Death on Blackheath Read online

  Vespasia looked very serious. She did not even pick up her cup. “Possibly,” she replied. “Has something happened to Emily in particular, to make her feel this way?”

  “I don’t think so. But she is restless—bored, I think. We used to be involved in so much. Not always as exciting or pleasant as it seemed; looking back on it now, I know that, and I think Emily does, too. But being a good society wife, and an attentive mother to children who need you less and less, hardly exercises the imagination. And it is certainly not exciting …” She saw the understanding in Vespasia’s expression and stopped. “I think at the heart of it she is very aware that she will soon be forty, and a part of life is slipping out of her grasp,” she added.

  “And Jack?” Vespasia inquired.

  “Jack is as handsome as ever, in fact I think more so. A few added years suit him. He is not so … shallow.”

  “Ooh!” Vespasia gave a tiny wince, so small as to be almost invisible.

  Charlotte blushed. “I’m sorry …”

  “Don’t be.” Vespasia picked up her cup at last and took a sip, then offered Charlotte the sandwiches again before taking one herself. “Which particular precipice did Emily fall over yesterday evening?”

  “Someone assumed that she was my older sister.”

  “Oh dear.” Vespasia sipped her tea again. “Sibling rivalry is a snake you can never quite kill. I’m afraid Emily has been used to being a step ahead for rather too long. She is finding it hard to adjust to being a step behind.”

  “She isn’t behind!” Charlotte said instantly. Vespasia merely smiled.

  “Well … she needs something to do, I mean something that matters,” Charlotte tried again. “The way we used to when we could help with Thomas’s cases, before they were secret.”

  “Be careful,” Vespasia warned.

  Charlotte thought of denying that the affair of Kynaston and the missing maid was in her mind, but she had never deliberately lied to Vespasia, and their friendship was too precious to begin doing it now, even to defend Emily.

  “I will be,” she said instead. It was halfway to the truth.

  “I mean it, my dear,” Vespasia’s voice was very grave again. “I know Thomas is inclined to believe that Dudley Kynaston is not involved with this missing maid, and possibly even that the body in the gravel pit was not her. He may be right. That does not mean that Kynaston has nothing to hide. Be very careful what you do … and perhaps even more careful what you arrange for Emily to do. Her mind is filled with her own misgivings: her fear of boredom, and thus of becoming boring herself. Her beauty, to which she has been accustomed, beginning to lose its bloom. She will have to learn to rely on character and charm, style, even wit. It is not an easy adjustment to make.” She smiled with deep affection. “Especially when your older sister has never relied on her looks and has already learned wit and charm, and now at the age when other women are fading, she is coming into bloom. Be gentle with her, by all means, but do not be indulgent. None of us can afford the errors that come with carelessness, or desperation.”

  Charlotte said nothing, but she thought about it very deeply as she took the last sip of her tea. Regardless of Vespasia’s advice, and the wisdom she knew it held, she was going to involve Emily. She had to.

  CHAPTER

  7

  STOKER STOOD IN FRONT of Pitt’s desk, his face bleak, and oddly bruised-looking.

  “How did you find it?” Pitt asked, looking at the sodden wet tangle of felt and ribbon on his desk. It was barely recognizable as a hat. It was impossible to tell what color it had been, except from the tiny flash of red on what was left of a feather.

  “Anonymous tip-off, sir,” Stoker said quietly. “Tried to trace who it came from, but no luck so far. Just a note in with the post.”

  “What did it say, exactly?” Pitt asked. He was pursuing it as a matter of course. He did not seriously think it would prove of any value.

  “Just that the sender had been out walking in the early morning and sat down on a frozen log, then saw this odd-looking mass of what appeared to be fabric. He poked it with a stick and then realized that it was a hat. He knew there’d been a body found up near there, and wondered if it might have any connection.”

  “Those words?” Pitt said curiously.

  “No, I’m elaborating a bit.” Stoker grimaced. “Word for word, it was more like ‘Was sitting on a log up the gravel pit where that woman got found. Thought this might have something to do with it, like maybe it was hers.’ ”

  “What kind of paper?” Pitt asked. “Pen or pencil? What was the writing like?”

