Death On Blackheath (Thomas Pitt 29)

by Anne Perry

  He expected Kynaston to lose his temper, but instead he began to tremble and went so ashen that had he not been sitting already he might well have fallen.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said very quietly. ‘I spoke without thinking. This whole business is deeply distressing.’

  Pitt wished he had not been so harsh. And yet he had meant what he said, even if he knew instantly that he should not have said it. Perhaps it would be wiser now to leave the matter of his affair until he was more composed. ‘I’ll keep you informed, sir, should we actually find Kitty Ryder. But it was certainly not her body in the gravel pit, either the first time or now.’

  ‘Thank you. Norton will see you out.’

  Pitt went into the hall where Norton handed him his clean and polished boots, and retrieved the slippers. Pitt thanked him.

  Pitt spent the rest of the morning checking what Kynaston had said. He did not disbelieve him, but he wanted to have the proof so he could rebut any accusations made by journalists. More importantly he must be able to answer questions firmly, even tartly, that Somerset Carlisle might raise in the House, under the privilege afforded him as a Member of Parliament.

  By two o’clock in the afternoon he was tired and miserable. His stomach was gnawing at him with hunger, so much so that he felt light-headed as he sat at one of the tables in a pub. Eating a big steak and kidney pudding with a glass of cider helped little.

  Kynaston had been at his club, but he had left at least an hour earlier than he had said, and arrived home an hour later than he had told Pitt. Neither had there been any recorded incidents of traffic accidents or other delays. He had had Stoker speak to a number of hansom drivers, as they were the most reliable source of information as to the traffic conditions on the streets. It was part of their livelihood to know. Word of delays, accidents, and mischance of any sort spread like fire among them. There was hardly a street in London they did not frequent, let alone the way from Kynaston’s club in central London to his home on Shooters Hill.

  The barmaid passed by, checking that he was satisfied with his meal. He smiled his thanks and took another mouthful.

  Why had Kynaston lied? Clearly he was afraid, but of whom? Of what? Where had he been for nearly two hours that he had not accounted for?

  Perhaps the matter came back to his mistress again? The issue of Kitty Ryder’s disappearance had all but died from the public mind. The newspapers’ attention had been taken by other things. The police wished to identify the first body, but had already pursued it as far as they could. Kynaston might reasonably have believed that life was back to normal. Only the discovery of this new body in the gravel pit brought the whole thing flooding back to mind.

  Pitt kept on eating, warmer at last.

  No doubt the newspapers would have banner headlines on this second wretched discovery. They would sell thousands of extra copies on the sheer horror of it. They would go after Kynaston again because he was a public figure. It was a temptation they would not even try to resist.

  Why in heaven’s name had he lied? He must surely have foreseen that?

  Pitt knew he must weigh how he would answer Talbot, when he sent for him, as he assuredly would.

  Then another thought occurred to him. Was it conceivable that Kynaston knew who had killed those women? Was he protecting him willingly? Or was he afraid of him? Was someone he loved in jeopardy of far deeper involvement than Kynaston could protect them from?

  Pitt finished his meal without the enjoyment such cooking deserved, emptied his glass of cider. He went out to find a hansom to take him to Downing Street to report this latest event to Edom Talbot – although no doubt Talbot would have heard of it already, at least the facts.

  Pitt was correct on that. He was ushered in immediately, and Talbot saw him within ten minutes. Only an interview with the Prime Minister himself could take precedence over this.

  Talbot came into the room stiff with fury. His hands fumbled with the doorknob and he ended up slamming it in spite of himself. This was the residence and the office of the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and he could not afford such a loss of self-control. He blamed Pitt for it.

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing, Pitt?’ he demanded in a low, angry voice. ‘I thought you had this thing under control!’

  Pitt knew that he could not afford to lose his own self-mastery. Narraway would not have, whatever he felt. He had a temper – Pitt knew that very well – but Narraway just had too much dignity to allow someone else to manipulate him. That thought was helpful. He clung on to it.

