Death on Blackheath Read online

  Pitt felt his temper flame, but he controlled himself as if nothing had changed. He did not ask again for the questions but waited for Talbot to continue.

  “You’ve got your nerve, I’ll say that for you,” Talbot observed. “Or else you’re too damned stupid to understand the issue. I suppose, God help me, I’ll find out which soon enough. Who is the woman whose body was found in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill? What happened to her, and how did she get there? What the hell has all this got to do with Dudley Kynaston? Or anyone else in his house? And when are you going to get this damned great mess sorted out? And most importantly, how are you going to keep the lid on it until you do? And if you can’t do the job, then tell me, and we’ll get Narraway back, damn his hide!”

  With an effort, because he knew he must be careful, Pitt began at the beginning. “We do not know whose body it is.” He measured his words and kept his voice unnaturally calm. “It is too far decomposed to be easily recognizable, beyond the fact that she was probably a lady’s maid, or a laundress of sorts.”

  “How do you know that?” Talbot interrupted, his eyebrows raised.

  “Burn marks on her hands, such as you get in the use of a flatiron,” Pitt said with satisfaction.

  “I see. Go on! How do you propose to find out who she is, then?”

  “First by eliminating the possibility that it is Kitty Ryder, Mrs. Kynaston’s maid,” Pitt replied. “I presume that’s all you really want?”

  Talbot grunted, but it was vaguely a sound of appreciation.

  “What happened to her is harder to ascertain,” Pitt continued. “How she got there is not known, and may never be. Certainly she did not walk to the place where she was found. She seems to have been dead for some time before she was put there. Probably she was kept somewhere extremely cold. I dislike the thought of it, but it might be the time to examine Mr. Kynaston’s cold rooms, icehouse and so on, rather more thoroughly.” He was satisfied with the look of extreme distaste in Talbot’s face.

  “As to what it has to do with Dudley Kynaston,” Pitt said. “I am hoping that we can prove that it had nothing to do with him. And if the body is not that of Kitty Ryder, then there is no connection with him at all.”

  “If it’s as badly decomposed as you say, how the devil do you presume to prove that it is not her?” Talbot asked, his eyebrows raised so high his forehead was ridged like a plowed field.

  “By finding her somewhere else, alive and well,” Pitt told him.

  Talbot considered the reply for several moments.

  Pitt waited. He had learned the value of silence, requiring the other person to speak first.

  “That would be the best possible outcome,” Talbot said finally. “And the sooner the better. In your opinion, how likely is it that such will be the case?”

  Pitt did not need to weigh that before answering. “Unlikely,” he said grimly. “We may have to settle for merely identifying the body as someone else, for which we need luck as well as skill.”

  Talbot nodded. He had expected as much. “Then what we need from you is that you find out, beyond reasonable doubt, preferably beyond any doubt at all, who this unfortunate woman is and how she met her death. If it has to do with Kynaston, then prove it, but do nothing further. Report back to me before you act. Is that understood?”

  “I can’t order the police—” Pitt began.

  “That is precisely why Special Branch will deal with the case!” Talbot snapped. “Tell them whatever you want! Spies, secret documents, whatever serves the purpose, but keep them out of it.”

  “We’ll be a lot longer finding Kitty Ryder alive without police help,” Pitt pointed out, with a sharpness to his voice.

  Talbot gave him a long, cold stare. “Be realistic, man! The woman is dead. Identify her, or prove the body is someone else’s. And either prove Kynaston’s guilt or his lack of connection with the whole affair. Report to me. If this woman is his maid, then find out if this connection with him is bad luck or someone taking advantage of a miserable coincidence. Or worse than that, a deliberate ploy to implicate him. And if it is that, then we need to know by whom.”

  “And why?” Pitt added with a touch of sarcasm.

  “I can work that out for myself,” Talbot said tartly. “Report to me any significant progress that you make, and do so discreetly. I need all details. Do not stop until you have them.”

  “Exactly what is Kynaston doing that is so important?” Pitt asked.

  “You do not need to know that,” Talbot answered immediately, his eyes hard and angry.

