Death on Blackheath

by Anne Perry

  RANSOM RECEIVED HIM IMMEDIATELY. He was a quiet man, tall and thin with gray hair receding from a high brow.

  “I hoped you would not come,” he said, shaking his head a little. They were in his office, a large space, which he had managed to fill with books and papers. They were jammed in together on the shelves that lined three of the walls, and still they spilled over into piles on odd chairs, and even onto the floor. Pitt wondered how much he lost, or if actually he knew what every pile contained. From the steady eyes of the man and his gentle, precise voice, he imagined the latter.

  “I hoped so, too,” Pitt replied. They were both still standing. Somehow it did not seem the occasion to sit. “I’m afraid it is now necessary.”

  “Kynaston?” Ransom asked. “Or am I preempting what you have to say?”

  “No, you are actually making it easier,” Pitt said truthfully. “It is not yet proved, but I can see no alternative explanation for what I know.”

  Ransom was pale. “It appears I was denying what, if I was honest, I had already accepted was true. But I thank you for coming. Are you arresting him?”

  Pitt shook his head. “Not yet. I need proof before I blacken a man’s name. I don’t need to tell you that you should not allow him access to any further new material. And I need to have you tell the government of the information he could have passed to our enemies—or even our friends, for that matter.”

  Ransom smiled sadly. “When it comes to weapons of war, it is not always so easy to tell the difference. I have not had such a thing happen since I have been in charge here. Of course I have thought of it—one has to—but somehow the reality hurts more than I had foreseen. I like the man. What in God’s name can have made him do it?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Pitt answered. “We may never know.”

  Ransom looked at him, frowning, his face filled with misery. “I suppose you find this sort of thing again and again, in your profession. How do you go on trusting anyone? Or don’t you?” He stopped, searching to defend his idea in words. “Do you learn whom to trust? Is there some sense, some formula that you use? How do you know when a man you have liked and believed in for years is actually heart and mind serving someone else, something else, different sorts of ideals and beliefs altogether? Do you then doubt everyone else as well?”

  “No,” Pitt answered before he allowed himself to think of it. “Then you are allowing them to destroy you, as well as themselves. Over time and experience you make enemies, for lots of reasons, but you also make friends. People who will disagree with you openly, but never betray you to another, even when you are wrong.”

  Ransom said nothing.

  “Actually I like Kynaston, too,” Pitt added. “You might be pleased to know that Kitty Ryder, the maid who disappeared, is alive and well. I would prefer it that you did not make that public, for her safety.”

  Ransom sighed and rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead. “That’s something. Although it means some other poor woman is dead, whoever she is.”

  “We’ll give her a decent burial,” Pitt promised. “Both of them. Thank you for your time, sir.”

  Ransom shook his hand and Pitt left to begin the next step.

  NARRAWAY THOUGHT LONG AND hard about whom he should approach regarding the death of Bennett Kynaston, and the relationship he had had with his brother. Certain records were easy enough to find: birth, schooling, and university. He checked them, but it confirmed only what he already knew. The Kynaston brothers were wealthy, privileged in society, extremely well educated, and both of them of well above average intellect. Dudley was slightly the more serious of them; Bennett had the charm and was the one from whom all had expected great success. Nothing suggested tragedy to come.

  Nobody was going to be willing to give away secrets. Narraway knew from the beginning that he would have to find someone who owed him a debt the payment of which they could not afford to back out of. He found it distasteful to collect on a debt of help that had been freely given. Yet the only alternative was worse. The choice between good and bad was simple; anyone could make it without a moment’s hesitation. It was the choice between bad and what might or might not be worse that tested the judgment.

  And yet Narraway barely hesitated. He debated with himself all the way to see Pardoe, the man whose debt he was about to call in, but he did not digress from the path. A long time ago he and Pardoe had been in the army together. Pardoe had made a bad error. It was an honest mistake, but it would have looked like cowardice, and that would have ruined not only his army career, which he had not cared about so much, but his social career as well. “Coward” was a word that closed all doors irrevocably. Narraway had covered for him, at some risk to himself, although in the end he had not suffered any consequences. But since he had put himself at risk, the debt existed.

