Death On Blackheath

Chapter Seven

Stoker stood in front of Pitt’s desk, his face bleak, and oddly bruised-looking.

‘How did you find it?’ Pitt asked, looking at the sodden wet tangle of felt and ribbon on his desk. It was barely recognisable as a hat. It was impossible to tell what colour it had been, except from the tiny flash of red on what was left of a feather.

‘Anonymous tip-off, sir,’ Stoker said quietly. ‘Tried to trace who it came from, but no luck so far. Just a note in with the post.’

‘What did it say, exactly?’ Pitt asked. He was pursuing it as a matter of course. He did not seriously think it would prove of any value.

‘Just that the sender had been out walking in the early morning and sat down on a frozen log, then seen this odd-looking mass of what looked like fabric. He poked it with a stick, and then realised that it was a hat. He knew there’d been a body found up near there, and wondered if it might have any connection.’

‘Those words?’ Pitt said curiously.

‘No, I’m elaborating a bit.’ Stoker grimaced. ‘Word for word, it was more like “Was sitting on a log up the gravel pit where that woman got found. Thought this might have something to do with it, like maybe it was hers.”’

‘What kind of paper?’ Pitt asked. ‘Pen or pencil? What was the writing like?’

Stoker’s mouth pulled tight. ‘Ordinary, cheap paper, written in pencil, but no real attempt to disguise the hand. Bit of a scrawl, but perfectly legible.’

‘And the spelling?’ Pitt asked.

‘Right spelling,’ Stoker replied. ‘But there was nothing difficult in it. Simple words.’

Pitt looked at what was left of the hat, and then up at Stoker. He did not need to ask the question, but he did anyway.

‘Why do you think it’s Kitty Ryder’s?’

Stoker answered as if his throat were tight and he had to force the words out. ‘The red feather, sir. I got to know one of the barmaids at the Pig and Whistle who was a friend of Kitty’s … Apparently they had tea together on their days off. Kitty really wanted a hat like that and she saved up to buy it. It was the red feather that mattered, because it was unexpected. In a way it didn’t fit in with the rest of it, and it made people look, and smile. At least that’s what Violet said — Violet Blane, the barmaid.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

Stoker did not move. ‘We’ll have to go back to Kynaston, sir.’

‘I know that,’ Pitt agreed. ‘Before I do that I want to go over all the statements he’s made and everything we know about him. I want the inconsistencies, anything with which I can prove he’s lying. So far all we have is that Kitty worked for him, and that the woman in the gravel pit had his watch, which he says a pickpocket took, which his wife confirms. Which means nothing. We’ve searched the house and found nothing. None of the servants know anything of use. We’ve been over the cellars and the ice house and found no trace of Kitty, or anything at all out of order. And the servants were in and out of there all the time anyway.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Stoker said flatly. ‘I’ve got notes as to what Violet said and if you compare it with Mrs Kynaston’s diaries, and then his, I think you’ll find a few places where it doesn’t match.’

Pitt did not answer, but opened one of the drawers beside the desk and took out his notes from the Kynaston diaries, then held out his hand for Stoker’s notebook.

‘Why didn’t we find the hat when we looked before?’ he asked.

‘Probably too intent on the body,’ Stoker replied. ‘It was thirty feet away. If you didn’t see the red feather you wouldn’t have seen the rest. It looks like leaves on mud.’

That was true. It had been found now only by chance.

‘Thank you. I’ll look at all the notes again, then I’ll go and see Kynaston this evening. He won’t be there at this time of day.’

Even so, Pitt was a little early. He disliked having to harass the man again. He personally liked him, therefore he determined to finish this business tonight and get it over with. He did not want to give Kynaston the chance to come home, change and then go out to dinner somewhere. After meeting Kynaston and his wife and sister-in-law at the theatre this was even more unpleasant.

