Death On Blackheath (Thomas Pitt 29) Read online

  Without realising it he had increased his pace, and he had to steady himself. The footpath was treacherous. Perhaps someone could tell him a detail, a fact that would prove that the woman they had found in the gravel pit was not her, could not be, from some quirk or other: a birthmark, the shape of her hands, a particular pattern in the way her hair grew – anything. Maybe there was something the butler, Norton, had been too emotionally overwrought to notice.

  It was all ridiculous. He knew that. One woman’s life was as important, as unique as another. He knew nothing about Mrs Kynaston’s maid, except what Pitt had told him. If he had met her he might have found her just as ordinary, as trivial, as the most unattractive person he knew. To allow his imagination to become involved was bad detection. He knew that too. Facts. Deal with the facts only. Allow them to take you wherever they lead.

  He reached the areaway steps where he had first found the blood and broken glass. There was nothing there now. They had been swept clean, apart from a few iced-over puddles where endless feet coming and going had worn a dip in the stone.

  He knocked on the door and after a few moments it was opened by Maisie. She looked at him blankly for a moment, then lit up with a smile when she recognised him.

  ‘Yer come ter tell us yer found Kitty, an’ the body in’t ’er at all?’ she said immediately. Then she screwed up her eyes and looked at him more closely. Her voice caught in her throat. ‘It in’t ’er – is it?’

  She was only a child and suddenly Stoker, in his mid-thirties, felt very old.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He meant it to sound gentler, but he was not used to softening the truth.

  Her face crumpled. ‘Wot d’yer mean, yer don’t think so! Is it ’er or not?’

  He resisted the temptation to lie, but only with difficulty. ‘We don’t think it’s her,’ he replied. ‘We just need to be sure. I have to ask all of you some more questions about her.’

  She did not move aside. ‘Din’t Mr Norton go ter look at ’er?’

  ‘She’s in a bad way. It didn’t help a lot,’ he replied. ‘Can I come in? It’s cold out here, and you’re letting it all in with the door open.’

  ‘S’pose so,’ she said grudgingly, stepping back at last and allowing him to go past her into the scullery.

  ‘Thank you.’ He closed the door firmly behind him. The sudden warmth made him sneeze and he blew his nose to clear it. Then he smelled the onions and herbs hanging on the racks.

  Maisie bit her lip to stop it trembling. ‘I s’pose yer want a cup o’ tea, an’ all?’ Without waiting for his answer, she led him into the kitchen where the cook was busy preparing dinner, rolling pastry ready to put on top of the fruit pie on the counter.

  ‘You got those carrots prepared then, Maisie?’ she said sharply before she noticed Stoker following. ‘You back?’ She looked at him with disfavour. ‘We only just got rid o’ yer gaffer. ’E bin ’ere ’alf o’ yesterday upsetting everyone. Wot is it now?’

  Stoker knew how irritated people were when interrupted in their work, and least likely to tell you what you needed to know. He wanted them to be at ease, not merely answering what he asked, but filling in the details, the colour he could not deliberately seek.

  ‘I don’t want to interrupt you,’ he said, filling his tone with respect. ‘I’d just like you to tell me a little more about Kitty.’

  Cook looked up from her pastry, the wooden rolling pin still in both hands. ‘Why? She ran off with that miserable young man of ’ers, didn’t she?’ Her face crumpled up with anger. ‘Stupid girl. She could ’a done a lot better for ’erself. Come ter that, she couldn’t ’ardly ’a done worse!’ She sniffed hard and resumed her smoothing and easing the shape of the pie crust.

  Stoker heard the emotion in her voice, and saw it in the angry tightness of her shoulders and the way she hid her face from him. She had cared about Kitty and she was frightened for her. Anger was easier, and less painful. He knew from relatives in service, old friends he seldom saw, that few household servants had family they were still in touch with. If they stayed for any length of time the other servants became family to them, full of the same loyalties, squabbles, rivalries and intimate knowledge. Kitty might have been the closest this woman, bent over her pastry, would have to a daughter of her own.

  Stoker wanted to be gentle, and it was almost impossible.

