Half Moon Street (2 page)

Which also meant it had not come more than a few miles at most now.

His thoughts were interrupted by the noise of a carriage up on the embankment, horses’ hooves on the stone, and footsteps on the top of the stairs.

He moved across to the bottom step, which was now slimy and well clear of the water as the tide receded. He looked up to see an immaculate and very anxious man, his polished boots gleaming in the early sun, his head bent, his face very pale.

“Good morning, sir,” Pitt said quietly, climbing up towards him.

“Good morning,” the man replied with scarcely the trace of an accent. “Gaston Meissonier,” he introduced himself, deliberately keeping his eyes on Pitt’s face and averted from the figure in the boat.

“Superintendent Pitt. I’m sorry to bring you out so early in the morning, Monsieur Meissonier,” Pitt replied, “but your embassy reported one of your diplomats missing, and unfortunately we have found the body of a man who answers the description you gave us.”

Meissonier turned and stared at the punt. The skin across his face tightened, his lips drawn a little closer together. For several moments he did not speak.

Pitt waited.

The last mist was evaporating from the river, and the far bank was now clearly visible. The sound of traffic increased along the embankment above them.

“ ‘Unfortunate’ is hardly an adequate word, Superintendent,” Meissonier said at last. “What an extremely distressing circumstance.”

Pitt stood aside, and Meissonier went gingerly down the steps until he was only a couple of feet above the tide. He stopped and stared across at the body.

“That is not Bonnard,” he said fiercely. “I am afraid I do not know this man. I cannot help you. I’m sorry.”

Pitt studied his face, reading not only the distaste but a certain tension that was not eased by his denial of recognition. He might not have been lying, but he was certainly not telling the entire truth.

“Are you sure, sir?” Pitt pressed.

Meissonier swiveled towards him. “Yes, I am quite sure. The man does bear some resemblance to Bonnard, but it is not he. I had not really thought it would be, but I wished to be certain beyond doubt.” He drew in his breath. “I am sorry you were misinformed. Bonnard is not missing, he is on leave. An overzealous junior has not read his instructions fully and leaped to a wrong conclusion. I must find who it was and admonish him for raising a false alarm and—as it has turned out—wasted your time.” He bowed courteously and turned to go back up the steps.

“Where has Monsieur Bonnard taken his leave, sir?” Pitt asked, raising his voice a little.

Meissonier stopped. “I have no idea. We do not require such information from junior diplomats. He may have friends here in England, or have gone to visit a place of beauty or interest on his own, or for all I know he may have returned to Paris to his own family.”

“But you came to look at the body,” Pitt persisted.

Meissonier raised his eyebrows a little, not enough for sarcasm, just sufficient to indicate that the question was unnecessary.

“I wished to assure myself that he had not met with an accident while leaving for his holiday. It was unlikely, but not impossible. And of course I wished to be courteous to all officials of Her Majesty’s government, with whom we enjoy the most cordial relations and whose guests we are.” It was a polite but unmistakable reminder of his diplomatic standing.

There was nothing Pitt could do but concede. “Thank you, Monsieur Meissonier. It was most gracious of you to come, and at this hour. I am pleased it was not your countryman.” That at least was true. The last thing Pitt wished was an international scandal, and were the body that of a French diplomat, scandal would be almost impossible to avoid, although it would have been his unenviable task to try.

Meissonier gave the same little bow as before and then climbed up the rest of the steps and disappeared. A moment later Pitt heard his carriage move away.

The mortuary wagon came, and Pitt watched as the manacles were removed and the body was lifted up and carried away for the surgeon to examine in more detail at the morgue.

Tellman returned with the river police, who took the punt to safeguard it. It would have to remain on the water, but be moved somehow to sufficiently shallow a place it did not sink altogether.

“Was it the Frenchie?” Tellman asked when he and Pitt were alone on the embankment. The traffic was now heavy and moving in both directions past them. The wind had risen a little and carried the smells of salt and mud and fish, and although the day was bright, it was definitely chilly.

