Death On Blackheath (Thomas Pitt 29) Read online

  Copyright © 2013 Anne Perry

  The right of Anne Perry to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2013

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 9719 8

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London

  NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also By

  Praise

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Book

  Greenwich, 1897. A macabre scene is discovered outside a house on Shooters Hill. There has been a vicious fight, and amid the bloodstains are locks of long auburn hair. Thomas Pitt, head of Special Branch, is called: this is the home of Dudley Kynaston, a minister with access to some of the government’s most dangerous secrets, and any inquiry must be handled with utmost discretion.

  Although an auburn-haired housemaid is missing from Kynaston’s household, with no evidence there is little Pitt can do. Until a corpse, mutilated beyond recognition, is discovered a few weeks later. As Pitt begins to investigate, he finds small inconsistencies in Kynaston’s story. Are these harmless omissions, or could they lead to something more serious, something that could threaten not just Kynaston’s own family but also his Queen and country?

  About the Author

  Anne Perry is a New York Times bestselling author noted for her memorable characters, historical accuracy and exploration of social and ethical issues. Her two series, one featuring Thomas Pitt and one featuring William Monk, have been published in multiple languages. Anne Perry has also published a successful series based around World War One and the Reavley family, and the standalone novel The Sheen on the Silk. Anne Perry was selected by The Times as one of the twentieth century’s ‘100 Masters of Crime’. She lives in Scotland.

  By Anne Perry

  The Inspector Pitt series

  Bedford Square

  Half Moon Street

  The Whitechapel Conspiracy

  Southampton Row

  Seven Dials

  Long Spoon Lane

  Buckingham Palace Gardens

  Betrayal at Lisson Grove

  Dorchester Terrace

  Midnight at Marble Arch

  Death on Blackheath

  The William Monk series

  The Face of a Stranger

  A Dangerous Mourning

  Defend and Betray

  A Sudden, Fearful Death

  The Sins of the Wolf

  Cain His Brother

  Weighed in the Balance

  The Silent Cry

  Whited Sepulchres

  The Twisted Root

  Slaves and Obsession

  A Funeral in Blue

  Death of a Stranger

  The Shifting Tide

  Dark Assassin

  Execution Dock

  Acceptable Loss

  A Sunless Sea

  Blind Justice

  World War I series

  No Graves as Yet

  Shoulder the Sky

  Angels in the Gloom

  At Some Disputed Barricade

  We Shall Not Sleep

  Christmas Novellas

  A Christmas Journey

  A Christmas Visitor

  A Christmas Guest

  A Christmas Secret

  A Christmas Beginning

  A Christmas Grace

  A Christmas Promise

  A Christmas Odyssey

  A Christmas Homecoming

  A Christmas Garland

  Tathea

  Come Armaggedon

  The One Thing More

  The Sheen on the Silk

  Praise for Anne Perry:

  ‘A beauty: brilliantly presented, ingeniously developed and packed with political implications that reverberate on every level of British society … delivers Perry’s most harrowing insights into the secret lives of the elegant Victorians who have long enchanted and repelled her’

  New York Times Book Review

  ‘Perry’s characters are richly drawn and the plot satisfyingly serpentine’

  Booklist

  ‘A complex plot supported by superb storytelling’

  Scotland on Sunday

  ‘With its colourful characters and edge-of-the-seat plotting, this is a rich and compelling read’

  Good Book Guide

  ‘Perry brings a wealth of historical detail and accuracy to her bestselling novels … A murder mystery made to make you think’

  Lancashire Evening Post

  ‘A feeling for atmosphere that would do credit to Dickens and Doyle’

  Northern Echo

  ‘A deftly plotted mystery. As always, Perry brings Victorian London vividly to life’

  Historical Novels Review

  ‘[An] engrossing page-turner … There’s no one better at using words to paint a scene and then fill it with sounds and smells than Anne Perry’

  Boston Globe

  ‘Superbly told and richly authentic in its setting’

  Peterborough Evening Telegraph

  To Ileen Maisel

  Chapter One

  PITT STOOD shivering on the steps leading up from the areaway to the pavement and looked down at the clumps of blood and hair at his feet. There was blood on the shards of glass as well, and some of it had already congealed. Splinters lay on the steps below and above. The January wind whined across the open stretch towards the gravel pits in the distance.

  ‘And the maid is missing?’ Pitt asked quietly.

  ‘Yes, and sorry, sir,’ the police sergeant said unhappily. His young face was set hard in the grey early morning light. ‘Thought that seeing whose house it was, like, we should call you straight away.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Pitt assured him.

