Death on Blackheath Page 8

  Kynaston followed his gaze.

  “That’s Bennett,” he said quietly. “He died years ago. But I expect you know that.”

  “Yes,” Pitt answered quietly. “I’m sorry.” He knew nothing of the circumstances, except that they were sudden and tragic, a man of great promise dying on what seemed like the eve of achievement. It had been an illness of some sort. There was no suggestion of scandal.

  Kynaston’s face suddenly looked bruised, as if the grief were still raw. He made an effort to dismiss it and regain his composure. He raised his eyes and looked squarely at Pitt. “But I presume you are here over this wretched body in the gravel pit—again. There is absolutely nothing I can tell you, except that we are missing no more servants.” He sighed.

  Pitt decided bluntness was the only course open to him. Tact would allow Kynaston to dismiss him.

  “We know a little more about her now,” he replied with a slight smile, as if they were discussing something trivial and not particularly unpleasant. “She had no signs of disease, or of life on the streets in any manner. In fact, she was well fed and well cared for, very clean apart from the surface dirt of having lain in the gravel pit. She did have slight burns on her hands, as many maids do who have occasion to do a lot of ironing. Such burns are distinct from those of a cook or a scullery maid.”

  Kynaston paled. “So it is Kitty? But how? This body was just found, and Kitty has been missing for weeks … surely you’d be able to tell …”

  “Though the body was just found, the police surgeon says that this woman actually died at least three weeks earlier and was kept in a cold place, sufficiently sealed that no animals or insects could get to her. This is all information I imagine you would prefer Mrs. Kynaston did not have to know …”

  “Good God, man! What on earth are you suggesting?” Kynaston was now ashen. He searched for words and was unable to find any.

  “That it is possible that the body is Kitty Ryder’s, and that her disappearance, most probably her murder, is a very ugly issue. Your work for the government is sensitive. There are those who disapprove of it. This is not going to be dealt with quietly and discreetly,” Pitt replied, “unless we can prove almost immediately that her death had nothing whatever to do with her employment or residence in this house. I know of no way of doing that, beyond damaging speculation, except to find out exactly what really did happen—and possibly, that the woman in the gravel pit is not Kitty at all. To do that, I need to know all that I can about her: not in polite whispers, but openly and provably, the less attractive as well as the good.”

  Kynaston looked as if he had been struck and was still absorbing the pain, unable to respond.

  “Why …” he stammered. “Why in God’s name would anyone kill the poor girl and then leave her body in the gravel pit … weeks after she was—” He stopped.

  “I don’t know,” Pitt responded. “Obviously there are many things we do not know, and we need to learn them as soon and as completely as possible. Stoker will do all he can to learn about Kitty and to follow up on the young man she was courting, in the possibility that she is alive and well, or if not, that it was he who killed her, or someone she met after she left here …”

  “And you?” Kynaston asked hoarsely.

  “I shall do what I can here, on the much worse assumption that the body is hers and that she was killed because of her associations here.” He met Kynaston’s eyes and saw the fear in them. “I’m sorry,” he added. “But the scrutiny is bound to be close—and unpleasant. The only defense is to be prepared.”

  Kynaston leaned back in his chair slowly and let out his breath. “All right. What is it you wish to know? I hope you will have the decency to keep my wife out of this as much as possible.” That was a statement, almost an order.

  “As much as possible, of course,” Pitt agreed, thinking how different Rosalind Kynaston seemed from Charlotte. Charlotte would resent being kept out of it, protected from reality, as she would see it. And she would unquestionably think the murder of a servant in her house to be her business.

  “Murders have motive,” Pitt said. “And usually some event that caused them to happen at the time and place in which they did. I would like to see your diary, and that of Mrs. Kynaston, for the two or three weeks before Kitty disappeared, please, sir.”

  “Neither my wife nor her engagements can have any effect on—” Kynaston began.