  ‘Probably she did,’ he agreed. ‘But we didn’t find her, so we’ve got no proof of it. Got to know who this woman is in the gravel pit. I’d like to know for sure it’s not her.’

  She looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Yer saying as that ’orrible … fool … did that to ’er?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I’m saying I’d like to prove it’s got nothing to do with this house at all, and keep the police away from having to trouble you.’

  She sniffed and searched for a handkerchief in her apron pocket. When she had found it and had blown her nose, she gave him her full attention. ‘Well, what do you want to know about Kitty? She might ’a been a fool about men, goin’ an’ picking the stupidest great lummox she could find.’ She glared at him, daring him to argue.

  ‘How did she meet him?’ Stoker asked.

  ‘Came an’ did a carpentry job ’ere,’ she answered. ‘Kept coming back even after it were finished, just to see ’er.’

  ‘Was she frightened of him?’ He tried to keep the sudden anger out of his own voice, and his face.

  ‘Not ’er! Ask me, she were sorry for ’im,’ she responded. ‘More fool ’er! ’E played on it. ’Oo wouldn’t?’

  ‘She was gentle?’ he said with some surprise. The idea he had in his mind was of a strong woman, handsome and sure of herself. But the cook might know of a vulnerable side to her that her mistress didn’t.

  The cook laughed and shook her head. ‘Yer just like all men, aren’t yer! Think because a woman’s ’andsome, an’ got a mind of ’er own, that she can’t be ’urt, can’t cry ’erself ter sleep when no one sees ’er, like anyone else. She were worth ten of ’im, any day, an’ ’e knew it.’ She was obliged to blow her nose again, hiding the tears on her face.

  ‘Did that make him angry with her?’ Stoker asked.

  ‘Didn’t think so.’ She glared at him. ‘You tellin’ me I’m wrong?’

  He did not answer. He needed to know more: for example, if it was indeed Kitty lying in the morgue, how had she come by the gold watch that had been stolen from Dudley Kynaston?

  ‘Who else did she know?’ he asked. ‘Anyone who gave her expensive presents?’

  ‘No she didn’t!’ the cook snapped back at him. ‘If she were a fool like that, you think she’d ’a bin a lady’s maid?’ There was contempt in her voice, and she was too hurt to try to govern it. He was only a policeman of sorts and she had done nothing wrong to fear him. ‘If you mean to stay in a quality house like this, you don’t never let your greed get the better o’ you,’ she said witheringly. ‘You’re thinking just because she got soft over a young man what wasn’t worth it, that she were stupid all the time? Well, she weren’t. If she’d ’a been born in the right family, and learned ’ow ter be’ave ’erself like a lady, she could ’a married the best an’ never ’ad ter work a day in ’er life. Yer take wot life gives yer, an’ get on with it. You too, an’ all!’

  Stoker smiled, something he did not often do on duty. Most of his work was grim – and, more often than not, he did it alone. Perhaps he was too sober? He would have liked Kitty Ryder, if he had known her.

  ‘You are quite right,’ he conceded. ‘So apart from her choice in admirer, she was wise in her friends.’

  ‘I’m not sayin’ as she didn’t ’ave some daft ideas,’ the cook said more amiably. ‘An’ some dreams as wouldn’t never ’appen. Course she did. Wot girl don’t? An’ she could fight ’er corner if she’d a mind to. But not like some, she could own up if she were wrong … sometimes, any’ow.’

  ‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. I’d like to speak to the rest of the staff, if you
please.’ He did not expect them to add much, but it was possible some of those nearer Kitty’s age might know other things, details he could use. He had spoken to them before, but this was different. Now there was the matter of the gold watch. The handkerchief might be Rosalind’s, and possibly given to Kitty. The watch was unquestionably Kynaston’s, and stolen from him, but seemingly by a pickpocket in the street. It was essential that they prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the woman in the gravel pit was someone else. That was his job, in order to protect Dudley Kynaston. Then the presence of the watch would be a coincidence – probably!

  Late that same afternoon Pitt received a message that he should report to the Home Office at his very earliest convenience. Perhaps seven o’clock that evening would be a good idea.