  ‘We did have, sir,’ he replied stiffly, ‘until this new body was found. We have no idea yet who she is. I’m waiting for the police surgeon to tell me what he has found, or can deduce. My first priority was to see if Mr Kynaston could provide proof that it has nothing to do with him, or anyone in his house.’

  ‘And did you?’ Talbot could not conceal his fear. His face was strained, muscles of his neck so tight he could barely turn his head without a wince of pain. His high, stiff collar must be biting into him.

  ‘To my own satisfaction,’ Pitt answered. ‘But it won’t satisfy the police, or the newspapers, if they get hold of it. It certainly wouldn’t satisfy a jury.’

  Talbot seemed not to be breathing, yet a nerve jumped in his temple.

  ‘Be precise, man,’ he snapped. ‘What are you talking about? The Prime Minister can’t deal in “whats” and “ifs” and “maybes”. Is Kynaston implicated or not? If that damn fool Carlisle asks questions in the House again, the Prime Minister has to have a decent and absolute answer! And I have to be able to assure him that it is accurate. And in spite of appearance to the contrary, that Special Branch knows what the devil it’s doing!’

  Pitt kept his voice level with a considerable effort.

  ‘This woman had a gold watch chain with a very unusual fob. The first one had the actual watch, you will remember …’

  ‘Half the well-to-do men in London have gold watches,’ Talbot snapped. ‘Probably most of them have a chain and fob of some sort.’

  ‘The watch was Kynaston’s,’ Pitt said levelly. ‘He admitted it. The fob he owned to as well. It has the initials “BK” on it. He said it had belonged to his brother, Bennett, and was of sentimental value to him. He said it had been stolen from him by a pickpocket, in Oxford Street, or near it.’

  Talbot was silent for a moment.

  Pitt waited.

  ‘And do you believe him?’ Talbot said at last.

  ‘I don’t know. There was a handkerchief like the first one as well.’

  ‘It means nothing!’ Talbot said sharply.

  ‘And the watch and fob, on two different women, both dead and mutilated, and left in the gravel pits?’ Pitt asked. ‘On the other hand, we have evidence that the Kynaston’s maid was seen alive and well sometime after the first body was found, and the second one does not resemble her.’

  Something almost palpable eased inside Talbot. ‘Seen alive after the first body was found? Then for God’s sake leave Kynaston alone! You can’t prove anything! Maybe this pickpocket is your homicidal lunatic!’

  ‘Perhaps. But when I asked Mr Kynaston to account for his whereabouts at the time the body was left in the gravel pit, he lied about it.’

  ‘So he’s got some business, or pastime, he doesn’t want to discuss with the public!’ Talbot raised his eyebrows very high. ‘Haven’t we all? He was gambling, drinking, or whoring, for all I know, or care. He wasn’t murdering some wretched woman and dumping her body in the gravel pits right outside his own damn doorway!’

  ‘I was hoping for something definitive for the newspapers,’ Pitt explained. ‘They might consider any of the pastimes you mentioned worthy of public attention, and I’m sure we would rather they didn’t.’ He kept the smile from his face with difficulty. It might well have been more of a sneer.

  Talbot started to make a remark, then thought better of it. ‘Keep me apprised,’ he ordered instead. ‘Do try to get this thing solved and out of t
he newspapers.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The evening darkness had closed in and it was dripping sporadic rain when Pitt reached the police surgeon at the morgue. He knew the woman from the gravel pit would have been given priority. Surely Whistler would have all the information he needed by now?

  He found Whistler in his office looking tired and a little gaunt. His clothes were rumpled and his tie had come undone. A kettle was steaming gently on the top of a wood-burning stove in the corner and altogether the room was very pleasant, apart from its proximity to the morgue itself. All real ease was torn away by the knowledge that within thirty feet of them there were cold rooms with corpses in, and tables on which those same corpses would duly be cut open and the pieces of them examined.

  When Pitt went in Whistler was in the act of taking his work jacket off and replacing it with a more casual one. His hands were pink, the skin a little raw, as if he had just scrubbed himself as hard as he could with an abrasive brush.

