It was Pitt’s duty to watch this man as he looked at the body, read all his emotions, however private or, for that matter, however irrelevant. He could not find justice or protection for the innocent without the truth. But he still felt intrusive.
It was also his duty to interrogate him now, while he was emotionally raw and at his most vulnerable.
‘Did Kitty often go out with the young carpenter?’ he began. ‘That was very lenient of Mrs Kynaston to allow her to. Or did she do it without asking?’
Norton stiffened. ‘Certainly not. She was allowed her half-day off, and she went out with him sometimes, just for the afternoon. A walk in the park, or out to tea. She was always home by six. At least … nearly always,’ he amended.
‘Did you approve of him?’ Pitt asked, now watching his face for the feeling behind the words.
Norton’s shoulders tightened — he stared straight ahead. ‘He was pleasant enough.’
‘Had he a temper?’
‘Not that I observed.’
‘Would you have employed him, if he had a domestic ability you could use?’
Norton thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I think I would.’ A faint smile crossed his face and vanished. Pitt could not read it.
They reached the morgue and alighted. Pitt paid the driver then led the way inside. He stayed close to Norton because he was afraid the man might faint. He looked white, and a little awkward, as though he were not certain of his balance.
As always, the place smelled of carbolic and death. Pitt was not certain which was the worse. Antiseptic always made him think of corpses anyway, and then of loss, and pain. He hurried without meaning to, and then had to wait for Norton to catch up when he reached the end of the passage and the door to the cold room that they wanted.
The attendant seemed to disappear into the grey walls, the sheet that had fully concealed the corpse in his hands. Now it was covered only as much as decency required. She looked even more broken and alone than she had lying sprawled out in the gravel pit on the freezing grass.
Norton gasped and choked on his own breath. Pitt took his arm to support him if he should faint.
There was no sound but an irregular dripping somewhere. Norton took a step closer and looked down at the body, the blotched and rotted flesh coming away from the bone, the hollow eye sockets, the ravaged face. The auburn hair was thick and tangled now, but it was still possible to see where clumps of it had been torn out.
Norton backed away at last, staggering a little, uncertain of his footing although the floor was even. Pitt still kept hold of him.
‘I don’t know,’ Norton said hoarsely. ‘I can’t say. God help her, whoever she is.’ He began to shake as though suddenly the cold had reached him.
‘I didn’t expect you would,’ Pitt assured him. ‘But you might have been able to say that it was not her. Perhaps the hair was wrong, or the height …’
‘No,’ Norton gulped. ‘No … the hair looks right. She … she had beautiful hair. Perhaps it was a little darker than that … but it looked … messy. She was always very careful of her hair.’ He stopped abruptly, unable to control his voice.
Pitt allowed him to walk away and go out of the room into the cold, tiled passage, then along to the door to the outside and the steady drenching rain that held nothing worse than physical discomfort. They still did not know if the woman from the gravel pit was Kitty Ryder, or some other poor creature whose name and life they might never learn.
The next morning Stoker finished all the enquiries he could make locally, and on leaving the police station in Blackheath he walked up the rise towards Shooters Hill. He was careful to keep his footing on the ice. Pitt had said little yet as to how they would approach the staff in the Kynaston house regarding Kitty Ryder. Stoker was surprised how much he still wanted to find her alive.
Without realising it he had increased his pace, and he had to steady himself. The footpath was treacherous. Perhaps someone could tell him a detail, a fact that would prove that the woman they had found in the gravel pit was not her, could not be, from some quirk or other: a birthmark, the shape of her hands, a particular pattern in the way her hair grew — anything. Maybe there was something the butler, Norton, had been too emotionally overwrought to notice.
It was all ridiculous. He knew that. One woman’s life was as important, as unique as another. He knew nothing about Mrs Kynaston’s maid, except what Pitt had told him. If he had met her he might have found her just as ordinary, as trivial, as the most unattractive person he knew. To allow his imagination to become involved was bad detection. He knew that too. Facts. Deal with the facts only. Allow them to take you wherever they lead.
He reached the areaway steps where he had first found the blood and broken glass. There was nothing there now. They had been swept clean, apart from a few iced-over puddles where endless feet coming and going had worn a dip in the stone.
He knocked on the door and after a few moments it was opened by Maisie. She looked at him blankly for a moment, then lit up with a smile when she recognised him.
‘Yer come ter tell us yer found Kitty, an’ the body in’t ’er at all?’ she said immediately. Then she screwed up her eyes and looked at him more closely. Her voice caught in her throat. ‘It in’t ’er — is it?’
She was only a child and suddenly Stoker, in his mid-thirties, felt very old.
‘I don’t think so.’ He meant it to sound gentler, but he was not used to softening the truth.
Her face crumpled. ‘Wot d’yer mean, yer don’t think so! Is it ’er or not?’
He resisted the temptation to lie, but only with difficulty. ‘We don’t think it’s her,’ he replied. ‘We just need to be sure. I have to ask all of you some more questions about her.’
She did not move aside. ‘Din’t Mr Norton go ter look at ’er?’
‘She’s in a bad way. It didn’t help a lot,’ he replied. ‘Can I come in? It’s cold out here, and you’re letting it all in with the door open.’
‘S’pose so,’ she said grudgingly, stepping back at last and allowing him to go past her into the scullery.
‘Thank you.’ He closed the door firmly behind him. The sudden warmth made him sneeze and he blew his nose to clear it. Then he smelled the onions and herbs hanging on the racks.
Maisie bit her lip to stop it trembling. ‘I s’pose yer want a cup o’ tea, an’ all?’ Without waiting for his answer, she led him into the kitchen where the cook was busy preparing dinner, rolling pastry ready to put on top of the fruit pie on the counter.
‘You got those carrots prepared then, Maisie?’ she said sharply before she noticed Stoker following. ‘You back?’ She looked at him with disfavour. ‘We only just got rid o’ yer gaffer. ’E bin ’ere ’alf o’ yesterday upsetting everyone. Wot is it now?’
Stoker knew how irritated people were when interrupted in their work, and least likely to tell you what you needed to know. He wanted them to be at ease, not merely answering what he asked, but filling in the details, the colour he could not deliberately seek.
‘I don’t want to interrupt you,’ he said, filling his tone with respect. ‘I’d just like you to tell me a little more about Kitty.’
Cook looked up from her pastry, the wooden rolling pin still in both hands. ‘Why? She ran off with that miserable young man of ’ers, didn’t she?’ Her face crumpled up with anger. ‘Stupid girl. She could ’a done a lot better for ’erself. Come ter that, she couldn’t ’ardly ’a done worse!’ She sniffed hard and resumed her smoothing and easing the shape of the pie crust.
Stoker heard the emotion in her voice, and saw it in the angry tightness of her shoulders and the way she hid her face from him. She had cared about Kitty and she was frightened for her. Anger was easier, and less painful. He knew from relatives in service, old friends he seldom saw, that few household servants had family they were still in touch with. If they stayed for any length of time the other servants became family to them, full of the same loyalties, squabbles, rivalries and intimate knowledge. Kitty might have been the closest this woman, bent over her pastry, would have to a daughter of her own.