re dressing, and there’ll be some for you when you come down.’

He drew in his breath to argue, but she was already at the door.

‘And don’t tell me you haven’t time!’ she called. ‘The tea will be ready to drink, and you can carry the toast with you.’

Fifteen minutes later he was washed, dressed, hastily shaved, and sitting beside Stoker in the cab. They were going as fast as possible through the broadening daylight, rattling over the cobbles heading south.

‘Local police called me,’ Stoker told him. ‘Haven’t been there yet, came straight for you. They said this one’s worse. A lot worse.’

‘Another woman?’ Pitt asked.

‘Yes. But with fair hair.’ Stoker did not look at Pitt as he said it. Perhaps he was ashamed of it, but there was relief in his voice.

‘Does anyone know who she is? Any of the local police recognise her?’ Pitt asked.

Stoker shook his head. ‘Not at the time they called. Maybe they’ve got further now.’

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the journey as the hansom slowed a little going up the incline through Blackheath and then beyond on to Shooters Hill. Here the countryside was bare, the wind raking the grass between the few clumps of trees, which were none of them yet in leaf. Some of the gravel pits were filled with water after the winter rains.

Pitt prepared himself for the blast of the wind, which would be heavy and damp when he got out. He tried to imagine the sight that was waiting for them, as if foreknowledge could blunt the edge of the impact.

‘I ain’t waitin’ for yer,’ the cabby said gravely, his face windburned, half hidden by the muffler around his neck and chin. ‘I’nt fair ter me ’orse.’

‘Wouldn’t think of asking you.’ Pitt climbed out a little stiffly and paid the man generously more than he had asked for.

The driver found a sudden change of manner. ‘Thank you,’ he said with surprise. ‘Good o’ yer … sir.’ Then, before Pitt could have the chance to change his mind, he urged his horse on, turned in a circle, and headed back down towards Greenwich to find another fare.

Pitt and Stoker walked into the wind towards the group of men they could see huddled about a hundred yards away. The tussock grass was rough and the ground between littered with small stones and weeds. In moments their boots were covered with pale, sandy mud.

Some movement must have caught the eye of one of the men because he turned, and then started to walk towards them, the loose ends of his scarf flapping. Before he reached them he stopped, nodding to Stoker, then speaking to Pitt.

‘Sorry, sir. Looks too much like the last one not to let you know. Over this way.’ He started to walk back, head bent, feet making no sound on the spongy earth.

Pitt and Stoker followed, each consumed in their own thoughts.

The sergeant in charge was the same man as before. He looked tired and cold. ‘Mind those tracks there,’ he directed, pointing at what there was of a pathway. ‘Looks like a pony and trap, or something of the sort. Might have nothing to do with the body, but more than likely it was what the swine brought her here in.’

‘So she didn’t die here?’ Pitt asked.

The man bit his lip. ‘No, sir. Looks just like the other one back a few weeks ago. Even got the same kind of hair, same sort of build. From what you can tell, she must a’ bin real ’andsome when she were alive. We’ll need the doc to tell us for sure, but I reckon that wasn’t all that lately. Week or two, at any rate.’

‘Hidden from view?’ Pitt asked.

‘That’s it,’ the sergeant replied, ‘she wasn’t. She was right out there for anyone passing to see. Couldn’t hardly miss her, poor creature.’

‘So she was put there very recently?’

‘Last night. That’s why the wheel tracks are worth something, or might be.’

‘Who found her?’ Pitt asked.

‘Young couple.’ The sergeant pulled a grim face. ‘Bin out all night. Walking the girl home so she could pretend as she’d been in ’er own bed, like. Not fooling anyone now!’ He gave a bark of laughter.

‘At least they reported it,’ Pitt observed, keeping pace with him. ‘They could have just kept going. Then it might have been a lot longer before we found her. Could have been more wind and rain, and we wouldn’t have found the cart tracks. How far do they go?’

‘Far as the main track over there,’ he pointed. ‘Then they get lost in all the gravel ruts. But then it’s reasonable that’s the way he came. Isn’t really any other way.’

‘Which means she was deliberately brought here,’ Pitt pointed out just as they reached the group. They were all standing close together giving the illusion of sheltering each other, although the wind managed to pick them out, whip everyone’s scarves and coat tails, and bend the grasses around their feet.

