Thomas & Charlotte Pitt 29 - Death On Blackheath (36 page)

She had not said anything – certainly not that she was Kitty Ryder, but he knew it as surely as if she had. It was there in her silence, and her fear. He understood that he should not take a step towards her.

‘My name’s Davey Stoker. I work for Special Branch. You don’t need to run any more. I’ll take you somewhere you’ll be safe …’

‘Prison?’ She shook her head sharply. Now she was shivering. ‘I won’t be safe there! The people after me are bigger than you! You don’t even know who all of them are!’

‘No! Not prison. Why would I put you in prison? You haven’t done anything.’ He knew exactly what he was going to do. ‘I’ll take you on the train, now, to my sister’s house. She’ll look after you. No one else will know, then they can’t tell anyone. You won’t be locked in. You can run, if you want to …’

‘Your sister? She in the police as well?’

He smiled. ‘No. She’s married with four kids. She doesn’t really know anything about Special Branch, except that I work there.’

‘You haven’t got a wife? They’d know to look there?’ she asked.

‘I haven’t got a wife. And I suppose they might. They wouldn’t know about Gwen. And it won’t be for long.’

‘Why would she do that? Take me in?’

‘Because I asked her to,’ he said simply. ‘We’re … close.’

She stood silent for a moment, then she made the decision. ‘I’ll come. But I haven’t got money for a train … not more than a few stops.’

‘I have. How about supper first? I’m starving. Do you like fish and chips?’

‘Yes … but …’

He understood. ‘It’s not on me, it’s on Special Branch.’ It was a lie, but he knew why she needed to believe it. She was probably hungry too.

She nodded and started to walk very slowly back towards the street. He caught up with her quickly and they walked side by side, close, but not touching, keeping step with each other.

Gwen did not hesitate to welcome Kitty. She took one look at Stoker’s face, and then at the fear and consciousness of obligation in the whole manner of the young woman with him, and opened the door wide.

‘Come in,’ she said, looking directly at Kitty. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea, then we’ll sort out a room for you. It’ll need a bit of juggling around, but it’ll work. Don’t stand on the doorstep, Davey! Come on inside!’

The warmth of the house wrapped around him immediately and as he watched Kitty’s face he saw her smile. Gwen took her up the stairs, calling back instructions to Stoker to put the kettle on.

An hour later, extra beds were made up for children to move in with each other, and told strictly not to sit up all night chattering. Gwen and her husband were sitting talking to each other in the kitchen, and Stoker sat with Kitty in the parlour, although it was chilly because the fire had only just been lit. It was a room used on special occasions, and it felt like it.

It was time for explanations.

‘What did you learn that made you leave in the night, without any of your clothes, or even a hairbrush?’ Stoker asked quietly, but with no allowance for evasion in his voice.

Kitty took a deep breath, stared down at her hands locked tightly in her lap, and began.

‘I worked it out that Mr Kynaston had a mistress. Once you think of it, it in’t that hard to see. Just little things, you know?’ She looked up quickly, then down again. ‘The way he explained where he was going, answering questions nobody asked, but not the ones they did, and you only realise it afterwards.’

‘You heard that?’ he interrupted.

‘Some of it,’ she replied. ‘Most gentry forget that servants have ears. They get so used to seeing us around, and mostly not speaking, they don’t reckon we can put anything together and understand. Or maybe they don’t care. If we want to stay in service we aren’t going to tell anyone. And it doesn’t matter what we think of them. I don’t think that’s part of anything …’

He was puzzled. ‘So what did you learn that was so bad?’

‘That his mistress was Mrs Kynaston … not his wife, but Mrs Kynaston as was the widow of his brother, the one whose picture hangs in the study, and he looks the way he does.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t that he was just taking care of her, because of his brother?’

She gave him the sort of glance Gwen did when he said something completely stupid.

‘If anybody took it on themselves to “take care of” me like that, I’d slap ’is face as hard as I could,’ she retorted. ‘Then I’d kick him as high up as my skirts’d let me.’

‘Oh …’ For a moment he could not think of anything suitable to say. He felt foolishly embarrassed. ‘Did he know you saw, and think you would tell his wife?’

