by Anne Perry
Her silver eyebrows arched even higher. ‘You told the Prime Minister about it? For heaven’s sake, Thomas, why?’
He swallowed the last of his toast. ‘No, I didn’t! That is exactly the point. He knows because there were questions in the House, yesterday evening.’
‘Oh dear …’ In her mouth the words were extraordinarily expressive, even catastrophic.
‘Asked by Somerset Carlisle,’ he finished.
‘Oh dear,’ she said again, a little more slowly. ‘Now I see why you have come to me. I’m afraid I have no idea how he came to know of the affair, or why he should raise it in the House.’ She looked worried. ‘I assume you are involved because the body may be that of this poor maid of Dudley Kynaston’s? Tragic as it is, it would not concern Special Branch otherwise, would it?’
‘No, it wouldn’t. And I still have considerable hope that it is not Kitty Ryder—’
‘But you fear that it is?’ she interrupted him. ‘And that either her death involves the Kynaston household, or it will be made to look as if it does? Why? To ruin Kynaston personally, or to embarrass the Government?’ She refilled his cup from the pewter teapot.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But if it is to embarrass the Government it seems rather a poor effort. It’s tragic and sordid, if the poor girl was killed because of some romantic involvement, either with one of the male servants, or with Kynaston himself …’
‘Don’t be so delicate, Thomas,’ Vespasia said briskly. ‘If it has anything at all to do with the household, it will be with Kynaston himself, or at the very least there will be the suggestion that it is. Frankly it sounds most unlikely to me, and I do not believe that Somerset Carlisle is naïve enough to become involved in such a thing. Certainly not in order to embarrass the Government!’
‘That was my conclusion.’ He sipped the tea. It was hot and fragrant. ‘Therefore it is something else, but why is he asking questions in the House, instead of coming to me? If it is of any legitimate concern to him anyway.’
‘I have no idea,’ she replied, passing him more toast. ‘But I shall certainly do what I can to find out.’
‘Thank you,’ he accepted. He was just about to eat it when there was a knock on the door. The maid came in quietly.
‘Excuse me, my lady, but there is a message on the telephone for Commander Pitt.’
‘What is it?’ Vespasia asked.
The maid turned to Pitt. ‘The Prime Minister requires that you go to Downing Street immediately, sir, where a government official is waiting to speak to you.’
Vespasia sighed. ‘You had better take my carriage, Thomas. Send it back when you reach there. There is no convenient place for it to wait for you, and I believe I have some errands to run myself. Goodbye, my dear, and good luck.’
‘Thank you,’ Pitt said grimly, putting the cup down again and rising to his feet. He finished the toast as he went out into the hall.
He had only fifteen minutes to wait in one of the outer rooms in the Prime Minister’s offices before he was escorted into a larger and much warmer room to face one of the Prime Minister’s assistants, a well-upholstered man whose look of ease belied his nature. It must have been well cultivated.
‘Morning, Pitt. Edom Talbot,’ he introduced himself. He was a burly man with a very ordinary face, except for remarkably penetrating eyes; it was impossible to tell if they were grey or brown. He was a man it might be easy to underestimate, but probably most unwise so to do. He did not invite Pitt to be seated, although there were two comfortable leather chairs near the fire, which was already burning up well.
‘Good morning, Mr Talbot,’ Pitt replied, trying not to sound wary.
Talbot wasted no time with niceties. ‘We’ve got a few nasty questions we don’t know how to answer. Can’t afford to be caught on the wrong foot again.’ He looked critically at Pitt. ‘I suppose we could say the fellow who asked them did us a kind of back-handed favour, though. Brought it to our attention, and we won’t be caught out this time.’ He stared at Pitt almost unblinkingly. ‘Expect the answers from you, sir. Or if not, then a damned good explanation that’ll do in the meantime.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pitt returned his steady gaze. ‘What were the questions?’
Talbot looked bland. ‘Good,’ he said with almost no tone in his voice. ‘Look at the press with that blankness. Know nothing.’ Then suddenly all the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened and his mouth went into a thin, flat line. ‘But don’t damned well try it on me, sir!’
