Death On Blackheath (Thomas Pitt 29) Page 10

  Pitt stood up. ‘I’m not,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m preparing for the next round.’

  It came exactly as Pitt had expected. Nothing further had been learned about the identity of the woman in the gravel pit, nor had Stoker been more fortunate in finding any trace of Kitty Ryder. Narraway telephoned Pitt and invited him to call by just after dark. He would have invited him to dinner, but he knew Pitt’s desire to be at home with his family. If he envied him that, he disguised it so well Pitt had seen no more than perhaps a glimpse of it.

  He offered Pitt a brandy, something that Pitt very seldom accepted, though he did on this occasion. He was tired and cold. He needed the fire inside as well as burning in the hearth.

  Narraway got to the point immediately.

  ‘Kynaston is cleverer than he looks, and – at least professionally – a lot more imaginative. He works on the design of submarines for the navy, and now particularly on submarine weapons, which is a field of its own: obviously different from weapons fired above the water.’

  ‘Submarines?’ Pitt realised the yawning gap in his knowledge. He frowned, not wanting to make a fool of himself. ‘You mean like in Jules Verne’s, Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea?’

  Narraway shrugged. ‘Not quite that clever yet, but definitely the naval warfare of the future, and not so far ahead either. The French were the first to launch a submarine not relying on human power for propulsion – Plongeur, back in ’63, then improved on in ’67. Fellow called Narcis Monturiol built a boat forty-six feet long, could dive down nearly a hundred feet and stay down for two hours.’

  Pitt was fascinated.

  ‘The Peruvians, of all people, built a really good submarine during their war with Chile in ’79. Then the Poles had one about the same time.’

  ‘Didn’t we do anything?’ Pitt interrupted with chagrin.

  ‘I’m getting to it. Our clergyman and inventor George Garrett got together with a Swedish industrialist Thorsten Nordenfelt and made a whole series, one of which they sold to the Greeks. In ’87 they improved it and added torpedo tubes for firing underwater explosive missiles. That one, sold to the Ottoman Navy, was the first to fire a torpedo while submerged.’ He closed his eyes and for a moment his jaw tightened. ‘One can only begin to imagine the possibilities of that on an island like ours, whose survival depends on our navy guarding not only our trade routes but our shores themselves: in fact, our existence.’

  Pitt’s imagination was already there, racing and yet cold with fear.

  ‘The Spanish are working on it too,’ Narraway went on. ‘And the French have an all-electrical-powered one. It will be only two or three years before they’re common.’

  ‘I see,’ Pitt said quietly. Indeed he did, all too terribly clearly. Britain was an island. Without their sea lanes the British could be starved to death in weeks. The importance of submarine weapons could hardly be exaggerated – which is why they had to value people like Dudley Kynaston, and be prepared to go to great lengths to protect him.

  ‘I can’t see why Talbot wouldn’t tell me that,’ Pitt said, both puzzled and angry.

  ‘Neither can I,’ Narraway agreed. ‘I can only suppose that he thought you had been told.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Except that I imagine if so you would have gone on to ask a lot more questions, and the answers to those might be rather more … delicate.’ Narraway was tense, sitting back in his chair as if casually, but Pitt saw the strain in the fabric of his jacket as his shoulders hunched very slightly.

  Pitt could not leave it unasked. ‘Technically delicate, or personally?’

  ‘Personally, of course,’ Narraway said with a wry twist to his lips. ‘Technically is probably irrelevant, and would require a great deal more study than you have time for in order to understand. Are you aware that Dudley had a brother, Bennett, a couple or so years younger than he?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a picture of him in Kynaston’s study, behind his desk.’ Pitt could see it as clearly as if it were before him now, even the eyes, the contours of the face. ‘Odd place to put it, except that it’s the best wall space, and the best light,’ he added. ‘And he will see it every time he comes into the room. Strong resemblance to Dudley, but even better-looking. But he’s been dead for several years. What could he have to do with Kitty Ryder, or whoever this woman was?’