  Stoker’s mouth pulled tight. “Ordinary, cheap paper, written in pencil, but no real attempt to disguise the hand. Bit of a scrawl, but perfectly legible.”

  “And the spelling?” Pitt asked.

  “Right spelling,” Stoker replied. “But there was nothing difficult in it. Simple words.”

  Pitt looked at what was left of the hat, and then up at Stoker. He did not need to ask the question, but he did anyway.

  “Why do you think it’s Kitty Ryder’s?”

  Stoker answered as if his throat were tight and he had to force the words out. “The red feather, sir. I got to know one of the barmaids at the Pig and Whistle who was a friend of Kitty’s … Apparently they had tea together on their days off. Kitty really wanted a hat like that and she saved up to buy it. It was the red feather that mattered, because it was unexpected. In a way it didn’t fit in with the rest of it, and it made people look, and smile. At least that’s what Violet said—Violet Blane, the barmaid.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  Stoker did not move. “We’ll have to go back to Kynaston, sir.”

  “I know that,” Pitt agreed. “Before I do that I want to go over all the statements he’s made and everything we know about him. So far all we have is that Kitty worked for him, and that the woman in the gravel pit had his watch, which he says a pickpocket took, which his wife confirms. Which means nothing. We’ve searched the house and found nothing. None of the servants know anything of use. We’ve been over the cellars and the icehouse and found no trace of Kitty, or anything at all out of order. And the servants were in and out of there all the time anyway.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stoker said flatly. “I’ve got notes as to what Violet said, and if you compare it with Mrs. Kynaston’s diaries, and then his, I think you’ll find a few places where it doesn’t match.”

  Pitt did not answer, but opened one of the drawers beside the desk and took out his notes from the Kynaston diaries, then held out his hand for Stoker’s notebook.

  “Why didn’t we find the hat when we looked before?” he asked.

  “Probably too intent on the body,” Stoker replied. “It was thirty feet away. If you didn’t see the red feather you wouldn’t have seen the rest. It looks like leaves on mud.”

  That was true. It had been found now only by chance.

  “Thank you. I’ll look at all the notes again, then I’ll go and see Kynaston this evening. He won’t be there at this time of day.”

  Even so, Pitt was a little early. He disliked having to harass the man again. He personally liked him, therefore he determined to finish this business tonight and get it over with. He did not want to give Kynaston the chance to come home, change, and then go out to dinner somewhere.

  After meeting Kynaston and his wife and sister-in-law at the theater, this was even more unpleasant. He stood uneasily in Kynaston’s morning room, staring at one bookshelf after another, unable to concentrate on the titles. Occasionally he paced. He had actually been invited by Mrs. Kynaston to wait in the withdrawing room, but he felt guilty about accepting it when his purpose was far from social.

  He had been there less than half an hour when he heard Kynaston come in through the front door, and within minutes he was in the morning room, smiling.

  Pitt’s heart sank, and he felt his throat tighten. He walked forward from the fireplace.

  “Good evening, Mr. Kynaston
. I’m sorry to intrude on your time, but I have further questions I need to ask you.”

  Kynaston indicated the chair near the fire, and, when Pitt sat down, he took the other one himself. He looked slightly puzzled, but not yet alarmed.

  “Has there been some further development?” he inquired.

  “I’m afraid there has. We discovered a hat at the gravel pit, near where the body was found.” He watched Kynaston’s face as he spoke. “It’s in a state that makes it impossible to identify, but it is an unusual shape, as much as we can make out, and quite clearly it still has a small red feather tucked in the ribbon where the crown meets the brim. It is distinctive, and one of Kitty’s friends we have spoken to says that she had wanted exactly such a hat with a red feather—that she had spoken to her about it on several occasions.”