  He read the note at quarter past six, but knew that he had no choice but to make it convenient. So after changing his wet jacket and his muddy boots, he took a hansom. Shortly after ten past seven, he entered a pleasant room with portraits of Home Secretaries of the past, some of their faces from every child’s history books, pompous and unsmiling.

  Pitt glanced at the newspapers on the table near the fireplace. The headlines caught his eye. ‘Mutilated Corpse in Gravel Pit still Unidentified’. And underneath it: ‘Police Say Nothing!’ Pitt deliberately looked away.

  He waited for a further twenty minutes before being greeted by a well-groomed young gentleman who came in and closed the door behind him.

  ‘So sorry to keep you waiting, Commander Pitt,’ he said with a slight smile, as though well-mannered in spite of his own importance.

  Pitt thought of several terse replies, and then how he could not afford to make them.

  ‘I was late, Mr Rogers,’ he said equally politely. ‘I could not come here covered in mud.’

  Rogers’ fair eyebrows rose. ‘Mud?’

  ‘It is raining outside,’ Pitt said, as if perhaps Rogers had not noticed.

  Rogers glanced down at Pitt’s immaculate polished boots, and then up at his face.

  ‘We found a body in a gravel pit at Shooters Hill before dawn yesterday,’ Pitt explained. ‘I had occasion to go back there.’

  ‘Yes … yes. About that …’ Rogers cleared his throat. ‘Extremely distasteful, of course. Have you identified her yet?’

  ‘No. There is a possibility that it is the missing maid from Dudley Kynaston’s house, but the butler was unable to confirm or deny the body is her.’

  ‘Really?’ The young man’s eyes widened. ‘I find that hard to believe. Is the man lying, do you suppose? I assume he did look? He didn’t … evade it, turn away? Faint?’

  ‘She has been dead for some time, and is badly mutilated,’ Pitt told him. ‘Apart from her very serious facial injuries, the flesh is beginning to decay. I can go into detail, if you wish, but I imagine you would prefer that I didn’t. Her eyes are missing, but her hair is unusual.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ the man said hastily. ‘That makes it difficult … I appreciate the …’ He stopped. ‘However, the important thing is that you cannot say for certain that it is Kynaston’s maid, correct?’

  ‘Correct,’ Pitt agreed.

  The young man relaxed the stiff line of his shoulders. His voice, when he spoke, was suddenly softer. ‘Excellent. Then it will not be difficult for you to leave the matter to the local police. She is probably some prostitute who was unfortunate in her choice of customer. Sad and extremely ugly, but not a Special Branch matter, and certainly nothing to do with Kynaston. The Home Secretary asked me to convey to you his appreciation of your discretion in stepping in so quickly, just in case the local police were clumsy and caused any degree of embarrassment to the Kynaston family, and therefore to the Government. We have enemies who would seek to profit from even the slightest appearance of an … unfortunate association.’ He inclined his head slightly. It was dismissal.

  Pitt wanted to argue, to point out that the issue was not finished yet, and it was too soon to assume it settled. But he had been dealing with crimes and investigation all his adult life. He understood both gossip and authority. He had learned how to use them, not always successfully. Reason agreed with the young man, instinct spoke against him. It had not been phrased so, but he knew this was an order. It was part of his new position that he should not require anything blunter.

  ‘Of course,’ he said quietly. ‘Good evening.’

  The young man smiled. ‘Good evening, sir.’

  Pitt was later home than he had wished to be, and he found that the rest of the family had already eaten dinner. Charlotte, however, had waited for him. She offered him the choice of the kitchen or the dining-room table, and he chose the kitchen. It was warmer, both literally and in the sense that it was the room at the heart of his family’s life. Their closest friends had sat around this table in anxiety, working on desperate challenges, in grief when they seemed beaten, and in celebration when victory was grasped.

  Now he ate hot beef stew with vegetables, lots of onions, and dumplings.

  The discovery of the woman’s body in the gravel pit was in no way secret, reported, as it had been, in the newspapers. Of course the usual speculations had accompanied the few known facts.