  They were in Shooters Hill, a very pleasant residential area on the outskirts of London. It was not far from Greenwich, with the Naval College and the Royal Observatory from which the world took its time. The imposing house rising above them into the still, shadowed air was that of Dudley Kynaston, a senior government official deeply involved in matters of naval defence, a weapons expert of some kind. Violence so very close to his house was of concern to Special Branch, and thus to Pitt as its commander. It was a recent promotion for him and he was still uncomfortable with the extraordinary power it lent him. Perhaps he always woul
d be. It was a responsibility that ultimately he could share with no one. His triumphs would be secret, but his disasters appallingly public.

  Looking down at the grim evidence at his feet, he would gladly have changed places with the sergeant beside him. He had been an ordinary young policeman himself when he had been this man’s age, twenty years ago. He had dealt with regular crimes then: theft, arson, occasionally murder – although not many with political implication, and nothing to do with terror and violence towards the state.

  He straightened up. He dressed smartly now, if a little untidily, but even this new woollen coat could not dull the knife edge of the wind. He was cold to the bone. The chill was blowing up from the river a mile and a half away, not hard, but it had the steady bitterness of the damp. From this height he could see the lowlying stretches to the east shrouded in mist, and hear the mournful wail of foghorns.

  ‘Did you say it was reported by the first servant to get up?’ he asked. ‘That must have been hours ago.’ He glanced at the wan daylight.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Scullery maid, slip of a thing, but sharp as a tack. Scared the poor child half out of her wits, all the blood and hair, but she kept her presence of mind.’

  ‘She didn’t run all the way to the police station in the dark?’ Pitt asked incredulously. ‘It must be a mile and a half at least, from here.’

  ‘No, sir,’ the sergeant responded with some satisfaction in his voice. ‘Like I said, she’s pretty cool-headed, and all of about thirteen, I would guess. She went in and woke up the housekeeper, a sensible sort of woman. She has the use of the telephone, so after she’d checked that the blood and hair were real, not just from some animals fighting, she called the police station. If she hadn’t, likely we’d still be on the way here.’

  Pitt looked down at the blood, which could easily enough be human or animal. However, the strands of hair were long, auburn in the lantern light, and could only be human. He also thought that without the telephone to waken him at his home in Keppel Street on the other side of the river, he would have been having breakfast in his own warm kitchen now, unaware of any of this potential tragedy, and all the grief and complications that could arise from it.

  He grunted agreement, but before he could add anything more he heard rapid footsteps along the pavement. The next moment Stoker appeared at the top of the areaway. He was the one man in Special Branch that Pitt had learned to trust. After the betrayals that had led up to Victor Narraway’s dismissal, he trusted no one who had not earned it. Narraway had been innocent and, after desperate effort and cost, had been proved so. But that episode had still been the end of his career.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ Stoker said with only the slightest curiosity in his voice. He glanced down at the lantern and the patch of stone steps illuminated by it, then at Pitt. He was a lean man with a strong, intelligent face, although it was a bit too bony to be good-looking, and too dour for charm.

  ‘One maid missing,’ Pitt explained. He looked up at the sky, then back at Stoker. ‘Make a note of exactly what you see. Draw it. Then pick up a few samples, in case we need them in evidence one day. Better hurry. If the rain comes it’ll wash that whole lot away. I’m going in to speak to the household.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Why us, sir? Missing maid – what’s wrong with the locals doing it?’ He gave the sergeant a nod, but the question was directed at Pitt.

  ‘Householder is Dudley Kynaston – naval defence …’ Pitt replied.

  Stoker swore under his breath.

  Pitt smiled, glad not to have caught his exact words, although he probably agreed with them. He turned and knocked on the scullery door, then opened it – and walked past the stored vegetables into the kitchen. Immediately the warmth wrapped around him, along with the rich aromas of cooking. It was comfortable, everything in order. Polished copper pans hung from hooks, their sheen winking in the lights. Clean china was stacked on the dresser. Shelves were piled neatly with labelled spice jars. Strings of onions and dried herbs hung from the rafters.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said clearly, and three women turned from their tasks to look at him.

  ‘Mornin’, sir,’ they replied almost in unison. The cook was a comfortably rounded woman, at the moment holding a large wooden spoon in her hand. A maid in starched and lace-trimmed apron was setting out tea and toast ready to carry upstairs, and the scullery maid was peeling potatoes. She had dark, unruly hair and wide eyes. As soon as he saw her, Pitt knew that she was the one who had gone outside and found the blood and glass. The sleeves of her grey dress were rolled well above her elbows and her white apron was covered in smuts from relighting the stove.