“He said not,” Pitt replied. He was hungry and longing for a hot cup of tea.

Tellman grunted. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” he said darkly. “If he’s lying, can we prove it? I mean, if he’s French, and he gets all the embassy to cover him, what can we do? We can hardly fetch all Paris over here to take a look!” He pulled his face into an expression of disgust.

Pitt had already had his own doubts. The thought was increasingly unpleasant.

“It’ll be hard enough to find out who did this,” Tellman went on, “without not knowing who he is either.”

“Well, he’s either Bonnard or he’s someone else,” Pitt said dryly. “We’d better assume he’s someone else, and start looking. The punt, in the state it is, won’t have come more than a couple of miles down the river . . .”

“That’s what the river police said,” Tellman agreed. “Somewhere up Chelsea, they reckoned.” He wrinkled his nose. “I still think it’s the Frenchman, and they just don’t want to say so.”

Pitt was not disposed to argue with Tellman’s prejudices, at least not yet. Personally, he would very much prefer it to be an Englishman. It was going to be ugly enough without working with a foreign embassy.

“You had better go with the river police and see the sorts of places the punt could have been kept within a mile or two of the Chelsea reach. And see if by any extraordinary chance anyone saw it drifting . . .”

“In the dark?” Tellman said indignantly. “In that mist? Anyway, barges passing upriver of here before dawn will be way beyond the Pool by now.”

“I know that!” Pitt said sharply. “Try the shore. Someone may know where it is usually moored. It’s obviously been lying in water for some time.”

“Yes sir. Where’ll I find you?”

“At the morgue.”

“Surgeon won’t be ready yet. He’s only just gone.”

“I’m going home for breakfast first.”

“Oh.”

Pitt smiled. “You can get a cup of tea from the stall over there.”

Tellman gave him a sideways look and went, back stiff, shoulders square.

Pitt unlocked his front door and went into a silent house. It was full daylight as he took off his coat and hung it in the hall, then removed his boots, leaving them behind him, and padded in his stocking feet along to the kitchen. The stove was about out. He would have to riddle it, carry out the dead ash, and nurture the last of the embers into flame again. He had seen Gracie do it often enough that he should know the idiosyncrasies of this particular grate, but there was something peculiarly desolate about a kitchen without a woman busy in it. Mrs. Brady came in every morning and attended to the heavy work, the laundry and ordinary housecleaning. She was a good-hearted soul and quite often also brought him a pie or a nice piece of roast beef, but she would not make up for the absence of his family.

Charlotte had been invited to go to Paris with her sister, Emily, and Emily’s husband, Jack. It was only for three weeks, and it had seemed to Pitt that it would have been mean-spirited for him to forbid her going or to be so resentful that it would effectively ruin her pleasure. In marrying a man so far beneath her own financial and social status Charlotte would have been the first to say she had gained enormously in freedom to become involved in all manner of pursuits impossible to ladies of her mother’s or sister’s situation. But the marriage also denied her many things, and Pitt was wise enough to realize that however much he missed her, or would like to have been the one to take her to Paris, the greater happiness of both of them rested in his agreeing to her going with Emily and Jack.

Gracie, the maid who had been with them now for seven and a half years—in fact, since she was thirteen—he considered almost as family. She had taken the children, Jemima and Daniel, to the seaside for a fortnight’s holiday. They had all three of them been beside themselves with excitement, fervently packing boxes and chattering about everything they intended to see and to do. They had never been to the coast before, and it was an enormous adventure. Gracie felt her responsibility keenly and was very proud that she should be given it.

So Pitt was left at home with no company except the two cats, Archie and Angus, now curled up together in the clothes basket where Mrs. Brady had left the clean linen.

Pitt had grown up on a large country estate, and for some time his mother had worked in the kitchens. He was perfectly capable of looking after himself, although since his marriage he had lost the knack for it. He missed the comfort of all the small things Charlotte did for him, but these were nothing compared with the loneliness. There was no one to talk to, with whom to share his feelings, to laugh or simply to speak of the day.

