Buckingham Palace Gardens

CHAPTER

ONE

SHE WAS APPARENTLY found in the linen cupboard, poor creature,” Narraway replied, his lean face dour, his eyes so dark they seemed black in the interior shadow of the hansom cab. Then, before Pitt could say anything further, he corrected himself. “One of the linen cupboards in Buckingham Palace. It was a particularly brutal murder.”

The vehicle jerked forward, throwing Pitt back in the seat. “A prostitute?” he said incredulously.

Narraway was silent for a moment. The horse’s hoofs clattered loudly, the carriage’s wheels rattling over the cobbles dangerously close to the pavement edge.

“Surely that’s a bad joke!” he said at last as they swung around the corner into The Mall and picked up speed again.

“Very bad,” Narraway agreed. “At least I hope so. But I fear it is perfectly serious. However, if Mr. Cahoon Dunkeld proves to be wasting our time exercising his sense of humor, I shall take great joy in personally putting him in jail—preferably one of our less pleasant ones.”

“It has to be a joke,” Pitt said, shivering at the thought. “There couldn’t be a murder at the Palace. How could a prostitute get in there, anyway?”

“Through the door, exactly as we shall, Pitt,” Narraway answered.

“Don’t be naïve. And she was probably more welcome than we shall be.”

Pitt felt a little stung. “Who is Cahoon Dunkeld?” he asked, avoiding looking at Narraway. He had a reverence for Queen Victoria, especially now in her advanced age and widowhood, even though he was perfectly well aware of her reputed eccentricities and the fact that she had not always been so popular with her people. She had been in mourning too long, retreating not only from joy but also from duty. And he had gained some personal knowledge a couple of years ago of the extravagance and the self-indulgence of the Prince of Wales, and knew he kept several very expensive mistresses. Pitt had been superintendent of Bow Street then, and the conspiracy around the Prince had cost him his job and very nearly brought down the throne. That was why Pitt was now working for Victor Narraway in Special Branch, learning more about treason, anarchy, and other forms of violence against the State.

But the thought of a prostitute in the Queen’s home was different. It disgusted him, and he had difficulty concealing it, even though he knew Narraway found him plebeian amd faintly amusing for having such idealism.

“Who is Cahoon Dunkeld?” he repeated.

Narraway leaned forward a little. The dappled, early-morning sunlight of The Mall made bright patterns on the road. There was little traffic. It was not a residential area, and such horseback riders as were out would be cantering up and down Rotten Row on the edge of Hyde Park.

“An adventurer of considerable charm when he wishes, and undoubted ability, who is now seeking to become a gentleman in the more recognized social sense,” Narraway answered. “And apparently a friend of His Royal Highness.”

“What is he doing at the Palace at this hour of the morning?” Pitt said.

“That is what we are about to find out,” Narraway snapped as they came out of The Mall in front of the Palace. The magnificent wrought-iron railings were tipped with gold. Guards were on duty wearing bearskin helmets, their red tunics bright in the sun.

Pitt looked up at the sweeping façade itself and then at the roof. He saw with a flood of relief that there was no flag flying, indicating that Her Majesty was not in residence. At the same time he was inexplicably disappointed. He was quite aware that Narraway would find it gauche of him, but Pitt would like to have caught another glimpse of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. In spite of all common sense, there was a quickening of his heartbeat. Even inside the hansom cab he sat straighter, lifted his chin a little, and squared his shoulders.

If Narraway noticed, he did not allow himself even the slightest smile.

They swung round to the right, heading for the entrance where tradesmen and deliveries would go. They were stopped at the gate. Narraway gave his name, and immediately the guard stepped back and saluted. The cabdriver, startled into respect, urged his horse forward at a newly dignified pace.

Ten minutes later Pitt and Narraway were being conducted up the wide, elegant stairs by a manservant who had introduced himself as Tyndale. He was of slight build but he moved with suppleness, even some grace, although Pitt judged him to be well into his fifties. He was courteous enough, but quite obviously distressed beyond any ability to maintain his normal composure.

At any other time Pitt would have been fascinated to think that he was inside Buckingham Palace. Now all he could think of was the enormity of what lay ahead of them. The magnificence of history meant nothing.

Was this an idiotic practical joke? Tyndale’s pallid face and stiff shoulders said not, and for the first time since Narraway had made his extraordinary statement in the hansom, Pitt considered the possibility that it might be true.

