Death On Blackheath tp-29

by Anne Perry

  Death On Blackheath

  ( Thomas Pitt - 29 )

  Anne Perry

  Anne Perry

  Death On Blackheath

  Chapter One

  Pitt stood shivering on the steps leading up from the areaway to the pavement and looked down at the clumps of blood and hair at his feet. There was blood on the shards of glass as well, and some of it had already congealed. Splinters lay on the steps below and above. The January wind whined across the open stretch towards the gravel pits in the distance.

  ‘And the maid is missing?’ Pitt asked quietly.

  ‘Yes, and sorry, sir,’ the police sergeant said unhappily. His young face was set hard in the grey early morning light. ‘Thought that seeing whose house it was, like, we should call you straight away.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Pitt assured him.

  They were in Shooters Hill, a very pleasant residential area on the outskirts of London. It was not far from Greenwich, with the Naval College and the Royal Observatory from which the world took its time. The imposing house rising above them into the still, shadowed air was that of Dudley Kynaston, a senior government official deeply involved in matters of naval defence, a weapons expert of some kind. Violence so very close to his house was of concern to Special Branch, and thus to Pitt as its commander. It was a recent promotion for him and he was still uncomfortable with the extraordinary power it lent him. Perhaps he always would be. It was a responsibility that ultimately he could share with no one. His triumphs would be secret, but his disasters appallingly public.

  Looking down at the grim evidence at his feet, he would gladly have changed places with the sergeant beside him. He had been an ordinary young policeman himself when he had been this man’s age, twenty years ago. He had dealt with regular crimes then: theft, arson, occasionally murder — although not many with political implication, and nothing to do with terror and violence towards the state.

  He straightened up. He dressed smartly now, if a little untidily, but even this new woollen coat could not dull the knife edge of the wind. He was cold to the bone. The chill was blowing up from the river a mile and a half away, not hard, but it had the steady bitterness of the damp. From this height he could see the lowlying stretches to the east shrouded in mist, and hear the mournful wail of foghorns.

  ‘Did you say it was reported by the first servant to get up?’ he asked. ‘That must have been hours ago.’ He glanced at the wan daylight.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Scullery maid, slip of a thing, but sharp as a tack. Scared the poor child half out of her wits, all the blood and hair, but she kept her presence of mind.’

  ‘She didn’t run all the way to the police station in the dark?’ Pitt asked incredulously. ‘It must be a mile and a half at least, from here.’

  ‘No, sir,’ the sergeant responded with some satisfaction in his voice. ‘Like I said, she’s pretty cool-headed, and all of about thirteen, I would guess. She went in and woke up the housekeeper, a sensible sort of woman. She has the use of the telephone, so after she’d checked that the blood and hair were real, not just from some animals fighting, she called the police station. If she hadn’t, likely we’d still be on the way here.’

  Pitt looked down at the blood, which could easily enough be human or animal. However, the strands of hair were long, auburn in the lantern light, and could only be human. He also thought that without the telephone to waken him at his home in Keppel Street on the other side of the river, he would have been having breakfast in his own warm kitchen now, unaware of any of this potential tragedy, and all the grief and complications that could arise from it.

  He grunted agreement, but before he could add anything more he heard rapid footsteps along the pavement. The next moment Stoker appeared at the top of the areaway. He was the one man in Special Branch that Pitt had learned to trust. After the betrayals that had led up to Victor Narraway’s dismissal, he trusted no one who had not earned it. Narraway had been innocent and, after desperate effort and cost, had been proved so. But that episode had still been the end of his career.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ Stoker said with only the slightest curiosity in his voice. He glanced down at the lantern and the patch of stone steps illuminated by it, then at Pitt. He was a lean man with a strong, intelligent face, although it was a bit too bony to be good-looking, and too dour for charm.