  “I’m head of Special Branch!” Pitt snapped, his temper rising at the absurdity of Talbot’s first ordering him to search for answers, and then keeping him half blind. “If you want me to do my job, then tell me what I need to know.”

  “You need to know what your instructions are,” Talbot retorted. “If this is a piece of dramatic stupidity, we will deal with it accordingly. Thank you for coming so soon. Good day.”

  Pitt did not move. He opened his eyes very wide. “Stupidity?” he repeated the word as if it were meaningless. “Someone beat a young woman to death, concealed her body for three weeks, mutilated her face until it was unrecognizable, then dumped her in a gravel pit. If that is regarded by Her Majesty’s Government as mere dramatic stupidity, what does it regard as a vicious crime?”

  Talbot paled, but he did not flinch. “You have your instructions, Commander Pitt. Find the truth, sooner rather than later, and report it to me. Dispensing justice is not your job.”

  “I wish that were true,” Pitt said bitterly. “Too often it is exactly my job. Or perhaps that is something you were not aware of?”

  Talbot’s face was white, mouth pinched at the corners. “Kynaston is of great importance to the government, and his work is both secret and sensitive. It may even be the key to our survival in any future war. That is sufficient information for you. It is also highly confidential. Now stop arguing the issue and making excuses. Do your job. Again, Commander Pitt, good day to you.”

  “Good day, Mr. Talbot,” Pitt replied with some satisfaction, even if it lasted no longer than it took him to reach the street. Regardless of what Talbot said, he needed all the information he could gather regarding Dudley Kynaston’s value to the government, not only to find out what Kitty Ryder might have learned that made her dangerous, but who else might profit from Kynaston’s downfall, for any reason. And if he was actually innocent, then who had engineered his appearance of guilt?

  There was only one man to ask, and that was Victor Narraway. And he would prefer to consult him without others, particularly Talbot, knowing he had done so.

  Narraway, like himself, was one of the few people who owned a telephone in his own home. Since his forced retirement from the leadership of Special Branch, he had been elevated to the House of Lords, but that was more of a sop to his reputation than a real opportunity to be of use. Previously he would not have been at home at this hour, but now there was a reasonable chance he would not have gone to the House of Lords, or to one of his clubs for luncheon. Such things grew stale quite quickly to a man of Narraway’s intelligence. Also, since he had no part in political affairs, he felt sidelined, no more of interest to those who used to hold him in awe. He had never said as much, but Pitt had heard it in his silences.

  AS IT TURNED OUT, Pitt had to wait about half an hour for Narraway to return from a brief walk. Considering the weather, Pitt imagined he had gone at all only as a matter of discipline. Narraway had begun his career in the Indian Army, and the virtues of abstinence and hard, strict self-mastery had never entirely left him.

  Narraway’s manservant offered Pitt a late luncheon, which he accepted gratefully, realizing that he was actually quite hungry. He was just finishing an excellent slice of hot apple pie, served with cream, when he heard the sound of the front door closing, then Narraway’s voice in the hall.

  Narraway came into the sitting room, having removed his overcoat. His thick hair was flattened a little wh
ere his hat had been, and his lean, dark face colored by the cold.

  He glanced at the plate where the apple pie had been, and which now held only Pitt’s folded spoon and fork.

  “You came for more than luncheon, I presume?” he said with a slight lift of curiosity. He walked towards the fire, which was burning strongly where the manservant had added fresh coals. He stood in front of it from habit, holding his hands out to catch the heat.

  “Luncheon seemed like a good idea,” Pitt replied with a tight smile. “Since I spent my own luncheon time being hauled over the coals in Downing Street by a rather officious man by the name of Talbot.”

  Narraway straightened up, forgetting the fire. He stared at Pitt with interest. “I imagine you are at liberty to tell me what about, or you would not have come here? And it is both urgent and discreet, or you would have suggested luncheon at some restaurant. Please don’t disappoint me …” He said it lightly, but Pitt caught the flash of emotion, the sincerity there, before Narraway concealed it again.

  “It seems a shame not to have you deduce what it’s about,” Pitt said drily, in part to cover the fact that he had caught Narraway’s moment of vulnerability.