They were at the top of the stairs. Tyndale walked across the landing and knocked on a door a little to the left. It was opened immediately by a man of much greater height than he, with broad shoulders and a dark face of remarkable dynamism. He was severely balding, but this in no way diminished his handsomeness. His gray hair must once have been black because his brows still were. His skin was burned by sun and wind to a deep bronze.

“Mr. Narraway has arrived, Mr. Dunkeld,” Tyndale said quietly.

“Good,” Dunkeld replied. “Now please leave us, and make sure that we are not interrupted. In fact, see that no staff come up onto this floor at all.” He turned to Narraway as if Tyndale was already gone. “Narraway?” he asked.

Narraway acknowledged it, and introduced Pitt.

“Cahoon Dunkeld.” The big man held out his hand and shook Narraway’s briefly. He ignored Pitt except for a nod of his head. “Come in, close the door.”

He turned and led the way into the charming, highly overfurnished room. Its wide, tall windows overlooked a garden, and beyond them the trees were motionless billows of green in the morning sun.

Dunkeld remained standing in the middle of the floor. He spoke solely to Narraway. “There has been a shocking event. I have never seen anything quite so…bestial. How it should happen here, of all places, is beyond my comprehension.”

“Tell me exactly what has happened, Mr. Dunkeld,” Narraway responded. “From the beginning.”

Dunkeld winced, as if the memory were painful. “From the beginning? I woke early. I…”

Deliberately Narraway sat down in one of the large overstuffed chairs covered in wine-colored brocade. He crossed his legs elegantly, if a little rigidly, at the knees. “The beginning, Mr. Dunkeld. Who are you, and why are you here at this hour of the morning?”

“For God’s sake…!” Dunkeld burst out. Then controlling himself with obvious difficulty, body stiff, he sat down also and began to explain. He had the air not of having grasped Narraway’s reasoning so much as being given no choice but to humor a lesser intelligence. His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair.

“His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, is deeply interested in an engineering project that may be undertaken by my company, and certain of my colleagues,” he began again. “Four of us are here at his invitation in order to discuss the possibilities—the details, if you like. Our wives have accompanied us to give it the appearance of a social occasion. The other three are Julius Sorokine, Simnel Marquand, and Hamilton Quase. We have been here two days already, and the discussions have been excellent.”

Pitt remained on his feet, listening and watching Dunkeld’s face. His expression was intense, his eyes burning with enthusiasm. His left hand, gripping the chair arm, was white at the knuckles.

“Yesterday evening we celebrated our progress so far,” Dunkeld continued. “I assume you are a man of the world, and do not need to have every detail drawn for you? The ladies retired early. We sat up considerably longer, and a certain amount of entertainment was provided. The brandy was excellent, the company both relaxing and amusing. We were all in high spirits.” Not once did he glance at Pitt as he spoke. He might have been as invisible as a servant.

“I see,” Narraway answered expressionlessly.

“We retired between one and two in the morning,” Dunkeld went on. “I awoke early—about six, I imagine. I was in my robe, not yet dressed, when my valet came with a message that he had received over the telephone. It was a matter His Royal Highness had asked to be informed of immediately, so, in spite of the hour, I took it to him. I returned to my room, shaved and dressed, had a cup of tea, and was on my way back to see His Royal Highness further about the matter, but passing the linen cupboard in the passage I saw the door slightly open.” His voice was harsh with tension. “That in itself, of course, is of no interest, but I became aware of a curious odor, and when I pulled it wider…I saw…probably the most dreadful thing I have ever seen.” He blinked and seemed to need a moment to compose himself again.

Narraway did not interrupt him, nor move his gaze from Dunkeld’s face.

“The naked body of a woman, covered in blood,” Dunkeld said hoarsely. “There was blood all over the rest of the linen.” He gulped air. “For a moment, I could not believe it. I thought I must have taken more brandy than I had imagined and become delirious. I don’t know how long I stood there, leaning against the door frame. Then I backed into the corridor. There was no one else in sight.”

Narraway nodded.

“I closed the door.” Dunkeld seemed to find some comfort in remembering the act, as if he could at the same time close the horror from his inner vision. “I called Tyndale, the man who called you. He is the principal manservant in this guest wing. I told him that one of the women from the previous evening had been found dead, that he must keep all servants from that corridor; serve breakfast to the other guests in their rooms. Then I asked for the telephone and called you.”

“Is His Royal Highness aware of this event?” Narraway asked.