  The cook regarded Pitt apprehensively, unsure where to place him in the social scale. He wasn’t a gentleman because he had come in through the back door, and he didn’t have the natural arrogance of a man used to the attention of servants. On the other hand, he seemed very sure of himself in a different kind of way, and she could tell at a glance that his overcoat was of excellent quality. In the circumstances, he was probably a policeman of some sort, but he did not look like an ordinary sergeant.

  Pitt gave her a brief smile. ‘May I speak to your scullery maid, please? I would appreciate it if you could give me a quiet room where we will be without interruption. If you wish the housekeeper to be with her, that will be acceptable.’ He phrased it as a request, but it was an order, and he held her eyes long enough to be certain that she knew that.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, her voice catching as though her mouth were dry. ‘Dora here can go with her.’ She gestured at the startled parlour maid. ‘I’ll take that tray up to Mrs Kynaston. Maisie, you go with the policeman an’ tell ’im what ’e needs to know. And you be civil, mind!’

  ‘Yes, Cook,’ Maisie said obediently, and led Pitt as far as the door. Then she turned to him, looking him up and down with bright, critical eyes. ‘You look like you’re froze to the bone. You want a cup o’ tea … sir?’

  Pitt smiled in spite of himself. ‘Thank you, that would be very nice. Perhaps Dora would bring us a pot?’

  Dora was strongly disapproving. She was a parlour maid, not someone to fetch and carry cups of tea to the likes of policemen and scullery maids, but she could not find the right words to say so.

  Pitt’s smile widened. ‘Very helpful of you.’ He acknowledged her departure from duty, then followed Maisie along the corridor to the housekeeper’s sitting room. The housekeeper herself was no doubt about other duties necessitated by the alarming circumstances that had arisen this morning.

  Pitt sat down in the armchair by the fire, which was newly lit and not yet warm. Maisie sat upright on the hard-backed chair opposite him.

  ‘What time did you come down to the kitchen this morning?’ Pitt started straight away.

  ‘’Alf-past five,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘I raked out the ashes an’ took ’em out ter the ash can in the yard. That was when I found the …’ she gulped, ‘… the blood … an’ that.’

  ‘About quarter to six?’

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘It would be very dark then. How did you notice them? They weren’t all that close to the ash can,’ he pointed out. ‘Was there somebody else there, Maisie?’

  She took a very deep breath, then let it out in a sigh. ‘Opposite’s boot boy, but ’e wouldn’t never ’ave done anything like that. ’Sides, ’e likes Kitty … I mean she were nice to ’im. ’E … ’e comes from the country an’ ’e misses ’is family, like.’ Her dark eyes stared unwaveringly at Pitt.

  ‘Who’s Kitty?’ he asked.

  ‘Kitty Ryder,’ she said as if he should have known. ‘Mrs Kynaston’s lady’s maid wot’s missing.’

  ‘How do you know she’s missing?’ he asked curiously. He knew that ladies’ maids seldom got up at half-past five.

  ‘’Cos she in’t ’ere,’ she replied reasonably, but he knew from the defiance in her face and her very slight sniff that she was perfectly aware of being evasive.

 
‘You thought the hair on the steps looked like Kitty Ryder’s?’ he pressed.

  ‘Yeah … some …’

  A thought occurred to him, a chance to be seized before Dora came any moment with the tea, and, of course, remained as a chaperone.

  ‘And you were afraid something had happened to Kitty?’ he suggested.

  ‘Yeah … I …’ She stopped. She looked into his face and knew that somewhere there was a trap in the question, but she did not look away.

  He heard Dora’s footsteps in the passage.

  ‘So Kitty might quite likely be on the areaway steps in the middle of a winter night, and possibly have a quarrel that could turn violent? A suitor you don’t like?’

  ‘A wot?’

  ‘A young man?’

  Dora came in through the door balancing a tray with a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two cups and saucers. She placed it on the table and stood back a little, her face stiff with disapproval.

  Pitt nodded his thanks but kept his eyes on Maisie. ‘A young man,’ he repeated. ‘Kitty had a young man and she went out at night to meet him. That was why when you saw the blood and hair you immediately thought of her, and checked to see if she was home – and she wasn’t. Is that right?’

  Maisie stared at him with respect, and a new fear. She nodded silently.

  ‘Thank you,’ Pitt acknowledged. ‘And did you find Kitty at all?’ He asked that with a deep sense of impending sadness. He already knew the answer.

  Maisie shook her head. ‘She in’t nowhere.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked.

  She nodded, still not taking her eyes from his face.

  ‘Dora, would you pour two cups of tea, please?’ Pitt requested. ‘I take mine with milk and no sugar. You’ll know how Maisie likes hers. Then perhaps you would find either the housekeeper or the butler for me and have them come here.’

  Dora glared at him, but did as she was told. She had been brought up to be very careful never to make trouble with the police, whatever sort they were.