‘Yes, please.’ Pitt was losing his taste for eating or drinking anything, even as chilled as he was.
‘Sugar?’
‘No … thank you.’
‘Got no cake. Need to stop eating so much. Cut up too many fat people and seen what’s inside ’em to want to become one.’ He passed Pitt one of the mugs. ‘Here.’
‘Thank you. So she was kept for a couple of weeks at least? You’re certain?’ he asked.
Whistler looked at him sharply. ‘Of course I’m certain! You’ve got a bloody lunatic here! The sooner you, or someone else, gets hold of him and locks him up, the better.’
Pitt asked the question he had been dreading. ‘Are you certain she was murdered?’
Whistler’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. ‘What? Man, half the bones in her body were smashed. She didn’t walk herself up to the gravel pit in the middle of the night!’
‘I’m not suggesting she put herself there,’ Pitt said patiently. ‘But could she have died from an accidental fall, and someone else put her there?’
‘Two or three weeks after she died? And for God’s sake — the mutilations! That’s not done by animals or nature — it’s grotesque, man: moral obscenity!’ Whistler took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘But I suppose it’s not impossible her death itself was accidental — if you can look at it in isolation,’ he conceded. ‘But why? Why would any sane man keep the victim of an appalling accident for weeks, mutilate her, and then dump her up at the gravel pit — and right where she’d be sure to be found? If he wanted to get rid of the body, why not bury her? Or even drop her, with a few stones around her waist, in one of the shallow lakes around there? By the time the summer dried them out, she’d be unrecognisable. There wouldn’t be a cat in hell’s chance of finding out who she was, or who put her there. If she was ever found at all!’
Pitt thought about it. ‘Well, he doesn’t appear to have been interrupted, so he had time to do whatever he wanted. He must have wanted her to be found.’
Whistler stared at him. ‘We’ve got a lunatic on our hands.’
‘Perhaps …’
‘If this one isn’t, I pray to the Good Lord we never get one that fits your idea of what is!’ he said disgustedly.
‘Anything else you can tell me?’ Absent-mindedly Pitt drank the tea. For all the makeshift preparation of it, it was actually very good. After the subject of the conversation, and the fear that was forming in his mind, he was glad of its warmth.
‘I’ll write up a full report for you,’ Whistler promised. ‘But I doubt it’ll help you much. As far as I can tell, she was a well-nourished woman in her late twenties. From the state of her it’s hard to tell a lot. A few odd scars on her hands, just like the other one. Could have been a maid or laundress, or a young woman with her own house, but no one else to do the chores. But if she was poor, she still ate well. Her hair must have been beautiful, and she was tall and nicely curved in all the right places. Does that help?’ He put his cup down and added more hot water to it.
‘Not that I can see,’ Pitt admitted. ‘We’ll get the local police this side of the river to find out if anyone’s missing that it could be. Thank you, anyway.’
‘Sorry I can’t tell you when she died, closer than by a week or so. Can’t very well rule anyone out over that.’
‘Can’t even tell who put her there,’ Pitt replied. ‘For whatever that might be worth!’
Pitt thanked him and left, glad to get outside into the wind, away from the heaviness and the closed air of Whistler’s office where he could smell the morgue in his imagination.
He walked for a little distance, deep in thought. He was not ready yet to decide his next actions, although it was too late to do much this evening. When he got home he would have dinner, then help Jemima with her homework, or at least make suggestions. He would have a quick game of dominoes with Daniel, who was getting pretty good at it. Another year or two and he would have lost the chance. Daniel and Jemima would be bound up in their own futures. Jemima would probably be in love.
Charlotte would understand if Pitt continued working, but that was not an excuse to do so. Regardless of her wishes that he solve the case, he wanted to spend time with her for himself, time that had nothing to do with Kynaston, or dead women, or possible treason and threats to the state.
Walking home alone in the dark, the wind blustery around him, he would think.
Was someone trying to make Kynaston appear guilty of killing these women? It was an outlandish idea! Worse than eccentric, it was absurd. Since Kitty was alive, at least until a few days ago, the first body could not have been hers. Yet the suggestion that it was had been deliberately created by leaving the distinctive gold watch there. By whom? But more than that, why? Had there been a pickpocket at all? It was totally believable, and impossible to disprove.
He crossed a main thoroughfare and had to wait for a couple of carriages to pass.
Was Somerset Carlisle behind it? This was bizarre and macabre enough for him! It took Pitt back all those years to the case in Resurrection Row, and the corpses then. He remembered with a shiver and a strange, twisted amusement the resolution of that case. Perhaps he should have had Carlisle prosecuted then? But he had not. It was one of the very few occasions when he had bent the rules. His own sense of justice forced him to. Had Carlisle always known that? Yes, he probably had.
And now that Pitt knew Vespasia so much better, cared for her as much as he cared for anyone outside his own immediate family, it was still impossible! Carlisle had been his friend in times of disappointment, or need. He had never found any request for help too dangerous or too troublesome to fulfil.
He increased his pace a little, walking along the pavement.
And he also owed Carlisle for the rescue from his embarrassment, possibly even a major disgrace in front of Talbot. Not that Carlisle would ever attempt to collect the debt! And that made it heavier to carry.
Damn the man, and his charm, his courage and his outrageous behaviour!
In the morning Pitt resolved to have Stoker, and whatever other men he needed, dig more deeply into every aspect of Kynaston’s life, his relationships past and present, personal and professional. Had he rivals for office? What exactly was his financial position? What were his debts, or expectations? And, of course, who was the mistress he guarded so carefully? And lied about? Had he rivals there, other than the woman’s husband, of course? He could not now afford to ignore any of these things, distasteful as they were to pursue. The watch and the fob made them impossible to overlook.
Chapter Twelve
Victor Narraway awoke early the following morning and was not in the least surprised to find Pitt at the door as he was about to begin breakfast. Last evening’s newspapers had been full of the discovery of another mutilated body in the Shooters Hill gravel pits. Narraway had already lain awake for some of the night, thinking it over and over. He had fallen asleep at almost three in the morning, exhausted and without any further useful thoughts.
He welcomed Pitt in and asked his manservant to bring him breakfast. Pitt declined it and Narraway ignored him.
‘You’re going to sit here and talk to me. You might as well eat,’ he pointed out. ‘I don’t think well on an empty stomach, and neither do you. Has this new body got anything to do with Kynaston?’
The manservant appeared with an additional cup and saucer. Narraway thanked him and poured tea for Pitt without asking him.
‘Appears to have,’ Pitt replied, taking the tea and thanking him for it. He realised he was actually grateful. After the first sip, he appreciated that he was hungry as well. ‘She had a gold watch chain and a highly unusual gold fob, which Kynaston admitted was his, from the watch he claims was stolen from his pocket in Oxford Street. He made no insurance claim because its sentimental value was irreplaceable. It used to belong to his late brother, Bennett.’