Thomas & Charlotte Pitt 29 - Death On Blackheath (6 page)

‘Any idea how she got there?’ Pitt pursued.

‘Impossible to tell. The body’s too badly damaged and too far deteriorated to find any marks of ropes, or whether she lay on slats, or boards, or anything else. You’ve got a nasty one …’

Pitt looked at him coldly. ‘That also I had worked out for myself.’

‘I’ll let you know if I find out anything more,’ Whistler said with a faint smile.

‘Please do.’ Pitt rose to his feet. ‘For example, how old she was, any distinguishing marks that might help identify her, what state of health she was in, any healed injuries, old scars, birthmarks? Particularly, I would like to know what killed her.’

Whistler nodded. ‘Believe me, Commander, I very much want you to find out who, and then exact everything from him the law allows, in some attempt at payment for it.’

Pitt looked at him more closely, and for an instant saw, behind the defences of anger and a quiet belligerence, the sense of helplessness and pity for the agony of a stranger now beyond his help. Whistler was embarrassed by his own grief, and hid it behind a bitter professional detachment. Pitt wondered how often he had to do this sort of thing, and why he had chosen it instead of a practice with the living.

‘Thank you,’ Pitt said gravely. ‘If I learn anything that might be useful to you I’ll see that you are informed.’

Outside again he walked quickly. The air was cold and had the sting of sleet in it, its odour was the sourness of soot and smoke, the smell of horse dung and swift-running gutters, impersonal, ordinary, but he breathed it in with relief.

Questions were teeming in his mind. Who was she? Was it Kitty Ryder, or someone else who happened quite by chance to resemble her, at least superficially? How had she died? And where? Had she remained where she was killed, or been moved first somewhere safer, and then last night taken to the gravel pit? Why? What had necessitated that?

If he knew where she had been, would that tell him also who she was? And therefore quite possibly who had killed her, how and why?

As he came to the first major street corner he saw the newspapers for sale. The black headlines were already up – ‘Mutilated corpse found on Shooters Hill! Who is she? Police are keeping silent!’

They were like hounds on the scent of blood. Inevitable, even necessary, but he flinched at it all the same.

But then without Zebediah Smith’s dog they would not have found the poor woman before there was far less of her left – less chance of identifying her, less chance of finding out what happened to her and who was responsible.

He hoped profoundly that it was not Kitty Ryder – but he knew it probably was.

IT WAS well after five by the time Pitt was again in the Kynaston house, this time standing in the morning room opposite Kynaston himself. It was dark outside by this hour, but the fire had probably been lit all day and the room was warm. In other circumstances he might have appreciated the elegance of the furniture, the books on the many shelves, even the paintings. They were a curious choice, most of them snow scenes, clearly not anywhere in Britain by the scale and magnificence of the mountains. There was a soaring beauty to them, and yet a detail as if the artist were familiar with them. He wondered why Kynaston had chosen them, but today he was too preoccupied to give them more than a glance.

Kynaston was waiting for him to speak. He stood in the middle of the thick Turkish carpet, his face tense and puzzled.

‘I expect you have heard already,’ Pitt began. ‘There has been a body found early today, before dawn, at the gravel pit to the east of here. It’s that of a young woman, but it is so damaged that it is not possible to make an immediate identification. I am very sorry, but we cannot say if it is Kitty Ryder or not – at least not yet.’

Kynaston was very pale, but he kept his composure, even if it was with difficulty. ‘I take it from the way you phrase it that it could be. Do you believe that it is?’

‘I think it is probable, yes,’ Pitt admitted, then instantly wondered if perhaps he should have been more cautious.

Kynaston took a deep breath. ‘If she is unrecognisable, poor creature, why do you believe it may be Kitty?’

Pitt had seen people fight the inevitable before. It was the natural instinct to deny tragedy as long as possible. He had done it himself, but had always had to give in in the end.

‘She is the same general height and build as Kitty,’ he replied quietly. ‘Her hair is auburn.’ He saw Kynaston’s body tense even more and the muscles along his jaw tighten. ‘And she had in her pocket a lace-edged handkerchief with the letter “R” embroidered on it,’ he continued. ‘Your butler says Mrs Kynaston has some like it, and that she occasionally gives away old ones.’