  ‘Probably nothing,’ Narraway agreed. ‘But there was a scandal concerning him several years ago. I haven’t been able to uncover it, which means they took very great care indeed to hide everything, or disguise it as something else. I haven’t even been able to learn if Dudley is aware of it himself. Apparently at least some elements of it happened abroad. Again, I don’t know where. The only thing I gathered from both sources I tried is that Bennett was not to blame for it. Of course that may, or may not be true.’

  ‘At the time of his death?’ Pitt asked.

  ‘No, some years before.’

  ‘Which would mean it was at least a decade ago, or longer,’ Pitt concluded. ‘Kitty Ryder would have been a child.’

  ‘Relevant only to Dudley Kynaston’s sensitivities,’ Narraway pointed out. ‘And therefore his immediate reaction to conceal things that perhaps other people would not, even if he were completely innocent. He and Bennett were very close, as you have deduced from the portrait in the study.’

  Pitt thought about it for a few moments. It would account for Dudley Kynaston’s behaviour, the unease Pitt had sensed, even the tiny errors of omission in his diaries.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a degree of relief. Perhaps Kitty Ryder was likeable, but unwise, and she had eloped with the young man the household staff so disapproved of, and the woman in the gravel pit could turn out to be unrelated to the Kynaston house.

  Narraway saw the sudden ease in his face. ‘Protect Kynaston as long as you can,’ he said quietly. ‘We need a navy as strong as possible. There’s a hell of a lot of unrest in the world. Africa is stirring against us, especially in the south. The old order is changing. The century is almost worn out, and the Queen with it. She’s tired and lonely and growing weaker. In Europe they’re looking for change, reform. We may think we are isolated, but it’s a delusion we can’t afford. The English Channel is not very wide. A strong swimmer can make it, let alone a fleet of ships. We need to have the best navy in the world.’

  Pitt stared at him. None of what Narraway had said was unknown to him but put together as he had just done, it was a darker picture than he had allowed himself to see.

  He did not answer. Narraway knew he understood.

  Chapter Six

  CHARLOTTE HAD not seen her sister Emily for several weeks, and not spent much time alone with her when they could talk to each other in more than formalities since before Christmas. She decided to write a letter to Emily asking if she would like to take luncheon and, if the weather permitted, to walk in Kew Gardens. Even if it were cold, the massive glasshouses filled with tropical plants would be warm, and a pleasant change from sitting inside.

  Emily wrote back immediately, agreeing that it would be an excellent idea. She had married extremely well, just before Charlotte had married Pitt. Emily had gained a title and a very large fortune, if not a commensurate happiness. Tragically, George had been killed in circumstances to which they never referred. Emily found herself first a suspect in his death, then a very wealthy widow with a son, in whose name both the title and the inheritance were vested.

  Later she had fallen in love, wildly and quite irresponsibly (so she told herself) with the handsome and charming Jack Radley. He had no profession and no inheritance at all. Everyone else had agreed with her that it would be a disaster, and in their first few years together Jack had done little but enjoy himself, and be excellent company. Then the ambition had seized him to do something of value, and he had fought very hard to win a seat in Parliament. Emily had been enormously proud of him, as indeed had Charlotte. He had more than justified their belief in him.

  Young Edward’s inheritance allowed Emily to live extremely w
ell, without using up what would rightfully be his when he reached majority. This was a little while in the future because he was roughly the same age as Jemima, who was now fifteen.

  Emily kept a carriage for her personal use, and it was in that that she came to pick up Charlotte for their luncheon.

  She came into the house in Keppel Street, barely glancing at its hallway, so much smaller than her own. Nor did she look at the stairs, which went straight up to the first-floor landing, not in the sweeping arc of those at Ashworth House, never mind those at their country seat, which could accommodate twenty guests without inconvenience.

  Charlotte was still in the kitchen, giving Minnie Maude last-minute instructions for dinner, and warning her not to let Uffie steal the sausages, which he was presently creeping towards, imagining no one would notice him.

