Death on Blackheath Page 13

  HE WAS STILL COLLECTING his evidence next day when a message came to his office requiring him to report immediately to Downing Street. It had to be Talbot, but how could he know what Pitt had learned the previous evening already? Surely that was impossible? Unless Kynaston had gone there ahead of Pitt, in order to—what? Complain? Deny the charge? Confess privately to Talbot who his mistress was, instead of to a mere policeman? Did he have far more influence in government than Pitt had imagined?

  Pitt had no choice but to obey. He put his papers in a small case so that, if Talbot demanded it, he could show him the statements. Then he went out into the street to catch a hansom.

  He sat all the way through the traffic, turning over in his mind how much he would tell. He would be finished if he were caught in a lie, but he might get away with an omission.

  Why was he even thinking of concealing the truth from Talbot?

  Because he did not believe that Kynaston had murdered Kitty Ryder to keep the secret of an affair. It was too extreme for a man who appeared to be neither violent nor particularly arrogant. Nothing Pitt had learned of him suggested either. And he had learned a considerable amount. Kynaston was proud of his family heritage. He had mourned the loss of his brother, Bennett, deeply; in fact the grief was still there in him, masked beneath the surface. To all outward appearances he had been a good father and a dutiful husband, if not a passionate one.

  Certainly he liked a few luxuries in his dress and in his dining, but even with his favorite wines—of which there were several—no one had seen him seriously inebriated, and never in any circumstances aggressive.

  His passion and imagination seem to have gone into his work. Pitt knew that only from the high esteem in which he was held by the senior naval officers who were involved with his inventions, though he had not heard this from them himself. It had been passed on to him by the appropriate authorities. Could that be an omission he needed to rectify? Underwater ships firing explosive missiles, invisible from the surface, might well be the warfare of the future. Britain was behind in the race, and—as an island—peculiarly vulnerable. She had no land borders with any other country across which to import food, raw materials, munitions, or any kind of help.

  He arrived at Downing Street unusually nervous. His palms were sweating even in the cold, and he took his gloves off. Better to be dry, if numb.

  He walked to the step and was let in almost immediately. There was always a policeman on duty and he was recognized without having to state his name.

  Inside, he was shown immediately to the room in which he had met Talbot before. Talbot was waiting for him, pacing the floor. He swung around angrily as soon as Pitt came in and started to speak before the footman had closed the door, leaving them alone.

  “What the devil are you playing at?” Talbot demanded. “I would prefer to think you’re incompetent rather than deliberately attempting to deceive Her Majesty’s Government. Did you not understand my distinct command that you report to me—here—any further development in the Kynaston case? What is it in that which is unclear to you?” His cheeks were red, his nose pinched at the nostrils, and his jaw tight. He glared at Pitt as if his fury were slipping out of his control.

  “I was checking some of the evidence before I reported it to you,” Pitt replied. Damn! That sounded so feeble, so obviously an excuse, and yet it was the truth. “I wished to—” he began again.

  “You wished to evade the issue!” Talbot said furiously. “What about this bloody hat you found in the gravel pit?”

  “It’s not bloody,” Pitt corrected him.

  “God damn it, man! Don’t you dare tell me when to swear and when not to! Who the hell do you think you are, you jumped-up—”

  “There was no blood on the hat … sir,” Pitt said between his teeth.

  Talbot stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “There was no blood on the hat,” Pitt repeated.

  “That is totally irrelevant. Was it the maid’s hat or not?” Talbot said slowly between his teeth, as if Pitt were simple.

  “I don’t know,” Pitt replied. “But that is also irrelevant to Kynaston, unless we can prove that he had some illicit relationship with her, or that she knew of something else he was doing and threatened him.”

  “And you have basically proven that! The man is having an affair! But you did not think it necessary to report that fact to me, as I commanded you to,” Talbot said grimly. “I wonder if you would care to explain that? I rather think we are back to the beginning again.” His voice grated, full of ragged edges. “Are you so arrogant that you think you can take decisions on this matter without reference to your superiors, or have you some reason of your own for protecting Kynaston from the truth? Just how well do you know him? You force me to ask.”

