he worried that some quality in Pitt would stay his hand when he should strike. The position he now held demanded ruthlessness, and therefore an ability to live with mistakes, to forgive himself and move on, not allowing the memory of them to debilitate him.
And yet even with that realisation, he did not want Pitt to change. It saddened him that perhaps that was inevitable. He might even be driven to take a lead in that himself one day.
Kitty Ryder troubled him also. He had never even met the woman or seen a likeness of her. He pictured her in his mind: something like his sister Gwen, who had thick, soft hair and a quick smile, nice teeth, one a little crooked.
Even though he did not see her more than perhaps once a month, the closeness between them was always in his mind. Gwen would have been a good lady’s maid, if she had not married young and started a family. She was lucky; her husband was a decent man, even if he was away at sea too much of the time.
He came to the pub where he ate frequently and went inside to the noise and the warmth. He ordered a steak and kidney pie, but even while he ate, his mind was on Kitty Ryder. What had she been like? What made her laugh, or cry? Why had she apparently loved a man that everyone else thought was unworthy of her? Why did any woman love a man?
Here he was, sitting alone in the pub, angry over the fate of a woman he had never met and who was probably nothing like Gwen at all!
He paid for his ale, and walked out into the cold, wet night. She was the victim, at the very least, of a hideous mutilation and abandonment. He was a detective, he should find out about her. He took a hansom back up to the Shooters Hill area and went into the café near the Pig and Whistle on Silver Street. He was not naturally convivial but it was part of his job to mix with people, start casual conversations and ask questions without seeming to.
It was growing late and he was all but ready to give up when the waiter, refilling his tankard, mentioned Kitty.
‘’Aven’t seen ’er lately,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Pity. We’d music sometimes. She used ter sing real sweet. Don’t like them ’igh, tinkly sort o’ voices, but ’ers were low and gentle. No edge to it, if yer know what I mean? Not as she couldn’t carry a jolly good tune, an’ make us laugh, an’ all.’
‘She came in here often?’ Stoker tried to keep the eagerness out of his face, avoiding looking at the man’s eyes.
‘Yer know ’er, then?’ the waiter asked curiously.
‘No.’ Stoker forced himself to drink some of the fresh cider before he went on. ‘Friend o’ mine liked her quite a lot. He hasn’t seen her in a month or so either. Maybe she got a new place …’ He let the suggestion hang in the air.
‘More fool ’er,’ the waiter said drily. ‘Got a good position, it don’t do to change it. She never spoke like she meant ter. But then she kept ’er own counsel, that one. Never talked loose, like.’ He shook his head. ‘’Er and ’er ships … real dreamer, she was. ’Ope she landed on ’er feet.’ He turned to the room. ‘Drink up, gents. I ain’t stayin’ open all night.’
‘Ships?’ Stoker said quietly. ‘What kind of ships?’
The waiter grinned. ‘Paper ones, mate. Pictures of all kinds o’ ships: big ones, little ones, foreign ones what sail out east, like up an’ down the Nile. She kept ’em an’ stuck ’em in a book. Learned all about ’em, she did. Could tell yer where they went an’ ’oo sailed ’em. Will yer be wantin’ another pint, then?’
‘No, thank you,’ Stoker declined, but he pulled a sixpence out of his pocket and put it on the table. ‘But here’s for the last one, and have one yourself.’
The waiter snatched it up instantly and smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. You’re a gent.’
Stoker went outside into the rising wind, walking down towards the river to catch a ferry across. He would have a better chance of finding a cab on the other side for the long ride home.
By the time he reached the north bank and climbed the steep stairs up to the road the night was clear. The moon lit the water so he could see the real ships riding on the tide, dark hulls on the silver, black spars against a paler sky.
Pitt was at the Kynaston house on Shooters Hill by half-past eight the next morning. Any later and he might have missed Kynaston himself, and Rosalind would almost certainly refuse to see him without her husband present.
This time, at Pitt’s request they met in Kynaston’s study. Pitt had no time alone in the room, which he would have preferred. However, even as they spoke he looked more closely at what he was able to see without obviously staring.
Kynaston sat behind his desk. It was a large, comfortable piece of furniture with a patina of age, and suitably untidy. The sand tray, sealing wax, pens and inkwells were easily to hand, not set straight since last used. The books on the shelf behind were there for reference, not ornament. The sizes were odd, the subjects aligned rather than the appearance. There were several paintings on the walls, some of ships, or seascapes, one of a striking snowscape with trees, and mountains of some height in the distance, like the ones pictured in the morning room.
Certainly it was not a depiction of any part of Britain.
Kynaston saw Pitt looking at it.
‘Beautiful,’ Pitt said quickly, racing in his memory to find some comment from his earlier days in the police when he had dealt with theft, frequently of works of art. ‘The clarity of the light is extraordinary.’
Kynaston looked at him with a spark of sudden interest. ‘It is, isn’t it!’ he agreed. ‘You get it in the far north, almost luminous like that.’
Pitt frowned. ‘But it’s not Scotland, surely? The scale is more than artistic licence …’
Kynaston smiled. ‘Oh, no, it’s pretty accurate. It’s Sweden. I’ve been there, very briefly. My brother, Bennett, bought that one. He …’ A shadow of pain crossed his face as if the sharpness of loss suddenly revisited him. He took a breath and started again. ‘He spent some time there, and grew to love the landscape, especially the light. As you observed, it is quite individual.’ A pleasure came back into his voice, the timbre completely different. ‘He always used to say that great art is distinguished by a universality, some passion in it that speaks to all kinds of people; combined with something unique to the artist that makes it totally personal, the sensitivity of one man, an individual eye.’ He stopped as if memory filled him and the present time and place were forgotten.
Pitt waited, not because he expected to deduce anything of value either from what Kynaston had said, or the way in which he had said it, but because to have interrupted with some trivial comment would have broken the possibility of any understanding between them.
Instead he let his eye wander a little towards the other pictures in the room. The pride of place above the mantelpiece was taken by a head and shoulders portrait of a man of about thirty, bearing so strong a resemblance to Kynaston that for a moment Pitt thought that it was he, and the artist was taking too much of a liberty, perhaps for dramatic effect. Kynaston was striking-looking, but this man was handsome, an idealised version with thicker hair and bolder eyes, a face of almost visionary intensity, and dark-eyed, where Kynaston’s eyes were blue.
Kynaston followed his gaze.
‘That’s Bennett,’ he said quietly. ‘He died a few years ago. But I expect you know that.’
‘Yes,’ Pitt answered quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’ He knew nothing of the circumstances, except that they were sudden and tragic, a man of great promise dying on what seemed like the eve of achievement. It had been an illness of some sort. There was no suggestion of scandal.
Kynaston’s face looked bruised, as if the grief were still raw. He made an effort to dismiss it and regain his composure. He raised his eyes and looked squarely at Pitt. ‘But I presume you are here over this wretched body in the gravel pit — again. There is absolutely nothing I can tell you, except that we are missing no more servants.’ He sighed.
Pitt decided bluntness was the only course open to him. Tact would allow Kynaston to dismiss him.
‘We know a little more about her now,’ he replied with a slight smile, as if they were discussing something trivial and not particularly unpleasant. ‘She had no signs of disease, or of life on the streets in any manner. In fact, she was well fed and well cared for, very clean apart from the surface dirt of having lain in the gravel pit. She did have slight burns on her hands, as many maids do who have occasion to do a lot of ironing. Such burns are distinct from those of a cook or a scullery maid.’