There was a long moment’s silence; then Kynaston straightened his shoulders a little. ‘I see. It does seem … probable. Nevertheless we shall not leap to conclusions. I would be obliged if you did not tell the rest of the household that it is Kitty … until there is no doubt left. Then we shall have to deal with it. My butler and housekeeper are both excellent people. They will help the more emotionally affected of the staff.’

Pitt took the gold watch out of his pocket and saw Kynaston’s eyes widen and the colour drain from his face. ‘This was found on the body also,’ he said very quietly. ‘I see you recognise it.’ It was not a question.

‘It … it’s mine.’ Kynaston’s voice was a croak, as if his mouth and lips were dry. ‘It was taken out of my pocket a couple of weeks ago. Somewhere on the street – damn pickpockets! The fob and chain were taken too. Kitty didn’t take it – if that’s what you’re thinking!’

Pitt nodded. ‘I see. I’m afraid it happens. Now, I would like to speak to both your wife and your sister-in-law, if that is possible. I appreciate that they too will be distressed, but either of them may have knowledge that would help us.’

‘I doubt it.’ Kynaston’s mouth pulled down in a gesture of distaste. ‘I think you would learn more from the other maids … if anything is known at all. Girls talk to each other, not to their mistresses. You surely don’t imagine Kitty would have spoken to my wife about her … romance … if we could use that word for such a liaison.’

‘I was not thinking of confidences so much as your wife’s observations of Kitty,’ Pitt answered. ‘My own wife is a very good judge of character. I imagine Mrs Kynaston is also. Women see things in other women, whatever their social station. And no woman who runs a house well is ignorant of the character of her maids.’

Kynaston sighed. ‘Yes, of course you are right. I wished to spare her this distress, but perhaps it is not possible.’

Pitt smiled a trifle bleakly, knowing in his mind exactly how Charlotte would have reacted had he tried to conceal such a thing from her. ‘If you would be good enough to ask her to give me half an hour or so of her time …’

‘What about the other maids?’ Kynaston did not move. ‘Or the housekeeper? Female staff are her concern.’

‘I will have Sergeant Stoker speak to them, when he is finished with the scene of the … discovery, and with the local police.’

‘I see,’ Kynaston said thoughtfully. ‘I see.’ Still he hesitated.

This time Pitt did not help him. He had long learned that silence can betray people as much as words, sometimes in the subtlest of ways.

‘I …’ Kynaston cleared his throat. ‘… I would like to be present when you speak to her. My wife is … is easily distressed. If indeed it is Kitty, she will take it extremely hard.’

Pitt did not want Kynaston there, but he had no excuse to deny him at this point. Had it been Charlotte, at the time when Gracie Phipps had been with them, she would have been distraught at the idea of her having been hurt at all, let alone beaten to death. For that matter, so would Pitt himself. Even their new maid, Minnie Maude Mudway, had found a large place in their affections already.

‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘I shall be as discreet as possible.’ He was about to explain further, and realised he was being gentler than was wise. If the body was that of Kitty Ryder, then a great deal of pain, possibly even of embarrassment, was inevitable.

Kynaston excused himself and returned twenty minutes later with not only Rosalind Kynaston, but his sister-in-law, Ailsa, as well. Both of them were immaculately dressed as if ready for an evening outing.

Rosalind wore a beautifully tailored costume of dark blue. It was a cold colour for winter, but with pale lace at the throat it became her well enough. There was a dignity in her manner, though she was gaunt and when she met Pitt’s eyes her hand instinctively reached out to clasp on to something. Kynaston offered his arm, and she ignored it.

Beside her, Ailsa, taller and so very much fairer, looked magnificent in soft greys. Pitt could not have said exactly how, but he recognised the latest cut in sweeping skirt, now short enough not to touch the ground and get wet. The whole costume needed only a fur hat to be perfect, and no doubt she had such a thing. She took Rosalind’s arm, without asking her permission, and guided her to the large, soft sofa, easing them both into it, side by side. She stared at Pitt with sharp blame in her blue eyes.

Kynaston remained standing, as though he felt that to sit down would somehow relax his guard.

‘We do not yet know what happened to Kitty, Mr Pitt,’ Ailsa said a little brusquely. ‘My sister-in-law told you that we would inform you if we did.’