  Pitt felt the heat rise up his face. Any answer he could give was going to sound like an excuse. And yet if he had come to Talbot earlier, before he was certain of Kynaston’s affair, he would have been equally to blame for maligning an important man in the government’s plans for naval defense, not to mention the moral and civil wrong of false accusation. It would have brought Special Branch into disrepute and made its future work harder. It might even have earned Pitt’s own removal from leadership.

  A sudden horrible thought flashed into his mind that this was the purpose of Talbot’s rage. This was an excellent platform on which to build the means of getting rid of Pitt altogether. He drew in his breath to frame some kind of a reply just as the door opened and Somerset Carlisle came in, closing it quietly behind him. He was older than when they had first met, but the remarkable arched brows and the quirky humor were both still there on his face. It was only the deepening of the lines that changed him, made one aware that it was over a decade since that first meeting.

  “Ah! Pitt,” he said cheerfully. “Delighted to find you here.”

  “You are interrupting a private conversation—” Talbot snarled at him.

  “Yes, of course I am,” Carlisle cut across the rest of his remark. “Just wanted to tell Pitt that I found the piece of information he was looking for.” He smiled at Pitt, gazing straight into his eyes. “You were quite right, of course. The hat was no more Kitty Ryder’s than it was mine! Some damn fool was wanting to distract attention from his own rather stupid mistakes … drinks locally now and then, so he knew about the poor woman’s disappearance, and the body you found in the gravel pit, of course.”

  Talbot tried to interrupt, but Carlisle carried on without taking the slightest notice of him.

  “Knew she’d had a hat like that, poor girl, and bought one the same. Put a red feather in it.” He smiled even more widely and reached his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a rather crumpled piece of paper. “Got the receipt. You’ll see it’s dated for the day before your informant found the hat.”

  “And the timing of all this is pure coincidence, I suppose?” Talbot said sarcastically.

  “Hardly,” Carlisle replied with exaggerated patience. “He was the one who found it!”

  Talbot was standing motionless, his face filled with bafflement and even further mounting anger.

  Carlisle was still smiling, as if the atmosphere in the room were one of cooperation, not open enmity.

  “Policeman’s job to be skeptical,” he went on, now looking at Pitt. “Good thing you were. Made a highly embarrassing mistake if you’d reported to Downing Street that the body was Kitty’s on evidence discovered by the man who put it there. Looked a bit of a fool. Not good for the reputation of Special Branch.” He shook his head. “No doubt some journalist would have got hold of it and put it all over the front pages. Somehow or other they find these things.” He shrugged. “And then, of course, they put all kinds of other bits of fact—and imagined fact—together and come up with accusations. Too late to apologize when you’ve ruined a man.”

  Pitt had recovered from his amazement, although he had no idea how Carlisle had known he was here, or become involved in the matter at
all.

  “Exactly,” he agreed aloud.

  Talbot was still fighting the issue, his body stiff, his face pale.

  “What unbelievable good fortune that you happened to be aware of all this … eccentric behavior, Mr. Carlisle,” he said, the sarcasm still in his voice. “I suppose we should be grateful some extraordinary chance took you to … what?” His voice became even more grating. “How was it you learned that this particularly irresponsible man knew of Ryder’s passion for a hat with a red feather, and also exactly where her body was found, and that he should purchase such a hat, plus feather, of course, and place it there? Such a piece of good fortune seems … beyond belief.” He pronounced the words slowly, giving every syllable emphasis.

  Carlisle merely smiled a little more widely.

  Pitt’s heart was racing, but he dared not intervene. He had no explanation either.

  “And of course that you should also, purely by chance, know exactly where Commander Pitt was,” Talbot went on. “And race here just in time to rescue him from having to give me some explanation as to why I had to hear of the whole apparent farce from someone else, and demand he explain to me why he had not reported to me, as I had instructed him. I suppose you have answers for all that also?”

