Anne Perry - Death On Blackheath

‘Don’t you like it?’ he said quickly. ‘You don’t have to eat it. Choose another …’

She looked up at him. ‘Oh, I like it. It’s a bit like bein’ in love, though, in’t it? I s’pose yer don’t know it’s goin’ ter ’appen until yer already bit into it, eh?’

‘Maisie, you are so clever sometimes you worry me. All these cakes are for us, so take as many as you like. Tell me more about Harry Dobson, and if you really think she liked him enough to have gone off with him … without telling anyone. She must have had a reason for that. What might it be?’ He drank some of his tea and added a little more, to keep it hot. Then he took another cake, because he was sure she would not take another until after he had. He had seen her count them, and she was going to be scrupulously fair.

‘Do you think he would have made her go secretly?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘No! ’E wouldn’t ’a made Kitty do nothin’ as she didn’t want. I reckon she must ’a bin …’ She hunched her shoulder a little and gave a tiny shiver, then she looked up at Stoker. ‘Mebbe she were scared? I used ter think as she knew one or two things as she’d sooner not a’ knowed about the mister an’ missus, like. Then I thought as it were just talk. But mebbe it weren’t? D’yer think?’

‘I think that’s very possible,’ he agreed, trying not to make too much of it and twist what she was going to say. ‘Any idea what she knew?’

She shook her head. ‘There are things as I don’t want ter know. Me ma always said that, told me not to see things or ’ear things as I shouldn’t. An’ if I did, ter forget it like it never ’appened.’

‘Very wise indeed,’ Stoker said gravely. ‘I am telling you exactly the same thing, and I mean it just as much as she did. Now tell me more about Harry Dobson. We’ve asked the regular police, but nobody seems able to find him. Did he do any special kind of carpentry work? Windows, doors, floors? Any particular builder he worked with?’ He reached for the teapot. ‘And have some more tea. If you’d like more cakes, we’ll ask for them.’

She took a deep breath, scooped up all her courage, and asked for another chocolate cake.

‘Kitty said as ’e were goin’ ter get a place ter work on ’is own, like,’ she answered. ‘’E were good at doors. Wanted ter make fancy ones, carved, an’ all that. But ’e could ’a gone anywhere for that.’

‘Where did he come from?’ Stoker persisted. This looked more hopeful.

‘Dunno,’ Maisie admitted. ‘North o’ the river, I think.’

‘Thank you. That’ll narrow the search quite a bit.’

She frowned. ‘Should I ’a said that before? Nobody asked. It were only wot ’e wanted. I dunno as ’e ever did it.’

He smiled at her. ‘Maybe he didn’t, but it’s worth a try.’

She sighed with relief and ate the cake.

Stoker had naturally been assigned to other cases since the failure to identify the body in the gravel pit, and then the assumption that it was indeed that of Kitty Ryder. Those cases could not be ignored; they genuinely affected the security of the country. Therefore it was wiser that he continue to look for Harry Dobson in his own time. He did not relish trudging around the streets, in and out of public houses, music halls, taverns, but it was very possibly a task that he would gain little from doing at midday. He had learned a lot from Maisie that would narrow the search. He must forget the local area and go north of the river and at least try to find someone who specialised in good doors, even ones with carving on.

It took him four evenings walking in the late February rain, his sodden trouser legs flapping around his ankles, his boots letting in the water from puddles and overflowing gutters. He spoke to local builders from Stepney, Poplar, east to Canning Town, then to north of Woolwich before he finally found Harry Dobson.

Stoker stood in the sawdust of the carpenter’s workroom and faced a fair-haired young man with heavily muscled arms and mild eyes.

‘You Harry Dobson?’ Stoker asked. Could this be the young man Kitty Ryder had run off with, abandoning her position, and her warm, safe home on Shooters Hill? Stoker had expected to dislike him, to see in his face some evidence of the nature that would abuse a young woman who trusted him. He saw instead only a young man who was slow, careful. At the moment, he seemed a little sad, as if he had lost something, and had no idea where to look to find it again.

‘Yeah,’ the carpenter said quietly. ‘You the feller with the warped doors?’

‘No, actually I’m not.’ Stoker felt like apologising. He stood blocking the doorway, but there was another entrance behind Dobson, leading into a timber yard. ‘Sorry. I’m looking for the Harry Dobson who courted Kitty Ryder, who worked up on Shooters Hill.’

The colour leached out of Dobson’s skin, leaving him almost white, his eyes dark hollows in his head.

Stoker tensed, expected him to turn and bolt out of the other door.

For seconds the two stood staring at each other.

Finally Dobson spoke. ‘You … you police?’

‘Yes …’ Stoker was rigid, all his muscles tight, expecting to have to chase this man, try to bring him down before he escaped. He was sick with misery at the thought, and also physically very aware of the other man’s strength. He was solidly built, muscular, and with powerful arms. Stoker was as tall, and wiry, but he had nothing like the sheer strength of Dobson. He would have to rely on speed, and years of experience in hard and dirty fighting.

Dobson took a deep breath. ‘You come to tell me they got ’er after all?’

Stoker was stunned. ‘Got who?’

‘Kitty!’ Dobson said desperately. ‘’Ave you come to tell me they killed ’er? I begged ’er not to go, but she wouldn’t listen to me.’ He gasped as if someone were preventing him from breathing. ‘I promised I’d look after ’er, but she wouldn’t listen.’ He shook his head. There were tears in his eyes and he did not even seem to be aware of them.

‘No!’ Stoker said quickly. ‘No … I haven’t come to say that at all! I don’t know where she is. I’m looking for her.’

The colour and the light came back into Dobson’s face. ‘You mean she could be all right?’ He took a step forward eagerly. ‘She’s still alive?’

Stoker held up a hand. ‘I don’t know! The last I heard about her for sure was the night she ran away from Shooters Hill, way back in January.’

‘She was with me then,’ Dobson responded. ‘I promised to look after ’er, an’ I did. Then all of a sudden, about a week ago, she said she gotter go again, and there weren’t nothing I could do to stop ’er. I begged ’er, told ’er I didn’t want nothing except to keep ’er safe.’ He shook his head. ‘But she wouldn’t listen …’ A look of helplessness washed over him again and Stoker was suddenly moved to an intense pity for him.

‘She’s probably all right,’ he said gently. ‘And she maybe was right to go. If I could find you, so could others. I don’t suppose you have any idea where she went?’

‘No …’

‘Perhaps that’s wise too,’ Stoker conceded, difficult as it was. ‘I’m a policeman, and I haven’t heard of anyone finding her, dead or alive, so she’s probably fine for now. You did the right thing.’

‘What about ’er?’ Dobson pressed. ‘What if they find ’er, then?’

‘We’ll do all we can to see that we catch them before they do.’ Stoker made a wild promise. He knew perfectly well that he was being unprofessional about this. Pitt’s influence was rubbing off on him!

Dobson nodded slowly. He believed him. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said solemnly.

‘But you have to help me,’ Stoker resumed a more serious manner. ‘I can’t catch him without your help …’