Pitt felt his temper flame, but he controlled himself as if nothing had changed. He did not ask again for the questions but waited for Talbot to continue.
‘You’ve got your nerve, I’ll say that for you,’ Talbot observed. ‘Or else you’re too damned stupid to understand the issue. I suppose, God help me, I’ll find out which soon enough. Who is the woman whose body was found in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill? What happened to her, and how did she get there? What the hell has all this got to do with Dudley Kynaston? Or anyone else in his house? And when are you going to get this damn great mess sorted out? And most importantly, how are you going to keep the lid on it until you do? And if you can’t do the job, then tell me, and we’ll get Narraway back, damn his hide!’
With an effort, because he knew he must be careful, Pitt began at the beginning. ‘We do not know whose the body is.’ He measured his words and kept his voice unnaturally calm. ‘It is too far decomposed to be easily recognisable, beyond the fact that she was probably a lady’s maid, or a laundress of sorts.’
‘How do you know that?’ Talbot interrupted, his eyebrows raised.
‘Burn marks on her hands, such as you get in the use of a flat iron,’ Pitt said with satisfaction.
‘I see. Go on! How do you propose to find out who she is, then?’
‘By eliminating the possibility that it is Kitty Ryder, Mrs Kynaston’s maid,’ Pitt replied. ‘I presume that’s all you really want?’
Talbot grunted, but it was vaguely a sound of appreciation.
‘What happened to her is harder to ascertain,’ Pitt continued. ‘How she got there is not known, and may never be. Certainly she did not walk to the place where she was found. She seems to have been dead for some time before she was put there. Probably she was kept somewhere extremely cold. I dislike the thought of it, but it might be the time to examine Mr Kynaston’s cold rooms, ice house and so on, rather more thoroughly.’ He was satisfied with the look of extreme distaste in Talbot’s face.
‘As to what it has to do with Dudley Kynaston,’ Pitt said. ‘I am hoping that we can prove that it had nothing to do with him. And if the body is not that of Kitty Ryder, then there is no connection to him at all.’
‘If it’s as badly decomposed as you say, how the devil do you presume to prove that it is not her?’ Talbot asked, his eyebrows raised so high his forehead was ridged like a ploughed field.
‘By finding her somewhere else, alive and well,’ Pitt told him.
Talbot considered the reply for several moments.
Pitt waited. He had learned the value of silence, requiring the other person to speak first.
‘That would be the best possible outcome,’ Talbot said finally. ‘And the sooner the better. In your opinion, how likely is it that such will be the case?’
Pitt did not need to weigh that before answering. ‘Unlikely,’ he said grimly. ‘We may have to settle for identifying the body as someone else, for which we need luck as well as skill.’
Talbot nodded. He had expected as much. ‘Then what we need from you is that you find out, beyond reasonable doubt, preferably beyond any doubt at all, who this unfortunate woman is and how she met her death. If it has to do with Kynaston then prove it, but do nothing further. Report back to me before you act. Is that understood?’
‘I can’t order the police—’ Pitt began.
‘That is precisely why Special Branch will deal with the case!’ Talbot snapped. ‘Tell them whatever you want! Spies, secret docum
ents, whatever serves the purpose, but keep them out of it.’
‘We’ll be a lot longer finding Kitty Ryder alive without police help,’ Pitt pointed out, with a sharpness to his own voice.
Talbot gave him a long, cold stare. ‘Be realistic, man! The woman is dead. Identify her, or prove the body is someone else’s. And either prove Kynaston’s guilt, or his lack of connection to the whole affair. Report to me. If this woman is not his maid, then find out if this apparent connection to him is bad luck, or someone taking advantage of a miserable coincidence. Or worse than that, a deliberate ploy to implicate him. And if it is that, then we need to know by whom.’
‘And why?’ Pitt added with a touch of sarcasm.
‘I can work that out for myself,’ Talbot said tartly. ‘Report to me any significant progress that you make, and do so discreetly. I need all details. Do not stop until you have them.’
‘Exactly what is Kynaston doing that is so important?’ Pitt asked.
‘You do not need to know that,’ Talbot answered immediately, his eyes hard and angry.
