Buckingham Palace Gardens

CHAPTER

SEVEN

GRACIE HAD TAKEN the bloodstained knife to Pitt, who had immediately seen the significance of it. Someone had placed it there after they had searched the cupboard on finding the body. That meant it could only be someone living right here in this guest wing of the Palace. Had they done it to get rid of it, in case Pitt caught them with it, or so he could find it and blame someone else? That was probably what Pitt was thinking of right now. Gracie scrubbed the laundry floor. Ada liked to give her the heaviest, wettest work to keep her aware of her position at the bottom of the hierarchy, just in case she forgot.

Gracie thought of the Queen’s bloodstained sheets as well. It didn’t seem to make any sense. Would Pitt manage to find out who did it, and, even more than that, prove it?

Her brush moved a little slower. What if he didn’t find out? That thought frightened her. She didn’t know what they would do to him, but she understood power, and anger, and fear. Surely even the people here would not be able to cover up a scandal like this. Or maybe they would think they had to. She could remember five years ago when the Whitechapel murderer had struck. There had been anger in the streets then. A lot of it in the East End had become very ugly. Anarchists and republicans had turned against the Queen. There had been talk of getting rid of her and setting up a new kind of government, without a monarchy any more. There had even been crazy talk that someone in the royal family had had a hand in it. That was really daft. One of the first things you did in detecting was to find out where people were. She had known that for years.

But she also knew how stupid people could be repeating things that a moment’s thought would have told them couldn’t be true. Anger doesn’t need much food to grow. Poor and hungry people have more feeling than sense. She had grown up in the East End and she knew her own beginnings, even if she had left them behind for Keppel Street and was now busy on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor of the Queen’s laundry.

She wiped the last yard and fetched fresh water to begin in the morning room, excusing herself to Biddie, who was busy ironing petticoats.

She started to scrub again.

Those three women the Prince had here were the same sort as the ones the Whitechapel murderer had attacked. So was this murder a similar attempt to try to destroy the Crown? Did Pitt know that? Or was he being used without realizing it, to break open another scandal? The thought made her so angry she bruised her fingers on the sides of the scrubbing brush and caught a bristle under her nail.

She was sitting on the floor in the corner out of sight, trying to pick the splinter out when she heard footsteps in the passage and then a rustle of fabric as skirts brushed the sides of the door. It sounded like silk. A maid’s plain cotton dress made no sound. She ignored the piece of bristle and moved a little forward to see across the passageway.

It was a deep, plum-pink silk, and very wide. That would be Mrs. Sorokine—she liked such hot colors.

The silk moved farther inside and a moment later the sound of Minnie’s voice proved her correct.

“I wonder if you could iron this for me?” Minnie asked. “I’ve gotten it rather crumpled, and I don’t want my maid to know how careless I was.”

Biddie was startled. She let the iron slip out of her hand and it struck the ironing table with a thud.

“I’m sorry,” Minnie apologized. “I didn’t mean to make you jump. I think we are all very frightened at the moment.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Biddie said automatically. “’Course I’ll do it. You just leave it ’ere an’ I’ll bring it up ter you.”

“I don’t mind waiting a few moments,” Minnie replied. “I don’t want you to have to come all the way upstairs again.”

Biddie started to say it was no trouble, then bit the words back.

Gracie was curious. Such consideration did not seem in character for Mrs. Sorokine. She remained where she was, listening. The floor could wait.

“I don’t blame you for being frightened,” Minnie went on conversationally. “I am too. I know the culprit has to be someone that probably we both saw, and on the night it happened. Maybe we even spoke to them.”

“Oh, ma’am! It doesn’t bear thinking of!” Biddie said softly.

“But you can see why I’m concerned, I’m sure,” Minnie said warmly. “My own husband is one of the people they suspect.”

“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” Biddie said in a hushed tone, as if she had just realized the enormity of the crime. “I’m sure you’ll find it in’t ’im.”

“Are you?” From Minnie’s tone it was a question, not in any way a challenge. “How can you be? Do you know where he was? I suppose you must have seen a lot, maybe more than the police thought to ask you.” Her skirts rustled a bit as she leaned forward. “You were up and down the stairs most of the evening, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, I s’pose we were.” There was awe in Biddie’s voice and there was no movement of the iron. It must be quite cool by now, and she had not changed it for the hot one on the stove.

“What were they like, the three women?” Minnie asked. “I didn’t even see them.”

Still sitting motionlessly, Gracie saw Biddie’s skirt give a twitch as she shrugged her shoulders. “Ordinary enough, ma’am. You shouldn’t ’ave ter know about them things.”

“Oh, please!” Minnie begged. “I won’t tell anyone you said so. I just need to know. There are only three men suspected, one of them is my husband. Please!”

Biddie must have looked at Minnie’s face, because she relented. “Well, they was women from one o’ the bawdy ’ouses, not off the street, like. Clean an’ all. At least far as yer can know. An’ dressed quite decent when they come.”

“But they were…professional?”

“Oh, yeah. Yer can tell that by the way they talked.”

“You’ve seen them before?” Minnie pressed.

Gracie was getting a crick in her back, but she dared not draw attention to herself by moving.