  Carlisle spread his hands in an elegant gesture, rather like another shrug of his shoulders.

  “The man who bought the hat is a constituent of mine,” he said calmly. “He’s been in trouble a few times for trying to draw attention to himself.”

  “Kitty Ryder’s desire for a hat with a red feather was not in the newspapers,” Talbot said icily. “And your constituency is miles from Shooters Hill.”

  Carlisle laughed. “For heaven’s sake, man! People move around. He’s a hound for scandal. He went and drank at the Pig and Whistle. He asked questions, listened to gossip. And as to finding Pitt here—I called his office and was told he’s been sent for to come here. Not exactly the work of a genius.” His eyes were bright, his arched eyebrows even higher. “Anyway, I’m delighted if I’ve saved you embarrassment—not to mention poor Kynaston.” He turned to Pitt. “If your business here is finished, I’ll walk to Whitehall with you.”

  “Yes … thank you,” Pitt agreed quickly, then turned to Talbot. “I shall keep you informed of anything I learn that is relevant to Mr. Kynaston, especially should we find out the identity of the woman in the gravel pit. Good morning, sir.” And without waiting for Talbot to answer or give him leave to go, he turned and followed Carlisle out of the door, through the hallway, and into the street.

  They walked several paces along the quiet pavement, past the usual police presence, since Downing Street was the home not only of the prime minister but also of the chancellor of the exchequer.

  “Was any of that true?” Pitt asked quietly as they turned into Whitehall.

  Carlisle’s expression barely changed. “Close enough,” he replied.

  “Close enough for what?” Pitt demanded, still uneasy.

  “To pass muster, should Talbot choose to have it investigated,” Carlisle replied. “Don’t ask anything further, because you don’t want to know, and I certainly don’t want to tell you.”

  “Does the hat have anything to do with Kitty Ryder?”

  “Nothing at all, except that she did want one.”

  Pitt let his breath out slowly. “I’m extremely grateful.”

  “You should be,” Carlisle agreed pleasantly. “Don’t cross Talbot; he’s a nasty bastard. Doesn’t mean Kynaston’s innocent, of course. Just can’t hang a man on a manufactured piece of evidence. And … and I wouldn’t like to see you replaced by someone a lot worse. Good luck! Watch your back!” And with that he turned and walked in the opposite direction, leaving Pitt to go east, and down to the river.

  It was only as he was nearing the riverbank and could hear the slurping of the incoming tide that Pitt allowed the wave of relief to run through him, and with it, a sudden warmth. He realized how close he had come to giving Talbot a reason to dismiss him. Of course he knew that many people did not find him a suitable person to follow Victor Narraway, who was undoubtedly a gentleman.

  Pitt himself was the son of a disgraced gamekeeper, transported to Australia for theft when Pitt was a boy. He could scarcely remember him, only the shock and the indignation, his protest of innocence that was disregarded, then his mother’s grief. She and Pitt had been allowed to remain in the large country estate; indeed, Pitt had been educated with the son of the house, to encourage the boy. It would not do for a servant’s son to outdo the heir, and it was felt this might prevent such a thing. Although looking back on it now, Pitt thought that that had been an excuse to mask a kindness that was always intended.

  Still, it was hardly a background to equal Narraway’s, or one that a man such as Talbot—and to be honest, many others—would be happy with. He must remember that, and not let anger or complacency lead him into error again. Carlisle had rescued him this time, and Pitt was beginning to appreciate now just how much. He had been gracious enough to make light of it, as if it were in his own interest, rather than in Pitt’s, but that was a courteous fiction.

  That there was also an antipathy between Carlisle and Talbot was clear, and Pitt would be wise to remember that and avoid being caught in the middle. Nevertheless, his step was light as he made his way to the ferry.

