Death On Blackheath (Thomas Pitt 29)

by Anne Perry

Not that Carlisle was her age – he wasn’t – but he had a fire, an idealism, for which he was willing to risk his own comfort, even his life. She admired him for that, and she was obliged to admit she liked him deeply. She did not yet wish to know exactly how he was involved in Dudley Kynaston’s life, or what he knew about Kitty Ryder.

  If she faced it with any degree of honesty, she was not yet prepared to deal with that knowledge. So long as she did not ask, she had left herself room to believe as she wished. Once she knew, she would be obliged to speak to Pitt and tell him all she was aware of and for which there was proof.

  And yet, of course, if she did not, then she was responsible for what occurred out of his innocence.

  Was Pitt naïve? No, that was not the word, he was simply not as subtle and devious of mind as she was – or Carlisle.

  Even the tea ceased to appeal to her. She rose from the table and walked out of the yellow dining room and across the hall to the stairs. It was too early yet to see Carlisle. First she would address the problem of Emily’s unhappiness.

  Emily was delighted she had come, and welcomed her into the magnificent hallway with its marble floor and sweeping double staircases. Emily was so pleased, Vespasia immediately felt guilty that she had come for a very specific purpose. If Emily had any suspicion of that, she gave no sign of it at all.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ she said warmly. She looked well, if a little pale. ‘I get so tired of snatching a word or two at some function, and having to be polite to everyone else. Although that play was fun, wasn’t it? I enjoyed watching the audience almost as much as the stage.’

  She led the way into a garden room, which was light and airy, even in this wintry February where brief bars of sunlight shone between bands of cloud. The fire was burning and the air was warm. If one closed one’s eyes it was possible to believe in the illusion of summer. Vespasia was flattered that the shades so closely resembled those she had chosen for her own sitting room, which also faced on to the garden. They were subtle and yet there was depth to them, and nothing seemed chill or bleached of life.

  ‘Indeed, so did I,’ she agreed, sitting in one of the chairs by the fire and, when she was comfortable, Emily took the other. She was facing the light and Vespasia noted a tightness in her skin. It was perhaps due to nothing more than the usual effects of winter when one went outside less often, and riding in the park was hardly a pleasure. There was no grey in Emily’s fair hair, but there were tiny lines in her delicate skin and a shadow in her eyes.

  ‘Did you come for any special reason?’ Emily asked. She was a little more direct than her usual manner. After her encounters with Charlotte, was she afraid that there might be?

  ‘No, but if there is something you wish to speak of then I am always happy to hear.’ Vespasia practised the sort of evasion she had perfected over the years, both in society and within family. There were so many things one approached only in circles.

  Emily smiled and relaxed a little. ‘Loads of gossip,’ she answered lightly. ‘Did you hear that wonderful story from America in the newspaper?’

  Vespasia hesitated for a moment, uncertain if there were something behind Emily’s remark. ‘I hope you are about to tell me,’ she answered.

  ‘You haven’t?’ Emily said happily. ‘That’s marvellous. It’s absolutely gruesome. Her name was Elva Zona Heaster. Her death was ruled natural, but her mother claimed that her ghost came back and said her husband had broken her neck.’ Emily smiled and her eyes were dancing. ‘And to demonstrate, the ghost turned its head right around as she was describing her death, and walked away forwards, but with her head on backwards, still talking to her mother!’

  Vespasia stared at her, incredulous.

  ‘In a little town in West Virginia,’ Emily continued. ‘Honestly! That’s more interesting than that Margery Arbuthnott is about to marry Reginald Whately, which is probably totally predictable.’ Suddenly there was a flat note in her voice as the laughter vanished.

  Vespasia affected not to have noticed. ‘It seems to be a very repetitive cycle,’ she agreed. ‘And unless you know them well, it is not interesting. I used to find it easier to pretend I cared than I do now. It seems to me there are so many things more important.’

  ‘What is important, Aunt Vespasia?’ Emily said with a slight shrug. It was an elegant gesture, very feminine, and yet there was a thread of hurt through it, something deeper than the words.

