Anne Perry - Death On Blackheath

‘No, it wouldn’t. And I still have considerable hope that it is not Kitty Ryder-’

‘But you fear that it is?’ she interrupted him. ‘And that either her death involves the Kynaston household, or it will be made to look as if it does? Why? To ruin Kynaston personally, or to embarrass the Government?’ She refilled his cup from the pewter teapot.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But if it is to embarrass the Government it seems rather a poor effort. It’s tragic and sordid, if the poor girl was killed because of some romantic involvement, either with one of the male servants, or with Kynaston himself …’

‘Don’t be so delicate, Thomas,’ Vespasia said briskly. ‘If it has anything at all to do with the household, it will be with Kynaston himself, or at the very least there will be the suggestion that it is. Frankly it sounds most unlikely to me, and I do not believe that Somerset Carlisle is naïve enough to become involved in such a thing. Certainly not in order to embarrass the Government!’

‘That was my conclusion.’ He sipped the tea. It was hot and fragrant. ‘Therefore it is something else, but why is he asking questions in the House, instead of coming to me? If it is of any legitimate concern to him anyway.’

‘I have no idea,’ she replied, passing him more toast. ‘But I shall certainly do what I can to find out.’

‘Thank you,’ he accepted. He was just about to eat it when there was a knock on the door. The maid came in quietly.

‘Excuse me, my lady, but there is a message on the telephone for Commander Pitt.’

‘What is it?’ Vespasia asked.

The maid turned to Pitt. ‘The Prime Minister requires that you go to Downing Street immediately, sir, where a government official is waiting to speak to you.’

Vespasia sighed. ‘You had better take my carriage, Thomas. Send it back when you reach there. There is no convenient place for it to wait for you, and I believe I have some errands to run myself. Goodbye, my dear, and good luck.’

‘Thank you,’ Pitt said grimly, putting the cup down again and rising to his feet. He finished the toast as he went out into the hall.

He had only fifteen minutes to wait in one of the outer rooms in the Prime Minister’s offices before he was escorted into a larger and much warmer room to face one of the Prime Minister’s assistants, a well-upholstered man whose look of ease belied his nature. It must have been well cultivated.

‘Morning, Pitt. Edom Talbot,’ he introduced himself. He was a burly man with a very ordinary face, except for remarkably penetrating eyes; it was impossible to tell if they were grey or brown. He was a man it might be easy to underestimate, but probably most unwise so to do. He did not invite Pitt to be seated, although there were two comfortable leather chairs near the fire, which was already burning up well.

‘Good morning, Mr Talbot,’ Pitt replied, trying not to sound wary.

Talbot wasted no time with niceties. ‘We’ve got a few nasty questions we don’t know how to answer. Can’t afford to be caught on the wrong foot again.’ He looked critically at Pitt. ‘I suppose we could say the fellow who asked them did us a kind of back-handed favour, though. Brought it to our attention, and we won’t be caught out this time.’ He stared at Pitt almost unblinkingly. ‘Expect the answers from you, sir. Or if not, then a damned good explanation that’ll do in the meantime.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Pitt returned his steady gaze. ‘What were the questions?’

Talbot looked bland. ‘Good,’ he said with almost no tone in his voice. ‘Look at the press with that blankness. Know nothing.’ Then suddenly all the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened and his mouth went into a thin, flat line. ‘But don’t damned well try it on me, sir!’

Pitt felt his temper flame, but he controlled himself as if nothing had changed. He did not ask again for the questions but waited for Talbot to continue.

‘You’ve got your nerve, I’ll say that for you,’ Talbot observed. ‘Or else you’re too damned stupid to understand the issue. I suppose, God help me, I’ll find out which soon enough. Who is the woman whose body was found in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill? What happened to her, and how did she get there? What the hell has all this got to do with Dudley Kynaston? Or anyone else in his house? And when are you going to get this damn great mess sorted out? And most importantly, how are you going to keep the lid on it until you do? And if you can’t do the job, then tell me, and we’ll get Narraway back, damn his hide!’

With an effort, because he knew he must be careful, Pitt began at the beginning. ‘We do not know whose the body is.’ He measured his words and kept his voice unnaturally calm. ‘It is too far decomposed to be easily recognisable, beyond the fact that she was probably a lady’s maid, or a laundress of sorts.’

‘How do you know that?’ Talbot interrupted, his eyebrows raised.

‘Burn marks on her hands, such as you get in the use of a flat iron,’ Pitt said with satisfaction.

‘I see. Go on! How do you propose to find out who she is, then?’

‘By eliminating the possibility that it is Kitty Ryder, Mrs Kynaston’s maid,’ Pitt replied. ‘I presume that’s all you really want?’

Talbot grunted, but it was vaguely a sound of appreciation.

‘What happened to her is harder to ascertain,’ Pitt continued. ‘How she got there is not known, and may never be. Certainly she did not walk to the place where she was found. She seems to have been dead for some time before she was put there. Probably she was kept somewhere extremely cold. I dislike the thought of it, but it might be the time to examine Mr Kynaston’s cold rooms, ice house and so on, rather more thoroughly.’ He was satisfied with the look of extreme distaste in Talbot’s face.

‘As to what it has to do with Dudley Kynaston,’ Pitt said. ‘I am hoping that we can prove that it had nothing to do with him. And if the body is not that of Kitty Ryder, then there is no connection to him at all.’

‘If it’s as badly decomposed as you say, how the devil do you presume to prove that it is not her?’ Talbot asked, his eyebrows raised so high his forehead was ridged like a ploughed field.

‘By finding her somewhere else, alive and well,’ Pitt told him.

Talbot considered the reply for several moments.

Pitt waited. He had learned the value of silence, requiring the other person to speak first.

‘That would be the best possible outcome,’ Talbot said finally. ‘And the sooner the better. In your opinion, how likely is it that such will be the case?’

Pitt did not need to weigh that before answering. ‘Unlikely,’ he said grimly. ‘We may have to settle for identifying the body as someone else, for which we need luck as well as skill.’

Talbot nodded. He had expected as much. ‘Then what we need from you is that you find out, beyond reasonable doubt, preferably beyond any doubt at all, who this unfortunate woman is and how she met her death. If it has to do with Kynaston then prove it, but do nothing further. Report back to me before you act. Is that understood?’

‘I can’t order the police-’ Pitt began.

‘That is precisely why Special Branch will deal with the case!’ Talbot snapped. ‘Tell them whatever you want! Spies, secret documents, whatever serves the purpose, but keep them out of it.’

‘We’ll be a lot longer finding Kitty Ryder alive without police help,’ Pitt pointed out, with a sharpness to his own voice.

Talbot gave him a long, cold stare. ‘Be realistic, man! The woman is dead. Identify her, or prove the body is someone else’s. And either prove Kynaston’s guilt, or his lack of connection to the whole affair. Report to me. If this woman is not his maid, then find out if this apparent connection to him is bad luck, or someone taking advantage of a miserable coincidence. Or worse than that, a deliberate ploy to implicate him. And if it is that, then we need to know by whom.’