He stood uneasily in Kynaston’s morning room, staring at one bookshelf after another, unable to concentrate on the titles. Occasionally he paced back and forth. He had actually been invited by Mrs Kynaston to wait in the withdrawing room, but he felt guilty about accepting it when his purpose was far from social.

He had been there less than half an hour when he heard Kynaston come in through the front door, and within minutes he was in the morning room, smiling.

Pitt’s heart sank and he felt his throat tighten. He walked forward from the fireplace.

‘Good evening, Mr Kynaston. I’m sorry to intrude on your time, but I have further questions I need to ask you.’

Kynaston indicated the chair near the fire, and when Pitt sat down, he took the other one himself. He looked slightly puzzled, but not yet alarmed.

‘Has there been some further development?’ he enquired.

‘I’m afraid there has. We discovered a hat at the gravel pit, near where the body was found.’ He watched Kynaston’s face as he spoke. ‘It’s in a state that makes it impossible to identify, but it is an unusual shape, as much as we can make out, and quite clearly it still has a small red feather tucked in the ribbon where the crown meets the brim. It is distinctive, and one of Kitty’s friends we have spoken to says that she had exactly such a hat with a red feather, and saved up until she could buy it.’

Kynaston blanched but he did not avoid Pitt’s eyes. ‘Then it was Kitty …’ he said very quietly. ‘Perhaps it was foolish, but I was still hoping that it wasn’t. I’m so sorry.’ He took a deep, rather shaky breath. ‘Will you be looking for the young man she was walking out with? I believe he was a somewhat itinerant carpenter. He went where the work was a lot of the time.’ There was an edge to his voice, but it was not anger, and — as far as Pitt could judge — it was not fear either. Was he really so sure of himself, and his own safety?

‘Of course,’ Pitt agreed. ‘We haven’t searched diligently enough yet. Admittedly I think we are guilty of also hoping that the body was not hers.’

‘But now …?’ Kynaston’s mouth pinched at the ugliness of the thought, and with something that appeared to be pity.

‘His name is Harry Dobson,’ Pitt replied. ‘And yes, we will ask the police further afield to co-operate with us in finding him. So far we’ve looked only locally.’

‘If he’s any sense he’ll have gone away as far as possible,’ Kynaston observed with a grimace. ‘Liverpool, or Glasgow, somewhere with a lot of people where he can get lost. Although I suppose it’s not hard to lose yourself in London, if you’re desperate enough. Even ship out … go to sea. He’s able-bodied.’

‘That’s possible too,’ Pitt admitted.

‘Thank you for telling me.’ Kynaston gave a bleak half-smile. ‘I will inform my wife, and the staff. They’ll be upset, but I imagine they will be half-expecting it.’ He leaned forward as if to rise to his feet.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Pitt said quickly. ‘But that is not all.’

Kynaston looked taken aback, but he relaxed into the chair again, waiting for Pitt to explain.

Pitt drew in his breath and held Kynaston’s gaze. ‘It is not just a matter of finding this wretched young man and charging him, which is a police matter. I’m Special Branch, and my concern is the safety of the state …’

Kynaston was now very pale and his hands were clenched on the arms of his chair, knuckles white.

‘… And therefore exonerating you,’ Pitt continued. ‘And anyone else in this house. Unfortunately questions have been asked in the House of Commons as to your part in this, and your personal safety. I have to be able to assure the Prime Minister that he has no cause for concern.’

Kynaston blinked and there was a long silence as the seconds ticked by on the clock on the mantel. ‘I see,’ he said at last.

‘I’ve checked over all the questions I asked you previously,’ Pitt replied. He knew already that he was going to turn up something private and painful. It was there in Kynaston’s face and in the stiff angles of his shoulders. He would like to have stopped it now. Possibly it had nothing to do with Kitty Ryder’s death, but then it might have everything to do with it. He could not afford to believe anyone without proof. It had gone too far and was too serious for that.

‘I have nothing to add,’ Kynaston told him.