“Not them in particular,” Biddie answered after apparently having thought for a moment. “But ones like ’em.”

“Does Mr. Tyndale know them?” Minnie was not yet satisfied.

Biddie giggled. “Not Mr. Tyndale, ma’am. ’E don’t approve of it something terrible, but it’d be more’n ’is job’s worth ter say so. It don’t do ter let anyone think as yer’ve got opinions.”

“No,” Minnie agreed. “Of course it doesn’t. Who finds these women, then?”

“Oh, ma’am…I…”

“Are you telling me you don’t know?” Minnie was incredulous.

“Somebody must have taken them in and upstairs, and then told somebody they were here. Otherwise they could have been anyone.”

“Oh, they was ’oo they said, ma’am!” Biddie responded instantly.

“Who said so?”

“Mr. Dunkeld, ma’am.”

“I see.” There was profound emotion in Minnie’s voice. It was husky, almost choked. Was that what she had wanted to prove, or to disprove? “And when the two of them left, who took them out? And what about the old man who helped carry the box up?”

“When the two o’ them went they looked much the same,” Biddie told her. “Bit used, like, wot yer’d expect. A good few drinks the worse for wear, but not ’urt or nothing.”

“And the old man,” Minnie urged. “What did he look like? Was he strong? Might he have attacked her, do you think? Was he rough-looking?”

Biddie’s voice was gentle. “I’m real sorry, ma’am, but ’e looked like ’e were too old ter be up ter such things. An’ the way I ’eard it, ’e took the box up an’ came down again to his ’orse, then straight back up to fetch the box when it were empty. I’m real sorry, but that won’t ’elp yer, ma’am, much as I wish it would.”

“That’s all right. Thank you,” Minnie said, moving again, from the rustle of her skirts. “I’m very obliged for your help. Please don’t repeat our conversation to anyone.”

“No, ma’ am,” Biddie promised. There was a swish of silk and a moment later Biddie swore. “Stupid article!” she said in exasperation.

“She din’t even taken ’er linen with ’er after all!”

Gracie stood up, relieved to move at last. “I’ll take it up to ’er as soon as I’ve finished this. I’m nearly done.”

“Ta,” Biddie said sincerely.

QUARTER OF AN hour later Gracie was on the guest landing with Minnie Sorokine’s chemise neatly folded, but there was no answer at her bedroom door, which was locked. Norah, in the pantry, had no idea where she was, but thought she had gone back downstairs.

“Again?” Gracie asked her. “Are yer sure?”

“’Course I’m sure,” Norah said indignantly. “Ever such an odd one, she is.” She was putting away the tea canisters after filling them: Darjeeling, Earl Grey, China. “Not a beauty like Mrs. Quase, but yer can’t miss that Mr. Marquand prefers ’er. Can’t keep ’is eyes off ’er, Ada says. An’ Mrs. Sorokine don’t seem ter care. Askin’ me about buckets an’ mops and carryin’ things around in the middle o’ the night. As if I’d know! An’ now she’s gone downstairs ter ask Timmons about it.”

“About wot?”

“About ’oo was cleanin’ up, fetchin’ an’ carryin’ bits o’ broken china an’ buckets o’ water an’ cloths an’ brushes an’ things! In’t you listening?”

Gracie stiffened. “When?”

“The night that poor creature were killed in the cupboard, o’ course!”

“Then they was cleanin’ out the cupboard,” Gracie concluded. “Isn’t that clear enough?” She thought of the knife. “’Oo was it, anyway?”

“No, it weren’t the cupboard!” Norah replied smartly. “Too clever by ’alf, you are, missy! The policeman done that ’isself. This were way along the other wing, near the Prince and Princess’s own rooms, an’ the Queen ’erself, o’ course. But ’ers is further off again. Maybe they was tryin’ ter get rid of anyone knowin’ that tart ’ad bin along in the Prince’s room. Dunno why! That policeman may not be as sharp as they are, but ’e in’t stupid! ’E knows fine where she were. An’ don’t ask me wot the china were, ’cos I dunno.”

“That’s what Mrs. Sorokine was trying to find out?” Gracie’s mind raced. What on earth was she imagining?

“That’s wot she said. Now do you want me to give that to ’er when she comes back, or not?” She gestured to the chemise.

“Yes…please. I’ll go and find her to tell her it’s ’ere.” And Gracie passed it to her, then turned on her heel and went to see if she could learn what Minnie Sorokine was looking for, her mind racing with ideas. Why was she asking? What did she suspect? It made no sense.

She had to ask three people before she nearly ran into Minnie herself, talking quietly to one of the footmen. Gracie stopped only just before either of them saw her, and hid behind a curtain to listen. She felt foolish, but she dared not miss the opportunity.

“What kind of china?” Minnie was saying, her voice sharp with excitement.

Walton, the footman, obviously thought she was so unnerved by the murder that she had taken leave of her judgment. “Just china, ma’am, like a dish or a bowl. No harm, we’ve got plenty. ’Course, it’s a bad thing when something gets broken, but it happens now an’ again.”

“Did one of the maids break something?” she asked.

“Must have,” he reasoned.

“A bucketful?”

“Got to carry broken pieces in something, ma’am.”

