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.’
‘A reasonable assumption,’ Pitt agreed. ‘No longer tenable?’
Whistler grunted and let his breath out between his teeth. ‘I examined the body very closely for the cause of death. While doing so I realised that the decay was much further advanced than I had supposed from the exterior. She had been kept somewhere extremely cold and …’ he took a deep breath before continuing, ‘… and she had been cleaned up quite a lot after the injuries that caused her death …’
‘What?’
Whistler glared at him. ‘You heard me correctly, Commander. Someone made an attempt to clean her up, then instead of disposing of her, kept her body somewhere very cold, but thoroughly sealed so no scavengers found her. Therefore it was not in an ordinary outhouse, even in this weather. Most of the damage we saw, particularly to her face, was indeed done with a very sharp blade of some sort, including the removal of the eyes … and the lips. It was not animal depredation occurring during the one night she lay exposed in the gravel pit. And don’t waste your time asking me for an explanation. I can only tell you the facts. Understanding them is your business, thank God!’
‘And the cause of death?’ Pitt felt cold again, in spite of the bright fire.
‘Extreme violence,’ Whistler replied. ‘Blows hard enough to break her bones, specifically her shoulder blade, four ribs, the humerus in her left arm, and her pelvis in three places. But that was some time before the mutilations to her face. That is my point!’ He glared at Pitt, his outrage aching for any other answer. ‘Ten days at the absolute minimum.’
Pitt was appalled. It was one of the most savage beatings he could imagine. Whoever did it must have been completely insane. No wonder Whistler looked so wretched. If she were a prostitute it was no ordinary quarrel she had fallen victim to, it was an attack by a raving madman. If he could do that once, how long would it be before he did it again?
Suddenly the room seemed not warm and comfortably protected from the elements. It was more like a suffocating, airless imprisonment from the clean, driving sleet outside, and he longed to escape into it.
‘What with?’ he asked, his voice wavering a little. ‘What did he use?’
‘Honestly?’ Whistler shook his head. ‘This side of a lunatic asylum, I would say he ran her down with a coach and four. Hard to tell after the passage of time, and I’d say it’s been three weeks or so by now. Some of the injuries could have been caused by horses’ hoofs or carriage wheels. Considerable impact, from several directions and it could have happened all at once, like horses panicking.’
A momentary fury welled up inside Pitt. The man could have told him that in the first place. Hideous accidents happened. The damage and the pain were the same, but the horror was nothing like that of imagining a homicidal human being doing such a thing deliberately. He longed to actually hit Whistler, which was childish and he was ashamed of himself. Nevertheless it was true. He clenched his fists and kept his voice level, even if it was tight and grated between his teeth.
‘Are you saying that this woman’s death could have been a traffic accident, and not a crime at all, Dr Whistler?’
‘It could have been any number of things!’ Whistler’s answer rose to all but a shout. ‘But if it was a traffic accident, why in God’s name was it not reported to the police?’ He waved his arms wide, only just missing the bookcase. ‘Where the devil was she for two or three weeks? Why put her out in one of the Shooters Hill gravel pits for the foxes and badgers to eat her and maul her about, and that poor soul walking his dog to find?’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘And why the terrible mutilations so long afterwards? To tear her face, so she was unrecognisable?’
This time it was Pitt who was silent.
Whistler gave a shuddering sigh and fought to regain control of himself. He looked slightly embarrassed by his emotion and avoided meeting Pitt’s eyes. Perhaps he thought himself unprofessional, but Pitt liked him the more for it.
‘Anything further about who she was?’ Pitt asked at last. ‘Something not obliterated by this … lunatic?’
‘Probably in good health, as far as I could tell at this stage,’ Whistler answered. ‘No apparent disease. Organs all fine, apart from beginning to decay. If you find whoever did this to her, I hope you hang him! If you don’t, don’t come back to me for any help!’ His glare swivelled to Pitt, then away again. There was a faint flush in his cheeks. ‘She was probably a domestic servant. Little things, you know? Good teeth. Well-nourished. Clean nails, good hands, but several small scars from burning, the sort you see on a woman who does a lot of ironing. Difficult things not to burn yourself with now and again, flat irons. Especially if you’re ironing something fiddly, like lace, or gathered sleeves, delicate collars, that kind of thing.’
‘A lady’s maid …’ Pitt said the inevitable.
‘Yes … or a laundry maid of a more general sort. Children’s clothes are fiddly too.’
‘So you still have no idea whether it is Kitty Ryder or not?’
‘No, I haven’t. Sorry. But she wasn’t a lady. Ladies don’t do their own ironing. And she wasn’t a prostitute — much too clean and healthy for that. She must have been in her mid-to late twenties. On the streets, by that age she’d have looked a lot worse. A servant, or a young married woman, taking in laundry. Not likely. Everyone