  ‘Anything that concerns those you love, my dear,’ Vespasia answered. ‘But that is not for social conversation. We often do not tell people what matters to us. It is not always easy to say it even to those we know well, because we care what they think of us.’

  Emily’s eyes widened with momentary disbelief.

  ‘Do you think I am too old to feel pain?’ Vespasia asked, aware that she was risking far too much in admitting it, and yet knowing there was no other way to reach whatever it was that coiled so tightly inside Emily, crushing the woman she used to be.

  Emily blushed scarlet. ‘No, of course I don’t!’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Vespasia said gently. ‘Or else you would not be so embarrassed that I have observed it. I assure you, pain does not lessen just because you have known it before. It is new each time, and cuts just as sharply.’

  ‘What would hurt or frighten you?’ Emily’s voice was husky now. ‘You are beautiful, wealthy, admired by everyone, even those who envy you. You are safe. No one can take from you all the wonderful things you have done. See some people’s faces when you walk into a room. Everyone looks. No one ever thinks of ignoring you.’ She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘You cannot lose who you are …’

  ‘Is that what frightens you, losing who you are?’ Vespasia looked at her carefully, searching her eyes. ‘What frightens me is no one else knowing who I am – not what I look like, or what I said that might have interested or amused them, but what I feel like inside.’ She gave a rueful little sigh. It was not the time for mock modesty. ‘It has always been pleasant to be beautiful; it is certainly not a gift one should be ungrateful for.’ She moved perhaps an inch. ‘But love concerns the beauty that is within – and the pain, the mistakes, the dreams, the things that make you laugh, and cry. It is about how you deal with failure and own your mistakes. It is about tenderness and the courage to admit your own need, to be grateful for passion and generosity of soul. That has nothing to do with whether your nose is straight or your complexion without blemish.’

  Emily stared at her, tears welling up in her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know whether Jack still loves me or not,’ she whispered. ‘He doesn’t talk to me any more, not about things that matter. He used to ask my opinion. It’s … it’s as if I’ve already said everything he wants to hear, and I’m not interesting now. I look in the mirror and I see a woman who’s tired … and boring.’ She stopped abruptly, her silence begging for a reply.

  Vespasia could not answer her immediately and in the way she wanted. But this was too deep an unhappiness to allow a quick remedy.

  ‘Are you bored, Emily?’ she asked. ‘There comes a time when Society is not enough, no matter how much you cannot afford to offend it. I remember very vividly when I arrived at that point the first time.’ That was absolutely true. She had been younger than Emily, and bored stiff with being ornamental but completely unnecessary. It was a time she preferred not to think of. She had children she loved, but their daily needs were cared for largely by servants. Her husband was not unkind – he had never been that – simply without the fire in his soul or the flight of imagination she hungered for. But none of that did she intend to tell Emily, or anyone else.

  Emily’s eyes were wide, the tears forgotten. ‘I can’t imagine you bored. You are always so … so engaged in things. You are not just being … kind to me … are you?’

  ‘I think you mean “patronising”, don’t you?’ Vespasia asked frankly.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, but I didn’t mean to say it,’ Emily admitted, then gave a small,
very reluctant smile.

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ Vespasia smiled back. ‘And no, I am not being either kind or, I hope, patronising. Do you imagine you are the only woman who finds mere comfort insufficient? Of course it is, when you don’t have it. But one can become accustomed to it very quickly. Perhaps a little downfall would be helpful? Not of the physical kind, but of the emotional sort? One can very quickly learn the value of something when you fear losing it. We take the light for granted, until it goes out. You are used to turning on the tap and getting water. You have forgotten what it is like to have to go to the well with a bucket.’

  Emily’s eyebrows rose. ‘Do you think going to the well would make me feel better?’

  ‘Not at all. But if you did so a few times, turning on the tap certainly would. But I mentioned it only as an example. Tell me, is Jack going to work for Dudley Kynaston, do you know?’

