The thought was painful for a number of reasons. She did not regard Kynaston as a friend. She had met him perhaps half a dozen times, but she did know of his importance to the navy, even if not any of the details of his particular skills. Remembering his face, his voice, his pleasant but slightly detached manner, she found it hard to imagine any circumstances in which he would feel a sufficiently violent and totally uncontrolled emotion that he would sink to such an act. And why, for heaven’s sake? What could possibly be gained by it?
If his marriage were precious to him, would he have carried on a dalliance with a maid, however handsome she was? Even if his wife were too ill to offer him the usual comfort, or of a chill disposition and refused him, most men had more sense than to take their pleasure within their own households — if being discovered would be disastrous. However, such a thing would usually be regarded as shabby, but not ruinous. One could dismiss a maid easily enough. All it required was an accusation of petty theft, or even unseemly conduct. Many maids had found themselves on the street for less, and without a ‘character’ with which to gain another position.
The carriage slowed as traffic became more congested. It happened frequently but now it annoyed her because she was anxious to speak with Narraway.
It seemed far more likely that Kitty Ryder had been too clever and too observant for her own good. Even so, had she been reckless enough to try blackmail? What Pitt had said suggested that she was intelligent. A wise girl would have affected to know nothing, and expected in due course possibly to be rewarded for her loyalty and discretion — as she no doubt would have been.
According to Pitt, Kynaston had admitted having an affair, but with a woman of at least his own social class. But his wife’s lady’s maid was not in a position to know, surely?
Would it ruin the woman if it became public? Depending upon whose wife it was, that was indeed possible, if unlikely. Vespasia could think of a few candidates.
And of course there was the far more serious alternative: that the woman in question was the wife of someone who could ruin Kynaston’s career and thwart any ambitions he might have for higher office. No reason would ever be given. Some might guess, but that would not save Kynaston.
It was still a stretch of coincidence and imagination to connect it with the disappearance and probable death of Rosalind Kynaston’s maid.
The traffic cleared, and once again they were rattling through the early evening darkness. Vespasia could not shake the conviction that there was some other crucial part of the picture that she had not seen, something completely different that would change it entirely. It must be something that would explain why Somerset Carlisle, her friend for so many years, had asked questions in the House of Commons as to Dudley Kynaston’s safety, with regard to the apparent dramatic and brutal murder of one of his servants.
And now it appeared that Somerset had also most fortunately rescued Pitt from a profound embarrassment, and even fatal damage to his career, when facing Edom Talbot in Downing Street. His appearance, so perfectly timed, was explainable. If he had called Pitt’s office, as he had claimed, his staff would know where he was, because he would not have left without telling them. As for the other information, Somerset was a Member of Parliament, therefore anything known to the House of Commons might well be known to him, even if it were not said openly where the public might hear.
But there were other matters, like his apparently close following of the case of Kitty’s disappearance. Then there was the coincidence that a member of his constituency, which was many miles from Shooters Hill, should follow the case even more closely, and a drink at the Pig and Whistle, an hour’s journey from his home, in order to learn that Kitty had wanted a hat with a red feather in it. Then, according to Somerset, he had gone to a third area and bought just such a hat. He had also known where to place it, once again in Shooters Hill, in the right spot to have been missed by the police in their search around where the body was found, and yet still close enough that it was easy to believe it was hers.
And then there was the coincidence that someone found it, when only the red feather was noticeable in the surrounding mud and tussocks of dead grass.
No simple event in itself was unbelievable, just all of it together, particularly when coupled with the long history she knew of Somerset Carlisle. He had been willing to help Pitt, at her request, using his considerable influence in Parliament, even at times when it was embarrassing or inconvenient to himself. That had been true ever since Pitt had investigated the bizarre affair of the decently buried corpses which kept reappearing around Resurrection Row.
Of course Pitt had learned the truth, but he had chosen to ignore Carlisle’s part in it. He understood his motives, and had not denied even agreeing with them.
What could Dudley Kynaston have done drastic enough to warrant this? Whatever her character, which might make it more understandable, betrayal of a wife was ugly, but hardly unique. Certainly it was not motive to stir Somerset to such dangerous and macabre action.
Or was Vespasia wrong in suspecting Somerset’s involvement at all? She would very much like to think that it was the latter.
She arrived at the restaurant. It was one of Narraway’s favourites, small and elegant with windows that overlooked the river.
Narraway was already waiting for her, as she had expected. He was always fifteen minutes early, just to avoid any possibility of her having to wait for him. He rose to his feet and came towards her, his face lit with pleasure. He was still as lean and straight as when she had first met him, although his thick, black hair had more grey in it than even a year ago. He was a little taller than she, but she was tall for a woman, and carried every inch of her height as if she balanced a crown on her head.
He took both her hands, lightly, and kissed her on the cheek. Then he stepped back and regarded her with his usual intensity, as if he could read not her thoughts but her emotions.
‘Is it this miserable business of Pitt’s?’ he asked quietly as they were escorted to their table.
‘You know me too well,’ she replied. ‘Or have I been reduced to the periphery of social life where I can have no other anxieties?’ She said it with a smile. She intended to keep the conversation light. Oddly, she found herself nervous, not willing to trespass on to emotional ground.
‘I know you well enough to be perfectly aware that there are issues in society that might interest you, or annoy you,’ he answered. ‘But your heart is engaged only where you care. Which suggests your family … even if slightly extended.’ There was a flicker of something in his face that she could not identify, except as a kind of sadness, there and then gone again. Narraway had never married, and he had no family left. She had never thought it appropriate, or even kind, to enquire further. That there had been lovers come and then gone again, she knew perfectly well. It was not something one discussed.
They had been seated and ordered their meal before she answered his question.
‘Thomas is in something of a cleft stick,’ she said, sipping her wine, which had been brought just before the hors d’oeuvres. ‘The evidence seems to indicate that Dudley Kynaston is involved in this poor servant’s death, and yet they have no definite proof that the body is hers, even though they cannot find her alive. Kynaston admits to having an affair, but with someone of his own social rank, and Pitt does not believe he would kill anyone to conceal that.’
‘And you?’ Narraway asked, watching her reaction.
‘It seems a little … excessive,’ she replied. ‘And I agree, I had not thought Kynaston a man of such …’
‘Stupidity?’
‘I was going to say “passion”.’
‘Sometimes people have far more passion than they appear to,’ he said quietly, his eyes on her face, tracing the outlines of it as if to make it indelible in his mind. ‘Everyone else thinks them cerebral and a trifle cold because they keep their feelings hidden.’