  Kynaston blanched, but he did not avoid Pitt’s eyes. “Then it was Kitty …” he said very quietly. “Perhaps it was foolish, but I was still hoping that it wasn’t. I’m so sorry.” He took a deep, rather shaky breath. “Will you be looking for the young man she was walking out with? I believe he was a somewhat itinerant carpenter. He went where the work was a lot of the time.” There was an edge to his voice, but it was not anger, and—as far as Pitt could judge—it was not fear either. Was he really so sure of himself, and his own safety?

  “Of course,” Pitt agreed. “We haven’t searched diligently enough for him yet. Admittedly, I think we are guilty of also hoping that the body was not hers.”

  “But now …?” Kynaston’s mouth pinched at the ugliness of the thought, and with something that appeared to be pity.

  “His name is Harry Dobson,” Pitt replied. “And yes, we will ask the police farther afield to cooperate with us in finding him. So far we’ve looked only locally.”

  “If he’s any sense he’ll have gone away as far as possible,” Kynaston observed with a grimace. “Liverpool, or Glasgow, somewhere with a lot of people where he can get lost. Although I suppose it’s not hard to lose yourself in London, if you’re desperate enough. Even ship out … go to sea. He’s able-bodied.”

  “That’s possible, too,” Pitt admitted.

  “Thank you for telling me.” Kynaston gave a bleak half-smile. “I will inform my wife, and the staff. They’ll be upset, but I imagine they will be half expecting it.” He leaned forward as if to rise to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Pitt said quickly. “But that is not all.”

  Kynaston looked taken aback, but he relaxed into the chair again, waiting for Pitt to explain.

  Pitt drew in his breath and held Kynaston’s gaze. “It is not just a matter of finding this wretched young man and charging him, which is a police matter. I’m Special Branch, and my concern is the safety of the state …”

  Kynaston was now very pale, and his hands were clenched on the arms of his chair, knuckles white.

  “And therefore exonerating you,” Pitt continued. “And anyone else in this house. Unfortunately questions have been asked in the House of Commons as to your part in this, and also about your personal safety, under the circumstances. I have to be able to assure the prime minister that he has no cause for concern.”

  Kynaston blinked, and there was a long silence as the seconds ticked by on the clock on the mantel. “I see,” he said at last.

  “I’ve checked over all the questions I asked you previously,” Pitt replied. He knew already that he was going to turn up something private and painful. It was there in Kynaston’s face and in the stiff angles of his shoulders. He would like to have stopped his questioning now. Possibly what would be revealed had nothing to do with Kitty Ryder’s death, but then it might have everything to do with it. He could not afford to believe anyone without proof.

  “I have nothing to add,” Kynaston told him.

  “You have a few errors to correct, Mr. Kynaston,” Pitt answered. “And a few omissions to fill in rather more fully. And before you do, sir, I would prefer to tell you in advance than embarrass you afterwards, I shall be checking with other people, because this matter is too serious to allow even unintentional misstatements of fact.”

  Kynaston did not answer. It had gone beyond the point of pretense that he was not deeply uncomfortable.

  Pitt could have asked him the questions one by one, and tripped him in the lies—or if they were, the errors—but he loathed doing so. This had to be lethal, but it could be quick.

  “Your diary states that you went to dinner with Mr. Blanchard on the evening of December fourteenth …” Pitt began.

  Kynaston moved very slightly in his chair. “If I had the date wrong, is it really important?” he said reasonably.

  “Yes, sir, because you left the house dressed for dinner, and according to our inquiries, you did not see Mr. Blanchard. Where did you go?”

  “Certainly not anywhere with my wife’s maid!” Kynaston said sharply. “Perhaps the dinner was canceled. I don’t remember. Has Special Branch really got nothing better to do than this?”

  Pitt did not answer his question. “And just over a week later, on December twenty-second, again you have Mr. Blanchard’s name in your diary, and again you did not see him,” he went on.

  Kynaston sat absolutely motionless in the chair, unnaturally so. “I have no idea where I went,” he replied. “But it was probably an engagement to do with a society I belong to, and couldn’t possibly have anything less to do with my wife’s maid.” He swallowed, his throat jerking. “For God’s sake, do you do this to everybody? Read their diaries and cross-question them as to whom they dined with? Is this what we pay you for?” There was a faint flush of color in his cheeks.