She gave a slight shrug. ‘Don’t think so. I reckon as she pretty well knew for herself. An’ either way, she wouldn’t want to think I’d seen. Sometimes you’ve got to live with things, an’ the only way to bear it hurting you so much is to pretend that no one else knows.’

He studied her face in the firelight. He could see that she was frightened. She had told him only what she knew he would almost certainly have worked out for himself. It might be painful, immoral, but it was a common tragedy. Not even poets and dreamers imagined all marriages were happy, or faithful.

‘Miss Ryder … I need to know,’ he insisted. ‘Who are you afraid of? Knowing that Mr Kynaston was having an affair with his brother’s widow was unfortunate but – as you said before – servants know all kinds of things. Did you say something to him?’

Her eyes widened. ‘No! Wot do you think I am? A blackmailer?’ She was angry, but she was also hurt.

He could have bitten his tongue. ‘No, that’s not what I meant! I’m trying to get you to tell me why you ran away. Nothing you’ve said so far is more than a domestic unhappiness: deep, maybe, but nothing for Special Branch to care about, still less to threaten your life. What is it that makes that matter, Kitty?’

‘She were Mr Bennett’s wife,’ she answered, staring at him almost without blinking. ‘But before that, she were someone else’s wife … in Sweden.’

He blinked. ‘Does that matter? Or are you saying she was still married to him? Then her marriage to Bennett would be bigamous. Is there money involved? Did she inherit from Bennett?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. She seems sort of … comfortable, but not rich.’

‘And Mr Kynaston knew that you’d found that out? How did you find it out anyway?’

‘She were staying a day or two with Mrs Rosalind, like she did quite often. I had some cream for her, special made to keep ladies’ hands white and soft. I’d made enough for both ladies, an’ I took some to her.’ She was watching Stoker carefully, her eyes never leaving his face.

‘She has this ring she always wears, sort of wide and a bit flat, with stones set in it, but not like usual. Just little stones, and she never takes it off. But she had to for this, ’cos the cream would get in it, maybe even not be good for it.’

‘Go on,’ he urged.

‘I went in to turn the bed down, an’ she was sitting there using the cream on her hands. The rings were on the table by the bedside. I moved them in case the bedcover flipped over them and knocked them off. I saw what was inside the special one.’

‘What was it?’ His mind raced.

‘“Anders and Ailsa, July 1881 – and forever”,’ she answered. ‘I must have froze, because I looked at the mirror on the dressing table where she was sitting, and I saw her staring back at me. I wanted to say something but my tongue was stuck in my mouth and I felt the room was swaying round me like I was at sea. The look in her eyes, she would have killed me. Then I heard Mr Kynaston coming up the top o’ the stairs and along the landing. She changed all of a sudden like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and she were all sweet an’ gentle with him. I went out past him and down the stairs into the kitchen.’

‘How was she next time you saw her?’ Stoker asked.

Kitty’s face was pale. ‘I only saw her once, going across the hall. I heard her tell Mr Kynaston that there was something missing from the room, something valuable. I knew she was going to say as I took it.’ She closed her eyes, then opened them again suddenly, staring at him. ‘I did something stupid. I couldn’t afford to lose my place, or my character either. Nobody’s going to take on a maid who steals!’ she gulped. ‘I stopped and I said to Mrs Kynaston that I’d be happy to come with her and help her look for it. I looked straight at her when I said it, too. If what were written on that ring mattered that much, then let him see it too! She knew exactly what I meant, and she changed her mind. Said to him that she probably hadn’t brought it with her, and she was sorry for making a mistake. Then she looked daggers at me, and went on up to bed.’

He admired her courage, if not her sense.

‘Did you tell Mr and Mrs Kynaston about the ring?’ he asked.

‘No. I went to the kitchen and waited till everyone had gone to bed, then I just left.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘I went out the back door and just kept walking. It wasn’t that far to the pub, and I knew they’d put me up for the night, till I could get as far as Harry’s the next day. I knew he’d look after me. But it weren’t long before someone came asking questions, and I couldn’t stay. Not fair to him neither, because I didn’t want to marry him. I like him well enough, but not that much.’

‘And how did the blood and hair get onto the steps from the areaway to the street? And the broken glass?’

She looked down, clearly embarrassed.

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he said quietly. ‘I have to know.’