  ‘One maid missing,’ Pitt explained. He looked up at the sky, then back at Stoker. ‘Make a note of exactly what you see. Draw it. Then pick up a few samples, in case we need them in evidence one day. Better hurry. If the rain comes it’ll wash that whole lot away. I’m going in to speak to the household.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Why us, sir? Missing maid — what’s wrong with the locals doing it?’ He gave the sergeant a nod, but the question was directed at Pitt.

  ‘Householder is Dudley Kynaston — naval defence …’ Pitt replied.

  Stoker swore under his breath.

  Pitt smiled, glad not to have caught his exact words, although he probably agreed with them. He turned and knocked on the scullery door, then opened it — and walked past the stored vegetables into the kitchen. Immediately the warmth wrapped around him, along with the rich aromas of cooking. It was comfortable, everything in order. Polished copper pans hung from hooks, their sheen winking in the lights. Clean china was stacked on the dresser. Shelves were piled neatly with labelled spice jars. Strings of onions and dried herbs hung from the rafters.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said clearly, and three women turned from their tasks to look at him.

  ‘Mornin’, sir,’ they replied almost in unison. The cook was a comfortably rounded woman, at the moment holding a large wooden spoon in her hand. A maid in starched and lace-trimmed apron was setting out tea and toast ready to carry upstairs, and the scullery maid was peeling potatoes. She had dark, unruly hair and wide eyes. As soon as he saw her, Pitt knew that she was the one who had gone outside and found the blood and glass. The sleeves of her grey dress were rolled well above her elbows and her white apron was covered in smuts from relighting the stove.

  The cook regarded Pitt apprehensively, unsure where to place him in the social scale. He wasn’t a gentleman because he had come in through the back door, and he didn’t have the natural arrogance of a man used to the attention of servants. On the other hand, he seemed very sure of himself in a different kind of way, and she could tell at a glance that his overcoat was of excellent quality. In the circumstances, he was probably a policeman of some sort, but he did not look like an ordinary sergeant.

  Pitt gave her a brief smile. ‘May I speak to your scullery maid, please? I would appreciate it if you could give me a quiet room where we will be without interruption. If you wish the housekeeper to be with her, that will be acceptable.’ He phrased it as a request, but it was an order, and he held her eyes long enough to be certain that she knew that.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, her voice catching as though her mouth were dry. ‘Dora here can go with her.’ She gestured at the startled parlour maid. ‘I’ll take that tray up to Mrs Kynaston. Maisie, you go with the policeman an’ tell ’im what ’e needs to know. And you be civil, mind!’

  ‘Yes, Cook,’ Maisie said obediently, and led Pitt as far as the door. Then she turned to him, looking him up and down with bright, critical eyes. ‘You look like you’re froze to the bone. You want a cup o’ tea … sir?’

  Pitt smiled in spite of himself. ‘Thank you, that would be very nice. Perhaps Dora would bring us a pot?’

  Dora was strongly disapproving. She was a parlour maid, not someone to fetch and carry cups of tea to the likes of policemen and scullery maids, but she could not find the right words to say so.

  Pitt’s smile widened
. ‘Very helpful of you.’ He acknowledged her departure from duty, then followed Maisie along the corridor to the housekeeper’s sitting room. The housekeeper herself was no doubt about other duties necessitated by the alarming circumstances that had arisen this morning.

  Pitt sat down in the armchair by the fire, which was newly lit and not yet warm. Maisie sat upright on the hard-backed chair opposite him.

  ‘What time did you come down to the kitchen this morning?’ Pitt started straight away.

  ‘’Alf-past five,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘I raked out the ashes an’ took ’em out ter the ash can in the yard. That was when I found the …’ she gulped, ‘… the blood … an’ that.’

  ‘About quarter to six?’

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘It would be very dark then. How did you notice them? They weren’t all that close to the ash can,’ he pointed out. ‘Was there somebody else there, Maisie?’

  She took a very deep breath, then let it out in a sigh. ‘Opposite’s boot boy, but ’e wouldn’t never ’ave done anything like that. ’Sides, ’e likes Kitty … I mean she were nice to ’im. ’E … ’e comes from the country an’ ’e misses ’is family, like.’ Her dark eyes stared unwaveringly at Pitt.