  He went to the offices in Whitehall where Pardoe worked and left him a brief, sealed message. Two hours later he and Pardoe sat down to dinner at Narraway’s club.

  Narraway approached the subject immediately. There was too little time to waste, and to begin with pleasantries would be almost insulting.

  “I need a little help from you,” Narraway began. “I wouldn’t ask if it were not of the utmost importance.”

  “Of course,” Pardoe responded, but already the shadow was across his face. He knew Narraway too well to imagine he was going to be given an alternative. Narraway had never asked anything of him before, and now the debt was due. Pardoe cleared his throat. “What can I do to help?”

  “Tell me about Bennett, Ailsa, and Dudley Kynaston,” Narraway replied.

  “What about them?” Pardoe was confused. “Bennett’s been dead for years. I think Dudley looks after her to some extent, for Bennett’s sake. He was devoted to him. But I’m sure you know that. It’s hardly a secret.”

  “Let’s start with how Ailsa and Bennett met. Was it through Dudley?”

  “Good heavens, no!” Pardoe was clearly surprised. “It was by chance, in Stafford, I think. Ailsa was over on holiday.”

  “Over? From where?”

  Pardoe was slightly surprised. “Sweden. Ailsa is Swedish. I think originally her name was Ilsa, and she changed it to the more Scottish-sounding name. I think she did not wish him to know she was Swedish.”

  “Why not?” Narraway was puzzled. “I thought both Bennett and Dudley loved Sweden?”

  “They did, until …” Pardoe was obviously embarrassed.

  Narraway could not afford to ignore anything. “Until what, Pardoe? I haven’t time for delicate answers.”

  Pardoe clenched his jaw, and there was a small muscle beating in his temple. He looked wretched.

  “Look, Narraway, this is all a long time ago, and a private tragedy. It happened when Bennett was on a trip to Sweden, and it can’t have anything to do with whatever you’re looking for. It wasn’t his fault. It could happen to anybody. You of all people should know that!”

  Narraway was surprised. “I should! Why?”

  “You’ve sown a few wild oats, and certainly used your charm to extricate yourself a few times.” There was an edge of bitterness in Pardoe’s voice.

  “Pardoe!” Narraway said sharply. He hated having to do this, but he was too good at it to find it difficult. “Stop mincing around and tell me the story.”

  Pardoe gave in. The weight of his obligation was something he could never have denied. He might have told any other man to go to hell, but not Narraway. Their relationship was old and deep.

  “Bennett was very charming,” Pardoe said quietly. “It was perfectly natural, not an act or something he turned on and off. He went for a long break, several months, to Sweden. He stayed with a family called Halversen. They all got along well, except that their younger daughter, Ingrid, was about fifteen. Lovely young girl, but a bit of a dreamer, very intense. I daresay we all are, at that age.” His face grew tighter, the muscles in his back strained.

  “Go on,” Narraway prompted.

  Pardoe resumed reluctantly
. “Ingrid fell in love with Bennett, and wrote him love letters that she never sent. He had no idea. When he finally found out, he was horrified. He had no intention of having anything but the occasional friendly conversation with a girl that age. He was about thirty at the time. Perhaps he wasn’t as gentle as he could have been, or maybe he was! Regardless, the result was that she felt rejected, humiliated, even deceived. She took her own life, rather dramatically. Drowned in a stream near the house, but it was definitely suicide. The family blamed Bennett and read her letters to mean that he had seduced and deflowered her, and she died of misery and shame.”

  “What a wretched tragedy,” Narraway said quietly, trying to imagine the pain of it, the misunderstanding, the hysteria of youth. “Is that why Bennett couldn’t go back to Sweden?” He was disappointed. It didn’t seem to be relevant to Dudley’s treason, but he could not tell Pardoe that.