  ‘See that Daniel and Jemima have no more than hot soup when they come in from school,’ Charlotte added, picking up the little dog and putting him back in his basket. ‘And that they go straight upstairs to do whatever homework is assigned them.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Minnie Maude agreed, giving Uffie a stern look. He thumped his tail happily in reply.

  Emily was looking extraordinarily dashing, wearing the very latest fashion in capes. It was double-breasted, with two rows of large fancy buttons down the front. It was very becoming and from the way she walked it was apparent that she knew it. The whole outfit was a mixture of blues and greens, an up-to-the-minute daring combination, frowned upon only a year ago. Her hat was positively rakish. She was younger than Charlotte, only just approaching forty, and had always been slender. Her fair hair had a deep wave to it, the finer tendrils curling delicately. With her porcelain skin and wide blue eyes she had a refinement approaching beauty, and she never failed to make the best of it.

  Charlotte felt a little drab beside her, even though her skirt had the latest cut, with five pieces making the fullness fall very gracefully to the back. But it was an ordinary terracotta in colour. She would have added a cape, but she had little spare income to spend on memorable clothes she could not afford to be seen in next year, and the year after, and probably after that too.

  She hugged Emily quickly and stood back to admire her. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she said sincerely. ‘You manage to make winter look as if it is fun.’

  Emily smiled suddenly, lighting her face, and only then did Charlotte realise that the moment before Emily had looked tired. She made no remark on it. The last thing any woman wanted to hear was that she did not look fresh. It was almost as bad as ill, and approaching the worst of all – old.

  Charlotte reached for her hat, a rich brown ordinary felt one. It was nothing like as beautiful as Emily’s, but it did suit her richer colouring, and she knew it.

  They had an excellent luncheon. As always, it was Emily’s gift. They had become so used to that over the years that they ceased to argue about it, even though since Pitt’s promotion Charlotte’s means were considerably improved. Still they were not in the same sphere as Emily’s.

  They spoke of family matters, how their children were faring. Besides Emily’s son, Edward, she had a younger daughter, Evangeline. Children changed so rapidly there was always something to report.

  They also spoke of their mother, Caroline Fielding, who had scandalised everyone by remarrying after their father’s death – and to an actor, of all things! Not only that, but he was very considerably younger than she was. Life had changed radically for her. She had a whole new set of occupations and issues to engage her mind and her emotions, and to worry about. She was happier than she had imagined possible.

  ‘And Grandmama?’ Charlotte said finally, over dessert. It was a subject she would have preferred to ignore, but it hovered between them unsaid, but with such weight that eventually she surrendered.

  Emily smiled in spite of herself. ‘Nearly as appalling, as always,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Complaining about everything, although I think it is merely habit, and her heart is no longer in it. I caught her actually being nice to the scullery maid last week. I swear she’ll live to be a hundred.’

  ‘Isn’t she there already?’ Charlotte asked waspishly.

  Emily’s eyebrows shot up. ‘For goodness’ sake, do you think I asked her? But if you did, then please tell me the answer. I have to have some hope to cling on to!’

  ‘What if she’s only ninety?’

  ‘Then say nothing,’ Emily responded instantly. ‘I couldn’t bear it – not another ten years.’

  Charlotte looked down at the folded napkin and the empty plate. ‘It could be twenty …’

  Emily said a word she would later deny ever having used, and they both laughed.

  They rose from the table and had the carriage sent for, and agreed that a walk in Kew Gardens would be just what they would most enjoy.

  The air was cold and bright, but with no wind at all it was very pleasant. Scores of other people seemed to have had the same idea.

  ‘I suppose you don’t get the opportunity to help Thomas with cases any more,’ Emily remarked, as they passed several very handsome trees. Neither of them bothered to read the plaques in front saying what they were, and which were their countries of origin. ‘All too secret,’ she added, referring back to Pitt’s cases.

  ‘Not much,’ Charlotte agreed. She heard the wistfulness in Emily’s voice. She even felt a little of it herself. Looking back, some of their adventures, which had been dangerous or even tragic at the time, now were softened by memory and only the better parts remained.

  ‘But you have to know something about them,’ Emily insisted. ‘Don’t you?’