  ‘No, I don’t know! That is one of the many things he has not discussed with me.’ There was a moment’s conflict in Emily’s face; then she made a decision. ‘I would like to tell you to ask Charlotte. She seems to know everything, but that would only cut off my nose to spite my face, as they say. Somerset Carlisle was asking questions about Kynaston in the House. Is there really something wrong?’ Now her concern was sharp and very visible.

  Vespasia knew exactly what she was afraid of. It was not so long ago that Jack had looked for another promotion from a remarkable man, in high office, and who had favoured him. That man had proved to be a traitor, and Jack was fortunate to have escaped with his own reputation intact. Was history going to repeat itself? It was not an unreasonable fear.

  ‘I dare say Jack is as concerned as you are,’ Vespasia said. ‘He will feel that he has let you down if he makes another error of judgement. And yet Kynaston may be totally guiltless in the disappearance of this unfortunate maid. She may simply have gone off with a young man and be living happily somewhere well outside London.’ She sighed. ‘Or, of course, she may have made a most unfortunate choice of lover, and it was indeed her body in the gravel pit, and she would have been perfectly safe had she stayed at the Kynaston house. Maybe Jack is trying to postpone his decision until Thomas has proved the matter one way or the other.’

  ‘That would be pretty difficult,’ Emily pointed out. ‘It’s going to be obvious what he’s doing, and why. He would be letting the whole world know that he thinks Kynaston might be guilty.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Vespasia agreed. ‘And that is enough to embarrass him, and make him wish he could be more decisive. I would lie awake at night were I to be faced with such a decision.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t he ask me?’ Emily demanded.

  ‘Possibly because he is stubborn, and proud. And also perhaps because he does not wish to burden you with the choice, because if it should turn out badly he will take the blame himself.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ There was a lift of hope in Emily’s voice.

  ‘Expect the best,’ Vespasia advised. ‘Then you will not be filled with guilt if you receive it. In the meantime, for heaven’s sake find yourself something in which to be interested. You fear being boring because you are bored with yourself. And I do not mean that you should play at being detective! That would be dangerous, and highly undignified.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Go and visit the poor?’ Emily’s face was filled with horror.

  ‘I don’t think the poor deserve that,’ Vespasia said drily.

  ‘Some of the poor are very nice!’ Emily protested. ‘Just because … oh! Yes. I see.’

  ‘Exactly my point, my dear,’ Vespasia replied. ‘They do not deserve to be patronised either. Do something useful.’

  ‘Yes, Great-aunt Vespasia,’ Emily said meekly.

  Vespasia looked at her with alarm. ‘You intend to find out about Kynaston! Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Great-aunt Vespasia. But I shall be very careful, I promise you.’

  ‘Well, if you must meddle, find out about his wife. And if you say “yes, Great-aunt Vespasia” again I shall … think of something suitable to control your impudence.’

  Emily leaned forward and kissed her gently. ‘Bed without any supper,’ she said with a smile. ‘Cold rice pudding in the nursery? I hate it cold.’

  ‘I dare say you are well acquainted with it!’ Vespasia observed, but she could not keep either the affection or the amusement out of her voice.

  Chapter Nine

  EMILY’S RESOLVE remained strong for at least two days. It crumbled only when she faced Jack across the breakfast table on the third morning. He sat studying a folded copy of The Times. At least he did not hold it open so that he was entirely hidden behind it, as she had seen her father do on more than one occasion.

  ‘Has something now occurred?’ she asked, trying not to sound either plaintive or sarcastic, which was not easy as she felt a little of each.

  ‘The world situation is worrying,’ he replied, without lowering the newspaper.

  ‘Is it not always?’ she asked.

  ‘I pulled the court circular for you.’ He indicated a couple of sheets he had folded and placed on her side of the table. ‘The Times doesn’t do fashion.’

  She felt her temper flare up like fire in dry wood.