  ‘I was expecting you,’ he said wearily. ‘In fact I thought you’d be here waiting, like a dog for its dinner.’ He sat down behind his desk, which was covered with papers in no apparent order.

  ‘Would it have been worth the wait?’ Pitt asked, closing the door. He was grateful that he did not have Whistler’s job, even if his clients were beyond pain, and Pitt’s were not. They were also beyond help.

  Whistler sighed. ‘Tea?’ he offered. ‘It’s colder than a witch’s heart in that damn morgue.’ Without waiting for Pitt’s reply he moved the kettle into the middle of the stove and watched while it boiled. He talked as he made the tea in a battered pewter pot, which must once have been quite handsome.

  ‘Cause of death is fairly obviously a very bad fall,’ he said. ‘From the look of the poor creature, might have been out of a window. Two storeys up, at least, maybe higher. Lot of broken bones, some of them downright splintered. Only good thing about it is that she probably didn’t know much about it.’

  Pitt winced without being able to help it. ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Ah!’ Whistler poured the boiling water into the teapot and inhaled the fragrant steam. ‘That’s the more difficult part. At least two weeks ago, but I’d bet my money on more like three. But just like the other one from the gravel pit, she’d been kept in a cold place. Couldn’t have made a better job of it if I’d had her here. And I assure you, I didn’t! No apparent marks of depredation, except a little bit from insects. Hadn’t been out there more than a night. But I expect you know that. Do you take milk?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Pitt was losing his taste for eating or drinking anything, even as chilled as he was.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No … thank you.’

  ‘Got no cake. Need to stop eating so much. Cut up too many fat people and seen what’s inside ’em to want to become one.’ He passed Pitt one of the mugs. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thank you. So she was kept for a couple of weeks at least? You’re certain?’ he asked.

  Whistler looked at him sharply. ‘Of course I’m certain! You’ve got a bloody lunatic here! The sooner you, or someone else, gets hold of him and locks him up, the better.’

  Pitt asked the question he had been dreading. ‘Are you certain she was murdered?’

  Whistler’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. ‘What? Man, half the bones in her body were smashed. She didn’t walk herself up to the gravel pit in the middle of the night!’

  ‘I’m not suggesting she put herself there,’ Pitt said patiently. ‘But could she have died from an accidental fall, and someone else put her there?’

  ‘Two or three weeks after she died? And for God’s sake – the mutilations! That’s not done by animals or nature – it’s grotesque, man: moral obscenity!’ Whistler took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘But I suppose it’s not impossible her death itself was accidental – if you can look at it in isolation,’ he conceded. ‘But why? Why would any sane man keep the victim of an appalling accident for weeks, mutilate her, and then dump her up at the gravel pit – and right where she’d be sure to be found? If he wanted to get rid of the body, why not bury her? Or even drop her, with a few stones around her waist, in one of the shallow lakes around there? By the time the summer dried them out, she’d be unrecognisable. There wouldn’t be a cat in hell’s chance of finding out who she was, or who put her there. If she was ever found at all!’

  Pitt thought about it. ‘Well, he doesn’t appear to have been interrupted, so he had time to do whatever he wanted. He must have wanted her to be found.’

  Whistler stared at him. ‘We’ve got a lunatic on our hands.’

  ‘Perhaps …’

  ‘If this one isn’t, I pray to the Good Lord we never get one that fits your idea of what is!’ he said disgustedly.

  ‘Anything else you can tell me?’ Absent-mindedly Pitt drank the tea. For all the makeshift preparation of it, it was actually very good. After the subject of the conversation, and the fear that was forming in his mind, he was glad of its warmth.

  ‘I’ll write up a full report for you,’ Whistler promised. ‘But I doubt it’ll help you much. As far as I can tell, she was a well-nourished woman in her late twenties. From the state of her it’s hard to tell a lot. A few odd scars on her hands, just like the other one. Could have been a maid or laundress, or a young woman with her own house, but no one else to do the chores. But if she was poor, she still ate well. Her hair must have been beautiful, and she was tall and nicely curved in all the right places. Does that help?’ He put his cup down and added more hot water to it.