And he missed the sound of the children’s voices, giggling, their running footsteps, their incessant questions and demands for his attention or approval. No one interrupted him to say “Look at me, Papa” or “What is this for?” or “What does this mean?” or the favorite “Why?” Peace was not peace anymore, it was simply silence.

It took over ten minutes for the stove to begin to draw properly, and another ten after that before the kettle boiled and he was able to make himself a pot of tea and toast some bread for breakfast. He considered frying a pair of kippers as well, and then thought of the fishy smell, and the trouble of washing the dishes and the frying pan, and abandoned the idea.

The first post came, bringing only a bill from the butcher. He had been hoping there would be a letter from Charlotte. Perhaps it was too soon to expect one, but he was surprised how disappointed he was. Fortunately he was going to the theatre that evening with his mother-in-law, Caroline Fielding. After Charlotte’s father, Edward Ellison, had died, and a decent period of mourning had passed, Caroline had met and fallen in love with an actor, considerably younger than herself. She had scandalized Edward’s mother by marrying again, and mortified her by being apparently very happy. She had also adopted a rather more liberal way of life, which was another point of conflict. Old Mrs. Ellison had absolutely refused to live under the same roof with Caroline and her new husband. As a result she had been obliged to move in with Emily, whose husband, Jack Radley, was a Member of Parliament and eminently more respectable than an actor, even if he had rather too much charm than was good for him and no title or breeding worth mentioning.

Emily suffered her grandmother with fortitude most of the time. Occasionally she was just as forthright back to the old lady, who then retreated into icy rage until she got bored and sallied out for the next attack.

However, since Emily and Jack were in Paris, and taking the opportunity of their absence to have the plumbing in the house redone, Grandmother was once again staying with Caroline. Pitt hoped profoundly that she was not well enough to accompany them to the theatre that evening. He had every cause to be optimistic. The sort of play that Caroline attended these days was not what old Mrs. Ellison considered fit entertainment, and even consumed with curiosity as she might be, she would not allow herself to be seen there.

By late morning Pitt was at the morgue listening to the police surgeon summing up the very little of use he had found.

“Exactly what I said. Hit on the head with something round and heavy, wider than a poker, more regular than a branch from a tree.”

“What about an oar or a punting pole?” Pitt asked.

“Possible.” The surgeon thought about it for a moment. “Very possible. Have you got one?”

“We don’t know where he was killed yet,” Pitt protested.

“Of course, it might be floating in the river.” The surgeon shook his head. “Probably never find it, or if you do all the blood will be long since washed off it. You may surmise but you won’t prove anything.”

“When did he die?”

“Late last night, as near as I can tell.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “By the time I saw him he’d certainly been dead five or six hours. Of course, when you find out who he is—if you do—then you may be able to narrow it down better than that.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Between thirty and thirty-five, I should say.” The surgeon considered carefully. “Seemed in very good health. Very clean. No calluses on his hands, no dirt. No parts of his body exposed to the sun.” He pursed his lips. “Certainly didn’t work manually. He either had money of his own or he did something with his mind rather than his hands. Or could be an artist of some sort, or even an actor.” He looked sideways at Pitt. “Hope I’m not saying that because of the way the dratted fellow was found.” He sighed. “Ridiculous!”

“Couldn’t he have sat like that himself, and been struck where he was?” Pitt asked, although he knew the answer.

“No,” the surgeon said decisively. “Blow struck him on the back of the head. Couldn’t have been in the boat unless he was sitting up, and he wasn’t—couldn’t have been. Those manacles are too short. Ankles spread too wide. Couldn’t sit up like that. If you don’t believe me, try it! Not enough blood there anyway.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t wearing that dress when he was killed?” Pitt pressed.

“Yes I am.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because there are no bruises that there would have been if he had been held or forced,” the surgeon explained patiently. “But there are tiny scratches, as if someone had caught him with a fingernail while trying to force the dress over his head and get it straight on his body. It’s damned difficult to dress a dead body, especially if you’re trying to do it by yourself.”