body of a young woman up at the gravel pit to the west of here,’ Pitt told her. ‘We do not know who she is, but we would like to assure ourselves, and you, that it is not Kitty Ryder.’ Out of the corner of his vision he saw Kynaston relax a little. It was no more than a slight change in his stance, as if he breathed more easily.
Ailsa gave the ghost of a smile. Rosalind did not stop staring straight at Pitt.
‘Why don’t you find out who she is, and then you would have no need to disturb my sister-in-law?’ Ailsa said with an edge of criticism in her voice. She did not like Pitt and she had no intention of concealing the fact. It might not have any meaning in this case, or with Kitty Ryder, but he wondered why. Rosalind did not seem to have any such feelings. But perhaps she was too numb to feel anything. Did she usually need Ailsa to protect her?
If the body were that of Kitty Ryder, Pitt suspected that there was going to be a difficult mass of emotions to untangle, many of them irrelevant. Everyone had secrets, old wounds that still bled, people they loved or hated, sometimes both.
‘You would have heard of it within a day or two at the outside,’ Pitt assured her. ‘And if we have not eliminated the possibility that it is anyone from your house, it will be far more distressing.’
‘For goodness’ sake why don’t you know now?’ Ailsa demanded. ‘She was a perfectly recognisable young woman. Get the butler, or someone, to go and look at her. Isn’t that your job? Why on earth are you here bothering us?’
Rosalind put her hand on her sister-in-law’s sleeve. ‘Ailsa, give him a chance to tell us. I dare say he has his reasons.’
Pitt avoided the answer, aware of Kynaston’s eyes on him and a sharp, almost electric tension in the air.
He looked at Rosalind. ‘Mrs Kynaston, I imagine that, like most ladies, you have a number of handkerchiefs, some of them embroidered with your initials?’
‘Yes, several,’ she replied with a frown.
‘Why on earth does that matter?’ Ailsa snapped.
Kynaston opened his mouth to reprove her, and changed his mind. He looked even tenser than before.
Pitt took the handkerchief from the corpse out of his pocket and passed it across to Rosalind.
She took it, damp in her fingers, and dropped it instantly, her face white.
Ailsa picked it up and examined it. Then she looked up at Pitt. ‘It’s a fairly ordinary lace-edged handkerchief, made of cambric. I have half a dozen like it myself.’
‘That one has an “R” embroidered on it,’ Pitt pointed out. ‘Does yours not have an “A”?’
‘Naturally. There are thousands like these. If she was not the kind of person to own one herself, she could have stolen it from someone.’
‘Did Kitty Ryder steal it from you, Mrs Kynaston?’ Pitt asked Rosalind.
Rosalind gave the slightest shrug: a delicate gesture but unmistakable. She had no idea. Taking it between her fingertip and thumb, she passed it back to Pitt.
‘Is that all?’ Kynaston asked.
Pitt replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. ‘No. She also had a small key, the sort that might open a cupboard or a drawer.’
No one responded. They sat stiff and waiting, not glancing at each other.
‘It fits one of the cupboards in your laundry room,’ Pitt added.
Ailsa raised her delicate eyebrows slightly. ‘Only one? Or did you not try the rest? In my house such a key would have fitted all of them.’
Rosalind drew in her breath as if to speak, and then changed her mind.
Was it anger in Ailsa, or fear? Or simply defence of someone she saw as more vulnerable than herself? Pitt replied to her levelly, politely. ‘I am aware that there are only a limited number of types of keys, especially of that very simple sort. I have cupboards in my own house, and I have found that all the doors in one piece of furniture can be opened by the same key. This one opened one set of doors, but nothing in your kitchen, or pantry, for example.’
Ailsa did not
Ailsa gave the ghost of a smile. Rosalind did not stop staring straight at Pitt.
‘Why don’t you find out who she is, and then you would have no need to disturb my sister-in-law?’ Ailsa said with an edge of criticism in her voice. She did not like Pitt and she had no intention of concealing the fact. It might not have any meaning in this case, or with Kitty Ryder, but he wondered why. Rosalind did not seem to have any such feelings. But perhaps she was too numb to feel anything. Did she usually need Ailsa to protect her?
If the body were that of Kitty Ryder, Pitt suspected that there was going to be a difficult mass of emotions to untangle, many of them irrelevant. Everyone had secrets, old wounds that still bled, people they loved or hated, sometimes both.
‘You would have heard of it within a day or two at the outside,’ Pitt assured her. ‘And if we have not eliminated the possibility that it is anyone from your house, it will be far more distressing.’
‘For goodness’ sake why don’t you know now?’ Ailsa demanded. ‘She was a perfectly recognisable young woman. Get the butler, or someone, to go and look at her. Isn’t that your job? Why on earth are you here bothering us?’
Rosalind put her hand on her sister-in-law’s sleeve. ‘Ailsa, give him a chance to tell us. I dare say he has his reasons.’
Pitt avoided the answer, aware of Kynaston’s eyes on him and a sharp, almost electric tension in the air.
He looked at Rosalind. ‘Mrs Kynaston, I imagine that, like most ladies, you have a number of handkerchiefs, some of them embroidered with your initials?’
‘Yes, several,’ she replied with a frown.
‘Why on earth does that matter?’ Ailsa snapped.
Kynaston opened his mouth to reprove her, and changed his mind. He looked even tenser than before.
Pitt took the handkerchief from the corpse out of his pocket and passed it across to Rosalind.
She took it, damp in her fingers, and dropped it instantly, her face white.
Ailsa picked it up and examined it. Then she looked up at Pitt. ‘It’s a fairly ordinary lace-edged handkerchief, made of cambric. I have half a dozen like it myself.’
‘That one has an “R” embroidered on it,’ Pitt pointed out. ‘Does yours not have an “A”?’
‘Naturally. There are thousands like these. If she was not the kind of person to own one herself, she could have stolen it from someone.’
‘Did Kitty Ryder steal it from you, Mrs Kynaston?’ Pitt asked Rosalind.
Rosalind gave the slightest shrug: a delicate gesture but unmistakable. She had no idea. Taking it between her fingertip and thumb, she passed it back to Pitt.
‘Is that all?’ Kynaston asked.
Pitt replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. ‘No. She also had a small key, the sort that might open a cupboard or a drawer.’
No one responded. They sat stiff and waiting, not glancing at each other.
‘It fits one of the cupboards in your laundry room,’ Pitt added.
Ailsa raised her delicate eyebrows slightly. ‘Only one? Or did you not try the rest? In my house such a key would have fitted all of them.’
Rosalind drew in her breath as if to speak, and then changed her mind.
Was it anger in Ailsa, or fear? Or simply defence of someone she saw as more vulnerable than herself? Pitt replied to her levelly, politely. ‘I am aware that there are only a limited number of types of keys, especially of that very simple sort. I have cupboards in my own house, and I have found that all the doors in one piece of furniture can be opened by the same key. This one opened one set of doors, but nothing in your kitchen, or pantry, for example.’
Ailsa did not
Similar Books
