Pitt looked at him more closely, and for an instant saw, behind the defences of anger and a quiet belligerence, the sense of helplessness and pity for the agony of a stranger now beyond his help. Whistler was embarrassed by his own grief, and hid it behind a bitter professional detachment. Pitt wondered how often he had to do this sort of thing, and why he had chosen it instead of a practice with the living.
‘Thank you,’ Pitt said gravely. ‘If I learn anything that might be useful to you I’ll see that you are informed.’
Outside again he walked quickly. The air was cold and had the sting of sleet in it, its odour was the sourness of soot and smoke, the smell of horse dung and swift-running gutters, impersonal, ordinary, but he breathed it in with relief.
Questions were teeming in his mind. Who was she? Was it Kitty Ryder, or someone else who happened quite by chance to resemble her, at least superficially? How had she died? And where? Had she remained where she was killed, or been moved first somewhere safer, and then last night taken to the gravel pit? Why? What had necessitated that?
If he knew where she had been, would that tell him also who she was? And therefore quite possibly who had killed her, how and why?
As he came to the first major street corner he saw the newspapers for sale. The black headlines were already up — ‘Mutilated corpse found on Shooters Hill! Who is she? Police are keeping silent!’
They were like hounds on the scent of blood. Inevitable, even necessary, but he flinched at it all the same.
But then without Zebediah Smith’s dog they would not have found the poor woman before there was far less of her left — less chance of identifying her, less chance of finding out what happened to her and who was responsible.
He hoped profoundly that it was not Kitty Ryder — but he knew it probably was.
Chapter Three
It was well after five by the time Pitt was again in the Kynaston house, this time standing in the morning room opposite Kynaston himself. It was dark outside by this hour, but the fire had probably been lit all day and the room was warm. In other circumstances he might have appreciated the elegance of the furniture, the books on the many shelves, even the paintings. They were a curious choice, most of them snow scenes, clearly not anywhere in Britain by the scale and magnificence of the mountains. There was a soaring beauty to them, and yet a detail as if the artist were familiar with them. He wondered why Kynaston had chosen them, but today he was too preoccupied to give them more than a glance.
Kynaston was waiting for him to speak. He stood in the middle of the thick Turkish carpet, his face tense and puzzled.
‘I expect you have heard already,’ Pitt began. ‘There has been a body found early today, before dawn, at the gravel pit to the east of here. It’s that of a young woman, but it is so damaged that it is not possible to make an immediate identification. I am very sorry, but we cannot say if it is Kitty Ryder or not — at least not yet.’
Kynaston was very pale, but he kept his composure, even if it was with difficulty. ‘I take it from the way you phrase it that it could be. Do you believe that it is?’
‘I think it is probable, yes,’ Pitt admitted, then instantly wondered if perhaps he should have been more cautious.
Kynaston took a deep breath. ‘If she is unrecognisable, poor creature, why do you believe it may be Kitty?’
Pitt had seen people fight the inevitable before. It was the natural instinct to deny tragedy as long as possible. He had done it himself, but had always had to give in in the end.
‘She is the same general height and build as Kitty,’ he replied quietly. ‘Her hair is auburn.’ He saw Kynaston’s body tense even more and the muscles along his jaw tighten. ‘And she had in her pocket a lace-edged handkerchief with the letter “R” embroidered on it,’ he continued. ‘Your butler says Mrs Kynaston has some like it, and that she occasionally gives away old ones.’
There was a long moment’s silence; then Kynaston straightened his shoulders a little. ‘I see. It does seem … probable. Nevertheless we shall not leap to conclusions. I would be obliged if you did not tell the rest of the household that it is Kitty … until there is no doubt left. Then we shall have to deal with it. My butler and housekeeper are both excellent people. They will help the more emotionally affected of the staff.’
Pitt took the gold watch out of his pocket and saw Kynaston’s eyes widen and the colour drain from his face. ‘This was found on the body also,’ he said very quietly. ‘I see you recognise it.’ It was not a question.
‘It … it’s mine.’ Kynaston’s voice was a croak, as if his mouth and lips were dry. ‘It was taken out of my pocket a couple of weeks ago. Somewhere on the street — damn pickpockets! The fob and chain were taken too. Kitty didn’t take it — if that’s what you’re thinking!’
Pitt nodded. ‘I see. I’m afraid it happens. Now, I would like to speak to both your wife and your sister-in-law, if that is possible. I appreciate that they too will be distressed, but either of them may have knowledge that would help us.’
‘I doubt it.’ Kynaston’s mouth pulled down in a gesture of distaste. ‘I think you would learn more from the other maids … if anything is known at all. Girls talk to each other, not to their mistresses. You surely don’t imagine Kitty would have spoken to my wife about her … romance … if we could use that word for such a liaison.’
‘I was not thinking of confidences so much as your wife’s observations of Kitty,’ Pitt answered. ‘My own wife is a very good judge of character. I imagine Mrs Kynaston is also. Women see things in other women, whatever their social station. And no woman who runs a house well is ignorant of the character of her maids.’
Kynaston sighed. ‘Yes, of course you are right. I wished to spare her this distress, but perhaps it is not possible.’
Pitt smiled a trifle bleakly, knowing in his mind exactly how Charlotte would have reacted had he tried to conceal such a thing from her. ‘If you would be good enough to ask her to give me half an hour or so of her time …’
‘What about the other maids?’ Kynaston did not move. ‘Or the housekeeper? Female staff are her concern.’
‘I will have Sergeant Stoker speak to them, when he is finished with the scene of the … discovery, and with the local police.’
‘I see,’ Kynaston said thoughtfully. ‘I see.’ Still he hesitated.
This time Pitt did not help him. He had long learned that silence can betray people as much as words, sometimes in the subtlest of ways.
‘I …’ Kynaston cleared his throat. ‘… I would like to be present when you speak to her. My wife is … is easily distressed. If indeed it is Kitty, she will take it extremely hard.’
Pitt did not want Kynaston there, but he had no excuse to deny him at this point. Had it been Charlotte, at the time when Gracie Phipps had been with them, she would have been distraught at the idea of her having been hurt at all, let alone beaten to death. For that matter, so would Pitt himself. Even their new maid, Minnie Maude Mudway, had found a large place in their affections already.
‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘I shall be as discreet as possible.’ He was about to explain further, and realised he was being gentler than was wise. If the body was that of Kitty Ryder, then a great deal of pain, possibly even of embarrassment, was inevitable.
Kynaston excused himself and returned twenty minutes later with not only Rosalind Kynaston, but his sister-in-law, Ailsa, as well. Both of them were immaculately dressed as if ready for an evening outing.
Rosalind wore a beautifully tailored costume of dark blue. It was a cold colour for winter, but with pale lace at the throat it became her well enough. There was a dignity in her manner, though she was gaunt and when she met Pitt’s eyes her hand instinctively reached out to clasp on to something. Kynaston offered his arm, and she ignored it.