  Pitt raised his eyebrows very slightly. “You think Miss Ryder’s death may have more to do with your life than with your wife’s?” he said with some surprise.

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with this house at all!” Kynaston snapped. “It is you who are supposing it.”

  “No, sir, I am supposing that the police and the newspapers will take a close, and possibly prurient, interest in all events in this house, and we need to be able to answer every question, preferably with corroboration, even with proof, before they are allowed to do that in print.”

  Kynaston flushed. He picked up a leather-bound book from the desk near his elbow and passed it across to Pitt.

  “Thank you.” Pitt took it and rose to his feet. “If you can give me a place where I can read it, and take any notes that are necessary, I’ll return it to you before I leave. Perhaps you would be kind enough to lend me Mrs. Kynaston’s diary as well; then I can accomplish this exercise all at the same time?”

  Kynaston’s face tightened, but he handed over her diary. “I can’t see how it can help anything, but I suppose you know what you’re doing.” He did not sound as if he believed it. “My appointments are quite public.”

  Pitt thanked him without adding anything.

  Norton offered him a small, rather chilly room, which appeared from its furnishings to be a sitting room for summer use, facing onto the garden, and without a fireplace. Pitt thanked him as if he had not noticed the cold.

  He read through both the diaries, making notes. He was looking not for Kynaston’s social engagements so much as where they were the same as Rosalind’s and where they were not, and for any discrepancies. He found a few, but they were easily explained as carelessness, even misreading of Kynaston’s own handwriting, the mistaking of a 5 for an 8, a date or an address wrongly copied down.

  He smiled as he read Rosalind’s more casual accounts of invitations, and side notes as to what to wear, and why. She was apparently aware that Kynaston was making excuses about certain functions he chose to avoid.

  There were notes in the back of his diary as to purchases, gifts, and invitations. Kynaston had a weakness for good brandy and cigars, membership of clubs Pitt knew were extremely expensive, first-night tickets for the best theaters and operas, several appointments with a very good tailor indeed. He was a man who cared about his appearance, and was not loath to indulge his tastes.

  There were a few errors and one or two omissions, but it seemed natural for the unedited diaries of a man with very human foibles. Had all details been exact, it would have raised Pitt’s suspicions.

  Thoroughly chilled, but determined not to show it, he returned the diaries to Norton and took his leave.

  Outside he walked briskly to get warm again, and while irritated that he had found nothing of value, he could not help a certain liking for Dudley Kynaston, and a feeling that perhaps Rosalind was a more interesting woman than her rather colorless appearance suggested.

  CHAPTER

  5

  TWO MORNINGS LATER, AND well into February, Pitt was at his desk reading reports regarding a case in Edinburgh when Stoker knocked. Almost before Pitt had replied, he came in and closed the door behind him. His face was grim and flushed from the sting of the wind in the street.

  “Have you seen the billboards this morning, sir?” he asked without preamble.

  Pitt felt the warmth of the room fade. “No, I came by hansom. I wanted to be early and deal with this business in Edinburgh. Why?” He named his worst fear. “They haven’t identified the body as Kitty Ryder, have they?”

  �
��No, sir.” Stoker never exaggerated the suspense, which was a quality about him that Pitt valued. “But apparently one of the members of Parliament raised rather a lot of questions about the body we’ve got, and asked what we are doing to ascertain if it is her or not.”

  Pitt was stunned. “In Parliament?” he said incredulously. “Have they nothing better to do?” A flicker of expression crossed Stoker’s face and disappeared too rapidly to be readable.

  “ ‘Can the prime minister assure us that everything possible is being done to protect not only the safety but the reputation of Mr. Dudley Kynaston, a naval inventor of great importance to the safety and welfare of this country?’ ” he quoted. “That sort of thing, then others asking about his family’s safety, and so on.” His eyes met Pitt’s squarely; there was no hostility in them, only questions.

  Pitt put away the papers to do with the case in Edinburgh. He swore fiercely, and without apology.