“You could get a whole tea service in a bucket!” she pointed out.

“Who broke it? Don’t they have to own up?”

“It wasn’t a tea service, ma’am, it was just about as much as a good-sized dish. An’ I don’t know who broke it.”

“Which dish was it?”

Gracie could see Walton’s face. He looked totally bemused. “I don’t know, Mrs. Sorokine. Sort of blue, with some gold on it, and white, I think.”

“Do you have a service like that?” There was something like excitement in Minnie’s voice now.

“Not that I can think of. But we must, or it wouldn’t be broken, would it?”

“Thank you very much.” Minnie’s voice sounded frightened, full of raw-edged emotion.

As Gracie saw her swing round she scrambled ridiculously behind the curtain, only just in time to avoid being seen if Minnie had turned. Only she did not turn, she swept back along the corridor at a pace Gracie could not have kept up with unless she had run, and that would have drawn so much attention to her that it would end all her usefulness here.

She lost Minnie and came face-to-face with Mrs. Newsome.

“If you have nothing to do, girl, go and help in the kitchen,” Mrs. Newsome said tartly. “There are plenty of dishes to wash. No wages for daydreaming.”

“Yes, Mrs. Newsome.” Gracie had no choice. And there was nothing more to learn in the laundry anyway. She went to the kitchen and did as she was told.

By lunchtime she was exhausted, and knew she was wet and crumpled. What would Samuel think of her now? And she wasn’t even learning anything useful! She could not work out what Minnie thought she had found.

Gracie ate her cold mutton, pickle, and mashed potatoes, keeping her eyes on her plate. Her mind raced: broken china that didn’t fit any of the tea services, buckets of water carried up and down stairs; descriptions of the street women—why had Minnie Sorokine asked about these things? They were ordinary enough. Did she really think she had discovered something?

Yes, of course she did. It was in her voice, in her eyes, in the way she raced along the corridor. But was it something to do with the murder, or just whatever romance she was planning? Was it something to prove her husband’s innocence?

Later, when Gracie was tidied up and her dress changed, with a clean apron on to carry up extra sandwiches for afternoon tea, she saw Minnie Sorokine again. This time she was standing in the gallery in a beautiful muslin afternoon dress with frills on it like foam and cerise pink ribbons. She was quite obviously flirting with the Prince of Wales, who stood in the sunlight flooding in through the bay windows. He was looking at her and smiling. She was asking him something and he was happy to answer, except once when Gracie saw a swift frown and then a moment’s awkwardness.

“Snooping again, are you?”

Gracie swung round to see Ada standing no more than a yard away, a look of satisfaction in her face. Gracie felt the color rush up her cheeks because she had no answer to save herself.

“Eavesdropping on your betters,” Ada went on. “Well, if yer out ter learn ’ow ter flirt, yer couldn’t do better than watch that one! I never seen as good. But she’s out o’ your class. Yer get caught watchin’ ’Is ’Ighness an’ you’ll be out before night, I can assure yer.” She said that with obvious pleasure. “But yer in’t goin’ ter get me thrown out fer not watchin’ you proper, so one more time yer cross me, miss, an’ I’ll tell Mrs. Newsome wot yer like. It’s my turn ter carry out the slops. Yer’d like ter do them for me as a favor now, wouldn’t yer?”

However much she might dislike it, Gracie had no choice but to agree. She was here to learn all she could that might help Pitt, not to carve herself a career at the Palace. She went obediently and worked at fetching all the slops and emptying them, washed out all the bowls and jugs, then had to change into another clean dress and damp down and re-press the first one.

She was late for supper and Mrs. Newsome told her off in front of all the others.

“You’re going to have to learn to keep up, Phipps,” she said coldly. “You can’t be coming to table late like this. It is discourteous and it inconveniences everyone. You must learn to fit in. It’s not always easy, but if you cannot manage it, then you are not right for this position. Perhaps you are a little too old to accommodate yourself.”

Gracie felt the anger boil up inside her as everyone along both sides of the table turned to stare at her. She ached to be able to tell them she had no intention of staying here any longer than was necessary to help Mr. Pitt and Mr. Narraway. But of course she could say nothing. To defend herself would betray a confidence that would make her role unbelievable. She drew in breath to apologize, the words all but choking her under Ada’s triumphant gaze. In that instant it became a rock-hard certainty that Ada was doing this precisely to get her dismissed. Ada saw Gracie as some kind of threat. She must have sensed a strength of will in her, because it was certainly not her looks. As even Samuel had said, she was the size of a rabbit.

In spite of the danger, Gracie felt a surge of elation.

“You are being too quick, Mrs. Newsome,” Mr. Tyndale said with an edge to his voice. “The circumstances are unusual at the moment. Everyone is frightened and shocked by what has happened—”

“Phipps was not here when it happened,” Mrs. Newsome interrupted him. “She cannot use that as an excuse.”

“It was not Phipps who raised the issue, Mrs. Newsome.” The color was high in Mr. Tyndale’s face now also, and his hand on the table was clenched. “It was I. Before you spoke, I was about to say that none of the staff is behaving as usual. I have noticed several other irregularities. But with the police questioning people, and guests who are plainly under a great burden of anxiety, and even greater fear than ours, we cannot expect the same standard of conduct from anyone as we would at any other time.”