  “Good God, no!” Pardoe gave a grating laugh. “The … family regarded him as a rapist and had him charged. The whole town was up in arms, and he was arrested pretty much for his own safety. The father was a man of some influence. Gradually he prevailed on the local authorities to make the charge stick, and bring Bennett to trial. He was painted as an arrogant foreigner who went around seducing young girls too decent and too innocent not to be taken in. Abuse of hospitality is one of the most morally repellent of crimes in a lot of cultures. It’s a betrayal of all that’s basically good. It’s practically a denial of God to some people—”

  “I know that!” Narraway cut across him. “What happened? Bennett died in England, didn’t he, so he must’ve made it back.”

  “Yes … yes. When Dudley heard of it he was frantic. He went to Sweden to do anything and everything he could to rescue the brother he adored.”

  “And succeeded?”

  “Yes. But at some cost. It turned into a very ugly battle, and Dudley finally found the help of a man called Harold Sundstrom, who had a great deal of influence. Sundstrom used all his power to get Bennett out on bail, and then helped him to escape out of the country altogether, and home to England. Then he persuaded the Swedish authorities to let the matter drop. He pointed out how much better it would be for the family’s reputation, especially that of poor Ingrid. He paid the local coroner, or whatever they’re called in Sweden, to say the death was accidental, and let the girl be buried in peace, without the stain of suicide.”

  “I see,” Narraway responded. What he saw was that Dudley Kynaston had saved the reputation, and possibly the life, of the brother he loved, and incurred a debt towards Harold Sundstrom that he would never be able to pay for the rest of his life—except by installments of treason, an inch at a time.

  Pardoe said nothing, but the answering emotion was in his face.

  CHAPTER

  17

  EARLY NEXT MORNING, PITT was sitting in his own kitchen with a cup of hot tea and fresh toast, butter, and marmalade. With him were Stoker, Narraway, Vespasia, and, of course, Charlotte. Minnie Maude was busy making more toast, holding the slices of bread on the toasting fork as close as she could to the open door of the stove where the coals were hottest.

  Narraway had already told them what he had learned about Ingrid’s death and the accusation against Bennett Kynaston, and how Dudley gained such a debt of honor by having Harold Sundstrom rescue him, possibly from death.

  “And Ailsa was the wife, and then widow, of Anders Sundstrom?” Charlotte said as it became clear to her. “So she is collecting Harold’s debt from Dudley?” She frowned. “Is Harold dead?”

  “No,” Narraway replied. “I’ve been up half the night checking various details with people I know. Harold Sundstrom is quite an important man. He was certainly alive and well a few days ago. He has a position in naval research …” He let that last sentence hang in the air, its implication clear.

  Pitt sat silently for a few minutes, turning over the pieces in his mind. “And Ailsa manipulated her dead husband’s brother into betraying his own country because she is a loyal Swede?” he asked thoughtfully. “Or to help her first husband’s father? That seems an odd division of loyalties.”

  “And a betrayal of Bennett as well,” Charlotte added. “Rosalind said that Ailsa was still so in love with him that she can’t consider marrying anyone else … but she is still having a sort of an affair with Edom Talbot.”

  Vespasia’s eyebrows shot up. “Edom Talbot? For heaven’s sake why? She’s a beautiful woman, certainly very striking. She could easily find someone of her own social class. And I think that would matter to her.”

  “Perhaps she loves him?” Narraway suggested.

  “No … she doesn’t!” Charlotte said quickly. “She finds him …” She struggled for a word that was exactly right.

  “Distasteful,” Pitt supplied it for her, remembering her description of the scene she had observed.

  Stoker looked puzzled, and with some embarrassment Charlotte told him what she had seen reflected in the mirrors.

  Instead of disapproval, which Pitt knew she had expected, Stoker’s face reflected a degree of admiration. “So she is still in love with Bennett Kynaston, her late husband; she is daughter-in-law of this Swedish chap in their naval department; and she is using Edom Talbot, who is close to our prime minister, and sometimes Dudley Kynaston, who is giving away our naval secrets to the Swedes,” he observed with incredulity. “It doesn’t make sense. Especially added to the fact that she was the one who was trying to hunt down Kitty Ryder. We’ve missed something.”