Dunkeld blinked. “Naturally I had to inform him. He has given me full authority to act in his name and get this ghastly tragedy cleared up with the utmost haste, and absolute discretion. You cannot fail to be aware of the scandal it would cause if it became public.” His eyes were hard, demanding, and the very slight lift in his voice suggested he needed reassurance of both Narraway’s intelligence and his tact. “Her Majesty will be returning next week, on her way from Osborne to travel north to Balmoral. It is imperative that your investigation is entirely accomplished before that time. Do you understand me?”

Pitt felt his stomach knot, and suddenly there was barely enough air in the room for him to breathe. He had been here minutes, and yet he felt imprisoned.

He must have made a slight sound, because Dunkeld looked at him, then back at Narraway. “What about your man here?” he asked abruptly. “How far can you trust his discretion? And his ability to handle such a vital matter? And it is vital. If it became public, it would be ruinous, even affect the safety of the realm. Our business here concerns a profoundly important part of the Empire. Not only fortunes but nations could be changed by what we do.” He was staring at Narraway as if by sheer will he could force some understanding into him, even a fear of failure.

Narraway gave a very slight shrug. It was a minimal, elegant gesture of his shoulders. He was far leaner than Dunkeld, and more at ease in his beautifully tailored jacket. “He is my best,” he answered.

Dunkeld looked unimpressed. “And discreet?” he persisted.

“Special Branch deals with secrets,” Narraway told him.

Dunkeld’s eyes turned to Pitt and surveyed him coolly.

Narraway rose to his feet. “I would like to see the body,” he announced.

Dunkeld took a deep breath and stood up also. He walked past Pitt and opened the door, leaving them to follow him. He led the way along the corridor with its ornately plastered and gilded ceiling, and up another broad flight of stairs. At the top he turned right past two doors to where a young footman stood at attention outside a third door.

“You can go,” Dunkeld dismissed him. “Wait on the landing. I’ll call you when I need you again.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman glanced with anxiety at Narraway and Pitt, then did as he was told, his feet soundless on the carpet.

Dunkeld looked at Narraway, then at Pitt. “What do you normally do? Chase spies? Uncover plots?”

“Investigate murder,” Pitt replied.

“Well, here’s one for you.” Dunkeld opened the cupboard door and stood back.

Pitt stared at the sight in front of him. At his elbow Narraway gasped as his breath caught in his throat. The older man gulped and put his hand to his mouth, as if afraid he might disgrace himself by being sick.

It was not surprising. The woman lay on her back and was obscenely naked, breasts exposed, thighs apart. Her throat had been cut from one side to the other and her lower abdomen slashed open, leaving her entrails bulging pale where they protruded from the dark blood. One leg was raised a little, knee bent, the other lay slack, foot nearly to the floor. Her long, brown hair had apparently been pulled loose from its pins in some kind of struggle. Her blue eyes were wide open and glassy, her mouth gaping. There was blood everywhere, spattered on the walls, soaked into the piles of sheets, daubed across her body, and pooling on the floor. Even her hands were scarlet.

Pitt stared at her less with revulsion than with an overwhelming pity for the gross indignity of it. Had it been an animal the callousness of it would have offended him. For a human being to die like that filled him with a towering anger and a desire to lash out physically and strike something. His breath heaved in his chest and his throat convulsed.

Yet he knew he must keep calm. Intelligence was needed, not passion, however justified. Someone had done this to her. And since this was a royal residence, guarded day and night, it had to be someone within the Palace walls. He found himself shaking at the desecration of the woman’s body, of life, and of the Queen’s home. He steadied himself with difficulty and tried to still the churning of his stomach.

Why? Surely only a man bereft of reason would do such a thing anywhere, let alone here?

Narraway cleared his throat.

Pitt turned to him. He was white around the lips and there were beads of sweat on his skin. Pitt guessed he had never seen such grotesque violence and degradation before. He should say something that would soften the horror, but his mind was empty. Perhaps he did not want to. One should feel sick, stunned, torn apart by such things.

Instead, he turned away and moved into the cupboard, stepping carefully to avoid standing in the pooled blood. It seemed to be all over the place: thick, dark gouts of it, scarlet only where it was smeared and thin.

He touched the woman’s arm. It was cold and the flesh was growing stiff. He guessed she had been dead for at least six hours. It was now half-past eight in the morning, which meant she had been killed by half-past two, at the latest.