Mrs. Newsome opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Her lips were white, her eyes burning with anger and embarrassment. He had curbed her, quite sharply, in front of the junior servants. Judging from the silence all around the table, that was something that had not happened before. Gracie was surprised to feel so uncomfortable for her.

“Continue with your supper,” Mr. Tyndale ordered, and one by one they all picked up their knives and forks again and began to eat, conscious of every movement, every sound. No one spoke, not even to ask for the salt or the teapot.

Gracie’s mind raced. She had seen Ada’s look of anger and puzzlement, and she knew it would not be long before she worked out how to launch another attack. Next time it might even compromise Mr. Tyndale. He had been unwise, at the very least, to expose his position as Gracie’s defender, and Ada had unquestionably noticed it.

Mrs. Newsome would not forget that either, and both Gracie and Mr. Tyndale would probably have to pay. This rivalry, anger, and manipulation was something she had not even thought about before. In comparison, Keppel Street seemed an island of peace, nothing to do but tasks she was used to and knew she did well. No one to answer to most of the time, and when there was, it was only Mrs. Pitt, who, in spite of being born into gentry, never gave herself airs.

Gracie wondered if she would be as happy as Mrs. Pitt when she married Samuel! It would be a totally new experience and she would lose all the little things she was familiar with. She was taken aback to realize that as well as excited, she was also a little afraid, even sad.

Of course, if Mr. Pitt did not solve this horrible crime, then everything might change, probably for all of them. And if it did, would Gracie be able to leave them at all, even to marry Samuel? It would seem like a desertion. She might even have to stay and work without any pay, just her food. Not that she would mind that; it would be fair.

Gracie finished her rice pudding and declined another slice of bread and jam. When they had all put down their knives or spoons, she rose and waited a few moments to see which way Mr. Tyndale was going, then followed after him. She hoped everyone else assumed she was going to apologize.

She caught up with him in the pantry. She wanted to close the door, but she remembered the speculation that had caused before and left it ajar. She spoke very quietly. This was desperately awkward, and she had to do it immediately, before she lost her nerve.

“Mr. Tyndale, sir,” she began, “I’m very grateful that you stood up for me, ’cos Ada’s making things right awkward, which is why I were late. But you didn’t ought ter, ’cos yer can’t tell no one why I’m ’ere, an’ being the way they are, they’re gonna think summink else, wot in’t fair.” She took a deep breath. “You gotter stay ’ere, sir, but I don’t, so it don’t matter wot they think o’ me.”

He looked embarrassed. She was suddenly terribly sorry for him. This place and the people in it were his whole life, the reason he believed in himself. Perhaps he had found some way to come to terms with the things he disapproved of: the strange women who came at night, for what reason he must know; the guests he might not care for, either for their manners or their purposes in being here. Many of them would take advantage, and there would be nothing he could do.

And now there was murder, and he still had to try to keep it all quiet and everything working as usual. Would he even be thanked for it? Thanks could mean a lot, in fact it could mean almost everything.

“But I am grateful,” she added in the prickly silence. “Wouldn’t ’a done for me to tell everyone as Ada made me do ’er job wi’ the slops, which is wot made me late. An’ please don’t say nothin’! I’ll sort ’er.”

He looked desperately uncomfortable. “Have you…have you learned anything?” His voice caught in his throat.

“Best you dunno, sir,” she replied.

“Would it be helpful if you were to serve at dinner tonight?” he asked.

“Serve? You mean like at the table?” she was horrified.

“Yes. They are not dining until late. You still have at least two hours. Would it help you to observe?”

“I…” She hated to admit it. “I dunno as I know ’ow ter do it, sir. Not…not wi’ silver dishes an’ all them glasses an’ all.”

“You won’t be asked to serve the wine,” he assured her. He looked better, and he had the upper hand again. “Just the vegetables, and clear away. The footman will serve the wine and the soup. Would it help?”

“If someone’s as mad as all that, yer’d think yer could see it, wouldn’t yer?” she said thoughtfully. “Mrs. Sorokine’s bin goin’ around all day askin’ things. Mr. Tyndale, sir, do you know if someone broke a dish, all blue and white china, wi’ a bit o’ gold in it? One from upstairs, I mean? She were askin’ like it mattered.”

He looked concerned. “Yes, I am aware of that. She asked me also. I tried to discourage her. It seems I did not succeed. Who was she asking?”

“Walton. ’As it got summink ter do with the murder, sir?”

“No. No, you have quite misunderstood. There isn’t such a dish here. The matter has to do with some unfortunate behavior of a quite different nature,” he said firmly, watching to see if she believed him. “It is His Royal Highness. Leave it absolutely alone. Do you understand me, Miss Phipps? I am most desperately serious.”

She was astounded, and a little frightened as well. She realized for the first time the delicacy of the balance Mr. Tyndale needed to keep between his own beliefs and those of the man and the class he served. Did he even see the absurdity of it? How difficult was it for him to explain to himself, and justify, when it was late at night and he was alone in his room? Did he question, waver? Then count the cost?

