Thomas & Charlotte Pitt 29 - Death On Blackheath
Read Thomas & Charlotte Pitt 29 - Death On Blackheath Online
Authors: Anne Perry
Copyright © 2013 Anne Perry
The right of Anne Perry to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2013
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 0 7553 9719 8
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Table of Contents
Greenwich, 1897. A macabre scene is discovered outside a house on Shooters Hill. There has been a vicious fight, and amid the bloodstains are locks of long auburn hair. Thomas Pitt, head of Special Branch, is called: this is the home of Dudley Kynaston, a minister with access to some of the government’s most dangerous secrets, and any inquiry must be handled with utmost discretion.
Although an auburn-haired housemaid is missing from Kynaston’s household, with no evidence there is little Pitt can do. Until a corpse, mutilated beyond recognition, is discovered a few weeks later. As Pitt begins to investigate, he finds small inconsistencies in Kynaston’s story. Are these harmless omissions, or could they lead to something more serious, something that could threaten not just Kynaston’s own family but also his Queen and country?
Anne Perry is a
New York Times
bestselling author noted for her memorable characters, historical accuracy and exploration of social and ethical issues. Her two series, one featuring Thomas Pitt and one featuring William Monk, have been published in multiple languages. Anne Perry has also published a successful series based around World War One and the Reavley family, and the standalone novel
The
Sheen on the Silk
. Anne Perry was selected by
The Times
as one of the twentieth century’s ‘100 Masters of Crime’. She lives in Scotland.
The Inspector Pitt series
Bedford Square
Half Moon Street
The Whitechapel Conspiracy
Southampton Row
Seven Dials
Long Spoon Lane
Buckingham Palace Gardens
Betrayal at Lisson Grove
Dorchester Terrace
Midnight at Marble Arch
Death on Blackheath
The William Monk series
The Face of a Stranger
A Dangerous Mourning
Defend and Betray
A Sudden, Fearful Death
The Sins of the Wolf
Cain His Brother
Weighed in the Balance
The Silent Cry
Whited Sepulchres
The Twisted Root
Slaves and Obsession
A Funeral in Blue
Death of a Stranger
The Shifting Tide
Dark Assassin
Execution Dock
Acceptable Loss
A Sunless Sea
Blind Justice
World War I series
No Graves as Yet
Shoulder the Sky
Angels in the Gloom
At Some Disputed Barricade
We Shall Not Sleep
Christmas Novellas
A Christmas Journey
A Christmas Visitor
A Christmas Guest
A Christmas Secret
A Christmas Beginning
A Christmas Grace
A Christmas Promise
A Christmas Odyssey
A Christmas Homecoming
A Christmas Garland
Tathea
Come Armaggedon
The One Thing More
The Sheen on the Silk
‘A beauty: brilliantly presented, ingeniously developed and packed with political implications that reverberate on every level of British society … delivers Perry’s most harrowing insights into the secret lives of the elegant Victorians who have long enchanted and repelled her’
New York Times Book Review
‘Perry’s characters are richly drawn and the plot satisfyingly serpentine’
Booklist
‘A complex plot supported by superb storytelling’
Scotland on Sunday
‘With its colourful characters and edge-of-the-seat plotting, this is a rich and compelling read’
Good Book Guide
‘Perry brings a wealth of historical detail and accuracy to her bestselling novels … A murder mystery made to make you think’
Lancashire Evening Post
‘A feeling for atmosphere that would do credit to Dickens and Doyle’
Northern Echo
‘A deftly plotted mystery. As always, Perry brings Victorian London vividly to life’
Historical Novels Review
‘[An] engrossing page-turner … There’s no one better at using words to paint a scene and then fill it with sounds and smells than Anne Perry’
Boston Globe
‘Superbly told and richly authentic in its setting’
Peterborough Evening Telegraph
To Ileen Maisel
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.