“What is it?” Narraway gulped as if his throat were constricted.

Pitt told him.

“I think we know that,” Narraway said hoarsely. “She arrived here yesterday evening, and presumably was seen by several people up until one o’clock.” He turned to Dunkeld. “I’m sorry to ask you, but would you look at her face, please, and tell us if you recognize her?” Then he swiveled round to Pitt again and his voice was jerky, losing control. “For God’s sake, man, put something over the rest of her! The cupboard’s full of sheets. Use one!”

Pitt took one from the top shelf, far away from the body, and opened it up. With some relief he spread it over her, right up to her neck, deliberately covering the fearful gash in her throat.

Narraway stepped back to allow Dunkeld past.

“Yes,” Dunkeld said after a few moments. “Yes, that is one of the women from last night’s party.”

“You are certain?”

“Of course I’m certain!” Dunkeld shouted. Then he gasped, put his hand over his brow and pushed his fingers back over his scalp as if he had hair. “For the love of God, who else could it be? I don’t look at prostitutes’ faces. She’s ordinary enough. She was hired for her…her skills, not her looks. Brown hair, blue eyes, like a hundred thousand other women.”

Pitt looked at her again, this time just at her face. Dunkeld was right; she was ordinary: pleasant features, clear skin, slightly crooked teeth. He guessed she had been in her early thirties. She had been handsomely built, with full breasts, small waist. That was very probably more where Dunkeld’s attention had been. He was right; who else could she be but one of last night’s prostitutes? She was certainly not one of the guests, and a maid would have been reported missing and identified by one of the other staff.

“Thank you, sir,” he said aloud. He reached forward and closed her eyes.

“Can’t we move her?” Dunkeld demanded. “This is…obscene. One of the women might find her, by accident. And we’ve got to have maids back here to change the linen, clean the rooms. Let’s put her somewhere decent, and get this cleared up. It would be very nice to keep it secret, but the staff will have to know. You’ll have to question them.”

“In a little while,” Pitt replied.

“I asked Narraway!” Dunkeld raised his voice again, temper flaring.

Narraway stared at him, eyes cold, his face almost expressionless. When he spoke, his voice was fully under control. “Mr. Dunkeld, Inspector Pitt is an expert in murder. I employ him because I trust his knowledge and his skill. You will do as he tells you, otherwise I regret that we will not be able to accept the case. You can call in the local police. In fact, now that we are aware of it, we will be obliged to do so ourselves.”

Dunkeld searched Narraway’s face. His eyes were savage. He was hot with rage at being cornered. It was obviously a situation he had not been forced to endure in a long time. But he saw no wavering whatever, no fear in Narraway and no mercy. He yielded with sufficient grace to maintain his dignity, but Pitt had no doubt whatever that he would await his time for revenge.

“Look all you wish, Pitt,” he said grimly. “Then attend to it. Can you arrange for a mortuary van discreetly, disguised as a delivery of some sort?” His expression made it plain that the inquiry was as to his competence, not a request for his help.

“Once I have learned all I can,” Pitt answered him, “I will ask Mr. Tyndale to have the cupboard cleaned up.”

“See to it.” Dunkeld turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Narraway to follow him, and Pitt to do whatever he wished.

Pitt took the sheet off the body again and dropped it in the corridor, then looked once more at the scene in the linen cupboard, trying to visualize what had happened. Why had they been here at all, this woman and whoever had killed her? With what? A knife of some sort; the slashes were clean-edged as far as he could see through the blood.

He looked around, felt between all the stacked and folded sheets, on the floor, under her body, then he did it again even more carefully. There was no weapon, and no evidence that someone had wiped it here before removing it: there were no smear marks on any of the sheets he could see, only spatters and deep-soaked stains.

And where were her clothes? She would hardly have come here naked, no matter how wild the party. Prostitutes gave only what they were paid for; it did not normally include even kissing, let alone running around without clothing. But then he had never dealt with those who catered to such an elevated clientele as this. Still, the question remained: Where were her clothes? She had certainly arrived at the Palace in them.

He studied the body again, looking for marks, scratches or bruises, pinches, anything to indicate whether she had taken her garments off herself or they had been torn from her while alive, or stripped off after she was dead.

The wound in her stomach was more jagged than the one in her throat, as if it had been made through something resistant, like cloth. It would be difficult to strip a lifeless body that was heavy, limp, and covered in blood. Why on earth do it? What could it be about her clothes that mattered so much? Something that would identify her killer?