  “Exactly my opinion, sir,” Stoker agreed. There might or might not have been amusement in his eyes.

  “Who was it who was asking these … questions?” Pitt inquired. “Doesn’t the idiot realize that by asking them in Parliament, where they will be reported by the press, he is making Kynaston’s vulnerability all the greater? Sometimes I wonder who the devil elects these people! Don’t they ever look at them first?”

  “That’s rather the trouble, sir,” Stoker said grimly.

  “Elections?”

  Again the smile touched Stoker’s lips then vanished. “No, sir, that’s a separate problem altogether. The MP in the case was Somerset Carlisle, who is really rather good.”

  Pitt drew in his breath to respond, and let it out again in a sigh. He would not have described Somerset Carlisle as “rather good.” He was brilliant, eccentric, and personally loyal, even when at great cost to himself. He was also unpredictable, unreasonable, and beyond anyone’s control, as far as Pitt knew. Even Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould herself, whose friend Carlisle had been for years, seemed to exercise very little influence over him. Pitt thought back to the long-ago episode in his career involving Somerset Carlisle and corpses that would not remain buried. He remembered the nature of the detection and scandal it had caused. He had to remind himself that this was a different case altogether. The whole issue of the supposed resurrectionists was well covered over, and Pitt would very much rather it remained that way.

  Stoker was still waiting, but his face reflected his awareness that he seemed to be awakening ghosts.

  “Perhaps I had better go and see Lady Vespasia.” Pitt stood up and moved towards the coat stand in the corner of the room. “It’s a bit late to get ahead of this, but I’d like to be as close behind as possible.”

  “Are you sure you want to be out of the office when they send for you, sir?” Stoker’s face was unreadable.

  “I’m damn sure I’d like to be miles away,” Pitt said fervently. “But I’ll be within reach—if Lady Vespasia is at home. If I’m sent for, leave me a message there and I’ll go straight to Whitehall.”

  Stoker looked dubious.

  “I want to know what’s going on!” Pitt told him, taking his coat off the stand and putting it on as he went out of the door.

  VESPASIA WAS STILL AT breakfast but her maid was used to Pitt turning up without announcement, and frequently at inconvenient times. She simply tightened her lips a little and went to bring fresh tea.

  In her youth Vespasia Cumming-Gould had been accepted by many to be the most beautiful woman of her generation. As far as Pitt was concerned, she still was, because for him beauty was a quality of the mind and the heart as much as of physical perfection. Her hair was silver and her face now reflected decades of passion, grief, and laughter, and a courage that had seen her through triumph and loss of many different kinds.

  “Good morning, Thomas,” she said with some surprise. “You look tired and exasperated. Sit down and have some tea, and tell me what has happened. Would you like something to eat as well? Toast, perhaps? I have a new and most excellent marmalade. It is so pungent I can feel it right through my head.”

  “It sounds like exactly what I need,” he accepted, pulling out the chair at the opposite side of the table from her and sitting down. He had always liked this yellow breakfast room where she often took all her meals when dining alone, or with only one guest. It felt as if the sun always shone here, regardless of the weather beyond.

  The maid returned with the second cup and saucer, and Vespasia requested more toast.

  “Now tell me what has occurred,” Vespasia said as soon as they were alone again.

  He had never hesitated to tell her the truth, even when perhaps it was indiscreet, and never had she betrayed his trust. She knew many people’s secrets, and the fact that she had not relayed them to him only increased his certainty of her judgment. Briefly, between mouthfuls of toast, and the marmalade that was as good as she had claimed, he told her about the missing maid and the body in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill.

  “I see,” she said at last. “It is a dilemma, but I do not yet understand why you think I can be of help. You are far better able to pursue it than I.”

  “I am expecting a telephone call here, any moment, and I apologize for requesting it be forwarded to me without asking your permission …”

  “Thomas! Please reach the point of this visit before that happens!”

  “It will be from someone in the prime minister’s office asking me what I know, and what I am doing about it,” he explained.