She raised her eyes. ‘I’m not lying! Everything I told you was true.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Mrs Ailsa came after me into the kitchen. I knew she was ’oping to get me. She had a glass in her hand and she was smiling. I ran for the back door and she came after me. We fought on the steps. It was my hair she pulled out, but her blood … Just from her finger where she broke the glass. I didn’t hurt her, I swear! I didn’t even try—’

‘I know,’ he said quickly. ‘Thank you. I don’t know why it matters enough to come after you, but it must have something to do with what we suspect about treason. You stay here with Gwen. Don’t tell anybody else about this – in fact don’t talk to anyone at all until I tell you it’s all right.’

She looked at him. ‘What happens if you don’t catch them?’

‘I will catch them,’ he said a little rashly. ‘I always catch them. But I’m not alone. There are lots of us. Just stay safe here.’ He stood up. ‘Gwen’ll look after you until I come back again. I may not do that for a little while. I’ll be busy, and … and you’ll be safe if no one knows you are here. Gwen’s name’s different from mine. No one around’ll connect her with me. Please … do as I say!’

She nodded, her eyes suddenly filling with tears as she realised that for a little while, at least, she was safe.

He said good night to Gwen and her husband in the kitchen, and thanked her again. Then he went out into the night smiling to himself, his step light, the ground easy under his feet.

Pitt telephoned Narraway at home and was told that he had gone to the House of Lords. An hour later he had received a message from Narraway, in answer to his request. They met on the Embankment. It was still only a little past ten in the morning and the March wind had a new softness to it. It was easy to believe that spring would begin in a day or two.

Briefly Pitt told Narraway what Stoker had told him when he had arrived at Keppel Street a minute or two after seven. Narraway listened as they walked, without interrupting.

‘Then it seems inescapable that Ailsa Kynaston is the force behind Dudley’s betrayal of his country,’ Narraway said when Pitt had finished. ‘The questions are why, and to whom is he giving the secrets of our naval submarine plans, which possibly cover the whole area of weapons, on which our survival might depend! We need to know a hell of a lot more about her!’

‘And Bennett,’ Pitt added. ‘Perhaps about his death. It may be irrelevant, but it more likely has something to do with it. And we need to do it very quickly.’

Narraway gave a brief, tight smile. ‘I hadn’t thought you were telling me simply to satisfy my curiosity. That would have done over dinner, when you had the solution.’

Pitt made no excuses. ‘You have connections I don’t, people you know who won’t trust me yet. I’m going to speak to Sir John Ransom and find out exactly what Kynaston has knowledge of, and see what I can learn from him. I’ve got to discover where the information is going, and through whom. What a mess!’

‘Be careful how you tell Ransom,’ Narraway warned. ‘He may find it very hard to believe. The whole Kynaston family has been highly respected for several generations.’ His face pinched as he said it, imagining the grief, the refusal to accept what would in the end prove to be unavoidable.

‘He already has a good idea of it,’ Pitt replied, remembering Carlisle’s account, and his sadness for a friend betrayed. He turned and smiled at Narraway, a mirthless means of communicating that he had no intention of telling him how he knew. It was not that he did not trust Narraway, but that he did not want to place on him the burden of keeping it from Vespasia. Neither of them yet knew where this was going to lead.

Narraway did not press him.

‘I’ll let you know immediately,’ Pitt added, coming to a stop along the path. The wind off the river was still cool, the bright sun on the water deceptive. ‘Tell me if you learn anything new that would help.’

Pitt recalled Kynaston’s study and the paintings he had said were of Sweden, several of them clearly attached to memories. He mentioned them, then thanked Narraway and turned to walk back to Westminster Bridge. He was not looking forward to having to tell Ransom what he now knew, but since it was unavoidable, the sooner it was done, the better. This was his job, one of the darkest sides of it.

Ransom received him immediately. He was a quiet man, tall and thin with grey hair receding from a high brow.

‘I hoped you would not come,’ he said, shaking his head a little. They were in his office, a large space, which he had managed to fill with books and papers. They were jammed in together on the shelves that lined three of the walls, and still they spilled over into piles on odd chairs, and even on to the floor. Pitt wondered how much he lost, or if actually he knew what every pile contained. From the steady eyes of the man and his gentle, precise voice, he imagined the latter.