Anne Perry - Death On Blackheath

There were a few errors and one or two omissions, but it seemed natural for the unedited diaries of a man with very human foibles. Had all details been exact, it would have raised Pitt’s suspicions.

Thoroughly chilled, but determined not to show it, he returned the diaries to Norton and took his leave.

Outside he walked briskly to get warm again, and while irritated that he had found nothing of value, he could not help a certain liking for Dudley Kynaston, and a feeling that perhaps Rosalind was a more interesting woman than her rather colourless appearance suggested.

Two mornings later, and well into February, Pitt was at his desk reading reports regarding a case in Edinburgh when Stoker knocked. Almost before Pitt had replied, he came in and closed the door behind him. His face was grim and flushed from the sting of the wind in the street.

‘Have you seen the billboards this morning, sir?’ he asked without preamble.

Pitt felt the warmth of the room fade. ‘No, I came by hansom. I wanted to be early and deal with this business in Edinburgh. Why?’ He named his worst fear. ‘They haven’t identified the body as Kitty Ryder, have they?’

‘No, sir.’ Stoker never exaggerated the suspense, which was a quality about him that Pitt valued. ‘But apparently one of the Members of Parliament raised rather a lot of questions about the body we’ve got, and asked what are we doing to ascertain if it is her or not.’

Pitt was stunned. ‘In Parliament?’ he said incredulously. ‘Have they nothing better to do?’ A flicker of expression crossed Stoker’s face and disappeared too rapidly to be readable.

‘“Can the Prime Minister assure us that everything possible is being done to protect not only the safety but the reputation of Mr Dudley Kynaston, a naval inventor of great importance to the safety and welfare of this country?”’ he quoted. ‘That sort of thing, then others asking about his family’s safety, and so on.’ His eyes met Pitt’s squarely; there was no hostility in them, only questions.

Pitt put away the papers to do with the case in Edinburgh. He swore fiercely, and without apology.

‘Exactly my opinion, sir,’ Stoker agreed. There might or might not have been amusement in his eyes.

‘Who was it who was asking these … questions?’ Pitt enquired. ‘Doesn’t the idiot realise that by asking them in Parliament, where they will be reported by the press, he is making Kynaston’s vulnerability all the greater? Sometimes I wonder who the devil elects these people! Don’t they ever look at them first?’

‘That’s rather the trouble, sir,’ Stoker said grimly.

‘Elections?’

Again the smile touched Stoker’s lips, then vanished. ‘No, sir, that’s a separate problem altogether. The MP in the case was Somerset Carlisle, who is really rather good.’

Pitt drew in his breath to respond, and let it out again in a sigh. He would not have described Somerset Carlisle as ‘rather good’. He was brilliant, eccentric, and personally loyal, even when at great cost to himself. He was also unpredictable, unreasonable and beyond anyone’s control, as far as Pitt knew. Even Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould herself, whose friend he had been for years, seemed to exercise very little influence over him.

Stoker was still waiting, but his face reflected his awareness of at least some of the ghosts he was awakening. Pitt hoped fervently that it was not all of them. The whole issue of the supposed resurrectionists should remain well covered over — in fact, completely buried. The long-ago episode in his career involved Somerset Carlisle and corpses that would not remain buried. Stoker did not know of it, or the nature of the detection and scandal it had caused. Pitt would very much rather it remained that way. But if Carlisle were willing to have Pitt, or anyone else, open it up again, then this must be of overpowering importance to him.

‘Perhaps I had better go and see Lady Vespasia.’ Pitt stood up and moved towards the coat stand in the corner of the room. ‘It’s a bit late to get ahead of this, but I’d like to be as close behind as possible.’

‘Are you sure you want to be out of the office when they send for you, sir?’ This time Stoker’s face was unreadable.

‘I’m damn sure I’d like to be miles away,’ Pitt said fervently. ‘But I’ll be within reach — if Lady Vespasia is at home. If I’m sent for, leave me a message there and I’ll go straight to Whitehall.’

Stoker looked dubious.

‘I want to know what’s going on!’ Pitt told him, taking his coat off the stand and putting it on as he went out of the door.

Vespasia was still at breakfast but her maid was used to Pitt turning up without announcement, and frequently at inconvenient times. She simply tightened her lips a little, and requested the maid to bring fresh tea.

In her youth Vespasia Cumming-Gould had been accepted by many to be the most beautiful woman of her generation. As far as Pitt was concerned, she still was, because for him beauty was a quality of the mind and the heart as much as of physical perfection. Her hair was silver and her face now reflected decades of passion, grief and laughter, and a courage that had seen her through triumph and loss of many different kinds.

‘Good morning, Thomas,’ she said with some surprise. ‘You look tired and exasperated. Sit down and have some tea, and tell me what has happened. Would you like something to eat as well? Toast, perhaps? I have a new and most excellent marmalade. It is so pungent I can feel it right through my head.’

‘It sounds like exactly what I need,’ he accepted, pulling out the chair at the opposite side of the table from her and sitting down. He had always liked this yellow breakfast room where she often took all her meals when dining alone, or with only one guest. It felt as if the sun always shone here, regardless of the weather beyond.

The maid returned with the second cup and saucer, and Vespasia requested more toast.

‘Now tell me what has occurred,’ Vespasia said as soon as they were alone again.

He had never hesitated to tell her the truth, even when perhaps it was indiscreet, and never had she betrayed his trust. She knew many people’s secrets, and the fact that she had not relayed them to him only increased his certainty of her judgement. Briefly, between mouthfuls of toast, and the marmalade that was as good as she had claimed, he told her about the missing maid, and the body in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill.

‘I see,’ she said at last. ‘It is a dilemma, but I do not yet understand why you think I can be of help. You are far better able to pursue it than I.’

‘I am expecting a telephone call here, any moment, and I apologise for requesting it be forwarded to me without asking your permission …’

‘Thomas! Please reach the point of this visit before that happens!’

‘It will be from someone in the Prime Minister’s office asking me what I know, and what I am doing about it,’ he explained.

Her silver eyebrows arched even higher. ‘You told the Prime Minister about it? For heaven’s sake, Thomas, why?’

He swallowed the last of his toast. ‘No, I didn’t! That is exactly the point. He knows because there were questions in the House, yesterday evening.’

‘Oh dear …’ In her mouth the words were extraordinarily expressive, even catastrophic.

‘Asked by Somerset Carlisle,’ he finished.

‘Oh dear,’ she said again, a little more slowly. ‘Now I see why you have come to me. I’m afraid I have no idea how he came to know of the affair, or why he should raise it in the House.’ She looked worried. ‘I assume you are involved because the body may be that of this poor maid of Dudley Kynaston’s? Tragic as it is, it would not concern Special Branch otherwise, would it?’