  Narraway sat down in the chair opposite and crossed his legs elegantly, hitching the knee of his trousers so as not to spoil the line. “Have you got time to wait for that?” he asked, his eyes bright with amusement.

  Pitt smiled back. “No, I haven’t. Did you read about the young woman’s body found in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill?”

  “Of course. Why? Ah! I see.” He sat forward again. “Is that what Somerset Carlisle was referring to in his questions to the House yesterday? I saw that headline on the sandwich boards as I passed. I admit I didn’t make the connection. Why the hell would Carlisle think a dead woman on Shooters Hill was anything to do with Kynaston, or might endanger him and his family? What danger? Who was the woman?”

  “Probably doesn’t have anything to do with Kynaston,” Pitt replied. “But his wife’s maid is missing, and she answers the description.”

  “Bit thin, isn’t it? Wouldn’t half the young women in Greenwich or Blackheath answer it?” Narraway was looking at him steadily, waiting for the missing facts that made sense of it.

  “Taller than average, handsomely built and with thick auburn hair?” Pitt asked. “Gone missing in the last three weeks? No, they wouldn’t. And there was evidence of a scuffle outside Kynaston’s house, not to mention the gravel pit is only a short walk from there.”

  Narraway nodded. It was so slight a movement it was barely visible. “I see. Are we supposing Kynaston was having an affair with this maid? Or that she learned something about either Mr. or Mrs. Kynaston so potentially damaging that Kynaston killed her? Seems a little drastic, and honestly pretty unlikely. But I suppose those are the crimes that catch us out.”

  “My question is, why does Carlisle care?” Pitt countered. “We have far more vulnerable members of the government than Kynaston! I could name half a dozen whose private lives would be open to question—if that were his purpose.”

  Narraway’s mouth twisted in a wry smile, his black eyes bright. “Only half a dozen. For God’s sake, Pitt, where are your eyes?”

  “All right, a couple of dozen,” Pitt conceded. “Why Kynaston?”

  “Opportunity,” Narraway answered. “The corpse turned up near his house, correct?” He pulled his mouth into a thin line. “I’m slipping. That isn’t a reason to raise the subject publicly. The real question is what for? What does Carlisle want?” He thought in silence for a few moments before looking up at Pitt again. “Kynaston works for the War Office. But that’s extremely vague. I think we need more precise information than that. At least you do,” he corrected himself. “And you need to know a lot more about Kynaston professionally, too.”

  “Don’t you know? I asked Talbot and was told fairly tersely to mind my own business.”

  “Good,” Narraway responded. “Then there’s something there. You’ll get the door shut in your face. I’ve got a few favors I can call in …”

  “Or threats you can hold over people,” Pitt said a little bitterly. “I’m beginning to learn the power of this job.”

  “That’s the favor,” Narraway answered. “I won’t carry out the threat. Lesson, Pitt—never carry out a threat unless you absolutely have to. Once it’s done, you’ve no more power with it.”

  “If I never do it, why would anyone believe that I would?” Pitt asked reasonably.

  “Oh, you’ll have to, once or twice,” Narraway assured him, a shadow passing over his eyes as if memory darkened them for a moment. “Just put it off as long as you can. I hated doing it—you’ll hate it even more.”

  Pitt remembered a large party, a house full of laughter and music, and a scene where a man lay on a tiled floor, blood pooling out from the shot with which Pitt had killed him.

  “I know,” he said almost under his breath.

  Narraway looked at him with a moment’s intense compassion, then that, too, vanished.

  “I’ll see what I can find out about Dudley Kynaston,” he promised. “Might take a couple of days. Keep on trying to identify your corpse. You might be lucky and find out it’s not your missing maid, but don’t count on it.”

  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. A few days later Narraway telephoned Pitt and invited him to call by just after dark. He would have invited him to dinner, but he knew of 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 realized 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 in the future 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 Narcís 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. Indee
d 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 already.” Then he hesitated. “Also, I imagine he feared that if he did mention it, 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, above the mantel.” Pitt could see it as clearly as if it were before him now, even the eyes, the contours of the face. “He placed it in 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 all this?”

  “Probably nothing,” Narraway agreed. “But there were whispers of scandal concerning him some 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.”