Once the heart stops beating, blood gradually stops flowing, even with wounds like these. From the amount of blood on the sheets and the floor, she had to have died here. What was she doing in a linen cupboard? She was an invited guest, sanctioned by the Prince himself. She had no need to hide.

Unless she had left the Prince, already asleep or in a drunken stupor, and gone to earn a little extra money? Or possibly simply to enjoy herself with someone else, someone without a better place in which to be private? The obvious answer was one of the servants.

Still, Pitt could see no sense to it. Why had he then killed her? Had she threatened him with exposure? Would anyone care? Not a servant, unless his job were at risk. Would the Prince dismiss a servant for using the same prostitute he had used himself? What about one of the guests? Hardly, since their wives had gone to bed knowing the nature of the party they left. They might be hurt, angry, revolted, but no woman in such a position would expose herself to ridicule and, worse than that, public pity by drawing attention to her husband’s habits.

Pitt considered the possibility of a servant again. Perhaps one had been pressured into the theft of some small, valuable object, but killed his tormentor rather than fall into such a trap? No, that would not do. It did not answer the violence of the crime, the slashes across both throat and stomach. And who went to an assignation carrying the kind of knife that had done this damage?

There was nothing more to learn from this scene. He could sketch it quickly into his notebook to prompt his memory, then call a mortuary van and give them Narraway’s instructions to come and collect the body for the police surgeon.

He was on his way back down the stairs to find Narraway when he met Cahoon Dunkeld on the landing.

“Where have you been?” Dunkeld demanded, his face dark. “For heaven’s sake, man, don’t you realize this is urgent? What’s the matter with you?”

Pitt’s temper rose. Was it guilt, embarrassment, or fear that made Dunkeld so ill-mannered? Or was he simply an arrogant man who saw no need to be civil to those he considered inferior?

“Come on!” Dunkeld said abruptly. “His Royal Highness is waiting to see you.” He started up the stairs. “I assume you have made arrangements to have the body removed so the staff can clean up the cupboard and we can begin to get back to normal? With all your staring, did you find anything to indicate who this maniac is?”

Pitt ignored the question and kept up with Dunkeld, pace for pace. They were of equal height, although very differently built. Dunkeld was muscular, heavy-shouldered. Pitt was gangly, inelegant in any fashionable sense, and yet he had a certain grace. He took more care of his clothes now than he had done in the past, but he still put too much into his pockets, with the result that they bulged and poked, very often weighing down one side of his coat. He was clean-shaven, but most of the time his hair was unruly and too long.

It took several minutes to reach Narraway waiting outside the door of the room where presumably the Prince of Wales would receive them.

Pitt’s anger evaporated and he found himself suddenly intensely nervous. He had met the Prince before, at the end of the Whitechapel matter, but he did not expect to be remembered. At that time all attention had been on Charles Voisey, the man who had apparently saved the Throne at such great personal risk. But Voisey was dead now, and the whole issue was history.

Narraway turned as they arrived, his face bleak, his mouth a thin line. He met Pitt’s eyes questioningly, but Dunkeld allowed them no time to speak to each other. He walked straight up to the door and knocked. It was answered immediately and he opened it and went in, closing it behind him just as Narraway stepped forward.

Narraway swiveled on his heel. “Anything?” he demanded of Pitt.

“Observations that make no apparent sense,” Pitt replied. “Why—”

He got no further. The door opened again and Dunkeld ordered them in.

Narraway went first, Pitt on his heels. They both stopped a couple of yards inside. It was a high-ceilinged room like the others, ornately furnished with much gold and dark red, and highly polished wood. The Prince of Wales was standing in the center of the floor, a portly, middle-aged man with a full beard. He had unremarkable features except for pale eyes a trifle down-turned at the outer corners. This morning his skin was blotchy, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, and his hands very definitely shaky.

“Ah!” he said with evident relief.

“Your Royal Highness,” Dunkeld said immediately. “May I present Mr. Narraway of Special Branch, and his man, Pitt. They are here to attend to the unfortunate matter of last night, and to get it cleared up as soon as possible. The…evidence…is already being removed. Mr. Tyndale seems to be keeping the servants calm. They know only that there was an incident during the night and someone was hurt. I’m not sure how much more they need to know.” He looked at Narraway, his eyebrows raised slightly.

Narraway bowed his head for a moment then looked across at the Prince.