  ‘Who’s Kitty?’ he asked.

  ‘Kitty Ryder,’ she said as if he should have known. ‘Mrs Kynaston’s lady’s maid wot’s missing.’

  ‘How do you know she’s missing?’ he asked curiously. He knew that ladies’ maids seldom got up at half-past five.

  ‘’Cos she in’t ’ere,’ she replied reasonably, but he knew from the defiance in her face and her very slight sniff that she was perfectly aware of being evasive.

  ‘You thought the hair on the steps looked like Kitty Ryder’s?’ he pressed.

  ‘Yeah … some …’

  A thought occurred to him, a chance to be seized before Dora came any moment with the tea, and, of course, remained as a chaperone.

  ‘And you were afraid something had happened to Kitty?’ he suggested.

  ‘Yeah … I …’ She stopped. She looked into his face and knew that somewhere there was a trap in the question, but she did not look away.

  He heard Dora’s footsteps in the passage.

  ‘So Kitty might quite likely be on the areaway steps in the middle of a winter night, and possibly have a quarrel that could turn violent? A suitor you don’t like?’

  ‘A wot?’

  ‘A young man?’

  Dora came in through the door balancing a tray with a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two cups and saucers. She placed it on the table and stood back a little, her face stiff with disapproval.

  Pitt nodded his thanks but kept his eyes on Maisie. ‘A young man,’ he repeated. ‘Kitty had a young man and she went out at night to meet him. That was why when you saw the blood and hair you immediately thought of her, and checked to see if she was home — and she wasn’t. Is that right?’

  Maisie stared at him with respect, and a new fear. She nodded silently.

  ‘Thank you,’ Pitt acknowledged. ‘And did you find Kitty at all?’ He asked that with a deep sense of impending sadness. He already knew the answer.

  Maisie shook her head. ‘She in’t nowhere.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked.

  She nodded, still not taking her eyes from his face.

  ‘Dora, would you pour two cups of tea, please?’ Pitt requested. ‘I take mine with milk and no sugar. You’ll know how Maisie likes hers. Then perhaps you would find either the housekeeper or the butler for me and have them come here.’

  Dora glared at him, but did as she was told. She had been brought up to be very careful never to make trouble with the police, whatever sort they were.

  An hour later Pitt had learned all that he could from the staff. He and Stoker made a complete record of the areaway with sketches and diagrams, then went together to the withdrawing room to speak first to Dudley Kynaston. If necessary they would also speak to his wife.

  The room was spacious, as Pitt had expected. Surprisingly, it was also comfortable, as though it were arranged for their own pleasure, not for entertaining, or to impress. The carpets were mellow and well-worn, the leather of the chairs creased into lines of comfort, cushions placed for ease. Kynaston was standing in the middle of the floor, but there was a pile of papers on the sofa where he had apparently been sitting. He must have heard their feet on the parquet of the hall, and risen to his feet. Pitt wondered if that were out of good manners, or the instinctive desire not to be at a disadvantage.

  Kynaston was a tall man, almost Pitt’s own height. His face was handsome, regular featured, with thick fair hair greying at the temples. He looked unhappy, but not more anxious than any decent man should be at the thought of possible violence.

  Pitt introduced himself and Stoker.

  ‘How do you do?’ Kynaston replied courteously, but to Pitt, merely nodding towards Stoker. ‘I don’t know how I can help you. I appreciate Special Branch’s concern, but if my unfortunate maid is involved, then it is probably no more than an unusually vicious quarrel. Perhaps some young man had too much to drink and was reluctant to take “no” for an answer. Unpleasant, but these things happen.’ He was politely telling Pitt that he was wasting his time, and he did not have the air of a man making excuses.

  ‘Is it usual for Miss Ryder to be about at this hour of the morning?’ Pitt asked him.

  Kynaston shook his head fractionally. ‘No, that is most unusual. I can’t explain it. She is normally a very reliable girl.’