  Charlotte glanced sideways at her, just for a moment, and saw a hunger in her, almost a need. Then it vanished, and as they passed a couple of well-dressed women she smiled at them charmingly, full of confidence. The old Emily was there again, beautiful, funny, intensely alive, brave enough for anything.

  ‘It’s all very … shapeless,’ Charlotte relented and answered the question. ‘Thomas was called in because they found the body of a woman in a gravel pit up on Shooters Hill. For a little while they were afraid it might be Dudley Kynaston’s missing maid …’

  Emily stopped abruptly. ‘Dudley Kynaston? Really?’

  Charlotte had a sharp stab of misgiving. Perhaps she was breaking a confidence to have told Emily so much?

  ‘It’s confidential!’ she said urgently. ‘It could cause an awful scandal, quite unjustifiably, if people started to speculate. You mustn’t repeat it! Emily … I’m serious …’

  ‘Of course!’ Emily agreed smoothly, beginning to walk again. ‘But I know something already. Jack said Somerset Carlisle was asking questions in the House about Kynaston’s safety.’

  ‘Somerset Carlisle?’ Now Charlotte was intrigued, and touched with a cold finger of fear. She had not forgotten about Carlisle and the resurrectionists either. ‘What else did Jack say?’ she asked, attempting to keep the urgency out of her voice.

  Emily’s mouth tightened and she gave an elegant shrug of her slender shoulders, but it was a tiny movement, as if her muscles were tight. ‘Not very much. I asked him because I know Rosalind Kynaston a little, and I suppose it would really be her maid, not his. But Jack didn’t answer me.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was a meaningless response, except to acknowledge that she had heard. Had she also understood? Was this one answer that closed Emily out, perhaps because Jack did not know anything more, or what he did know was in confidence? Or had he just not been listening closely enough to realise that Emily wanted an answer?

  They walked for a few moments without speaking again. They passed exotic trees, palms whose structure was utterly unlike the oaks and elms they were used to, or the soaring, smooth-limbed beeches. On the ground there were ferns, almost like green feathers a Cavalier might wear on his hat, but far larger. Emily buried her hands in her muff, and Charlotte wished that she had one.

  ‘What is Rosalind Kynaston like?’ Charlotte said to break the silence before it grew too
deep to disregard.

  Emily gave a tiny smile. ‘Ordinary enough, I suppose. We spoke little about anything in particular. She’s older than I am. Her children are all married. She doesn’t see them very often. Army, or something, I think.’

  ‘There are hundreds of other things to talk about!’ Charlotte protested.

  ‘Gossip,’ Emily said tartly. ‘Have you any idea how boring that is? Half of it is complete rubbish. People make it up in order to have something to say. Who on earth cares anyway?’

  It was mid-afternoon and the days were lengthening again. The sky was clear and the lowering light shone brightly and a little harshly on their faces. For the first time Charlotte noticed the very fine lines in Emily’s once-perfect skin. Actually they were the marks of laughter, emotion, thought. They were not unkind. They even gave her face more character, but they were lines none the less. She did not for a second doubt that Emily had also seen them. Of course they were there in Charlotte’s face too – more of them, a little deeper – but she did not mind. Did she?

  Pitt was a little older than she, and time had touched him with a brush of grey at the temples. She liked it. She was beginning to find youth less interesting, even callow at times. Experience lent depth, compassion, a sharper value to the good things. Time tested one’s courage, softened the heart.

  But did Emily see it that way? Jack Radley was remarkably handsome, and her own age. Men matured nicely. To some people, women simply got older.

  As if reading her thoughts and taking them further, Emily spoke again.

  ‘Do you suppose that Kynaston was having an affair with the maid, and got her with child, or something? Then he had to get rid of her?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’ Charlotte said with surprise. ‘She far more likely ran off with her young man.’

  ‘To a gravel pit, in the middle of winter?’ Emily said with an edge of sarcasm. ‘Have you lost your imagination? Or do you think I have? Or is this your way of telling me you can’t discuss it with me?’