He blinked under her gaze. “Do you understand me, Miss Phipps?” he said again.

“No, sir,” she replied. “But I’ll do like you say.”

The door swung wide open and Mrs. Newsome was there again, her face white apart from two spots of color in her cheeks.

“Phipps—” she started.

“If you have something to say, Mrs. Newsome, then you had better say it to me,” Tyndale cut across her abruptly. “Phipps was reporting a certain matter to me, which I shall relay to the police. The fewer people who know of it the better. It may turn out to mean nothing, but we must see. You will keep this entirely to yourself.” That was an order; there was no possibility of misunderstanding this time. Was he repaying her for showing him up in front of the other staff at the table?

“Indeed,” Mrs. Newsome said unhappily. She turned from Tyndale to Gracie. “Phipps, there is a considerable amount of rubbish in the still room after the party. No one got round to cleaning it up. Go and do so, and while you are there, you can scrub the floor.”

“I want her to help at table this evening,” Mr. Tyndale said.

“She’s not fit to, but if that’s what you want, then she can do so. After she’s scrubbed the still-room floor,” Mrs. Newsome rejoined. “Don’t stand there, girl! Go and do as you’re told!”

IT WAS A messy and quite difficult job. The room was cluttered with all manner of rubbish, as Mrs. Newsome had said, and in the early-evening heat Gracie could hear the irritating buzzing of flies. She hated the big, lazy things circling round anything dirty or sticky, settling and laying eggs on the surfaces. She gave a little shudder of distaste, and went to fetch a bucket of water and some baking soda to help it get back a decent smell.

It took her half an hour of cleaning and scrubbing and washing down and repiling up again before she came to the bottles where the flies were. They were old wine bottles, by the look of them, and expensive too. The labels were ornate and in soft colors, like old parchment. She picked one up and looked at it. A fly buzzed out of the neck and zoomed away.

“Ugh!” she said disgustedly. “Must be very sweet.” She looked at the label. She could not read all of it, but she recognized the word port. That would be for the gentlemen to drink after dinner. She had heard about that. Could be terribly expensive. She put it to her nose experimentally and sniffed a little. It was sweet, like sugar and salt, and a bit like iron. Certainly not anything she would want to drink. It was revolting! Wonder if that one was bad. Could wine go bad?

She picked up another, and tried it very gingerly. That smelled entirely different, and very nice indeed, like real wine she had tasted before. She went back to the first one and tried again. It was just as horrible. There were eight empty bottles and she tried all of them. Five were lovely, three disgusting, all the same, with the sickly sweet, ironlike smell.

She tipped one up and poured out a few drops onto the back of her hand, then smeared it gently over her skin. A fly returned and settled on her. She shook it off violently. She put her finger to the red stain and spread it a little farther across her hand. Then she knew what it was—blood.

She tipped up the others that smelled the same, and got a little trickle of blood out of each one, mixed with the lees of the wine. Why would anyone put blood into a wine bottle? What kind of blood—animal or human?

She stood up so quickly she nearly overbalanced and had to reach out and grasp onto a broom handle to hold herself up. She was a little dizzy, but there was no question in her mind what she must do: hide the three bottles that had held the blood, and then go and tell Pitt. No one else must know. She would feel ridiculous if it were something to do with a special recipe of the cook’s, but far more so if it had something to do with that poor dead woman someone had butchered, and she did nothing about it. Nobody deserved to end up that way, no matter who they were.

She went back to Mr. Tyndale and told him she had to speak to Pitt straightaway. Ten minutes later she was standing in front of Pitt.

He looked tired and worried. His hair was even more unruly than usual and his shirt collar was crumpled. It seemed no one was looking after him. She noticed it all, and it brought a stab of both sorrow and guilt to her, but it was not important compared with the bottles in the still room.

“Are you all right, Gracie?” he asked as soon as she had closed the door. “Tyndale said the other servants are making things difficult for you.”

“In’t nothing as matters, sir,” she said, surprised that Tyndale should have told Pitt. “I came about summink I found wot could be…I dunno. Mebbe I’m bein’ a bit daft meself, but it don’t seem right, or make no sense.”

A flicker of hope lit his eyes. “What is it?”

“I were scrubbin’ out the still room an’ I found eight empty bottles wot ’ad ’ad port wine in ’em,” she replied. “Five of ’em smelled like wine, real nice, an’ three of ’em ’ad flies all around, an’ smelled different. I tipped ’em out, an’ they ’ad blood in ’em.”

“Blood!” He was stunned. “Gracie, are you sure?”

“Yes.” She frowned. “Could the cook ’ave mixed blood an’ wine ter make summink? A sauce, or summink like that?”

“Three bottles of port! I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “And why put the blood into the port bottles anyway? Wouldn’t she have mixed it in a bowl or a pan?”

“Yer gonna ask?”

“Yes, I am! Where are the bottles now?”

“I ’id ’em.” She told him exactly where. “D’yer know anything else, sir?” She would never have asked him such a thing even a month ago.