  Pitt felt more than heard Stoker fidget from one foot to the other behind him.

  ‘You are sure she’s not anywhere in the house?’ Pitt asked.

  ‘There’s nowhere she can be.’ Kynaston looked confused. ‘She’s never done this before. But, from what the butler tells me, the mess on the area steps indicates a rather nasty quarrel. It’s all very unpleasant, and we shall have to let her go, but I hope she isn’t seriously hurt. Beyond permitting you to search the house for yourself, and question anyone you please, I can’t think of any way in which I can be of help.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Pitt responded. ‘Perhaps I could speak with Mrs Kynaston? I’m sure she will know more about the domestic servants. As you say, it is probably no more than a quarrel that became violent, and once we have found Kitty Ryder and assured ourselves that she is all right, then we can close the issue.’

  Kynaston hesitated.

  Pitt wondered if he were being protective of his wife, or afraid she might say something unintentionally indiscreet. It could be irrelevant to the hair and blood on the steps, possibly some other matter entirely, but one that he would still like to keep private. So many times Pitt had investigated one thing, only to uncover secrets of a completely different nature. Privacy, once intruded upon, was never entirely the same again. He felt a moment’s pity for Kynaston, and he regretted that he could not afford to indulge it.

  ‘Mr Kynaston?’ he prompted.

  ‘Yes … yes, of course,’ Kynaston said with a sigh. He reached over and rang the bell by the side of the fireplace. It was answered by the butler, a sober man, his pleasant face marred by an anxious frown. ‘Ah, Norton, would you please ask Mrs Kynaston to come to the withdrawing room?’ Clearly he had no intention of allowing Pitt to speak with her alone.

  Norton retreated again and they waited in silence until the door opened and a woman came into the room. She was of average height and at first of very unremarkable appearance. Her hair was thick, but an ordinary shade of brown. Her features were regular, her eyes neither grey nor blue. When Pitt thought about it afterwards, he could not remember what she wore.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, my dear,’ Kynaston said quietly. ‘But it seems that the local police have called in Special Branch about the blood and hair on the steps. At least until we know that Kitty is not badly hurt, we must allow them to pursue the issue.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ she said with surprise. She looked straight a
t Pitt with sudden interest. ‘Is the safety of the nation so little threatened that you have time to investigate the misbehaviour of a domestic servant?’ Her voice was the one memorable feature about her. It was rich and soft. Pitt could not help thinking that if she sang she would do so beautifully, with the kind of timbre that made all the notes throaty and full of emotion.

  Kynaston was clearly at a loss for words.

  ‘We don’t know that it was Miss Ryder’s hair, ma’am,’ Pitt replied for him. ‘Or her blood.’

  She was slightly taken aback. ‘I believe the hair found was of a reddish brown, which Kitty’s is. But I imagine that would be true of many people. Perhaps it has nothing to do with this house at all? It was found on the area steps, wasn’t it? Anyone might have been there.’

  Kynaston’s face pinched momentarily. Then the instant he was aware of Pitt looking at him, he smoothed the expression away. ‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘Although we do not get troubled by passing strangers. We have few neighbours.’ It was an unnecessary comment; the truth of it was obvious. They were surrounded by open country, a few trees, and the large gravel pits that were common between Blackheath village and Greenwich Park.

  ‘Really, Dudley,’ Rosalind Kynaston said patiently, ‘people will always find a place! And this time of the year, the shelter of the areaway must be a great deal pleasanter than the open in the wind.’

  Pitt allowed himself to smile. ‘No doubt,’ he conceded. ‘But could one of the people have been Kitty Ryder, in this case?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She gave the slightest shrug, barely a movement of her rather graceful shoulders. ‘There’s a young man she walks out with now and then. A carpenter or something of the sort.’

  Kynaston looked startled. ‘Does she? You never mentioned it!’

  She regarded him with an expression that almost concealed her impatience. ‘Of course I didn’t. Why on earth would I? I hoped it would pass. He is not particularly appealing.’