‘You have a few errors to correct, Mr Kynaston,’ Pitt answered. ‘And a few omissions to fill in rather more fully. And before you do, sir, I would prefer to tell you in advance than embarrass you afterwards, I shall be checking with other people, because this matter is too serious to allow what can be merely unintentional misstatements of fact.’ He let hang in the air between them the awareness that they could also be deliberate lies, even damning ones.

Kynaston did not answer. It had gone beyond the point of pretence that he was not deeply uncomfortable.

Pitt could have asked him the questions one by one, and tripped him in the lies — or if they were, the errors — but he loathed doing so. This had to be lethal, but it could be quick.

‘Your diary states that you went to dinner with Mr Blanchard on the evening of 14 December …’ Pitt began.

Kynaston moved very slightly in his chair. ‘If I had the date wrong, is it really important?’ he said reasonably.

‘Yes, sir, because you left the house dressed for dinner, and according to our enquiries, you did not see Mr Blanchard. Where did you go?’

‘Certainly not anywhere with my wife’s maid!’ Kynaston said sharply. ‘Perhaps the dinner was cancelled. I don’t remember. Has Special Branch really got nothing better to do than this?’

Pitt did not answer his question. ‘And just over a week later, on 22 December, again you have Mr Blanchard’s name in your diary, and again you did not see him,’ he went on.

Kynaston sat absolutely motionless in the chair, unnaturally so. ‘I have no idea where I went,’ he replied. ‘But it was probably an engagement to do with a society I belong to, and couldn’t possibly have anything less to do with my wife’s maid.’ He swallowed, his throat jerking. ‘For God’s sake, do you do this to everybody? Read their diaries and cross-question them as to whom they dined with? Is this what we pay you for?’ There was a faint flush of colour in his cheeks.

‘If it has nothing to do with Kitty Ryder’s death, then it will go no further,’ Pitt said, perhaps rashly. He felt grubby pursuing something that was clearly private, and embarrassing. Were it not, Kynaston would not be still evading an answer.

‘Of course it has nothing to do with it!’ Kynaston snapped, leaning forward suddenly. ‘If anyone killed her, then it was this wretched young man she walked out with. Isn’t that obvious, even to a fool?’ He looked away. ‘I apologise, but really, all this probing into my life is unnecessary and completely irrelevant.’

‘I hope so,’ Pitt said sincerely. He felt vaguely soiled that he had to pursue this to the bitter end. ‘There are a few errors in your diaries, which is to be expected. We all get hours or dates wrong from time to time, or forget to note something at all, even do so illegibly. It is only the occasions when you left home, dressed for dinner, and consistently did not go where you stated that I am asking you about. There are at least a dozen of them in the last two months.’

Kynaston’s face was now dark with colour.

‘And I will not tell you, sir!’ His voice wobbled a bit. ‘Except that it had nothing whatever to do with Kitty Ryder. For God’s sake, man! Do you think I am dining out in full evening dress with a lady’s maid?’ He managed to sound incredulous, even though his voice cracked a little.

‘I think you are going somewhere that you feel the need to lie about,’ Pitt answered. ‘The obvious conclusion is that it is with a woman, but that is not the only possibility. I would prefer to think that rather than anything else you feel the need to keep secret from your family, and from the police, and Special Branch.’

Kynaston blushed scarlet. He caught Pitt’s implication immediately. Pitt regretted it, but the man had left him no choice. He waited.

‘I dined with a lady,’ Kynaston said in little more than a whisper. ‘I shall not tell you who it was, except that it was certainly not Kitty Ryder … or anyone else’s … servant.’

Pitt recognised that that was the truth, and also that Kynaston did not intend to reveal who it was. The question in Pitt’s mind was whether Kitty Ryder might have known of it, and asked for some kind of favour not to tell her mistress. There was no purpose in asking Kynaston. He had already implicitly denied it.

Pitt stood up. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m sorry I had to pursue such a thing, but a woman is dead — violently — and her body dumped in a gravel pit for wild animals to eat!’