  STOKER SAT AT THE kitchen table at his sister’s house. He quite often came here on his days off. King’s Langley was an ancient and very pleasant village in Hertfordshire beyond the outskirts of London, about an hour’s journey on the train. Gwen was the only family he had left, and quite apart from that, he really liked her. All his best memories were somehow attached to her. She was two years older than he and had looked after him in the earliest times he could recall. It was she, more than the schoolteacher, who had taught him to read. She was the one who encouraged him to join the navy, and to whom he had recounted his adventures, enlarging the good and mostly skipping over the bad. Perhaps that was why he remembered the good so clearly, trying to share it with her, seeing her eyes widen, her holding her breath as she waited for the next turn in his stories.

  It was also Gwen who had traveled miles by train, spending the little money she had, to come and visit him in hospital when he was injured. And of course it was Gwen who told him off when she thought he was wrong. She who had brought him the news of their mother’s death, and she who nagged him about putting flowers on the grave, saving for the future, and even occasionally about getting married.

  Now she was cooking dinner for her husband and children when they came home. He watched her with pleasure because the kitchen was warm and smelled of baking pastry and the clean sheets drying on the airing rail above them. There were strings of onions hanging in the corner and a small dresser with plates on it, and two copper pans, the pride of her possessions. The shine and the color of them were too good to spoil with overuse.

  He must get her something else pretty some time. It was too long since he had last done so. Her husband was a hard worker, most of the year at sea, as Stoker himself had been. But money had a long way to go to support a wife, and four children who grew out of their clothes and were always hungry.

  Stoker was full of thoughts of Kitty Ryder, and relief that the hat with the red feather was not hers. He had not realized until Pitt told him about Talbot, and Carlisle’s rescue of the situation, that he had been sad at her death. It was ridiculous! He had never even seen the woman!

  Gwen was looking at him.

  “What’s the matter, Davey?” she asked. “You’ve got a face on you like a burst boot! You said the hat wasn’t hers. She could still be alive.”

  He looked up. “I know. But if she is, why doesn’t she come forward and say so? Everybody in London knows we’re trying to identify the body in the gravel pit and that there’s speculation it’s her. And don’t tell me she can’t read! I know she can.”

  “Are you staying to dinner? You’re welcome, you know. You’re always welcom
e,” she assured him.

  He smiled at her, quite unaware how it lit his face. “I know. And no, I’m not. I’ve got to be on duty tomorrow.” That was not strictly the truth; he chose to be. But he had also made a good assessment of the meat in the stew and how if he accepted a portion, someone else would go without—almost certainly Gwen herself.

  “They work you too hard,” she criticized.

  “We’ve been over that,” he reminded her. “I like the work, Gwen. It matters. I don’t tell you much about it because it’s secret. But Special Branch keeps us all safe, if we do it right.”

  “What about this new guv’nor, Pitt?” she asked. “Does he work as hard as you do? Or does he go back to a nice big house somewhere with servants to look after him and parties to go to?”

  Stoker laughed. “Pitt? He’s not a gentleman, Gwen. He’s an ordinary man, like anyone. Worked his way up. He’s got a decent home, on Keppel Street, but no mansion. You’d like his wife. I don’t know her well, but she’s not all that different from you.” He looked around the room quickly. “Kitchen’s bigger than this one, but like it; smells of clean laundry and bread as well.”

  She looked at him and smiled back. “So why the face? And you might be Special Branch, an’ all that, but you never could fool me, and you can’t now, so don’t waste both our time trying it.”

  “Where is she?” he said simply.

  “In love with the man she ran off with?” she suggested, reaching out to pour him another cup of tea.

  He raised his eyebrows. “It’s been over four weeks since she disappeared. No one’s that much in love.”

  She shook her head. “You know, Davey, sometimes I worry about you. Have you ever been really in love? You haven’t, have you? When you are, you can’t see anything else, believe me. You walk into a hole in the road, because your head’s in the air and your eyes full of dreams. Would you like some cake?”