  ‘Not that I can see,’ Pitt admitted. ‘We’ll get the local police this side of the river to find out if anyone’s missing that it could be. Thank you, anyway.’

  ‘Sorry I can’t tell you when she died, closer than by a week or so. Can’t very well rule anyone out over that.’

  ‘Can’t even tell who put her there,’ Pitt replied. ‘For whatever that might be worth!’

  Pitt thanked him and left, glad to get outside into the wind, away from the heaviness and the closed air of Whistler’s office where he could smell the morgue in his imagination.

  He walked for a little distance, deep in thought. He was not ready yet to decide his next actions, although it was too late to do much this evening. When he got home he would have dinner, then help Jemima with her homework, or at least make suggestions. He would have a quick game of dominoes with Daniel, who was getting pretty good at it. Another year or two and he would have lost the chance. Daniel and Jemima would be bound up in their own futures. Jemima would probably be in love.

  Charlotte would understand if Pitt continued working, but that was not an excuse to do so. Regardless of her wishes that he solve the case, he wanted to spend time with her for himself, time that had nothing to do with Kynaston, or dead women, or possible treason and threats to the state.

  Walking home alone in the dark, the wind blustery around him, he would think.

  Was someone trying to make Kynaston appear guilty of killing these women? It was an outlandish idea! Worse than eccentric, it was absurd. Since Kitty was alive, at least until a few days ago, the first body could not have been hers. Yet the suggestion that it was had been deliberately created by leaving the distinctive gold watch there. By whom? But more than that, why? Had there been a pickpocket at all? It was totally believable, and impossible to disprove.

  He crossed a main thoroughfare and had to wait for a couple of carriages to pass.

  Was Somerset Carlisle behind it? This was bizarre and macabre enough for him! It took Pitt back all those years to the case in Resurrection Row, and the corpses then. He remembered with a shiver and a strange, twisted amusement the resolution of that case. Perhaps he should have had Carlisle prosecuted then? But he had not. It was one of the very few occasions when he had bent the rules. His own sense of justice forced him to. Had Carlisle always known that? Yes, he probably had.

  And now that Pitt knew Vespasia so much better, cared for her as much a
s he cared for anyone outside his own immediate family, it was still impossible! Carlisle had been his friend in times of disappointment, or need. He had never found any request for help too dangerous or too troublesome to fulfil.

  He increased his pace a little, walking along the pavement.

  And he also owed Carlisle for the rescue from his embarrassment, possibly even a major disgrace in front of Talbot. Not that Carlisle would ever attempt to collect the debt! And that made it heavier to carry.

  Damn the man, and his charm, his courage and his outrageous behaviour!

  In the morning Pitt resolved to have Stoker, and whatever other men he needed, dig more deeply into every aspect of Kynaston’s life, his relationships past and present, personal and professional. Had he rivals for office? What exactly was his financial position? What were his debts, or expectations? And, of course, who was the mistress he guarded so carefully? And lied about? Had he rivals there, other than the woman’s husband, of course? He could not now afford to ignore any of these things, distasteful as they were to pursue. The watch and the fob made them impossible to overlook.

  Chapter Twelve

  VICTOR NARRAWAY awoke early the following morning and was not in the least surprised to find Pitt at the door as he was about to begin breakfast. Last evening’s newspapers had been full of the discovery of another mutilated body in the Shooters Hill gravel pits. Narraway had already lain awake for some of the night, thinking it over and over. He had fallen asleep at almost three in the morning, exhausted and without any further useful thoughts.

  He welcomed Pitt in and asked his manservant to bring him breakfast. Pitt declined it and Narraway ignored him.

  ‘You’re going to sit here and talk to me. You might as well eat,’ he pointed out. ‘I don’t think well on an empty stomach, and neither do you. Has this new body got anything to do with Kynaston?’

  The manservant appeared with an additional cup and saucer. Narraway thanked him and poured tea for Pitt without asking him.