  ‘Is it the missing maid?’ Charlotte asked, leaving her own portion of stew untouched.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ he replied when he had swallowed his mouthful.

  ‘Are they going to admit it, if it is?’ She looked at him directly, demanding his attention.

  He smiled in spite of himself. He should have known she would say that, or something like it. She had learned to curb her tongue over the years, but never her thoughts, and never with him.

  ‘Not if they can help it,’ he replied.

  ‘Will you go along with that?’ she persisted. ‘I suppose you’ll have to. Is Kynaston really so important? Thomas, for heaven’s sake, do be careful.’

  He heard the sudden gravity in her voice and realised she was genuinely afraid for him. She had been proud when he was promoted, and never for an instant doubted he was able to fill Narraway’s position. Furthermore, until now she had concealed almost completely her understanding of the danger of it. Or was it that he had never told her the worst? There were whole areas he could not speak of, not as he had in the past when he was merely a policeman.

  ‘My dear, it is simply a missing maid,’ he said gently. ‘It seems she ran off with a rather unpleasant young man who had been courting her. If it is her body in the gravel pit, it is a tragedy. But regardless of who it is, it is a young woman dead. The fact that she used to be Mrs Kynaston’s maid – if it is her – draws attention to him it would be better to avoid, no more.’

  She waited for a moment, then relaxed and smiled. ‘I saw Emily today.’ Emily was her younger sister, now married to Jack Radley, for some time a Member of Parliament. ‘She knows Rosalind Kynaston slightly. She says she’s very quiet and frankly rather boring.’

  Pitt took another mouthful before he replied. ‘Emily is easily bored. How is she?’ He had not seen Emily since Christmas, now six weeks ago. Once she and Charlotte had helped in some of his more colourful cases, particularly those involving the wealthy and socially prominent, where they had access, while he, as a policeman, was sent round to the servants’ entrance. It felt like a long time ago now. Emily’s first husband had had both wealth and title, and had died tragically. For a short and desperate time in her life, Emily had been suspected of his murder. That, too, was well in the past.

  Charlotte shrugged very slightly. ‘You know how it is in winter.’

  He waited, expecting her to add something. Instead, she stood up, went to the stove, lifted a treacle pudding out of its steaming pan and turned it out, upside down on to a large plate, watching with satisfaction as the rich, melted golden syrup ran down its sides. She knew it was one of his favourites. There was nothing more satisfying at the end of a long, cold, wet day. He found himself smiling in anticipation, even though he was quite aware that she had deliberately evaded his question about
Emily, which had to mean that there was something wrong.

  Chapter Four

  IT WAS two more days before Pitt heard from the police at Shooters Hill – or to be more precise, from the police surgeon, Dr Whistler. He received a short note, sealed in an envelope and delivered by a messenger who did not wait for an answer.

  Pitt read it a second time.

  Dear Commander Pitt,

  I have further examined the body of the woman found in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill. I have learned a number of facts, not previously visible, which change the situation quite fundamentally. It is my duty to report these to Special Branch so you may act as you believe appropriate in the interests both of the state, and of justice.

  I shall be in my office in the morgue for the rest of the day, and at your service.

  Yours sincerely,

  George Whistler, MD

  Pitt obeyed the summons immediately. His first thought was that Whistler had found some way of being certain that the body was indeed Kitty Ryder, and her death was murder, and connected to the Kynaston house.

  There was nothing to keep him at Lisson Grove. The matters in hand were all routine and very capably handled by others. He informed the appropriate people where he was going. Fifteen minutes later he was in a hansom on the long, traffic-clogged journey first to the river, across Westminster Bridge, then eastwards to Greenwich and the morgue. He was cold and uncomfortable in the hansom. He had several miles to cover, and the ice on the roads made the journey even slower than usual.

  Finally he stood in Whistler’s office. His coat was on the stand by the door and the warmth slowly seeping back into him, thawing out his hands and allowing his tense shoulders to ease a little.

  Whistler had lost the slightly aggressive air he had had earlier. In fact he looked distinctly unhappy, as if he did not know how to begin.