The Prince cleared his throat and had difficulty finding his voice. “Thank you. I am obliged you came so quickly. This whole thing is unutterably dreadful. Someone is quite clearly insane. I have no idea—”

“It is their job to find out, sir,” Dunkeld said so smoothly it was barely noticeable that he had interrupted. “If it cannot be completed today, one of them may need to remain overnight. If I—”

“By all means.” The Prince waved one hand, his face flooded with relief. “Anything. Deal with it, Dunkeld. You have my permission to take whatever steps are necessary.” He looked at Narraway. “What do you require?”

“I don’t know, yet, Your Royal Highness,” Narraway answered.

“We need to learn more about exactly what happened. May I take it for granted that no outsider could possibly have come or gone without the staff and the guards being aware of it?”

Dunkeld answered, but addressing the Prince rather than Narraway. “I have already taken the liberty of inquiring, sir. No one entered or left, other than those we already know of, and who had permission.”

There was a moment’s silence in the room as the implication of that became perfectly clear.

“It appears it must be one of the servants, sir,” Dunkeld said to the Prince. “Mr. Narraway will find out which one, and do all that is necessary. I strongly believe we should continue as close to normally as possible. If we are fortunate, the ladies may never need to know the details.”

“I should be very grateful if the Princess of Wales did not need to know,” the Prince said quickly. “She is bound to speak to Her Majesty. It would be…” He swallowed and a fine beading of sweat broke out on his skin.

Dunkeld looked at Narraway. “His Royal Highness has made his wishes clear: You are not to distress the Princess with this tragedy. Perhaps if you begin immediately with the servants, you may solve it all quite quickly. Someone may even confess.”

“Yes,” the Prince of Wales agreed eagerly, looking from Dunkeld to Narraway. “Or others may know who it was, and the whole thing can be dealt with today. And we shall get back to the matter at hand. You appreciate it is of the utmost importance to the Empire. Thank you, Mr. Narraway. I am most obliged.” He turned to Dunkeld, his voice warming. “And thank you, my dear fellow. You have been a true friend. I shall not forget your loyalty or your steadfastness.” He seemed to consider the matter finished. His air was one of dismissal.

Pitt’s mind was teeming with questions. Who had arranged for the dead woman to come, how, and from where? When were the arrangements made? Had these particular women been here before, or to any other place to meet with the Prince, or his friends? But how could he ask these things now when clearly Dunkeld was all but ushering them out the door? He looked at Narraway.

Narraway smiled very slightly. “Your Royal Highness, which is of the greater importance, speed or discretion?”

The Prince looked startled. The fear flooded back into his face, making his skin pasty and his jaw slack. “I…I cannot say,” he stammered. “Both are imperative. If we take too long, discretion will be lost anyway.” Yet again he looked to Dunkeld.

“For God’s sake, Narraway, are you not capable of both?” Dunkeld said angrily. “Get on with it! Ask the servants. Ask the guests, if you have to. Just don’t stand here making idiotic and pointless remarks.”

Narraway’s cheeks flushed a dull red with anger, but before he could retaliate, Pitt took the opportunity to ask his question. He looked at the Prince of Wales. “Sir,” he said firmly. “How many women—professional—guests were there?”

“Three,” the Prince said instantly, coloring.

“Were any of them already known to you from any previous…party?”

“Er…not so far as I am aware.” He was discomfited rather than embarrassed, as if the questions puzzled him.

“Who arranged for them to come, and how long ago?” Pitt continued.

The Prince’s eyes opened wide. “I…er…”

“I did,” Dunkeld answered for him. He glared at Pitt. “What has this to do with anything? Some madman lost control of himself and took a knife to the poor woman. Who she is or where she came from is irrelevant. Find out where everyone was, that’s the obvious thing to do, then you’ll know who’s responsible. It hardly matters why!” He swiveled round to Narraway. “Don’t waste any more time.”

Narraway did not argue. He and Pitt left, Dunkeld remained.

“Mr. Dunkeld is certainly making himself indispensable,” Narraway said drily when they were twenty feet along the corridor and out of earshot. “We’d better begin with the servants, for which we shall need Mr. Tyndale’s assistance. What did you learn from the linen cupboard?” They reached the stair head and started down.

“Where were her clothes?” Pitt asked. “She can’t have gone in there naked. Why did he take them away? Wouldn’t it have been far easier to leave them? What was it about them that he wanted, or that he dare not let anyone else see?”

