Ashworth Hall

lanterns placed so as to cast as little shadow as possible.

It seemed to take hours. He worked slowly and extremely carefully, cutting tissue, hesitating, looking, cutting again. He obviously loathed the necessity of what he was doing. But once he had become engrossed in it, his professionalism asserted itself. He was a man who loved his calling and took a kind of joy in the delicate skill of his hands. Never once did he complain or suggest that it was unfair of Pitt to have asked him. Whatever fears he had as to what the evidence might show, he hid them.

It was warm in the laundry, and damp from the steam of the coppers boiling heavy linen and towels. It smelled of soap, carbolic, and wet cloth.

Tellman stood with his back to the door. No one in the house had been told what they were doing. They had brought the body themselves, after making sure all the servants were elsewhere. Most had already gone upstairs. If they heard even a whisper that there had been a body cut up in the laundry, the stories would grow until they were monstrous, and no servant would come to work in Ashworth Hall ever again.

It was now half past eleven.

“Will you hold that, please?” Piers asked, indicating the bones of the chest he had cut with Mrs. Williams’s meat cleaver. Pitt obeyed. It seemed callous to be holding a part of a man’s body, and yet he knew as well as anyone that it was no longer animate, but it still seemed peculiarly personal.

Another ten minutes went by. No one spoke again.

There was no sound but the hissing of the gas. The entire house seemed silent, almost as if there was no one else in all the dozens of rooms.

“There is no water in the lungs,” Piers said at last, looking up at Pitt. “He didn’t drown.”

“Did the blow to the back of the head kill him?”

Piers did not answer, but closed up the chest as well as he could. He wiped the blood off his hands, then, after Pitt had helped him roll the body over so he could see, he turned his attention to the wound at the back of the neck.

Another twenty minutes passed.

“No,” he said with a lift of surprise. “There’s no bleeding, no real bruise at all, just a crushing of bone … there.” He pointed. “And there.” He screwed up his face in confusion. “He was killed … twice … if you see what I mean? First by breaking the neck, which was a very expert blow, exactly right. It must take some skill, and strength, to break a man’s neck with one blow. And there was only one. There’s no other bruising or damage.”

Tellman had come inside earlier, silently, and now he came forward from the door, his eyes wide open, looking first at Piers, then at Pitt.

“Then someone hit him over the back of the head and pushed him under the water,” Piers finished. “I haven’t the faintest idea why. It seems … crazy ….” He looked totally bewildered.

“Are you sure?” Pitt felt a soaring of spirit that was out of all proportion to any good there could possibly be. “Are you absolutely sure?”

Piers blinked. “Yes. You can get a proper police surgeon to check after me, but I’m sure. Why? What does it mean? Do you know who killed him?”

“No,” Pitt said with a catch in his voice. “No … but I think I know who didn’t ….”

“Well, it looks like two people did.” Tellman stared down at the body on the bench. “Or meant to!”

Pitt did not move. He was wondering if he could make a case against someone for hitting the head of a corpse and holding it under the water. What could the crime be? Defilement of a dead body? Would the courts bother with it? Did he even want them to?

“Sir?” Tellman prompted him.

Pitt jerked his attention back. “Yes … Yes, tidy up here, will you, Tellman. I have something to do upstairs … I think. Thank you.” He looked at Piers. “Thank you, Mr. Greville. I appreciate both your courage and your skill … very much. Put the body back in the icehouse, will you, and for God’s sake, lock the door and don’t leave any traces of what we’ve done here. Good night.” And he went to the door, opened it, and strode back towards the main house and the stairs.

12

CHARLOTTE WAS ASLEEP when Pitt reached the bedroom, but just as she had been on her return from London, he was unable to wait until morning to share with her what he had learned. He was less gentle about waking her. He made no pretense at diplomacy. He walked straight in and lit the main gaslamp and turned it up.

“Charlotte,” he said in a normal voice.

She grunted at the brightness of the light and turned over slowly, hiding her face under the coverlet.

“Charlotte,” he repeated, going over and sitting on the bed. He felt abrupt, but it was not a time for approaching softly. “Wake up. I need to speak to you.”

She caught the urgency in his voice even through the remnants of sleep. She sat up, blinking and shielding her eyes, her hair too loosely braided to stay in place, and now falling over her shoulders.

“What is it? What’s happened?” She stared at him, not yet alarmed because there was no fear in him. “Do you know who did it?”

“No … but it wasn’t Justine.”

“Yes, it was.” She was awake now, still blinking in the light, but feeling curious. “It had to be. Why else would she be on the landing in a maid’s dress? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“She went in and hit him on the head, then pulled him under the water,” he agreed. “But she didn’t kill him …