Kynaston winced.

‘That is more important than anyone’s sensibilities as to privacy for their indiscretions,’ Pitt concluded.

Kynaston stood up also, but he said nothing more except to wish Pitt a good evening, icily, and as a matter of form.

Outside in the cold, damp night, the wind was blowing clouds across the stars and streetlamps dotted occasionally here and there. Pitt was glad to walk briskly for some considerable distance. He was likely to find a hansom easily to take him all the way back across the river to Keppel Street.

What should he tell Talbot? That Kynaston was having an affair, but with some woman he could dine with in full formal clothes? Certainly not a servant of any kind. Someone else’s wife? That was the obvious conclusion, although perhaps not the only one.

Had Rosalind Kynaston any idea?

Possibly she had. It was then conceivable that she did not mind, as long as he was meticulously discreet. Pitt knew of marriages where such agreements were made.

It did not answer the question as to whether the bright and observant Kitty Ryder had been aware of it. If so, then it had to have been deduction. There was no way in which she could be in an appropriate place to have observed such a thing.

Deduced from what? What could she have seen or heard … or overheard? A conversation on the telephone, perhaps? A letter left open? A coachman’s gossip?

Was she really so quick, so very acute a judge? Was Kynaston so desperate, and so callous as to beat a maid to death for her knowledge of his affair? He was embarrassed that Pitt had deduced it, but Pitt had seen no rage in him, not the slightest suggestion of violence of any sort, physical or political. He had not threatened Pitt’s job or his position.

Was it necessary to report this to Edom Talbot?

He had reached the main road and found a hansom. He was sitting in it bowling along at a good speed by the time he reached the conclusion that it was, but he was still undecided exactly what he would say.

He was still collecting his evidence next day when a message came to his office requiring him to report immediately to Downing Street. It had to be Talbot, but how could he know what Pitt had learned the previous evening already? Surely that was impossible? Unless Kynaston had gone there ahead of Pitt, in order to — what? Complain? Deny the charge? Confess privately to Talbot who his mistress was, instead of to a mere policeman? Did he have far more influence in Government than Pitt had imagined?

Pitt had no choice but to obey. He put the papers in a small case so that, if Talbot demanded it, he could prove his assertion. Then he went out into the street to catch a hansom.

He sat all the way through the traffic, turning over in his mind how much he would tell Talbot. He would be finished if he were caught in a lie, but he might get away with an omission.

Why was he even thinking of concealing the truth from Talbot?

Because he did not believe that Kynaston had murdered Kitty Ryder to keep the secret of an affair. It was too extreme for a man who appeared to be neither violent nor particularly arrogant. Nothing Pitt had learned of him suggested either. And he had learned a considerable amount. Kynaston was proud of his family heritage. He had mourned the loss of his brother, Bennett, deeply; in fact the grief was still there in him, masked beneath the surface. To all outward appearances he had been a good father and a dutiful husband, if not a passionate one.

Certainly he liked a few luxuries in his dress and in his dining, but even with his favourite wines — of which there were several — Stoker had found no one who had seen him seriously inebriated, and never in any circumstances aggressive.

His passion and imagination seem to have gone into his work. Thomas Pitt knew that only from the high esteem in which he was held by the senior naval officers who were involved with his inventions. Pitt had not heard this from them himself. It had been passed on to him by the appropriate authorities. Could that be an omission he needed to rectify? Underwater ships firing explosive missiles, invisible from the surface, might well be the warfare of the future. Britain was behind in the race, and — as an island — peculiarly vulnerable. She had no land borders with any other country across which to import food, raw materials, munitions, or any kind of help.

He arrived at Downing Street unusually nervous. The palms of his hands were sweating even in the cold, and he took his gloves off. Better to be dry, if numb.

He walked to the step and was let in almost immediately. There was always a policeman on duty and he was recognised without having to state his name.