“Not much,” he admitted, defeat flattening his voice in spite of an obvious effort to keep it up. “It could still have been any one of the three men. Dunkeld told me where he heard of the prostitutes and that he took them on recommendation of an acquaintance. Never saw them before. Mr. Narraway’s been looking into it to see if anything about them would help. He questioned the two women still alive, but they never saw or heard of any of the men before, and Sadie had said she didn’t know them either. They talked about it on the way here.”

“A man wot in’t mad don’t kill tarts,” she said flatly. “Don’t care enough, for a start. Why would ’e? Don’t make no sense. But someone smashed summink I thought were one o’ ’em dishes with a stand on, made o’ blue, white, and gold china. But Mr. Tyndale says as they in’t got any like that.” She frowned. “I over’eard it were done upstairs an’ taken down in a bucket, all in tiny bits. Someone were goin’ up an’ down wi’ buckets o’ water too, but when I asked Mr. Tyndale about that ’e got all white an’ quiet an’ told me it was ’Is Royal ’Ighness be’avin’ badly. Said I weren’t never ter think of it again, never mind say nothin’. But I know about it ’cos Mrs. Sorokine were askin’ Walton today, an’ got ever so excited about it when she ’eard. Kind of excited an’ upset at the same time.”

Pitt frowned at her. “Mrs. Sorokine?”

“Yes. She’s detectin’, sir, I’d swear to it, but I dunno if it’s got anythin’ ter do with the murder, or jus’ ’er own life, wot’s nuffin’ like it should be.”

Pitt smiled twistedly. “You’ve noticed!”

“Can’t ’ardly ’elp it, can I?” she retorted. “If a parlor maid threw ’erself about like that, twitchin’ ’er skirts an’ ’er be’ind, she’d get ’er notice for bein’ loose.”

“The rules for ladies and parlor maids were never the same.” He stood up. “Let’s go and find these extraordinary bottles of blood. You’re right, it doesn’t make any sense at all. But there isn’t much about this whole disgusting affair that does.”

AN HOUR LATER Gracie was back in her best uniform with clean and starched white lace-edged cap and apron, and lined up with the other servants for Mrs. Newsome to inspect her, showing her hands back and front. Her hair had so many pins in it she felt as if she had a helmet on underneath her cap, but she was sure no stray piece would escape to make her appearance less than perfect. Her boots were also inspected and found spotless.

“Dunno wot for,” Ada said as they went out to begin their duties. “Yer skirt’s so long no one even knows yer got feet, let alone boots. I never seen such a skinny little rabbit as you are.”

“Well, I seen scores like you!” Gracie retorted. “Ten a penny, up an’ down any street, an’ on it too! Too much chest, an’ all. Everybody else can see yer got feet, they’re big enough, but I lay odds yer can’t see ’em yerself!”

“I’ll wash yer mouth out wi’ lye, yer cheeky bint!” Ada hissed under her breath. “No man in’t never gonna fancy you! Not unless ’e’s one o’ these wot likes little kids!”

“Then I’m safe from Edwards, in’t I?” Gracie retorted. “’Cos ’e likes ’em big an’ blowsy, fat enough ter be ’is ma!”

Ada reached her hand back as if to take a wide swing and hit Gracie on the side of her face, then realized that Biddie was looking at them, and changed her mind. “I’ll get yer, yer little bitch!” she said half under her breath.

“No yer won’t,” Gracie responded in the same tone. “Or I’ll tell wot I saw in the laundry the other day, when it all got fogged up. Weren’t only the copper as was steaming, were it!”

“I’ll say yer lying!” Ada spat back. “They’ll believe me, ’cos nobody likes you! I’ll say it were you ’oo was teasin’ Edwards, an’ then Mrs. Newsome’ll get rid o’ yer for sure! She’s only waitin’ fer the chance.”

“No they won’t believe yer,” Gracie hissed back at her. “’Cos like yer said, nobody’d fancy me. They all know Edwards is after you. An’ you’re after Cuttredge. An’ ’e’s gonna believe me. So you keep yer mouth shut an’ all, an’ leave me alone!”

They reached the dining room and Ada was obliged to hold her peace. She was fuming, but she was also beaten, at least until she thought of a way of retaliating.

The guests came in and took their seats. Footmen in livery held doors, Gracie and the other women servants stood in the anteroom and waited, but she could see through the gap in the doorway. The guests looked marvelous, all bright colors of silk, velvet, and lace and glittering with jewels. Gracie was dazzled by white necks and bosoms; she had never seen so much skin even when she had a bath.

Mrs. Sorokine was wearing yet another burning shade of pink, so hot you’d think you could cook dinner over it. She looked excited, her dark eyes glittering as she turned from one person to another, ignoring her husband. Her eyes went up and down Mrs. Marquand’s thin body in its dark blue gown, which made her look even more bony, then on to Mr. Marquand, who was looking back at her, smiling. He was a bit pink too, as if warming himself in the glow of her dress. Gracie wondered if the real quality went on like this a lot of the time, or if it was only these ones. Maybe she could work up the nerve to ask Mrs. Pitt one day.

Mrs. Quase was wearing a strange shade of brownish gold with a plunging neck at the front, though nobody seemed to be noticing it much. She was very beautiful.