  “If it has nothing to do with Kitty Ryder’s death, then it will go no further,” Pitt said, perhaps rashly. He felt grubby pursuing something that was clearly private, and embarrassing. Were it not, Kynaston would not be still trying to avoid offering an answer.

  “Of course it has nothing to do with it!” Kynaston snapped, leaning forward suddenly. “If anyone killed her, then it was this wretched young man she walked out with. Isn’t that obvious, even to a fool?” He looked away. “I apologize, but really, all this probing into my life is unnecessary and completely irrelevant.”

  “I hope so,” Pitt said sincerely. He had to pursue this to the bitter end. “There are a few errors in your diaries, which is to be expected. We all get hours or dates wrong from time to time, or forget to note something at all, even do so illegibly. It is only the occasions when you left home, dressed for dinner, and consistently did not go where you stated that I am asking you about. There are at least a dozen of them in the last two months.”

  Kynaston’s face now had colored.

  “And I will not tell you, sir!” His voice wobbled a bit. “Except that it had nothing whatever to do with Kitty Ryder. For God’s sake, man! Do you think I am dining out in full evening dress with a lady’s maid?” He managed to sound incredulous, even though his voice cracked a little.

  “I think you are going somewhere that you feel the need to lie about,” Pitt answered. “The obvious conclusion is that it is with a woman, but that is not the only possibility. I would prefer to think that, rather than finding out something else you feel the need to keep secret from your family, and from the police, and Special Branch.”

  Kynaston blushed an even darker shade of scarlet. He caught Pitt’s implication immediately. Pitt regretted it, but the man had left him no choice. He waited.

  “I dined with a lady,” Kynaston said in little more than a whisper. “I shall not tell you who it was, except that it was certainly not Kitty Ryder … or anyone else’s … servant.”

  Pitt recognized that that was the truth, and also that Kynaston did not intend to reveal who it was. The question in Pitt’s mind was whether Kitty Ryder might have known of it, and asked for some kind of favor not to tell her mistress. There was no purpose in asking Kynaston, though. He had already implicitly denied the affair had anything to do with Kitty. If he was lying, Pitt would have to catch him out l
ater.

  Pitt stood up. “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry I had to pursue such a thing, but when a woman is violently murdered, and her body dumped in a gravel pit, we don’t have much choice.”

  Kynaston winced.

  “That is more important than anyone’s sensibilities as to privacy for their indiscretions,” Pitt concluded.

  Kynaston stood up also, but he said nothing more except to wish Pitt a good evening, icily and as a matter of form.

  Outside in the cold, damp night, the wind was blowing clouds across the stars and streetlamps dotted occasionally here and there. Pitt was glad to walk briskly for some considerable distance. He was likely to find a hansom easily to take him all the way back across the river to Keppel Street.

  What should he tell Talbot? That Kynaston was having an affair, but with some woman he could dine with in full formal clothes? Certainly not a servant of any kind. Someone else’s wife? That was the obvious conclusion, although perhaps not the only one.

  Had Rosalind Kynaston any idea?

  Possibly she had. It was then conceivable that she did not mind, as long as he was meticulously discreet. Pitt knew of marriages where such agreements were made.

  It did not answer the question as to whether the bright and observant Kitty Ryder had been aware of it. If so, then it had to have been deduction. There was no way in which she could be in an appropriate place to have observed such a thing.

  Deduced from what? What could she have seen or heard … or overheard? A conversation on the telephone, perhaps? A letter left open? A coachman’s gossip?

  Was she really so quick, so very acute a judge? Was Kynaston so desperate and so callous as to beat a maid to death for her knowledge of his affair? He was embarrassed that Pitt had deduced it, but Pitt had seen no rage in him, not the slightest suggestion of violence of any sort, physical or political. He had not threatened Pitt’s job or his position.

  Was it necessary to report this to Edom Talbot?

  He had reached the main road and found a hansom. He was sitting in it bowling along at a good speed by the time he reached the conclusion that it was, but he was still undecided exactly what he would say.