  “Rather a lot,” Narraway said bleakly.

  “Did Ailsa know anything about the connection between Bennett and Ingrid’s death?” Vespasia asked.

  “She had to,” Pitt replied. “It was her father-in-law at the time who rescued him, at some considerable labor and cost to himself.”

  Vespasia looked at him, her brow puckered in thought. “What was Ailsa’s surname before she married Anders Sundstrom?”

  Narraway pushed his chair back and stood up. “I shall find out. She is still a Swedish national, living here in Britain. It will be a matter of record. May I use your telephone, Pitt?”

  “Of course,” Pitt replied quickly. “It’s in the hall.”

  Narraway nodded and went out immediately. They heard his footsteps along the linoleum in the passage.

  No one spoke until he returned. Minnie Maude silently made another piece of toast and refilled the teapot with boiling water, the patter of Uffie’s claws on the floor behind her the only sound.

  When Narraway returned, the tension in his body and the look in his face gave him away.

  “Revenge,” he said simply. “Ingrid Halversen was her sister. She probably married Bennett Kynaston for the purpose of revenge, only before she could ruin him he died of what seems to have been natural causes. She carried her vengeance on to Dudley. After all, he was the one who rescued Bennett from what she saw as justice the first time.”

  No one argued, in fact no one said anything. It all made perfect sense now.

  Charlotte was the first to speak. “So she wanted to have an exquisite revenge, the disgrace as well as the ruin,” she said slowly. “I suppose she meant to get Dudley in beyond any way of extricating himself, and then she would have exposed him?”

  “Would have?” Vespasia said quickly. “Surely she still will do?”

  “We must prevent that!” Pitt responded. “It would do immeasurable damage to us. We would lose all respect, or credibility. Even our own navy would have no belief in us. Our allies, enemies—”

  “We understand,” Narraway cut him off. “She is having an affair with Talbot, but does not like him. Therefore she has another reason for it. Does it have anything to do with the information going from Kynaston to Sundstrom?”

  “What do we know about Talbot?” Pitt asked, speaking to himself as much as anyone else. He tried to put his personal dislike of the man out of his mind; his feelings were irrelevant, as was the fact that Talbot disliked him. He was surprised that it was Vespasia
who answered.

  “An ambitious man, who desires to belong to society, which will always see him as an outsider. Unfortunately he has allowed it to make him bitter …”

  Stoker looked at her quickly, but was too aware of his own status to make any remark. Pitt knew he was seeing her as someone exquisitely privileged who had never known exclusion from anything, let alone society itself.

  She caught his glance. “I am not approving of it, Mr. Stoker, merely observing it as possibly relevant to Mr. Talbot’s behavior. It may not be something you have thought of, but most women understand society’s exclusions. Some of us even wish to have a vote as to which government we live under, but that possibility does not seem to lie in the near future, regardless of our means, or intelligence.”

  She had spoken quite gently, but Stoker blushed scarlet. Clearly he had never given the matter any thought; it was simply a part of life, and had always been so. He lifted his chin a little higher and swallowed hard.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking directly at her. “You are right. I never thought of that.”

  She smiled back at him. “At least since the Married Women’s Property Act, I may own my own clothes.”

  He stared at her in amazement.

  She gave a wry, slight laugh. “You are too young to remember. I mention it only to persuade you that I do understand the anger at what one perceives to be totally unfair. I have some sympathy with Mr. Talbot. He is probably more intelligent and more able than many who will always be his superiors not because of ability or honor, but the circumstances of both. The tragedy is that he may have allowed that resentment to rob him of the positions within his reach. No matter how understandable it is, anger is still a poison, albeit one that works slowly, eating away at the judgment, at mercy, and eventually at life.” She suddenly became aware that everyone was looking at her, and she colored very faintly.