They parted slightly to allow Pitt to walk through and look down at the corpse that lay in the shallow dip in the ground. Her clothes were spread out around her, dark and lacking any distinguishing shape or colour in the wet early light. Her hair was immediately noticeable because it was thick and fair, a little longer than average. Pitt thought that in life it would have been beautiful.

Her face was harder to appreciate because it was already distorted by death and, like the earlier corpse, it had been obscenely lacerated by a razor-sharp blade. The eyes, nose and lips were missing. It was worse, because decomposition had begun, and small night animals had already reached her. As the sergeant had told him, she had been dead some time before she was placed here.

‘What killed her?’ Pitt straightened up, trying to control the horror and pity that welled up inside him. His whole body was shaking, and he could not control it. He looked from one to another of the men. ‘I can’t see anything obvious.’

The sergeant spoke quietly, his voice hoarse. ‘We’ll need the police surgeon to tell us for sure, but ’er inside is broken up pretty bad, and both her legs are broke, high up, across the …’ He drew his own hand across his upper thighs. ‘God knows what did that to ’er.’

‘But no blood,’ Pitt said with surprise. He looked at the ground near her and saw nothing to mark the proximity except the claw marks of small animals. ‘And she wasn’t here last night?’ he went on.

‘She’d ’ave bin seen, this close to the main paths,’ the sergeant answered. ‘And ’er clothes are damp but not soaked. There’s the cart tracks as well. No, she was put here after dark yesterday. God alone knows what for! But if we catch the swine what did it, you won’t need the hangman …’

One of the young men cleared his throat. ‘Commander Pitt, sir?’

Pitt looked at him.

‘Sir, she’s lying kind of odd, like her spine’s bent, or something. But I were ’ere when we found the first one, sir, an’ she were lying exactly the same way – I mean absolute exactly. Like it’s the same thing all over again.’

Pitt had a flash in his mind’s eye of the woman they had thought was Kitty. It was exactly the same, as if she had the same internal pain twisting her back.

The wind was rising, whining a little in the branches above them and rattling as it knocked the dead weed heads together.

‘You’re right. Well observed,’ Pitt said. ‘I presume the police surgeon in on his way?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I’ll talk to the couple who found her, until he comes. Might as well let them be on their way. Anything else about her? I suppose no one has any idea who she is?’

‘No idea at all, sir. Except the quality of her dress an’ jacket suggest she could be another maid. Looked at ’er ’ands, an’ she’s got little burns and scars on them too, like she did a lot of ironing or cooking, or that kind of thing. And … there’s a handkerchief in her coat pocket, an embroidered one with lace and an “R” stitched on it. Far as I can recall it’s a pretty exact match for the one we found on the other body. An’ worse than that, sir, we found this on her.’

He took an envelope out of his own pocket and opened it. Inside was a gold chain with a very beautiful fob on it, also gold, about an inch in diameter, but of an irregular shape. It was slightly indented around the circumference, like a five-petalled rose. On the reverse were the initials ‘BK’ in an ornamental script. Bennett Kynaston? It had to be the missing chain and fob from Dudley Kynaston’s watch that he claimed was taken from his pocket.

‘I can just imagine what the papers will make of this,’ he said grimly. ‘Let me see the handkerchief too, please?’

The man bent and picked it out of the dead woman’s pocket. He passed it to Pitt. It was a small square of white lawn, lace-edged and embroidered with an ‘R’ in one corner, with tiny flowers. It was an exact match for the earlier one.

‘I’ll go and speak with Kynaston,’ Pitt said to the sergeant, then he turned to Stoker. ‘Stay here. Speak to the couple who found her. Learn all you can. I’ll catch up with you at the police station, or the morgue. Make damn sure this gets priority.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Stoker and the sergeant replied as one.

Pitt was cold and hungry when he knocked on the front door of Kynaston’s house on Shooters Hill. This time he had no interest in the area steps, or the servants except as they might corroborate anyone else’s story.

The door was opened by Norton, the butler, who regarded Pitt with unhappy misgiving. No one with any manners called at this hour. It could only mean bad news.

‘Good morning, sir. May I help you?’ he said very coolly.

