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fit. She tried a second, and a third with no success. On the fourth one it slipped in and after a little difficulty, it turned.
    ‘There y’are,’ she said, her face still white. ‘We all got cupboards a bit like that. Don’t mean nothing. Mister, can’t you do summink ter know if it’s our Kitty?’
    She had made the point well. It was a very ordinary key that might fit some lock or other in any of a hundred houses in the area, or for that matter, out of it. It probably served more as a handle than a device of security.
    ‘She was only discovered this morning,’ he replied gently. ‘We’ll do all we can to find out who she is. A few more questions and we may be able to say at least whether it is Kitty or not. If it isn’t, then we need to know who she is. And you should go on believing that Kitty is somewhere alive and well, but perhaps too embarrassed to tell you why she ran off without saying goodbye to anyone.’
    Maisie took a deep breath and let it out shakily. ‘Yeah … yeah, I will. Can I get yer a cup o’ tea? It’s fair perishin’ out there. Colder than a—’ She stopped abruptly.
    ‘Witch’s tit,’ he finished for her. He was perfectly familiar with the expression.
    She blushed hotly, but she did not deny that that was what had been in her mind. ‘I didn’t say it,’ she murmured.
    ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have,’ he apologised. ‘I beg your pardon.’
    ‘S’all right!’ Then she gave him a dazzling smile. ‘I’ll get yer a cup o’ tea, and tell Mr Norton as yer ’ere.’ And before he could protest she whisked away around the corner into the kitchen.
     
    Fifteen minutes later, and after a good hot cup of tea, Pitt was in the butler’s pantry with a grim-faced Norton. It was quite a large room, painted cream and brown, and around the walls glass-fronted cupboards for the china and crystal in daily use. There were wooden horses for drying glass and tea cloths, a table for pressing cloths or ironing and folding newspapers. There were also all the usual keys, funnels, corkscrews, and – as was customary in most houses – a picture of the Queen.
    ‘Yes, sir, Mrs Kynaston has handkerchiefs similar to this,’ Norton agreed. ‘But I cannot say that this one is hers. She does occasionally give such things away, if she has new ones, or it is no longer … serviceable. Such as if it is frayed, or stained in some way. They do not last indefinitely.’ He looked at it again. ‘It is difficult to say, in this condition, what state it would be if washed and ironed.’
    ‘Yes, it is,’ Pitt agreed. ‘But the monogram is clearly an “R”.’
    ‘Many ladies’ names begin with an “R”,’ Norton pulled his lips tight. ‘As for the key, it is a very simple thing. I dare say half the houses in London have something it would open. I’m afraid we can be of no assistance to you.’
    ‘I have no wish that the poor woman in the gravel pit should be Miss Ryder,’ Pitt said with feeling. ‘But I am obliged to do all I can to find out who she was. She deserves a burial, and her family deserve to know what happened to her.’ He stood up from the stool where he had been sitting. ‘I preferred to come myself, since that was very much a possibility, rather than send a sergeant to disturb you at this hour.’
    Norton stood also. ‘I apologise, sir. I was ungenerous,’ he said a little awkwardly. ‘It was a kindness that you came yourself. I hope you find out who the poor creature is. Apart from the handkerchief, and the fact that the gravel pit is not far away, is there anything that made you think it was Kitty Ryder?’
    ‘She was the height and build you described, and she had thick auburn hair,’ Pitt replied. ‘It is unusual colouring.’
    Norton was momentarily stunned. ‘Oh dear. Oh – I’m very sorry. I … this is absurd. Whoever she is she deserves our pity. Just for a moment the thought of someone we know made it so much more … real.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I shall