‘I’m head of Special Branch!’ Pitt snapped, his temper rising at the annoyance, and even more the stupidity, of ordering him to search for answers and then keeping him half blind. ‘If you want me to do my job, then tell me what I need to know.’
‘You need to know what your instructions are,’ Talbot retorted. ‘If this is a piece of dramatic stupidity, we will deal with it accordingly. Thank you for coming so soon. Good day.’
Pitt did not move. He opened his eyes very wide. ‘Stupidity?’ he repeated the word as if it were meaningless. ‘Someone beat a young woman to death, concealed her body for three weeks, mutilated her face until it was unrecognisable, then dumped her in a gravel pit for wild animals to destroy. If that is regarded by Her Majesty’s Government as stupid, what does one have to do to be regarded as criminal?’
Talbot paled, but he did not flinch. ‘You have your instructions, Commander Pitt. Find the truth, sooner rather than later, and report it to me. Dispensing justice is not your job.’
‘I wish that were true,’ Pitt said bitterly. ‘Too often it is exactly my job. There is no time, and no discreet or legal way of doing it and allowing me to walk away and keep my conscience clear. Or perhaps that is something you were not aware of?’
Talbot’s face was white, mouth pinched at the corners. ‘Kynaston is of great importance to the Government, and his work is both secret and sensitive. It may even be the key to our survival in any future war. That is sufficient information for you. It is also highly confidential. If your staff don’t obey you without asking questions, then you have not the command of them that you should have. Now stop arguing the issue and making excuses. Do your job. Again, Commander Pitt, good day to you.’
‘Good day, Mr Talbot,’ Pitt replied with some satisfaction, even if it lasted no longer than it took him to reach the street. Regardless of what Talbot said, he needed all the information he could gather regarding Dudley Kynaston’s value to the Government, not only to find out what Kitty Ryder might have learned that made her dangerous, but who else might profit from Kynaston’s downfall, for any reason. And if he were actually innocent, then who had engineered his appearance of guilt? There was only one man to ask, and that was Victor Narraway. He would prefer to consult him without others, particularly Talbot, knowing he had done so.
Narraway, like himself, was one of the few people who owned a telephone in his own home. Since his forced retirement from the leadership of Special Branch, he had been elevated to the House of Lords, but that was more of a sop to his reputation than any opportunity to be of use. Previously he would not have been at home at this hour, but now there was a reasonable chance he would not have gone to the House of Lords, or to one of his clubs for luncheon. Such things grew stale quite quickly to a man of Narraway’s intelligence. Also, since he had no part in political affairs, he felt side-lined, no more of interest to those who used to hold him in awe. He had never said as much, but Pitt had heard it in his silences.
As it turned out, Pitt had to wait about half an hour for Narraway to return from a brief walk. Considering the weather, Pitt imagined he had gone at all only as a matter of discipline. Narraway had begun his career in the Indian Army, and the virtues of abstinence and hard, strict self-mastery had never entirely left him.
Narraway’s manservant offered Pitt a late luncheon, which he accepted gratefully, realising that he was actually quite hungry. He was just finishing an excellent slice of hot apple pie, served with cream, when he heard the sound of the front door closing, then Narraway’s voice in the hall.
Narraway came into the sitting room, having removed his overcoat. His thick hair was flattened a little where his hat had been, and his lean, dark face coloured by the cold.
He glanced at the plate where the apple pie had been, and which now held only Pitt’s folded spoon and fork.
‘You came for more than luncheon, I presume?’ he said with a slight lift of curiosity. He walked towards the fire, which was burning strongly where the manservant had added fresh coals. He stood in front of it from habit, holding his hands out to catch the heat.
‘Luncheon seemed like a good idea,’ Pitt replied with a tight smile. ‘Since I spent my own luncheon time being hauled over the coals in Downing Street by a rather officious man by the name of Talbot.’
Narraway straightened up, forgetting the fire. He stared at Pitt with interest. ‘I imagine you are at liberty to tell me what about, or you would not have come here? And it is both urgent and discreet, or you would have suggested luncheon at some restaurant. Please don’t disappoint me …’ He said it lightly, but Pitt caught the flash of emotion in it, the sincerity there, and then concealed again.
