Anne Perry - Death On Blackheath

‘It was deliberate,’ Whistler replied. ‘A knife rather than teeth. I’ll know more about it when I look at her more closely, and not by the light of a bulls’-eye lantern when I’m freezing up here on the edge of a damn gravel pit at the crack of dawn. It looks like the bloody end of the world up here!’

Pitt nodded without answering. He turned to the sergeant, holding his hand out, palm up.

The sergeant gave him the small square of white embroidered cambric and a domestic key about an inch and three-quarters long, and the old and very lovely gold watch.

Pitt met his eyes, questioning.

‘Don’t know, sir. There’s a few gentlemen as could have a watch like this. If someone picked his pocket he would have complained, depending where he was at the time, if you get my meaning?’

‘I do,’ Pitt answered.

‘Or ’e could ’ave given it ’er, as payment for services,’ the sergeant added.

Pitt gave him a bleak look. ‘It’s worth a year’s salary for a lady’s maid,’ he said, looking again at the watch. ‘What about the handkerchief?’

The sergeant shook his head. ‘No ideas yet, sir. The initial on the handkerchief is an “R”. Seeing as how Mrs Kynaston’s name begins with an “R”, I thought I should leave that to you.’

‘There are only twenty-six letters in the alphabet, Sergeant,’ Pitt pointed out. ‘There must be scores of names beginning with “R”. If it had been Q, or X, that might have narrowed it down a bit. Even a Y, or Z.’

‘That was exactly what I was thinking, Commander,’ the sergeant replied. ‘And I’m sure Mr Kynaston would have told me so, with some disfavour, if I had started out by asking if this was his wife’s handkerchief.’ Again he seemed about to add something more, and then changed his mind. Instead he turned to his own constable, standing a couple of yards away with his collar turned up and his back to the wind. ‘I expect the commander’ll want you to stay until his own man gets here — more than Mr Stoker, that is. So I’d better get back to the station.’ He gave Pitt a bleak smile. ‘That suit you, sir?’

‘What happened to the man who found her?’ Pitt asked, turning beside the sergeant and starting to walk back over the rutted ground towards the road.

‘Got his statement, written and signed, then sent him on his way. Poor devil were a bit shaken up, but he’s got his living to earn just the same,’ the sergeant replied.

‘Do you know him?’ Pitt said a trifle sharply.

‘Yes, sir. Zeb Smith.’

‘But you know him?’ Pitt repeated.

‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant increased his pace. ‘Zebediah Smith, Hyde Vale Cottages, about a mile or so over that way.’ He pointed north, towards Greenwich port, and the river. ‘Had a bit too much to drink a couple of times — must be a few years ago now. Then he got married and settled down.’

‘Zebediah …’ Pitt murmured, more to himself than to the sergeant.

‘Yes, sir. Religious mother. We know where to find him, if we need him again. Frankly, sir, ferrymen are good witnesses. Don’t want to get the reputation for giving them a hard time for no reason.’

‘Understood,’ Pitt acknowledged. ‘Did Mr Smith tell you anything useful? Does he walk up here often? When was the last time? Did he see anyone else up here this morning? Any sign of someone? A figure in the distance, footprints? There’s enough mud and ice to show them. What about his dog? How did it react?’

The sergeant smiled, a tight, satisfied expression. ‘Not a lot, sir. Except that he came up here yesterday morning as usual, and the body wasn’t here then. Even if he hadn’t seen it himself, his dog would. Good animal. Good ratter, apparently. Didn’t see anyone else. I asked him that several times.’ He stepped over a ridge of tussock grass and Pitt followed. ‘Not a soul,’ he went on. ‘No footprints as make any sense. Looks like there’s been an army up here, but not recently. Weather does that. No more to see a couple of hours ago than there is now.’ He looked down at the ground with a slight curl of his lip. ‘Useless,’ he added, regarding the cracked, rutted earth, as they came closer to the road, some of it was still frozen, more swimming in mud. ‘Anything could have passed that way.’

Pitt was obliged to agree with him. ‘And the dog?’ he asked again.

‘Didn’t see anyone else,’ the sergeant said. ‘Didn’t bark. Didn’t want to chase anything. Just found the body, an’ howled!’

Pitt had a sudden vision of the dog throwing its head back and letting out a long wail of despair as it came across sudden death in the grey fog before dawn, shivering and alone amid the dripping weed heads and the few shadowy, skeletal trees.

‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll keep you informed as I may have to hand the case back to you.’

‘Ah … yes … sir,’ the sergeant said awkwardly.

Pitt smiled, although he felt very little humour. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb the Kynaston family again, but it had to be done some time. Perhaps it was not only the most efficient thing to do, but also the kindest not to leave the news, which would inevitably reach them, hanging over their heads like the sword of Damocles.

He came to the entrance to the pit, spoke briefly to the sergeant, then set out briskly to walk to the Kynaston house.

Because of the early hour of the morning, he went again to the back door. He did not want to be announced and ask permission to speak to the servants, with an explanation, and possibly an argument about the body in the gravel pit.

The areaway steps were scrubbed and clean, nothing worse on them now than a thin rime of ice, slick on top from the misty rain. He went down carefully, and knocked on the scullery door.

After several moments it was opened by Maisie, the little scullery maid. For a moment she was confused. He was obviously not a delivery man, and yet she was aware that she knew him.

‘Good morning, Maisie,’ he said quietly. ‘Commander Pitt, Special Branch, you remember? May I come in?’

‘Oh, yeah!’ Her face lit with a smile. Then she recalled his original reason for coming, and suddenly she was terrified. ‘Yer found Kitty, ’ave yer?’ She wanted to add more, but the rest of her thoughts were clearly too hideous to speak aloud.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered, still keeping his voice low so as not to attract the attention of the other servants in the kitchen a few yards away. ‘You will hear very soon, probably from the first delivery boy of the day, that we’ve found a woman’s body up in the gravel pits, not far from here. It’s difficult to tell who she is.’

Maisie gulped but she did not reply.

He pulled the handkerchief and the key out of his pocket. ‘Have you seen this handkerchief before, or one like it?’

She took it gingerly as if it were a live thing that might have bitten her. Very carefully she opened it out.

‘It’s pretty,’ she said with a shiver. ‘If she got one like this, mister, she’s a lady. It’s got summink stitched on it in the corner, ’ere …’ She held it out.

‘Yes, it’s a letter “R”. I imagine it belonged to someone whose name begins with “R”.’

‘Kitty don’t begin with an “R”,’ she said with certainty. ‘I can’t read, but I know that much.’

‘The thing is,’ he said as casually as possible, ‘it may not be her own handkerchief. As you said, ladies have ones like this. It may have been given to her by someone …’

The understanding in Maisie’s face was immediate. ‘You mean the woman wot you found could be Kitty, and someone give it ’er?’

‘It’s possible. If we could find out whose handkerchief it is, then it might help us to know if this is Kitty, or not.’