Inside, he was shown immediately to the room in which he had met Talbot before. Talbot was waiting for him, pacing the floor. He swung around angrily as soon as Pitt came in and started to speak before the footman had closed the door, leaving them alone.

‘What the devil are you playing at?’ Talbot demanded. ‘I would prefer to think you’re incompetent rather than deliberately attempting to deceive Her Majesty’s Government. Did you not understand my distinct command that you report to me — here — any further development in the Kynaston case? What is it in that which is unclear to you?’ His cheeks were red, his nose pinched at the nostrils and his jaw tight. He glared at Pitt as if his fury were slipping out of his control.

‘I was checking some of the evidence before I reported it to you,’ Pitt replied. Damn! That sounded so feeble, so obviously an excuse, and yet it was the truth. ‘I wished to-’ he began again.

‘You wished to evade the issue!’ Talbot said furiously. ‘What about this bloody hat you found in the gravel pit?’

‘It’s not bloody,’ Pitt corrected him.

‘God damn it, man! Don’t you dare tell me when to swear and when not to! Who the hell do you think you are, you jumped-up-’

‘There is no blood on the hat … sir,’ Pitt said between his teeth.

Talbot stared at him. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘There was no blood on the hat,’ Pitt repeated.

‘That is totally irrelevant. Was it the maid’s hat or not?’ Talbot said slowly between his teeth, as if Pitt were simple.

‘I don’t know,’ Pitt replied. ‘But that is also irrelevant to Kynaston, unless we can prove that he had some illicit relationship with her, or that she knew of something else he was doing about which she threatened him.’

‘And you have done! The man is having an affair! But you did not think it necessary to report that fact to me, as I commanded you to?’ Talbot said grimly. ‘I wonder if you would care to explain that? I rather think we are back to the beginning again.’ His voice grated, full of ragged edges. ‘Are you so arrogant that you think you can take decisions on this matter without reference to your superiors, or have you some reason of your own for protecting Kynaston from the truth? Just how well do you know him? You force me to ask.’

Pitt felt the heat rise up his face. Any answer he could give was going to sound like an excuse. And yet if he had come to Talbot earlier, before he was certain of Kynaston’s affair, he would have been equally to blame for maligning an important man in the Government’s plans for naval defence, not to mention the moral and civil wrong of false accusation. It would have brought Special Branch into disrepute and made its future work harder. It might even have earned Pitt’s own removal from leadership.

A sudden horrible thought flashed into his mind that this was the purpose of Talbot’s rage. This was an excellent platform on which to build the means of getting rid of Pitt altogether. He drew in his breath to frame some kind of a reply just as the door opened and Somerset Carlisle came in, closing it quietly behind him. He was older than when they had first met, but the remarkable arched brows and the quirky humour were still there in his face. It was only the deepening of the lines that changed him, made one aware that it was over a decade later.

‘Ah! Pitt,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Delighted to find you here.’

‘You are interrupting a private conversation-’ Talbot snarled at him.

‘Yes, of course I am,’ Carlisle cut across the rest of his remark. ‘Just wanted to tell Pitt that I found the piece of information he was looking for.’ He smiled at Pitt, gazing straight into his eyes. ‘You were quite right, of course. The hat was no more Kitty Ryder’s than it was mine! Some damn fool was wanting to distract attention from his own rather stupid mistakes … drinks locally now and then, so he knew about the poor woman’s disappearance, and the body you found in the gravel pit, of course.’

Talbot tried to interrupt but Carlisle carried on without taking the slightest notice of him.

‘Knew she’d had a hat like that, poor girl, and bought one the same. Put a red feather in it.’ He smiled even more widely and reached his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a rather crumpled piece of paper. ‘Got the receipt. You’ll see it’s dated for the day before your informant found it.’

‘Just all by pure coincidence?’ Talbot said sarcastically.

‘Hardly,’ Carlisle replied with exaggerated patience. ‘He was the one who found it!’

Talbot was standing motionless, his face filled with bafflement and even further mounting anger.

