Read Online Thomas & Charlotte Pitt 29 - Death On Blackheath by Anne Perry - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Perry
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opened by Maisie. She looked at him blankly for a moment, then lit up with a smile when she recognised him.
‘Yer come ter tell us yer found Kitty, an’ the body in’t ’er at all?’ she said immediately. Then she screwed up her eyes and looked at him more closely. Her voice caught in her throat. ‘It in’t ’er – is it?’
She was only a child and suddenly Stoker, in his mid-thirties, felt very old.
‘I don’t think so.’ He meant it to sound gentler, but he was not used to softening the truth.
Her face crumpled. ‘Wot d’yer mean, yer don’t think so! Is it ’er or not?’
He resisted the temptation to lie, but only with difficulty. ‘We don’t think it’s her,’ he replied. ‘We just need to be sure. I have to ask all of you some more questions about her.’
She did not move aside. ‘Din’t Mr Norton go ter look at ’er?’
‘She’s in a bad way. It didn’t help a lot,’ he replied. ‘Can I come in? It’s cold out here, and you’re letting it all in with the door open.’
‘S’pose so,’ she said grudgingly, stepping back at last and allowing him to go past her into the scullery.
‘Thank you.’ He closed the door firmly behind him. The sudden warmth made him sneeze and he blew his nose to clear it. Then he smelled the onions and herbs hanging on the racks.
Maisie bit her lip to stop it trembling. ‘I s’pose yer want a cup o’ tea, an’ all?’ Without waiting for his answer, she led him into the kitchen where the cook was busy preparing dinner, rolling pastry ready to put on top of the fruit pie on the counter.
‘You got those carrots prepared then, Maisie?’ she said sharply before she noticed Stoker following. ‘You back?’ She looked at him with disfavour. ‘We only just got rid o’ yer gaffer. ’E bin ’ere ’alf o’ yesterday upsetting everyone. Wot is it now?’
Stoker knew how irritated people were when interrupted in their work, and least likely to tell you what you needed to know. He wanted them to be at ease, not merely answering what he asked, but filling in the details, the colour he could not deliberately seek.
‘I don’t want to interrupt you,’ he said, filling his tone with respect. ‘I’d just like you to tell me a little more about Kitty.’
Cook looked up from her pastry, the wooden rolling pin still in both hands. ‘Why? She ran off with that miserable young man of ’ers, didn’t she?’ Her face crumpled up with anger. ‘Stupid girl. She could ’a done a lot better for ’erself. Come ter that, she couldn’t ’ardly ’a done worse!’ She sniffed hard and resumed her smoothing and easing the shape of the pie crust.
Stoker heard the emotion in her voice, and saw it in the angry tightness of her shoulders and the way she hid her face from him. She had cared about Kitty and she was frightened for her. Anger was easier, and less painful. He knew from relatives in service, old friends he seldom saw, that few household servants had family they were still in touch with. If they stayed for any length of time the other servants became family to them, full of the same loyalties, squabbles, rivalries and intimate knowledge. Kitty might have been the closest this woman, bent over her pastry, would have to a daughter of her own.
Stoker wanted to be gentle, and it was almost impossible.
‘Probably she did,’ he agreed. ‘But we didn’t find her, so we’ve got no proof of it. Got to know who this woman is in the gravel pit. I’d like to know for sure it’s not her.’
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Yer saying as that ’orrible … fool … did that to ’er?’
‘No, ma’am, I’m saying I’d like to prove it’s got nothing to do with this house at all, and keep the police away from having to trouble you.’
She sniffed and searched for a handkerchief in her apron pocket. When she had found it and had blown her nose, she gave him her full attention. ‘Well, what do you want to know about Kitty? She
‘Yer come ter tell us yer found Kitty, an’ the body in’t ’er at all?’ she said immediately. Then she screwed up her eyes and looked at him more closely. Her voice caught in her throat. ‘It in’t ’er – is it?’
She was only a child and suddenly Stoker, in his mid-thirties, felt very old.
‘I don’t think so.’ He meant it to sound gentler, but he was not used to softening the truth.
Her face crumpled. ‘Wot d’yer mean, yer don’t think so! Is it ’er or not?’
He resisted the temptation to lie, but only with difficulty. ‘We don’t think it’s her,’ he replied. ‘We just need to be sure. I have to ask all of you some more questions about her.’
She did not move aside. ‘Din’t Mr Norton go ter look at ’er?’
‘She’s in a bad way. It didn’t help a lot,’ he replied. ‘Can I come in? It’s cold out here, and you’re letting it all in with the door open.’
‘S’pose so,’ she said grudgingly, stepping back at last and allowing him to go past her into the scullery.
‘Thank you.’ He closed the door firmly behind him. The sudden warmth made him sneeze and he blew his nose to clear it. Then he smelled the onions and herbs hanging on the racks.
Maisie bit her lip to stop it trembling. ‘I s’pose yer want a cup o’ tea, an’ all?’ Without waiting for his answer, she led him into the kitchen where the cook was busy preparing dinner, rolling pastry ready to put on top of the fruit pie on the counter.
‘You got those carrots prepared then, Maisie?’ she said sharply before she noticed Stoker following. ‘You back?’ She looked at him with disfavour. ‘We only just got rid o’ yer gaffer. ’E bin ’ere ’alf o’ yesterday upsetting everyone. Wot is it now?’
Stoker knew how irritated people were when interrupted in their work, and least likely to tell you what you needed to know. He wanted them to be at ease, not merely answering what he asked, but filling in the details, the colour he could not deliberately seek.
‘I don’t want to interrupt you,’ he said, filling his tone with respect. ‘I’d just like you to tell me a little more about Kitty.’
Cook looked up from her pastry, the wooden rolling pin still in both hands. ‘Why? She ran off with that miserable young man of ’ers, didn’t she?’ Her face crumpled up with anger. ‘Stupid girl. She could ’a done a lot better for ’erself. Come ter that, she couldn’t ’ardly ’a done worse!’ She sniffed hard and resumed her smoothing and easing the shape of the pie crust.
Stoker heard the emotion in her voice, and saw it in the angry tightness of her shoulders and the way she hid her face from him. She had cared about Kitty and she was frightened for her. Anger was easier, and less painful. He knew from relatives in service, old friends he seldom saw, that few household servants had family they were still in touch with. If they stayed for any length of time the other servants became family to them, full of the same loyalties, squabbles, rivalries and intimate knowledge. Kitty might have been the closest this woman, bent over her pastry, would have to a daughter of her own.
Stoker wanted to be gentle, and it was almost impossible.
‘Probably she did,’ he agreed. ‘But we didn’t find her, so we’ve got no proof of it. Got to know who this woman is in the gravel pit. I’d like to know for sure it’s not her.’
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Yer saying as that ’orrible … fool … did that to ’er?’
‘No, ma’am, I’m saying I’d like to prove it’s got nothing to do with this house at all, and keep the police away from having to trouble you.’
She sniffed and searched for a handkerchief in her apron pocket. When she had found it and had blown her nose, she gave him her full attention. ‘Well, what do you want to know about Kitty? She
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