‘It seems a shame not to have you deduce what it’s about,’ Pitt said drily, in part to cover the fact that he had caught the moment’s vulnerability.
Narraway sat down in the chair opposite and crossed his legs elegantly, hitching the knee of his trousers not to spoil the line. ‘Have you got time to wait for that?’ he asked, his eyes bright with amusement.
Pitt smiled back. ‘No, I haven’t. Did you read about the young woman’s body found in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill?’
‘Of course. Why? Ah! I see.’ He sat forward again. ‘Is that what Somerset Carlisle was referring to in his questions to the House yesterday? I saw that headline on the sandwich boards as I passed. I admit I didn’t make the connection. Why the hell would Carlisle think a dead woman on Shooters Hill was anything to do with Kynaston, or might endanger him and his family? What danger? Who was the woman? What had she to do with him?’
‘Probably nothing,’ Pitt replied. ‘But his wife’s maid is missing, and she answers the description.’
‘Bit thin, isn’t it? Wouldn’t half the young women in Greenwich or Blackheath answer it?’ Narraway was looking at him steadily, waiting for the missing facts that made sense of it.
‘Taller than average, handsomely built and with thick auburn hair?’ Pitt asked. ‘Gone missing in the last three weeks? No, they wouldn’t. And the gravel pit is only a short walk from Kynaston’s house.’
Narraway nodded. It was so slight a movement it was barely visible. ‘I see. Are we supposing Kynaston was having an affair with this maid? Or that she learned something about either Mr or Mrs Kynaston so potentially damaging that Kynaston killed her? Seems a little drastic, and honestly pretty unlikely. But I suppose those are the ones that catch us out.’
‘Why does Carlisle care?’ Pitt countered. ‘Has he changed so much that he’d go after a man simply to make a point? What point could be worth that to him? And why Kynaston? We have far more vulnerable members of the Government than that! I could name half a dozen whose private lives would be open to question – if that were his purpose.’
Narraway’s mouth twisted in a wry smile, his black eyes bright. ‘Only half a dozen. For God’s sake, Pitt, where are your eyes?’
‘All right, a couple of dozen,’
Pitt conceded. ‘Why Kynaston?’
‘Opportunity,’ Narraway answered. ‘He was the one near whose house the corpse turned up?’ He pulled his mouth into a thin line. ‘I’m slipping. That isn’t a reason to raise the subject publicly. The real question is what for? What does he want?’ He thought in silence for a few moments before looking up at Pitt again. ‘Kynaston works for the War Office. But that’s extremely vague. I think we need to know a lot more precisely than that. If he’s open to blackmail because of some idiotic domestic affair, seemingly gone very badly wrong, then we should know about it. At least you should,’ he corrected himself. ‘And you need to know a lot more about Kynaston professionally.’
‘Don’t you know? I asked Talbot, and was told fairly tersely to mind my own business.’
‘Good,’ Narraway responded. ‘Then there’s something there. You’ll get the door shut in your face. I’ve got a few favours I can call in …’
‘Or threats you can hold over people,’ Pitt said a little bitterly. ‘I’m beginning to learn the power of this job.’
‘That’s the favour,’ Narraway answered. ‘I won’t carry out the threat. Lesson, Pitt – never carry out a threat unless you absolutely have to. Once it’s done, you’ve no more power with it.’
‘If I never do it, why would anyone believe that I would?’ Pitt asked reasonably.
‘Oh, you’ll have to, once or twice,’ Narraway assured him, a shadow passing over his eyes as if memory darkened them for a moment. ‘Just put it off as long as you can. I hated doing it – you’ll hate it even more.’
Pitt remembered a large party, a house full of laughter and music, and a scene where a man lay on a tiled floor, blood pooling out from the shot with which Pitt had killed him.
‘I know,’ he said almost under his breath.
Narraway looked at him with a moment’s intense compassion, then that too vanished.
‘I’ll see what I can find out about Dudley Kynaston,’ he promised. ‘Might take a couple of days. Keep on trying to identify your corpse. You might be lucky and find out it’s not your missing maid, but don’t count on it.’