Carlisle was still smiling, as if the atmosphere in the room were one of co-operation, not open enmity.

‘Policeman’s job to be sceptical,’ he went on, now looking at Pitt. ‘Good thing you were. Made a highly embarrassing mistake if you’d reported to Downing Street that the body was Kitty’s on evidence discovered by the man who put it there. Looked a bit of a fool. Not good for the reputation of Special Branch.’ He shook his head. ‘No doubt some journalist would have got hold of it and put it all over the front pages. Somehow or other they find these things.’ He shrugged. ‘And then, of course, they put all kinds of other bits of fact — and imagined fact — together and come up with accusations. Too late to apologise when you’ve ruined a man.’

Pitt had recovered from his amazement, although he had no idea how Carlisle had known he was here, or become involved in the matter at all.

‘Exactly,’ he agreed aloud.

Talbot was still fighting the issue, his body stiff, his face pale.

‘What unbelievable good fortune that you happened to be aware of all this … eccentric behaviour, Mr Carlisle,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I suppose we should be grateful some extraordinary chance took you to … what?’ His voice became even more grating. ‘How was it you learned that this particularly irresponsible man knew of Ryder’s passion for a hat with a red feather, and also exactly where her body was found, and that he should purchase such a hat, plus feather, of course, and place it there? Such a piece of good fortune seems … beyond belief.’ He pronounced the words slowly, giving every syllable emphasis.

Carlisle merely smiled a little more widely.

Pitt’s heart was racing, but he dared not intervene. He had no explanation either.

‘And of course that you should also, purely by chance, of course, know exactly where Commander Pitt was,’ Talbot went on. ‘And race here just in time to rescue him from having to give me some explanation as to why I had to hear of the whole apparent farce from someone else, and demand he explain to me why he had not reported to me, as I had instructed him. I suppose you have answers for all that also?’

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.’

‘What about this new guv’nor, Pitt?’ she asked. ‘Does he work as hard as you do? Or does he go back to a nice big house somewhere with servants to look after him and parties to go to?’

Stoker laughed. ‘Pitt? He’s not a gentleman, Gwen. He’s an ordinary man, like anyone. Worked his way up. He’s got a decent home, on Keppel Street, but no mansion. You’d like his wife. I don’t know her well, but she’s not all that different from you.’ He looked around the room quickly. ‘Kitchen’s bigger than this one, but like it; smells of clean laundry and bread as well.’

She looked at him and smiled back. ‘So why the face? And you might be Special Branch, an’ all that, but you never could fool me, and you can’t now, so don’t waste both our time trying it.’

‘Where is she?’ he said simply.

‘In love with the man she ran off with?’ she suggested, reaching out to pour him another cup of tea.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s been over four weeks since she disappeared. No one’s that much in love.’

She shook her head. ‘You know, Davey, sometimes I worry about you. Have you ever been really in love? You haven’t, have you? When you are, you can’t see anything else, believe me. You walk into a hole in the road, because your head’s in the air and your eyes full of dreams. Would you like some cake?’

‘Yes, and no, not so that I fall into holes in the road,’ he answered.

She stood up, still looking at him. ‘You’ve got your head screwed on all right, so tight it’s a wonder you can fasten your shirt collar.’ She opened the pantry cupboard and took out the cake, cutting a really large wedge for him and putting it on a plate.

‘Thank you,’ he accepted, taking a bite of it immediately. ‘That isn’t the answer, Gwen,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘She knew something, and that’s why she ran away. And the only thing that’d be safe for her is if she came out from wherever she’s hiding and told people. Then there’d be no point in hurting her, it would only prove she was right.’

‘For heaven’s sake, use your common sense!’ she said exasperatedly. ‘Who’s going to believe a lady’s maid over a lord, or his wife?’

‘He’s not a lord, he’s an inventor of some sort, working on experiments with new undersea weapons.’

‘Under the sea?’ she said incredulously. ‘To kill what? The fish?’

