about his appearance, and was not loath to indulge his tastes.
There were a few errors and one or two omissions, but it seemed natural for the unedited diaries of a man with very human foibles. Had all details been exact, it would have raised Pitt’s suspicions.
Thoroughly chilled, but determined not to show it, he returned the diaries to Norton and took his leave.
Outside he walked briskly to get warm again, and while irritated that he had found nothing of value, he could not help a certain liking for Dudley Kynaston, and a feeling that perhaps Rosalind was a more interesting woman than her rather colourless appearance suggested.
Chapter Five
TWO MORNINGS later, and well into February, Pitt was at his desk reading reports regarding a case in Edinburgh when Stoker knocked. Almost before Pitt had replied, he came in and closed the door behind him. His face was grim and flushed from the sting of the wind in the street.
‘Have you seen the billboards this morning, sir?’ he asked without preamble.
Pitt felt the warmth of the room fade. ‘No, I came by hansom. I wanted to be early and deal with this business in Edinburgh. Why?’ He named his worst fear. ‘They haven’t identified the body as Kitty Ryder, have they?’
‘No, sir.’ Stoker never exaggerated the suspense, which was a quality about him that Pitt valued. ‘But apparently one of the Members of Parliament raised rather a lot of questions about the body we’ve got, and asked what are we doing to ascertain if it is her or not.’
Pitt was stunned. ‘In Parliament?’ he said incredulously. ‘Have they nothing better to do?’ A flicker of expression crossed Stoker’s face and disappeared too rapidly to be readable.
‘“Can the Prime Minister assure us that everything possible is being done to protect not only the safety but the reputation of Mr Dudley Kynaston, a naval inventor of great importance to the safety and welfare of this country?”’ he quoted. ‘That sort of thing, then others asking about his family’s safety, and so on.’ His eyes met Pitt’s squarely; there was no hostility in them, only questions.
Pitt put away the papers to do with the case in Edinburgh. He swore fiercely, and without apology.
‘Exactly my opinion, sir,’ Stoker agreed. There might or might not have been amusement in his eyes.
‘Who was it who was asking these … questions?’ Pitt enquired. ‘Doesn’t the idiot realise that by asking them in Parliament, where they will be reported by the press, he is making Kynaston’s vulnerability all the greater? Sometimes I wonder who the devil elects these people! Don’t they ever look at them first?’
‘That’s rather the trouble, sir,’ Stoker said grimly.
‘Elections?’
Again the smile touched Stoker’s lips, then vanished. ‘No, sir, that’s a separate problem altogether. The MP in the case was Somerset Carlisle, who is really rather good.’
Pitt drew in his breath to respond, and let it out again in a sigh. He would not have described Somerset Carlisle as ‘rather good’. He was brilliant, eccentric, and personally loyal, even when at great cost to himself. He was also unpredictable, unreasonable and beyond anyone’s control, as far as Pitt knew. Even Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould herself, whose friend he had been for years, seemed to exercise very little influence over him.
Stoker was still waiting, but his face reflected his awareness of at least some of the ghosts he was awakening. Pitt hoped fervently that it was not all of them. The whole issue of the supposed resurrectionists should remain well covered over – in fact, completely buried. The long-ago episode in his career involved Somerset Carlisle and corpses that would not remain buried. Stoker did not know of it, or the nature of the detection and scandal it had caused. Pitt would very much rather it remained that way. But if Carlisle were willing to have Pitt, or anyone else, open it up again, then this must be of overpowering
There were a few errors and one or two omissions, but it seemed natural for the unedited diaries of a man with very human foibles. Had all details been exact, it would have raised Pitt’s suspicions.
Thoroughly chilled, but determined not to show it, he returned the diaries to Norton and took his leave.
Outside he walked briskly to get warm again, and while irritated that he had found nothing of value, he could not help a certain liking for Dudley Kynaston, and a feeling that perhaps Rosalind was a more interesting woman than her rather colourless appearance suggested.
Chapter Five
TWO MORNINGS later, and well into February, Pitt was at his desk reading reports regarding a case in Edinburgh when Stoker knocked. Almost before Pitt had replied, he came in and closed the door behind him. His face was grim and flushed from the sting of the wind in the street.
‘Have you seen the billboards this morning, sir?’ he asked without preamble.
Pitt felt the warmth of the room fade. ‘No, I came by hansom. I wanted to be early and deal with this business in Edinburgh. Why?’ He named his worst fear. ‘They haven’t identified the body as Kitty Ryder, have they?’
‘No, sir.’ Stoker never exaggerated the suspense, which was a quality about him that Pitt valued. ‘But apparently one of the Members of Parliament raised rather a lot of questions about the body we’ve got, and asked what are we doing to ascertain if it is her or not.’
Pitt was stunned. ‘In Parliament?’ he said incredulously. ‘Have they nothing better to do?’ A flicker of expression crossed Stoker’s face and disappeared too rapidly to be readable.
‘“Can the Prime Minister assure us that everything possible is being done to protect not only the safety but the reputation of Mr Dudley Kynaston, a naval inventor of great importance to the safety and welfare of this country?”’ he quoted. ‘That sort of thing, then others asking about his family’s safety, and so on.’ His eyes met Pitt’s squarely; there was no hostility in them, only questions.
Pitt put away the papers to do with the case in Edinburgh. He swore fiercely, and without apology.
‘Exactly my opinion, sir,’ Stoker agreed. There might or might not have been amusement in his eyes.
‘Who was it who was asking these … questions?’ Pitt enquired. ‘Doesn’t the idiot realise that by asking them in Parliament, where they will be reported by the press, he is making Kynaston’s vulnerability all the greater? Sometimes I wonder who the devil elects these people! Don’t they ever look at them first?’
‘That’s rather the trouble, sir,’ Stoker said grimly.
‘Elections?’
Again the smile touched Stoker’s lips, then vanished. ‘No, sir, that’s a separate problem altogether. The MP in the case was Somerset Carlisle, who is really rather good.’
Pitt drew in his breath to respond, and let it out again in a sigh. He would not have described Somerset Carlisle as ‘rather good’. He was brilliant, eccentric, and personally loyal, even when at great cost to himself. He was also unpredictable, unreasonable and beyond anyone’s control, as far as Pitt knew. Even Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould herself, whose friend he had been for years, seemed to exercise very little influence over him.
Stoker was still waiting, but his face reflected his awareness of at least some of the ghosts he was awakening. Pitt hoped fervently that it was not all of them. The whole issue of the supposed resurrectionists should remain well covered over – in fact, completely buried. The long-ago episode in his career involved Somerset Carlisle and corpses that would not remain buried. Stoker did not know of it, or the nature of the detection and scandal it had caused. Pitt would very much rather it remained that way. But if Carlisle were willing to have Pitt, or anyone else, open it up again, then this must be of overpowering
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