Thomas & Charlotte Pitt 29 - Death On Blackheath (26 page)

Kynaston buried his head in his hands. ‘Yes … I know that. I’m sorry. Tell me when this latest body was put there, if you know, and I’ll account for wherever I was.’

‘Some time after dark yesterday evening,’ Pitt told him, ‘and before light this morning, probably at least an hour before. I can’t tell you closer than that at the moment. I might be able to after I’ve seen the police surgeon, and he has had time to look at her more closely. She’s been dead quite a while.’

‘How … how did she die?’

‘I don’t know that either. But perhaps we can exclude you before we’ve learned that. Where were you from sundown yesterday until, let’s say, six o’clock this morning?’

Kynaston looked vaguely surprised. ‘I was in bed most of the night, like anybody else!’

‘From sundown yesterday evening, sir?’

‘I dined out … at my club. I’d been working late in the City. I didn’t want to come all the way home here to eat. I was tired, and hungry.’ There was a sharp edge to his voice, but Pitt could not tell if it was from irritation or fear.

‘Did you dine alone?’ Pitt asked. ‘Would one of the stewards remember you?’

‘I had things to consider for a meeting. I was in no mood for idle conversation, however agreeable. But certainly the steward will remember me. Ask him.’

‘Yes, sir, I will. If you will give me the name of the club, and the address. And if you recall which steward it was who served you, I’ll speak to him personally. What time did you leave?’

‘I didn’t look at the clock. Half-past nine, roughly.’

‘And you got home at what time?’

‘The traffic was bad. Some stupid accident; man not in control of his horses. I was late. Ask Norton, he’ll tell you. I think it was about eleven.’

‘Did you speak to Mrs Kynaston?’ Pitt and Charlotte shared a bed, but he knew that many people with large houses did not necessarily do so, especially when they had been married for some time. Kynaston’s sons were at boarding school or university and both his daughters were married.

‘It was unnecessary to disturb her at that time of night,’ Kynaston replied. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. ‘But if you think I crept out of the house unseen, found some wretched woman’s body and somehow or other carried it up to the gravel pits and left it there, then returned home to my bed again, you might ponder how I managed to do it without disturbing anyone and getting my clothes sodden. Or how I even carried her! It wasn’t in my carriage. The groom would know if I’d disturbed the horses, and I certainly didn’t do it in a hansom cab!’

Pitt smiled back at him. ‘Frankly, sir, I don’t think you did it at all. But someone did. All I have to do is be satisfied that it could not have been you, or anyone in this house …’

‘Norton? Have you lost your wits?’ Kynaston said incredulously. ‘The coachman? The bootboy?’

‘No, sir. I never considered Norton a possibility. But your observation about the horses, and the idea of anyone doing such a thing in a hansom very nicely rules him out as well. Actually, we think it was probably a pony and trap.’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Yes, sir, I know that.’

Kynaston sighed. ‘I suppose it’s your job. I’m damned glad it isn’t mine! I imagine someone has to do it.’

Pitt was stung. ‘Yes, sir. And sometimes it is extremely unpleasant, full of darkness and tragedy. But if it were your wife or daughter lying out there you would wish me to do everything in my power to learn the truth, whoever it inconvenienced.’ He took a breath. ‘I shall speak to all the servants, with your permission, in case they are able to help.’

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 the 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.