‘Ships,’ he said succinctly. ‘Hole them under the waterline, where they’ll sink.’

‘Oh.’ She paled. ‘And you’re saying he isn’t a gentleman either?’

‘No! He’s a gentleman, and he’s got money and influence. And I suppose you’re right, she’d have to have proof, and maybe she doesn’t. I’ve got to find her, Gwen. I’ve got to prove what happened to her, I just don’t know where else to try!’

She looked at him as if he were five again, and she were seven. ‘What do you know about her?’ she said patiently.

He described what he knew of her appearance. ‘And she came from the country,’ he added. ‘Somewhere in the west. The local police looked to see if she’d gone home, and she hasn’t.’

‘Well, she wouldn’t, if she were hiding, would she!’ Gwen said, shaking her head. ‘But she might go somewhere like it.’

‘We thought of that. We can’t find a trace of her at all.’ He heard the note of panic in his voice and deliberately lowered it. ‘She was very handsome to look at, easy to notice. And she was quick, and sometimes funny, so the other staff said, and her friends at the local pub. They were all surprised she took up with Harry Dobson. Said he wasn’t anywhere good enough for her.’

‘Nobody ever is,’ she said with a sudden wide smile. ‘But we love you anyway!’

She was teasing him and he relaxed a little, taking several more bites of the cake. She was a good cook, and the taste of it carried him back in memory to being home on leave from the sea, and sitting in another kitchen, before she moved out here to King’s Langley. Everything had been different there — sparser, poorer, much smaller, back door opening into a small, grubby yard — all except the cake. She never stinted with cake.

‘She liked the sea,’ he went on. ‘Used to carve little boats, real little tiny ones, out of soft wood. What kind of a man would kill her just because she couldn’t help seeing that he was having an affair? And he was. Pitt caught him in lies and he had to admit it. But Pitt doesn’t think Kynaston killed her. I think he’s off on another world sometimes.’

Gwen frowned. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she agreed. ‘Who’s she going to tell?’

‘His wife,’ he replied.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ she said impatiently. ‘Do you think she doesn’t know? What’s she going to do about it? Nothing now — except pretend she didn’t see. It’s not a crime, just a betrayal. And nobody else will want to know, I can promise you that. It could upset all sorts of applecarts to be admitting to that kind of thing … unless …’ She stopped.

‘Unless what?’ He put the last of the cake into his mouth.

‘Unless it’s with someone that really matters?’ she answered thoughtfully. ‘Someone whose husband would throw her out. That could happen, and then she’d be ruined. That’s … possible … I suppose.’

‘How do you know about things like that?’ he said curiously.

‘For goodness’ sake!’ she repeated exasperatedly. ‘I was a laundress before I got married! I didn’t live all my life inside a box with the lid on, Davey!’ She stood up again. ‘You’d better go and catch your train, before it gets late and you’re out half the night. And don’t leave it so long next time.’ She came around the table and hugged him. He felt the warmth of her body, the softness of her hair, and how strong her arms were when she clung on to him. For a moment he hugged her hard in return, then put on his coat again and went out of the door into the yard and up the steps without looking back at the lights, or to see her standing there watching him.

While Stoker was in the train rattling through the darkening countryside back to London, Pitt was in the chair beside the fire in Vespasia’s sitting room with its warm, pale colours. He was so comfortable it was an effort to keep awake. The fire was burning low, its embers glowing, the light reflecting in the facets of the small crystal vase in which were a few delicate snowdrops. He was startled at how richly their perfume filled the room. There were faint sounds of footsteps in the hall, and now and then the patter of rain on the window. It was only the urgency of the matter weighing on his mind that prevented him from relaxing.

‘… Suspiciously, at the very last moment,’ he finished, describing the events of his rescue by Somerset Carlisle.

