Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [3]
“Dressed like that?” Tellman said incredulously. “Some kind of a party, Chelsea sort of way? Some . . . thing . . . went too far, and they had to get rid of him? Heaven help us, this is going to be ugly!”
“It is. But it would be a good idea to see the river police anyway and get some idea how far he could have drifted if he went in around midnight, or an hour or two either side of it.”
“Yes sir,” Tellman said with alacrity. That was something he was willing to do, and a great deal better than waiting around for anyone from the French Embassy. “I’ll find out everything I can.” And with an air of busyness he set off, taking the steps two at a time—at considerable risk, given the slipperiness of the wet stone.
Pitt returned his attention to the punt and its cargo. He examined the boat itself more closely. It was lying low in the water and he had not until then wondered why. Now he realized on handling and touching the wood that it was old and many of the outer boards were rotted and waterlogged. It had foundered against the stairs rather than simply catching against them. It was obviously not a pleasure boat which anyone currently used on the river. It must have lain idle somewhere for a considerable time.
Pitt looked again at the body with its manacled wrists and chained ankles, its grotesque position. An overriding passion had driven his murderer, a love, or hate, a terror or need, had made this disposition of the corpse as much a part of the crime as the killing itself. It must have been a tremendous risk to wait long enough to take off whatever clothes the dead man was wearing, dress him in this torn silk and velvet gown and chain him onto the punt in this obscene position, then set the boat adrift out in the water, getting himself wet in the process. Why had anyone bothered?
The answer to that might be the answer to everything.
He stood in the faintly rocking stern, adjusting his balance to keep upright as the wash of a string of barges reached him. Had the murderer brought the green dress and the manacles and chains with him, and the artificial flowers cast around? Or had they already been at hand wherever he had killed him? Certainly he had not brought the boat. That would have been impossible to move far.
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.