  Her silver eyebrows arched even higher. “You told the prime minister about it? For heaven’s sake, Thomas, why?”

  He swallowed the last of his toast. “No, I didn’t! That is exactly the point. He knows because there were questions in the House, yesterday evening.”

  “Oh dear …” In her mouth the words were extraordinarily expressive, even catastrophic.

  “Asked by Somerset Carlisle,” he finished.

  “Oh dear,” she said again, a little more slowly. “Now I see why you have come to me. I’m afraid I have no idea how he came to know of the affair, or why he should raise it in the House.” She looked worried. “I assume you are involved because the body may be that of the Kynastons’s poor maid? Tragic as it is, it would not concern Special Branch otherwise, would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. And I still have considerable hope that it is not Kitty Ryder—”

  “But you fear that it is?” she interrupted him. “And that either her death involves the Kynaston household, or it will be made to look as if it does? Why? To ruin Kynaston personally, or to embarrass the government?” She refilled his cup from the pewter teapot.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “But if it is to embarrass the government it seems rather a poor effort. It’s tragic and sordid, if the poor girl was killed because of some romantic involvement … perhaps with one of the male servants, or with …”

  “Don’t be so delicate, Thomas,” Vespasia said briskly. “If it has anything at all to do with the household, it will be with Kynaston himself. Or at the very least there will be the suggestion of his being entangled with the poor girl in some way. Frankly it sounds most unlikely to me, and I do not believe that Somerset Carlisle is naïve enough to become involved in such a thing. Certainly not in order to embarrass the government!”

  “That was my conclusion.” He sipped the tea. It was hot and fragrant. “Therefore it is something else, but why is he asking questions in the House, instead of coming to me? If it is of any legitimate concern to him anyway.”

  “I have no idea,” she replied, passing him more toast. “But I shall certainly do what I can to find out.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He was just about to eat it when there was a knock on the door. The maid came in quietly.

  “Excuse me, my lady, but there is a message on the telephone for Commander Pitt.”

  “What is it?” Vespasia asked.

  The maid turned to Pitt. “The prime minister requires that you go to Downing St
reet immediately, sir, where a government official is waiting to speak to you.”

  Vespasia sighed. “You had better take my carriage, Thomas. Send it back when you reach there. There is no convenient place for it to wait for you, and I believe I have some errands to run myself. Good-bye, my dear, and good luck.”

  “Thank you,” Pitt said grimly, putting the cup down again and rising to his feet. He finished the toast as he went out into the hall.

  HE HAD ONLY FIFTEEN minutes to wait in one of the outer rooms in the prime minister’s offices before he was escorted into a larger and much warmer room to face one of the prime minister’s assistants, a well-upholstered man whose look of ease belied his nature. It must have been well cultivated.

  “Morning, Pitt. Edom Talbot,” he introduced himself. He was a burly man with a very ordinary face, except for remarkably penetrating eyes; it was impossible to tell if they were gray or brown. He was a man it might be easy to underestimate, but probably most unwise to do so. He did not invite Pitt to be seated, although there were two comfortable leather chairs near the fire, which was already burning up well.

  “Good morning, Mr. Talbot,” Pitt replied, trying not to sound wary.

  Talbot wasted no time with niceties. “We’ve got a few nasty questions we don’t know how to answer. Can’t afford to be caught on the wrong foot again.” He looked critically at Pitt. “I suppose we could say the fellow who asked them did us a kind of backhanded favor, though. Brought it to our attention, and we won’t be caught out this time.” He stared at Pitt almost unblinkingly. “We expect the answers from you, sir. Or if not, then a damned good explanation that’ll do in the meantime.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pitt returned his steady gaze. “What were the questions?”

  Talbot looked bland. “Good,” he said with almost no tone in his voice. “Look at the press with that blankness. Know nothing.” Then suddenly all the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened and his mouth went into a thin, flat line. “But don’t damned well try it on me, sir!”