hers.”’
‘What kind of paper?’ Pitt asked. ‘Pen or pencil? What was the writing like?’
Stoker’s mouth pulled tight. ‘Ordinary, cheap paper, written in pencil, but no real attempt to disguise the hand. Bit of a scrawl, but perfectly legible.’
‘And the spelling?’ Pitt asked.
‘Right spelling,’ Stoker replied. ‘But there was nothing difficult in it. Simple words.’
Pitt looked at what was left of the hat, and then up at Stoker. He did not need to ask the question, but he did anyway.
‘Why do you think it’s Kitty Ryder’s?’
Stoker answered as if his throat were tight and he had to force the words out. ‘The red feather, sir. I got to know one of the barmaids at the Pig and Whistle who was a friend of Kitty’s … Apparently they had tea together on their days off. Kitty really wanted a hat like that and she saved up to buy it. It was the red feather that mattered, because it was unexpected. In a way it didn’t fit in with the rest of it, and it made people look, and smile. At least that’s what Violet said — Violet Blane, the barmaid.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
Stoker did not move. ‘We’ll have to go back to Kynaston, sir.’
‘I know that,’ Pitt agreed. ‘Before I do that I want to go over all the statements he’s made and everything we know about him. I want the inconsistencies, anything with which I can prove he’s lying. So far all we have is that Kitty worked for him, and that the woman in the gravel pit had his watch, which he says a pickpocket took, which his wife confirms. Which means nothing. We’ve searched the house and found nothing. None of the servants know anything of use. We’ve been over the cellars and the ice house and found no trace of Kitty, or anything at all out of order. And the servants were in and out of there all the time anyway.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Stoker said flatly. ‘I’ve got notes as to what Violet said and if you compare it with Mrs Kynaston’s diaries, and then his, I think you’ll find a few places where it doesn’t match.’
Pitt did not answer, but opened one of the drawers beside the desk and took out his notes from the Kynaston diaries, then held out his hand for Stoker’s notebook.
‘Why didn’t we find the hat when we looked before?’ he asked.
‘Probably too intent on the body,’ Stoker replied. ‘It was thirty feet away. If you didn’t see the red feather you wouldn’t have seen the rest. It looks like leaves on mud.’
That was true. It had been found now only by chance.
‘Thank you. I’ll look at all the notes again, then I’ll go and see Kynaston this evening. He won’t be there at this time of day.’
Even so, Pitt was a little early. He disliked having to harass the man again. He personally liked him, therefore he determined to finish this business tonight and get it over with. He did not want to give Kynaston the chance to come home, change and then go out to dinner somewhere. After meeting Kynaston and his wife and sister-in-law at the theatre this was even more unpleasant.
He stood uneasily in Kynaston’s morning room, staring at one bookshelf after another, unable to concentrate on the titles. Occasionally he paced back and forth. He had actually been invited by Mrs Kynaston to wait in the withdrawing room, but he felt guilty about accepting it when his purpose was far from social.
He had been there less than half an hour when he heard Kynaston come in through the front door, and within minutes he was in the morning room, smiling.
Pitt’s heart sank and he felt his throat tighten. He walked forward from the fireplace.
‘Good evening, Mr Kynaston. I’m sorry to intrude on your time, but I have further questions I need to ask you.’
Kynaston indicated the chair near the fire, and when Pitt sat down, he took the other one himself. He looked slightly puzzled, but not yet alarmed.
‘Has there been some further development?’ he enquired.
‘I’m afraid there has. We discovered a hat at the gravel pit, near where the body was found.’ He watched Kynaston’s face as he spoke. ‘It’s in a state that makes it impossible to identify, but it is an unusual shape, as much as we can make out, and quite clearly it still has a small red feather tucked in the ribbon where the crown meets the brim. It is distinctive, and one of Kitty’s friends we have spoken to says that she had exactly such a hat with a red feather, and saved up until she could buy it.’
Kynaston blanched but he did not avoid Pitt’s eyes. ‘Then it was Kitty …’ he said very quietly. ‘Perhaps it was foolish, but I was still hoping that it wasn’t. I’m so sorry.’ He took a deep, rather shaky breath. ‘Will you be looking for the young man she was walking out with? I believe he was a somewhat itinerant carpenter. He went where the work was a lot of the time.’ There was an edge to his voice, but it was not anger, and — as far as Pitt could judge — it was not fear either. Was he really so sure of himself, and his own safety?
‘Of course,’ Pitt agreed. ‘We haven’t searched diligently enough yet. Admittedly I think we are guilty of also hoping that the body was not hers.’
‘But now …?’ Kynaston’s mouth pinched at the ugliness of the thought, and with something that appeared to be pity.
‘His name is Harry Dobson,’ Pitt replied. ‘And yes, we will ask the police further afield to co-operate with us in finding him. So far we’ve looked only locally.’
‘If he’s any sense he’ll have gone away as far as possible,’ Kynaston observed with a grimace. ‘Liverpool, or Glasgow, somewhere with a lot of people where he can get lost. Although I suppose it’s not hard to lose yourself in London, if you’re desperate enough. Even ship out … go to sea. He’s able-bodied.’
‘That’s possible too,’ Pitt admitted.
‘Thank you for telling me.’ Kynaston gave a bleak half-smile. ‘I will inform my wife, and the staff. They’ll be upset, but I imagine they will be half-expecting it.’ He leaned forward as if to rise to his feet.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Pitt said quickly. ‘But that is not all.’
Kynaston looked taken aback, but he relaxed into the chair again, waiting for Pitt to explain.
Pitt drew in his breath and held Kynaston’s gaze. ‘It is not just a matter of finding this wretched young man and charging him, which is a police matter. I’m Special Branch, and my concern is the safety of the state …’
Kynaston was now very pale and his hands were clenched on the arms of his chair, knuckles white.
‘… And therefore exonerating you,’ Pitt continued. ‘And anyone else in this house. Unfortunately questions have been asked in the House of Commons as to your part in this, and your personal safety. I have to be able to assure the Prime Minister that he has no cause for concern.’
Kynaston blinked and there was a long silence as the seconds ticked by on the clock on the mantel. ‘I see,’ he said at last.
‘I’ve checked over all the questions I asked you previously,’ Pitt replied. He knew already that he was going to turn up something private and painful. It was there in Kynaston’s face and in the stiff angles of his shoulders. He would like to have stopped it now. Possibly it had nothing to do with Kitty Ryder’s death, but then it might have everything to do with it. He could not afford to believe anyone without proof. It had gone too far and was too serious for that.
‘I have nothing to add,’ Kynaston told him.
‘You have a few errors to correct, Mr Kynaston,’ Pitt answered. ‘And a few omissions to fill in rather more fully. And before you do, sir, I would prefer to tell you in advance than embarrass you afterwards, I shall be checking with other people, because this matter is too serious to allow what can be merely unintentional misstatements of fact.’ He let hang in the air between them the awareness that they could also be deliberate lies, even damning ones.
Kynaston did not answer. It had gone beyond the point of pretence that he was not deeply uncomfortable.
Pitt could have asked him the questions one by one, and tripped him in the lies — or if they were, the errors — but he loathed doing so. This had to be lethal, but it could be quick.
‘Your diary states that you went to dinner with Mr Blanchard on the evening of 14 December …’ Pitt began.
Kynaston moved very slightly in his chair. ‘If I had the date wrong, is it really important?’ he said reasonably.