Mrs. Dunkeld wore a soft, cold lavender gray, which oddly enough made her skin look warmer. She was beautiful too, in a ladylike sort of way. She looked unhappy, and her eyes met those of everyone except her husband’s, and Mr. Sorokine.

Gracie was directed to go back down to the cellar and ask Mr. Tyndale to fetch another two bottles of the white wine. When she returned it was almost time to take away the soup plates.

“Be careful!” Ada warned, her eyes bright with anticipation. “You drop any o’ that on someone’s dress an’ you’re finished!”

Gracie went into the dining room already shaking and afraid she would trip over her own feet—or worse, her too-long skirt—and send the dishes right across the floor.

She accomplished her duty with fierce concentration, aware that Ada would be only too delighted if she had a disaster. Then she assisted as the fish was served, and stood back watching while it was eaten. It smelled delicious. No one considered her to be eavesdropping, because they did not notice her at all.

First she watched Cahoon Dunkeld. There was a power in him that drew her eyes as if there were something in his mind, his strength of will, that dominated them all. He was talking about Africa, and the great railway they were going to build, and how it would be the backbone of the whole continent.

“And of course His Royal Highness will give you his support, won’t he, Papa?” Mrs. Sorokine said with conviction. She sounded so sure that it was not really a question.

“I expect so,” Mr. Dunkeld replied. “But we shouldn’t take it for granted. That would be foolish, and insulting.”

Gracie thought he said that for the benefit of the Prince, in case someone should repeat it back to him.

“But aren’t you his friend?” Mrs. Sorokine pressed. “I would think, from the way you have helped him in this ghastly business, he would be forever grateful to you.” There was a funny, bright edge to her voice as she said that, and her eyes never left his face.

“This ghastly business, as you put it, would not have happened if we weren’t here,” Mr. Sorokine pointed out. “Apparently one of us killed her. No one is going to be grateful for that.”

“Oh, do be quiet!” his wife said impatiently. “He was the one who wanted the women here. Papa simply arranged it for him.” She turned back to her father. “Didn’t you?”

“Couldn’t we discuss something else?” Mrs. Quase interrupted with irritation. “At least over dinner.”

“Why?” Mrs. Marquand asked suddenly. “Whatever we talk about—the weather, fashion, gossip, politics, even Africa—we are all thinking about it! I look at the tablecloth, and I think of the sheets in the linen cupboard where she was killed. I look at the meal on my plate and think of the blood!”

“It’s fish,” her husband told her. “Stop indulging your imagination, or you’ll end up in hysterics. Have a glass of water.” He held up his hand. “Somebody, fetch her a glass of water!”

Gracie stepped forward, picked up the crystal water jug, and poured a wineglass full. She gave it to Mrs. Marquand, who took it with a startled gesture and drank a couple of sips before putting it down.

Gracie retreated to the wall again, hoping to resume her previous invisibility.

“He still relies on you, though, doesn’t he, Papa?” Mrs. Sorokine took up the previous conversation as if nothing had happened. “I think there will be no question of his complete support.”

“Let us hope so,” Mr. Dunkeld replied. He did not look as pleased with her as Gracie would have expected. After all, she was in a way complimenting him.

“There is no one else with better credentials,” Mrs. Quase said with forced cheerfulness. “In fact, I’m not sure there is really anyone else at all.”

“There will always be other offers,” Mr. Sorokine pointed out. “But I agree, they are not nearly as good.”

“I expect they’ll try, though, don’t you?” Again Mrs. Sorokine was looking at her father. “The Prince of Wales’s support will make all the difference, won’t it?”

“Obviously!” Dunkeld said with considerable sharpness. “That is what we are here for. You do not need to keep repeating what is already obvious.”

“We can hardly be complacent.” Mrs. Dunkeld spoke for the first time. “After all, however good we are at building railways, apparently one of us killed that poor woman.”

“She was a street whore, Elsa,” Dunkeld said brusquely. “Don’t speak of her as if she were some poor girl attacked on her way to church.”

Mrs. Dunkeld looked at him with a sudden flare of fury in her blue eyes. “So were the victims of the Whitechapel murderer. They’d have hanged him just the same, if they had caught him.”

Mrs. Quase gave a gasp. Mrs. Marquand was ashen.

Mrs. Sorokine raised both her hands in mock applause. “Oh, bravo, Stepmother! That’s the perfect remark to season the fish course! Now we shall feel so much more like choosing game. What is it, pheasant in aspic, jugged hare, or a little venison perhaps? Nothing like talk of a good hanging to improve the appetite.”

“Yours anyway, it would seem!” Mrs. Dunkeld shot back at her. “It is idiotic to sit here and talk of the plans for a railway the length of Africa when one of us is a lunatic who kills women, and the police are here and not going to leave until they find out which one of us it is.”

“We are all powerfully aware of that,” Dunkeld said freezingly, his face set hard. “It appears to have escaped your intelligence that we are trying our best to have a civilized meal and behave with some dignity until such time as that is. Always assuming that idiot policeman is capable of doing anything more than sitting in his chair and asking endless, stupid questions. He doesn’t appear to be any further forward than he was the morning he arrived.”