‘Thank you.’ Pitt stepped inside, forcing Norton either to let him in, or deliberately to bar the way. ‘I apologise for my boots. They are unfortunately filthy. I have been to the gravel pit … again.’ He knew his voice was shaking. His body was tense, muscles looked tight across the shoulders and in his belly, as if he were as cold as the mutilated body up on the wind-combed grass a thousand yards away. He had tried, really tried, to get it out of his imagination, to concentrate on his job, to watch and listen to the present, but he could not.

Norton was pale. He swallowed hard. ‘I’m sure the bootboy would be able to do something for you, sir. Perhaps you would care for a pair of slippers in the meantime? And a cup of tea?’

Pitt was bitterly cold, and he realised his throat was dry. He was also on duty regarding a particularly vile crime. To accept cleaner footwear was a necessary courtesy to the housemaids who would have to try to clean the carpets after him. Tea and toast was a luxury, and therefore an indulgence.

‘That is very kind of you,’ he replied. ‘Slippers would be a practical courtesy; the tea is unnecessary. I require to speak to Mr Kynaston before he leaves the house. You will doubtless hear about it very soon. I’m afraid there has been another body found in the gravel pits.’ He saw Norton’s look of horror. ‘It is not Kitty Ryder,’ he added quickly. ‘In fact, it is quite possible that Kitty is still alive and well.’ Instantly he knew he should not have said so much. Certainly Norton would tell his master. Pitt had given away his opportunity to catch Kynaston unaware. ‘I’m sorry, but it cannot wait,’ he added.

‘Yes, sir.’ Norton bowed his head very slightly in acknowledgement. ‘I shall inform him immediately. If you would like to wait in the morning room, it is agreeably warm. See if these slippers will fit you.’

Pitt obeyed, taking off his prized boots, then following Norton to the morning room, slippers in his hand.

Kynaston came only moments later, his face grave and anxious. He closed the door behind him and remained standing.

‘Norton tells me you have found another woman’s body in the gravel pits,’ he said without preamble.

‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid so. This one also has been mutilated, and appears to have been dead some time, but placed there only last night.’

The last dregs of colour drained out of Kynaston’s face. He swallowed hard, as if something constricted his throat.

‘For God’s sake, man, why are you telling me this?’ he demanded huskily. ‘Do you imagine that it is Kitty at last?’

So Norton had not told him! Interesting. Had he not had the opportunity, or was his loyalty more divided than one might suspect?

‘No, sir, I think that is not possible,’ he replied. ‘This woman has fair hair, very little like the description of Kitty Ryder. Also we have found Harry Dobson, and he says Kitty ran away with him, but has since left him. We checked, and neighbours and local shopkeepers saw her, alive and well, since she left here.’

‘And you couldn’t have told us this before?’ Kynaston said in a sudden explosion of fury. His eyes were blazing, the colour dark in his cheeks. ‘What the devil is the matter with you, man? Whatever you think of me, what about my wife’s feelings? Or those of the other servants? She was part of our household! We cared about her!’

Pitt felt the lash of his words, but curiously it pleased him. The man was showing some sign of ordinary decency.

‘We have only just found out, sir,’ he answered levelly. ‘Yesterday. Sergeant Stoker worked in his own time. This morning I was woken with the news of this second body, which also has a handkerchief identical to the one we found on the first body, and to several your wife possesses.’ He took the gold watch fob out of his pocket and laid it on the table between them. ‘And she also had this …’

Now Kynaston did sit down, hard, as if he were uncertain his legs would support him much longer. His face was ash pale. ‘That is my watch fob. It used to be my brother’s. That’s why I was so upset when it was stolen.’

‘Where did the theft happen, sir? Even approximately?’

‘Oxford Street. It was crowded. I only realised when I went to check the time later. Someone is trying to make it appear that I am involved in this,’ he said desperately. ‘God knows why! I have no idea who this woman is, what happened to her or how she got there. Any more than I had for the first one, poor creature.’ He looked up. ‘If she is not Kitty, for which I am profoundly grateful, who is she? She’s still someone, violently dead and her body discarded. Why aren’t you doing everything you can to find out who she is, and who did this to her?’

Pitt controlled his own feelings with some difficulty. He had seen this body, and the first one.

‘That’s a regular police job, Mr Kynaston. I’m Special Branch, and my job is the security of the country. And in this case, to safeguard you and your reputation so you can continue with the work you do for the navy.’