‘And the very best moment,’ she added drily. ‘That sounds exactly like Somerset, although unusually fortunate, even for him. I see that troubles you …’

‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ Pitt admitted. ‘Carlisle was the one who had asked the question in the House, making the whole issue far more public than it had been before. And yet he not only rescued me from Talbot, he rescued Kynaston, for the time being, from a situation that at the very best would have been embarrassing. At worst it would have brought him into suspicion of having killed and mutilated Kitty and put her body in the gravel pit. Why?’

‘Somerset is a good man,’ Vespasia said quietly, her mouth curving in a sweet smile, ‘if, as you say, a trifle eccentric now and then.’

‘That is a magnificent understatement,’ he observed.

She smiled very slightly. ‘I only overstate things when I am so angry I have lost my vocabulary,’ she answered.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t believe you ever lose your vocabulary. I have seen a fluency from you that would stop a horse in full gallop, or freeze a duchess at twenty paces.’

‘You flatter me,’ she protested, but through laughter. ‘I would like to think that his principle purpose was to make a fool of Edom Talbot, a man he loathes, but I appreciate that that could be no more than an agreeable side effect.’ The amusement in her face died completely. ‘But you say that Dudley Kynaston is unquestionably having an affair, and that you think it is possible that Kitty, being bright, observant, and no doubt bored, may have been aware of this? You are certain, I presume?’

‘The evidence is there, and he did not deny it,’ Pitt said unhappily. ‘I just don’t believe he would kill his wife’s maid because she had deduced that he was lying about where he had been. Either that is not the case at all, and is merely incidental, or there is something far more important that I’m missing. And where did she learn it? Why won’t she come forward now, or at least send some kind of a message that she’s alive? Maisie said she could read and write!’

‘Who is Maisie?’

‘The scullery maid.’ Pitt remembered Maisie’s eager face. ‘Kitty was her … example. She not only liked her, she admired her. Maisie means to learn to read.’

‘Just how ambitious was Kitty?’ Vespasia asked doubtfully. ‘Sufficient to improve herself, but not so rash as to exert a little unwelcome pressure? Are you sure, Thomas?’

‘What could it gain her to attempt blackmail on Kynaston? Not a lot more than dismissal, and possibly a police charge. And she can’t have been stupid enough to imagine anything else. The magistrates would not be very kind to her. They can’t be seen to allow servants to gather information about their masters, and then use it that way.’ He smiled ruefully and almost without bitterness.

‘Of course not,’ she agreed, her face reflecting an unaccustomed sadness. ‘It would be the end of the world, as most of us know it. And yet it will certainly happen, inch by inch. Nothing is more inevitable than change, for better and for worse. Perhaps it is the approaching close of the century, but it is a very mixed prospect. Events seem to be moving faster and faster.’

He looked at her face. It was still beautiful, still full of passion and vitality, but he also knew there was a fragility in it, a power to be hurt that he had not appreciated before. Her century was ending and she could not know what lay ahead.

Could Pitt say anything that would comfort Vespasia? Or would it be clumsy, and in reality make her more fragile?

He changed the subject completely. ‘Do you trust Somerset Carlisle?’

She gave an abrupt little laugh, light and full of generous amusement.

‘My dear! What a question. That depends very much upon what we are talking about. To be honest, yes, I do. To be generous and risk anything at all for what he believes? Unquestionably. To have values the same as mine, and to behave responsibly? Not in the slightest.’

‘I owed him a lot today,’ Pitt answered. ‘I think Edom Talbot would be delighted to see the back of me from Special Branch. I am not the sort of man he judges suitable for the position, neither intellectually nor socially, especially the latter.’

‘I have no doubt of it,’ she agreed. ‘For all that he is not quite a gentleman himself, he intends to become one. And yes, you owe Somerset a considerable debt. Now if you do not mind, my dear, I have plans for this evening, and I need to get ready.’

‘Of course.’ He rose to his feet immediately. ‘Thank you for your advice, as always.’ He leaned forward and kissed her very lightly on the cheek, then felt instantly embarrassed for the familiarity of it. He could not remember having had the tenacity to do it before.