‘I don’t know,’ Pitt responded. ‘Obviously there are many things we do not know, and we need to learn them as soon and as completely as possible. Stoker will do all he can to learn about Kitty and to follow up on the young man she was courting, in the possibility that she is alive and well, or if not, that it was he who killed her, or someone she met after she left here …’
‘And you?’ Kynaston asked hoarsely.
‘I shall do what I can here, on the much worse assumption that the body is hers, and that she was killed because of her associations here.’ He met Kynaston’s eyes and saw the fear in them. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘But the scrutiny is bound to be close — and unpleasant. The only defence is to be prepared.’
Kynaston leaned back in his chair slowly and let out his breath. ‘All right. What is it you wish to know? I hope you will have the decency to keep my wife out of this as much as possible.’ That was a statement, almost an order.
‘As much as possible, of course,’ Pitt agreed, thinking how different Rosalind Kynaston was from Charlotte. Charlotte would resent being kept out of it, protected from reality, as she would see it. And she would unquestionably think the murder of a servant in her house to be her business.
‘Murders have motive,’ Pitt said. ‘And usually some event that caused them to happen at the time and place in which they did. I would like to see your diary, and that of Mrs Kynaston, for the two or three weeks before Kitty disappeared, please, sir.’
‘Neither my wife nor her engagements can have any effect on-’ Kynaston began.
Pitt raised his eyebrows very slightly. ‘You think Miss Ryder’s death may have more to do with your life than with your wife’s?’ he said with some surprise.
‘I don’t think it has anything to do with this house at all!’ Kynaston snapped. ‘It is you who are supposing it.’
‘No, sir, I am supposing that the police and the newspapers will take a close, and possibly prurient interest in all events in this house, and we need to be able to answer every question, preferably with corroboration, even with proof, before they are allowed to do that in print.’
Kynaston flushed. He picked up a leather-bound book from the desk near his elbow and passed it across to Pitt.
‘Thank you.’ Pitt took it and rose to his feet. ‘If you can give me a place where I can read it, or take any notes that are necessary, I’ll return it to you before I leave. Perhaps you would be kind enough to lend me Mrs Kynaston’s diary as well, then I can accomplish this exercise all at the same time?’
Kynaston’s face tightened. ‘I can’t see how it can help anything, but I suppose you know what you’re doing.’ He did not sound as if he believed it. ‘My appointments are quite public.’
Pitt thanked him without adding anything.
Norton offered him a small, rather chilly room, which appeared from its furnishings to be a sitting room for summer use, facing on to the garden, and without a fireplace. Pitt thanked him as if he had not noticed the cold.
He read through both the diaries, making notes. He was looking not for Kynaston’s social engagements so much as where they were the same as Rosalind’s and where they were not, and for any discrepancies. He found a few, but they were easily explained as carelessness, even misreading of Kynaston’s own handwriting, the mistaking of a 5 for an 8, a date or an address wrongly copied down.
He smiled as he read Rosalind’s more casual accounts of invitations, and side notes as to what to wear, and why. She was apparently aware that Kynaston was making excuses about certain functions he chose to avoid.
There were also notes in the back of his diary as to purchases, gifts and invitations. Kynaston had a weakness for good brandy and cigars, membership of clubs Pitt knew were extremely expensive, first-night tickets for the best theatres and operas, several appointments with a very good tailor indeed. He was a man who cared about his appearance, and was not loath to indulge his tastes.
There were a few errors and one or two omissions, but it seemed natural for the unedited diaries of a man with very human foibles. Had all details been exact, it would have raised Pitt’s suspicions.
Thoroughly chilled, but determined not to show it, he returned the diaries to Norton and took his leave.
Outside he walked briskly to get warm again, and while irritated that he had found nothing of value, he could not help a certain liking for Dudley Kynaston, and a feeling that perhaps Rosalind was a more interesting woman than her rather colourless appearance suggested.
Chapter Five
Two mornings later, and well into February, Pitt was at his desk reading reports regarding a case in Edinburgh when Stoker knocked. Almost before Pitt had replied, he came in and closed the door behind him. His face was grim and flushed from the sting of the wind in the street.
‘Have you seen the billboards this morning, sir?’ he asked without preamble.
Pitt felt the warmth of the room fade. ‘No, I came by hansom. I wanted to be early and deal with this business in Edinburgh. Why?’ He named his worst fear. ‘They haven’t identified the body as Kitty Ryder, have they?’
‘No, sir.’ Stoker never exaggerated the suspense, which was a quality about him that Pitt valued. ‘But apparently one of the Members of Parliament raised rather a lot of questions about the body we’ve got, and asked what are we doing to ascertain if it is her or not.’
Pitt was stunned. ‘In Parliament?’ he said incredulously. ‘Have they nothing better to do?’ A flicker of expression crossed Stoker’s face and disappeared too rapidly to be readable.
‘“Can the Prime Minister assure us that everything possible is being done to protect not only the safety but the reputation of Mr Dudley Kynaston, a naval inventor of great importance to the safety and welfare of this country?”’ he quoted. ‘That sort of thing, then others asking about his family’s safety, and so on.’ His eyes met Pitt’s squarely; there was no hostility in them, only questions.
Pitt put away the papers to do with the case in Edinburgh. He swore fiercely, and without apology.
‘Exactly my opinion, sir,’ Stoker agreed. There might or might not have been amusement in his eyes.
‘Who was it who was asking these … questions?’ Pitt enquired. ‘Doesn’t the idiot realise that by asking them in Parliament, where they will be reported by the press, he is making Kynaston’s vulnerability all the greater? Sometimes I wonder who the devil elects these people! Don’t they ever look at them first?’
‘That’s rather the trouble, sir,’ Stoker said grimly.
‘Elections?’
Again the smile touched Stoker’s lips, then vanished. ‘No, sir, that’s a separate problem altogether. The MP in the case was Somerset Carlisle, who is really rather good.’
Pitt drew in his breath to respond, and let it out again in a sigh. He would not have described Somerset Carlisle as ‘rather good’. He was brilliant, eccentric, and personally loyal, even when at great cost to himself. He was also unpredictable, unreasonable and beyond anyone’s control, as far as Pitt knew. Even Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould herself, whose friend he had been for years, seemed to exercise very little influence over him.
Stoker was still waiting, but his face reflected his awareness of at least some of the ghosts he was awakening. Pitt hoped fervently that it was not all of them. The whole issue of the supposed resurrectionists should remain well covered over — in fact, completely buried. The long-ago episode in his career involved Somerset Carlisle and corpses that would not remain buried. Stoker did not know of it, or the nature of the detection and scandal it had caused. Pitt would very much rather it remained that way. But if Carlisle were willing to have Pitt, or anyone else, open it up again, then this must be of overpowering importance to him.
‘Perhaps I had better go and see Lady Vespasia.’ Pitt stood up and moved towards the coat stand in the corner of the room. ‘It’s a bit late to get ahead of this, but I’d like to be as close behind as possible.’