‘Yes, Mrs Kynaston, I know that,’ Pitt replied. The woman irritated him and he had to remind himself that although she certainly did not look it, she was probably afraid, more for her sister-in-law than for her own sake. The thought flickered through his mind that she might be more aware of the domestic realities than the younger and apparently more delicate Rosalind. He had a sudden cold vision of Kynaston’s possible affair with a handsome maid: quarrels, embarrassment, even an attempt at blackmail, a flare of temper out of control.

Was that what he saw in Ailsa’s vivid eyes, and the fear of everything that exposure would bring? To whom? Scandal to Kynaston? Or disillusion to Rosalind? But he was days ahead of himself, and quite probably mistaken.

Ailsa was waiting, somewhat impatiently.

‘I am sorry to inform you that we have discovered the body of a young woman up at the gravel pit to the west of here,’ Pitt told her. ‘We do not know who she is, but we would like to assure ourselves, and you, that it is not Kitty Ryder.’ Out of the corner of his vision he saw Kynaston relax a little. It was no more than a slight change in his stance, as if he breathed more easily.

Ailsa gave the ghost of a smile. Rosalind did not stop staring straight at Pitt.

‘Why don’t you find out who she is, and then you would have no need to disturb my sister-in-law?’ Ailsa said with an edge of criticism in her voice. She did not like Pitt and she had no intention of concealing the fact. It might not have any meaning in this case, or with Kitty Ryder, but he wondered why. Rosalind did not seem to have any such feelings. But perhaps she was too numb to feel anything. Did she usually need Ailsa to protect her?

If the body were that of Kitty Ryder, Pitt suspected that there was going to be a difficult mass of emotions to untangle, many of them irrelevant. Everyone had secrets, old wounds that still bled, people they loved or hated, sometimes both.

‘You would have heard of it within a day or two at the outside,’ Pitt assured her. ‘And if we have not eliminated the possibility that it is anyone from your house, it will be far more distressing.’

‘For goodness’ sake why don’t you know now?’ Ailsa demanded. ‘She was a perfectly recognisable young woman. Get the butler, or someone, to go and look at her. Isn’t that your job? Why on earth are you here bothering us?’

Rosalind put her hand on her sister-in-law’s sleeve. ‘Ailsa, give him a chance to tell us. I dare say he has his reasons.’

Pitt avoided the answer, aware of Kynaston’s eyes on him and a sharp, almost electric tension in the air.

He looked at Rosalind. ‘Mrs Kynaston, I imagine that, like most ladies, you have a number of handkerchiefs, some of them embroidered with your initials?’

‘Yes, several,’ she replied with a frown.

‘Why on earth does that matter?’ Ailsa snapped.

Kynaston opened his mouth to reprove her, and changed his mind. He looked even tenser than before.

Pitt took the handkerchief from the corpse out of his pocket and passed it across to Rosalind.

She took it, damp in her fingers, and dropped it instantly, her face white.

Ailsa picked it up and examined it. Then she looked up at Pitt. ‘It’s a fairly ordinary lace-edged handkerchief, made of cambric. I have half a dozen like it myself.’

‘That one has an “R” embroidered on it,’ Pitt pointed out. ‘Does yours not have an “A”?’

‘Naturally. There are thousands like these. If she was not the kind of person to own one herself, she could have stolen it from someone.’

‘Did Kitty Ryder steal it from you, Mrs Kynaston?’ Pitt asked Rosalind.

Rosalind gave the slightest shrug: a delicate gesture but unmistakable. She had no idea. Taking it between her fingertip and thumb, she passed it back to Pitt.

‘Is that all?’ Kynaston asked.

Pitt replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. ‘No. She also had a small key, the sort that might open a cupboard or a drawer.’

No one responded. They sat stiff and waiting, not glancing at each other.

‘It fits one of the cupboards in your laundry room,’ Pitt added.

Ailsa raised her delicate eyebrows slightly. ‘Only one? Or did you not try the rest? In my house such a key would have fitted all of them.’

Rosalind drew in her breath as if to speak, and then changed her mind.

Was it anger in Ailsa, or fear? Or simply defence of someone she saw as more vulnerable than herself? Pitt replied to her levelly, politely. ‘I am aware that there are only a limited number of types of keys, especially of that very simple sort. I have cupboards in my own house, and I have found that all the doors in one piece of furniture can be opened by the same key. This one opened one set of doors, but nothing in your kitchen, or pantry, for example.’

Ailsa did not flinch. ‘Are you concluding from this … evidence … that the unfortunate woman in the gravel pit is Kitty Ryder?’