Anne Perry - Death On Blackheath

Carlisle spread his hands in an elegant gesture, rather like another shrug of his shoulders.

‘The man who bought the hat is a constituent of mine,’ he said calmly. ‘He’s been in trouble a few times for trying to draw attention to himself.’

‘Kitty Ryder’s desire for a hat with a red feather was not in the newspapers,’ Talbot said icily. ‘And your constituency is miles from Shooters Hill.’

Carlisle laughed. ‘For heaven’s sake, man! People move around. He’s a hound for scandal. He went and drank at the Pig and Whistle. He asked questions, listened to gossip. And as to finding Pitt here, when I put the pieces together I called his office and was told he’s been sent for to come here. Not exactly the work of a genius.’ His eyes were bright, his arched eyebrows even higher. ‘Anyway, I’m delighted if I’ve saved you embarrassment — not to mention poor Kynaston.’ He turned to Pitt. ‘If your business here is finished, I’ll walk to Whitehall with you.’

‘Yes … thank you,’ Pitt agreed quickly, then turned to Talbot. ‘I shall keep you informed of anything I learn that is relevant to Mr Kynaston, especially should we find out the identity of the woman in the gravel pit. Good morning, sir.’ And without waiting for Talbot to answer or give him leave to go, he turned and followed Carlisle out of the door, through the hallway and into the street.

They walked several paces along the quiet pavement, past the usual police presence, since Downing Street was the home not only of the Prime Minister, but also of the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

‘Was any of that true?’ Pitt asked quietly as they turned into Whitehall.

Carlisle’s expression barely changed. ‘Close enough,’ he replied.

‘Close enough for what?’ Pitt demanded, still uneasy.

‘To pass muster, should Talbot choose to have it investigated,’ Carlisle replied. ‘Don’t ask anything further, because you don’t want to know, and I certainly don’t want to tell you.’

‘Does the hat have anything to do with Kitty Ryder?’

‘Nothing at all, except that she did want one. Or, at least, she did want a red feather of some sort. It is entirely true that that was not her hat.’

Pitt let his breath out slowly. ‘I’m extremely grateful.’

‘You should be,’ Carlisle agreed pleasantly. ‘Don’t cross Talbot; he’s a nasty bastard. Doesn’t mean Kynaston’s innocent, of course. Just can’t hang a man on a manufactured piece of evidence. And … and I wouldn’t like to see you replaced by someone a lot worse. Good luck! Watch your back!’ And with that he turned and walked in the opposite direction towards Westminster Bridge, leaving Pitt to go east, and down to the river.

It was only as he was nearing the riverbank and could hear the slurping of the incoming tide that Pitt allowed the wave of relief to run through him with a sudden warmth. He realised how close he had come to giving Talbot a reason to dismiss him. Of course he knew that many people did not find him a suitable person to follow Victor Narraway, who was undoubtedly a gentleman.

Pitt himself was the son of a disgraced gamekeeper, transported to Australia for theft when Pitt was a boy. He could scarcely remember him, only the shock and the indignation, his protest of innocence that was disregarded, then his mother’s grief. She and Pitt had been allowed to remain in the large country estate; indeed, Pitt had been educated with the son of the house, to encourage the boy. It would not do for a servant’s son to outdo the heir, and it was felt this might prevent such a thing. Although looking back on it now, Pitt thought that that had been an excuse to mask a kindness that was always intended.

Still, it was hardly a background to equal Narraway’s, or one that a man such as Talbot — and to be honest, many others — would be happy with. He must remember that, and not let anger or complacency lead him into error again. Carlisle had rescued him this time, and Pitt was just beginning to appreciate now just how much. He had been gracious enough to make light of it, as if it were in his own interest, rather than in Pitt’s, but that was a courteous fiction.

That there was also an antipathy between Carlisle and Talbot was clear, and Pitt would be wise to remember that and avoid being caught in the middle. Nevertheless his step was light as he made his way to the ferry.

Stoker sat at the kitchen table at his sister’s house. He quite often came here on his days off. King’s Langley was an ancient and very pleasant village in Hertfordshire beyond the outskirts of London, about an hour’s journey on the train. Gwen was the only family he had left, and quite apart from that, he really liked her. All his best memories were somehow attached to her. She was two years older than he and had looked after him in the earliest times he could recall. It was she, more than the schoolteacher, who had taught him to read. She was the one who encouraged him to join the navy, and to whom he had recounted his adventures, enlarging the good and mostly skipping over the bad. Perhaps that was why he remembered the good so clearly, trying to share it with her, seeing her eyes widen, her holding her breath as she waited for the next turn in his stories.

It was also Gwen who had travelled miles by train, spending the little money she had, to come and visit him in hospital when he was injured. And of course it was Gwen who told him off when she thought he was wrong. She who had brought him the news of their mother’s death, and she who nagged him about putting flowers on the grave, saving for the future, and even occasionally about getting married.

Now she was cooking dinner for her husband and children when they came home. He watched her with pleasure because the kitchen was warm and smelled of baking pastry and clean sheets drying on the airing rail above them. There were strings of onions hanging in the corner and a small dresser with plates on it, and two copper pans, the pride of her possessions. The shine and the colour of them were too good to spoil with over-use.

He must get her something else pretty some time. It was too long since he had last done so. Her husband was a hard worker, most of the year at sea, as Stoker himself had been. But money had a long way to go to support a wife, and four children who grew out of their clothes and were always hungry.

Stoker was full of thoughts of Kitty Ryder, and relief that the hat with the red feather was not hers. He had not realised until Pitt told him about Talbot, and Carlisle’s rescue of the situation, that he had been sad at her death. It was ridiculous! He had never even seen the woman!

Gwen was looking at him.

‘What’s the matter, Davey?’ she asked. ‘You’ve got a face on you like a burst boot! You said the hat wasn’t hers. She could still be alive.’

He looked up. ‘I know. But if she is, why doesn’t she come forward and say so? Everybody in London knows we’re trying to identify the body in the gravel pit, and that there’s speculation it’s her. And don’t tell me she can’t read! I know she can.’

‘Are you staying to dinner? You’re welcome, you know? You’re always welcome,’ she assured him.

He smiled at her, quite unaware how it lit his face. ‘I know. And no, I’m not. I’ve got to be on duty tomorrow.’ That was not strictly the truth; he chose to be. But he had also made a good assessment of the meat in the stew and how if he accepted a portion, someone else would go without — almost certainly Gwen herself.

‘They work you too hard,’ she criticised.

‘We’ve been over that,’ he reminded her. ‘I like the work, Gwen. It matters. I don’t tell you much about it because it’s secret. But Special Branch keeps us all safe, if we do it right.’