Gracie was so furious she almost choked on her own breath, perhaps partly because she had a terrible fear that Mr. Dunkeld was right about Mr. Pitt’s lack of progress. They had as evidence the Queen’s sheets, the knife, the bottles, and knew about the broken dish that wasn’t supposed to exist, and buckets and buckets of water, but none of it made any sense. She ached to be able to snap back at him that they wouldn’t know anything about what progress Pitt was making anyway, until he was ready to arrest someone, but she could do nothing but stand there against the wall as if she were a bundle of clothes on a peg.

Almost unbelievably, it was Mrs. Sorokine who said what Gracie wanted to say. “He might know all kinds of things, Papa. He would hardly be likely to tell us. After all, we are the suspects.”

“Only if he’s a fool!” Dunkeld snapped at her. “I wasn’t even in Africa when the first woman was killed, which I shall remind him, if he is idiotic enough to suspect me. And no woman could have done such a thing.”

Hamilton Quase put his wineglass down with a shaking hand, slopping some of it over, even though it was half empty. “You seem to be assuming it was the same person. I don’t know why! It doesn’t have to be. Unfortunately slashing prostitutes to death is not a unique propensity.”

“Straining coincidence a little far, don’t you think?” Dunkeld’s face was twisted with sarcasm. “Exactly the same way, with the same three men present? Even Pitt could get far enough to see the unlikelihood of that. But if he can’t, then I shall have to give him a little assistance.”

“Perhaps you should tell him who the Whitechapel murderer is at the same time?” Quase suggested bitingly. “The whole country would be glad to know. Except whoever it is, of course.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Mr. Marquand observed contemptuously. “None of us were in London in the autumn of 1888.”

“Except Papa,” Mrs. Sorokine said. “You were here, because I was too, and I saw you. We all knew what happened to those women, everybody did.” She smiled dazzlingly, her eyes too bright. “And in case you think that is irrelevant, my point is that when something hideous happens, people get to know about it, and could copy it closely enough, if they were sufficiently insane, or sufficiently evil.”

“I have finished all the fish I desire to eat.” Mrs. Quase laid her implements on the plate and turned toward Gracie. “Would you remove my plate, and begin to serve the next course? You have no need to fear interrupting the conversation. It is finished.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gracie said obediently.

“And get me some more wine,” Mr. Quase added, holding up the almost empty bottle so she could see the label.

“No! Thank you,” Mrs. Quase cut across him. “We have sufficient. Just clear away the plates.”

“If my wife doesn’t want the wine, she doesn’t need to have it.” Quase swiveled in his chair unsteadily until he was facing Gracie. “I do. Fetch it. Take this, so you get the right one.” He thrust the bottle out toward her.

Mr. Sorokine stood up and took it from him. “Just clear the dishes,” he told Gracie. “The footman will bring whatever wine we are having with the next course. It may be red, or at least something different.”

Gracie took the bottle, relieved at being rescued. “Yes, sir.” She turned to give it to Ada just beyond the door, then began to collect the plates with Biddie’s help.

By the time she had taken them to the kitchen and returned, the next course was served and they were all eating again, or pretending to.

Mrs. Sorokine seemed too excited to do more than take the occasional mouthful. She went on making oblique remarks to her father, as if deliberately baiting him. Sometimes he ignored her, once or twice he responded sharply, almost viciously.

Gracie saw Mrs. Dunkeld flinch, as if the barbs had been directed at her. There was an unhappiness in her face in repose, a kind of stillness as if she were concentrating on mastering pain. It made Gracie wonder how much she was afraid, and whether it was all for herself or for a tragedy that had yet to happen and could overtake them all. Did she actually have some idea which of the men sitting at the table around her had done this nightmarish thing?

When Mrs. Sorokine was not looking at her father, her eyes flashed to Simnel Marquand. Gracie did not see her once look at her husband. What did that mean? That she did not want to, or that she did not dare?

Olga Marquand remained almost silent.

The course was cleared and the roast beef served, then the puddings, and lastly the biscuits, cheese, and fruit. Gracie managed to fetch and carry without dropping anything or getting anything seriously wrong until the very end, when Ada bumped her elbow and she sent a pile of dirty plates crashing down the stairs. Nothing was broken, but Gracie spent the next half hour cleaning it up and washing the stains out of the carpet.

“Uppity little cow!” Ada observed with satisfaction as she walked around her, lifting her skirts aside with care.

With difficulty, Gracie refrained from reaching out and tripping her. At the moment her mind was busy trying to understand the chaotic emotions she had seen at the dinner table and attempting to decode what Mrs. Sorokine had really meant when she was talking to her father. Gracie was quite certain it had to do with the questions she had been asking all day. She had deduced something, and she was trying to tell them all, perhaps to frighten someone into an action that would betray him.

It was a dangerous thing to do, but there seemed to be something in Mrs. Sorokine that was starved for excitement, however dangerous, or even morally wrong.

Or else maybe it wasn’t excitement, but fear, hidden as well as she was able to, because the man who had done this was someone she loved. Was that why she could not look at her husband?

Perhaps she was brave, and very honest, even at such a cost.

Gracie fetched, carried, and cleaned, still thinking of it. It all made Ada pretty unimportant: just irritating and rather grubby, like the flies that buzzed around the bottles once full of blood.