Anne Perry - Death On Blackheath

‘’Ceptin’ I didn’t,’ the man insisted. ‘Whoever said it were me were lyin’. You ask Mr and Mrs Kynaston. They’ll tell you.’

Pitt stared at the man, who looked back at him without a shadow of guile. Then suddenly a completely different thought occurred to him. Ailsa was also ‘Mrs Kynaston’. Was it possible she had offered her footman for the task, and this man was telling the truth?

Why would Ailsa do such a thing? As a favour to Rosalind, so her husband did not know? That answer was laden with several possibilities, the first to his mind was that Rosalind suspected her husband of some involvement in Kitty’s disappearance and dared not have him know she was still pursuing it.

‘It seems they were mistaken,’ Pitt conceded. ‘Perhaps they said what they thought I wanted to hear. Thank you.’ He turned and left, his mind racing through other scenes and ideas.

For example, was Ailsa looking for Kitty for Rosalind’s sake, or for Kynaston’s? Was she trying to prove him innocent, for all their sakes? If Kitty were alive, then there was no murder connected to the Kynaston house.

He walked to the areaway, weaving his path through the ash cans and coke scuttles, and went up the step to the scullery door.

He was still too early to see Kynaston himself, so he waited in the morning room. He would have preferred the kitchen, but Norton saw to it that he did not linger there. It was in the guise of hospitality, but Pitt had a strong feeling that it was actually to keep him from overhearing the servants’ gossip.

By the time Kynaston appeared Pitt had made up his mind. He would dislike forcing him to answer, but it would not be the first time a man he had personally liked had been guilty of appalling crimes.

Kynaston came in looking tired and cold, but his manner was as charming as ever.

‘Good evening, Commander Pitt. How are you?’ He held out his hand.

Pitt took it, something he would not normally do when interviewing someone he suspected. ‘Well, thank you,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you yet again, but this time I have happier news.’

‘Good. I’m delighted.’ Kynaston smiled and offered Pitt a seat beside the fire, and whisky if he wished it. Again Pitt declined. One did not accept hospitality in such circumstances.

Before he gave the news he mentioned his conversation with the coachman. Kynaston was bound to hear of it, and one did not speak to a man’s servants without saying so to him, even if it was rather asking for permission after the event.

‘I spoke to your coachman,’ he said casually. ‘We are still looking for Kitty Ryder, and in our search we’ve come across what seems to be evidence that he had looked for her also — possibly in his own hours, but more likely at your request …’

Kynaston looked baffled. ‘Hopgood? Are you certain? It was not at my request, I assure you. I’m surprised he had the time. Perhaps he had … an affection for her? She was a very handsome girl. I admit, that had not occurred to me.’

‘So it was not at your request?’ Pitt asked.

Kynaston’s look did not waver. ‘No. I had Norton make a few enquiries, but that was some time ago. He was happy to do it, but he had no success. I began to accept that she ran off with her young man, in what I regret to say was a very callous manner. I would have expected her to have the courtesy to give notice, as one would normally do. My wife was distressed, as we all were. It was an uncharacteristically thoughtless thing to do.’

‘Hopgood assured me that he had not looked for her, either on his own or at your instruction,’ Pitt agreed. ‘I mention it only because no doubt you will come to hear of it, and possibly Mrs Kynaston will also.’

‘Thank you.’ Kynaston still looked puzzled. He had taken whisky for himself and sat with the glass in his hand, its rich colour made even warmer by the gaslamp now lit, and the reflection of the fire.

‘Possibly it was Mrs Ailsa Kynaston’s coachman?’ Pitt suggested.

Kynaston’s hand tightened on his glass so hard that the liquid spilled a drop with the change of position.

‘Ailsa? I think that’s … unlikely.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Unless Rosalind asked her to? Or she imagined she could help …’ He left the idea unfinished.

‘Perhaps the informants told us what they thought we wished to hear,’ Pitt said smoothly. ‘It happens sometimes. Anyway, it is of far less importance now, since we are sure beyond any question whatever that neither of the bodies in the gravel pits was that of Kitty Ryder. The second one did not resemble her closely enough, and she has been seen alive and well sometime after the first body was found. I don’t know where she is, but you and your household are relieved of all suspicion in her disappearance. And — perhaps more relevantly — you no longer need to grieve at the thought of her being dead. I’m sorry it had to touch you at all.’ He stared at Kynaston, watching every muscle in his face, his neck, his shoulders, one hand on his glass and the other on the arm of the chair. He saw the tension like a bowstring. Kynaston all but stopped breathing.

Pitt smiled blandly, as if he had not noticed, but he did not speak. The whole art was to leave Kynaston floundering, offer him nothing to reply to.

Finally Kynaston moved, with just an easing of his shoulders as he drew in a deep breath. He set the whisky glass down.

‘That is a great relief. My wife will be delighted. It was a very poor way to behave, but thank God Kitty was not … killed.’ He pulled his face into an expression of revulsion. ‘Presumably you will no longer be wasting your time looking for her. A very good result all round, even if it was hard to reach. I cannot imagine what the stupid girl was thinking of! Still, it hardly matters now.’

‘Indeed,’ Pitt nodded. ‘Of course we still have to discover the identity of the two women who were found, but that will be a job for the local police.’

Kynaston let out a long, slow breath and his body slumped a little in the chair. ‘Thank you. It is most considerate of you to come and inform me personally, Commander.’ He stood up slowly, as if he were a little stiff. ‘I hope we shall meet again soon, in pleasanter circumstances.’

‘I hope so,’ Pitt agreed. ‘Good night, sir.’

Pitt arrived home earlier than he had done for several evenings and was able to have dinner with Charlotte and both his children. He put Kynaston out of his mind and listened to their conversation, their news and their ideas. Daniel was full of his plan to play cricket in the coming summer and could think of little else. He talked about different strokes, catches, styles of bowling and batting, but to Pitt’s pleasure and carefully concealed amusement, he also spoke of strategy. He explained it at some length over the first course and well into pudding, his face alight with enthusiasm. Various condiments were moved around the table to represent different ways of placing his fielders.

Jemima rolled her eyes, but listened patiently. Then, just to keep up her own position in showing off abilities that no one else understood, she spoke at length about French Medieval history, smiling to herself as they pretended to be interested.

It was well into the evening before Charlotte and Pitt sat alone before the fire and she was able to tell him about her evening with Emily, which she was clearly eager to do.

Pitt had difficulty keeping his eyes open. The room was warm and extremely comfortable. The light was soft, only one gaslamp was lit. The fire whickered gently in the hearth and every so often settled lower as the wood collapsed. It was Charlotte who leaned forward and put more fuel on: old apple wood, sweet smelling.

Pitt made an effort to be interested.