  ‘Thank you, but I already know exactly what is fashionable, and probably possess it, and frankly I couldn’t be less interested in the appointments for the day of numerous royal grandchildren and their families. I have no intention of attending any of them.’ She sounded waspish, and she knew it. It embarrassed her because it displayed her vulnerability, and yet she did not seem to be able to help it. ‘I am much more interested in politics,’ she added.

  There was a minute or two’s silence, then he folded the paper and put it down. ‘Perhaps I should get you a copy of Hansard,’ he suggested, referring to the written report of what had transpired in Parliament.

  ‘If you can’t remember what happened, then I suppose I shall be reduced to that,’ she responded, this time not even attempting to be polite.

  Jack remained impassive, if a little pale. ‘I can remember exactly what happened,’ he said levelly. ‘I just don’t remember anything of the remotest interest. But I was not there all day. Is there something about which you have a particular concern?’

  She felt the tears prickle her eyes, which was ridiculous. Grown women, approaching forty, did not weep at the breakfast table, no matter how alone or unnecessary they felt. The only way to stop it was to replace hurt with anger – carefully controlled.

  ‘You didn’t think that I might from time to time wonder about Dudley Kynaston and the disappearing maid, not to mention the mutilated corpse within a quarter of a mile of his home on Shooters Hill? Of course, if you have declined the offer of a position with him then it is no longer my husband’s future at stake, not to mention my own, it is simply a matter of speculation, much as any other particularly grotesque murder might be.’

  Jack was very pale now, and a tiny muscle was ticking on the right side of his face.

  Emily swallowed the lump in her throat. Perhaps she had gone too far?

  ‘I am quite aware of the public speculation on the subject,’ he said gravely. ‘I am also aware that neither the police nor Special Branch has identified the corpse as being that of Kitty Ryder. Somerset Carlisle, who is as irresponsible as a man can be, has used his Parliamentary privilege to suggest that the body is Kitty Ryder, and that her death is connected to her service in Kynaston’s house, but there is no proof of it, or even any evidence.’

  ‘People won’t care about that!’ she said hotly.

  ‘I care!’ His voice was hard, angry in a way she had not ever seen before, and it chilled her deeply. This was not the man who had wooed her, adored her, held her in his arms as if he would never let her go. This was someone she barely knew.

  Loneliness drowned her, sweeping her off her balance like a riptide.

  ‘I’ve learned better,’ he said grimly, measuring each word. ‘I’m surprised you
haven’t. When George was killed … murdered … many people thought it was you who had done it. Do you remember that? Do you remember how afraid you were? How you felt everyone was against you, and you couldn’t find any way to prove your innocence?’

  Her mouth was dry. She tried to swallow and couldn’t. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. Now, suddenly, she could remember it hideously well.

  He looked at her very steadily across the table. ‘And what would you think of me if I assumed Dudley Kynaston was guilty of having murdered his wife’s maid, brutally, breaking the bones in her body and mutilating her face, when we don’t even know that she’s dead? Would you admire me for that? Even if I did it so that I wouldn’t be stained by association should it turn out to be true?’

  She took a very deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

  ‘I would not admire you,’ she said quite honestly. Then continuing in the same vein: ‘But I would have appreciated your talking it over with me, so I understood what you were doing, and why. I don’t know how to interpret silence.’

  He looked startled, as if it required a moment or two of thought before he understood. ‘Don’t you?’ he said at length. ‘I thought you understood that … I told you …’

  ‘No, you didn’t!’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking, and I don’t know what you’re going to do.’

  ‘I don’t know myself,’ he said reasonably. ‘I really can’t believe Dudley would have an affair with a maid …’ He stopped, looking at the lopsided, rueful smile on her face. ‘Not that he’s so righteous, Emily! I know perfectly well that plenty of men do! I just don’t think Dudley Kynaston’s taste runs to maids! Even handsome ones!’ He was very slightly flushed. She saw it in his face, and the way his eyes almost avoided hers, and then didn’t.

  ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’ she said with conviction.

  ‘Who what is?’

  ‘Jack! Don’t play games with me! You know he’s having an affair. You know who with! Which is why you don’t think it is with the maid …’