Pitt wanted to argue, to point out that the issue was not finished yet, and it was too soon to assume it settled. But he had been dealing with crimes and investigation all his adult life. He understood both gossip and authority. He had learned how to use them, not always successfully. Reason agreed with the young man, instinct spoke against him. It had not been phrased so, but he knew this was an order. It was part of his new position that he should not require anything blunter.
‘Of course,’ he said quietly. ‘Good evening.’
The young man smiled. ‘Good evening, sir.’
Pitt was later home than he had wished to be, and he found that the rest of the family had already eaten dinner. Charlotte, however, had waited for him. She offered him the choice of the kitchen or the dining-room table, and he chose the kitchen. It was warmer, both literally and in the sense that it was the room at the heart of his family’s life. Their closest friends had sat around this table in anxiety, working on desperate challenges, in grief when they seemed beaten, and in celebration when victory was grasped.
Now he ate hot beef stew with vegetables, lots of onions, and dumplings.
The discovery of the woman’s body in the gravel pit was in no way secret, reported, as it had been, in the newspapers. Of course the usual speculations had accompanied the few known facts.
‘Is it the missing maid?’ Charlotte asked, leaving her own portion of stew untouched.
‘I wish I knew,’ he replied when he had swallowed his mouthful.
‘Are they going to admit it, if it is?’ She looked at him directly, demanding his attention.
He smiled in spite of himself. He should have known she would say that, or something like it. She had learned to curb her tongue over the years, but never her thoughts, and never with him.
‘Not if they can help it,’ he replied.
‘Will you go along with that?’ she persisted. ‘I suppose you’ll have to. Is Kynaston really so important? Thomas, for heaven’s sake, do be careful.’
He heard the sudden gravity in her voice and realised she was genuinely afraid for him. She had been proud when he was promoted, and never for an instant doubted he was able to fill Narraway’s position. Furthermore, until now she had concealed almost completely her understanding of the danger of it. Or was it that he had never told her the worst? There were whole areas he could not speak of, not as he had in the past when he was merely a policeman.
‘My dear, it is simply a missing maid,’ he said gently. ‘It seems she ran off with a rather unpleasant young man who had been courting her. If it is her body in the gravel pit, it is a tragedy. But regardless of who it is, it is a young woman dead. The fact that she used to be Mrs Kynaston’s maid — if it is her — draws attention to him it would be better to avoid, no more.’
She waited for a moment, then relaxed and smiled. ‘I saw Emily today.’ Emily was her younger sister, now married to Jack Radley, for some time a Member of Parliament. ‘She knows Rosalind Kynaston slightly. She says she’s very quiet and frankly rather boring.’
Pitt took another mouthful before he replied. ‘Emily is easily bored. How is she?’ He had not seen Emily since Christmas, now six weeks ago. Once she and Charlotte had helped in some of his more colourful cases, particularly those involving the wealthy and socially prominent, where they had access, while he, as a policeman, was sent round to the servants’ entrance. It felt like a long time ago now. Emily’s first husband had had both wealth and title, and had died tragically. For a short and desperate time in her life, Emily had been suspected of his murder. That, too, was well in the past.
Charlotte shrugged very slightly. ‘You know how it is in winter.’
He waited, expecting her to add something. Instead, she stood up, went to the stove, lifted a treacle pudding out of its steaming pan and turned it out, upside down on to a large plate, watching with satisfaction as the rich, melted golden syrup ran down its sides. She knew it was one of his favourites. There was nothing more satisfying at the end of a long, cold, wet day. He found himself smiling in anticipation, even though he was quite aware that she had deliberately evaded his question about Emily, which had to mean that there was something wrong.
Chapter Four
It was two more days before Pitt heard from the police at Shooters Hill — or to be more precise, from the police surgeon, Dr Whistler. He received a short note, sealed in an envelope and delivered by a messenger who did not wait for an answer.
Pitt read it a second time.
Dear Commander Pitt,
I have further examined the body of the woman found in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill. I have learned a number of facts, not previously visible, which change the situation quite fundamentally. It is my duty to report these to Special Branch so you may act as you believe appropriate in the interests both of the state, and of justice.
I shall be in my office in the morgue for the rest of the day, and at your service.
Yours sincerely,
George Whistler, MD
Pitt obeyed the summons immediately. His first thought was that Whistler had found some way of being certain that the body was indeed Kitty Ryder, and her death was murder, and connected to the Kynaston house.
There was nothing to keep him at Lisson Grove. The matters in hand were all routine and very capably handled by others. He informed the appropriate people where he was going. Fifteen minutes later he was in a hansom on the long, traffic-clogged journey first to the river, across Westminster Bridge, then eastwards to Greenwich and the morgue. He was cold and uncomfortable in the hansom. He had several miles to cover, and the ice on the roads made the journey even slower than usual.
Finally he stood in Whistler’s office. His coat was on the stand by the door and the warmth slowly seeping back into him, thawing out his hands and allowing his tense shoulders to ease a little.
Whistler had lost the slightly aggressive air he had had earlier. In fact he looked distinctly unhappy, as if he did not know how to begin.
‘Well?’ Pitt prompted him.
Whistler was also standing, but closer to the fire. He pushed his hands hard into his trouser pockets. ‘Rather a lot of things, I’m afraid,’ he replied. ‘On more detailed examination of the body, it became apparent that she had died considerably earlier than I had thought from the degree of decay …’
Pitt was confused. ‘Don’t you tell the time a person has been dead from the degree of decay?’
‘Will you let me finish?’ Whistler snapped, his temper fraying at the first touch.
Pitt realised with a jolt that the man was more than merely annoyed with himself for having to alter his diagnosis. Something was disturbing him more deeply, even brushing him with a kind of dread.
Whistler cleared his throat. ‘Bitterly cold temperatures, below freezing, can delay the process greatly, even put it off altogether, if they persist without break. This is why people keep ice houses for meat storage.’ He hesitated, but Pitt did not interrupt again.
‘This body was kept at or below freezing for some time, and the decay was slight. But she was not kept at the place where we found her. In fact she was not in the open at all, or scavenging animals would have got to her — at the very least, insects would have. Therefore she was in a very cold and completely enclosed place. Do you follow me so far?’
‘You mean such as in somebody’s ice house?’ Pitt prompted.
‘Precisely. We already know from witnesses that she was not where we found her, because it is close to a public footpath, used very infrequently, particularly at this time of year, but all the same, still used, and by people with dogs. I had assumed she had been placed there during that night — moved from wherever she was killed perhaps a day or two before, even a week.’ Whistler was watching Pitt closely. ‘It seemed to make sense that possibly someone killed her, in an unplanned attack, and then had to consider how to dispose of her body. It took him a few days to find a way of getting her up to the gravel pit unseen, and considering the circumstances, without anyone else’s assistance.’