Narraway stopped. “Such as what?”

“I have no idea. That’s what I would like to find out. How was she dressed? Who did she oblige? The Prince, presumably. Who else?”

Narraway smiled, and then the amusement vanished like a light going out. “Pitt, I think you had better leave that part of your investigation until such time as it should become unavoidable.”

“Suddenly it’s my investigation?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. He started down again.

“I’ll make the political decisions, you gather the evidence and interpret it.” Narraway followed hard on his heels. “First we must find Tyndale, acquire a list of all the staff who were here last night and whichever guards were on duty for any entrance to this part of the building. And search for the dead woman’s clothes,” he added. “Or some signs as to how they were disposed of.”

Tyndale was very obliging, although his manner made it apparent that he deplored the suggestion that a member of his staff could be responsible for such a barbaric act. He could not fight against the conclusion because he could not afford to, but neither did he accede to it.

“Yes, sir. Of course I will make available every member of staff so you may interview them. But I insist upon being present myself.” He met Pitt’s eyes with acute misery.

Pitt admired him. He was a man caught in an impossible situation and trying to be loyal to all his obligations. Sooner or later he would have to choose, and Pitt knew it, even if he did not.

“I’m sorry…” Narraway began.

“Of course,” Pitt agreed at the same moment.

Narraway turned his head sharply.

Tyndale waited, embarrassed.

“I shall welcome your assistance,” Pitt said, looking at neither of them. “But it is imperative that you do not interrupt. Do you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we will begin with whoever admitted the women when they arrived,” Pitt directed. “And go on through who waited on them through the evening until someone saw the other two leave. Did they ask after the third? What explanation was given?”

“It would be Cuttredge who let them in, sir, and Edwards who saw them out,” Tyndale answered. “I already asked Edwards, and he said he thought at the time that the last one must have been staying until morning. He’s…not very experienced.”

“That never happens?” Pitt asked.

The muscles in Tyndale’s face tightened. “No, sir, not with a woman of that class.”

Pitt did not pursue it. “Then if we could see Cuttredge first, and after him, whoever took them to…wherever they went. And any staff that waited on them later on. And I need to have her clothes, if they can be found.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Tyndale had gone Pitt considered apologizing to Narraway for countermanding his orders, then decided against it. It was a bad precedent to set. There was no room for protecting position or deferring to rank. The price of failure would descend on them all.

Tyndale returned with Cuttredge, who was a man of very average appearance but entered with a certain dignity; he answered all their questions without hesitation. He described letting the women in with only the very faintest distaste, and a military precision as to where he had taken them and at what time. He had not noticed their faces. One street woman was much like another to him. It was obviously part of his duty that he disliked, but did not dare express that.

“And you did not see them leave?” Pitt asked.

“No, sir. That would be Edwards. I was off duty by that time.”

“Where were you?” Narraway asked, leaning forward a little in his chair.

Cuttredge’s eyes widened. He glanced at Tyndale, then back again. “In bed, sir! I have to get up before six in the morning.”

“Where do you sleep?” Narraway asked.

Cuttredge drew in his breath to answer, then quite suddenly realized the import of the question and the blood drained from his skin.

“Upstairs, where the rest of the staff do. I…I never left my room.” He drew in his breath to say something further, then gulped and remained silent.

“Thank you, Mr. Cuttredge,” Pitt excused him.

Cuttredge remained seated, his hands grasping each other. “What happened? They’re saying she’s dead…one of the women. Is that true?”

Tyndale opened his mouth and then closed it again, remembering Pitt’s warning.

“Yes, it is,” Pitt answered Cuttredge. “Think carefully. Did you hear anything said, an altercation, a quarrel, perhaps an arrangement for her to see someone else after the party? Even a suggestion that she already knew someone here, or they knew her?”

“Certainly not,” Cuttredge said instantly.

Narraway hid a tight smile.

“Not necessarily professionally, Mr. Cuttredge,” Pitt pointed out.

“Had she been here before?”

Cuttredge glanced at Tyndale, who nodded permission to answer.

“No,” Cuttredge replied. “That I do know. The arrangement wasn’t made by any of us. It was…it was Mr. Dunkeld.”

“Indeed. Thank you.” Pitt excused him again, and he left.

The next man to be seen was Edwards, who had let out the two other women. He was younger, slimmer, and, in spite of the circumstances, rather confident, as if his sudden importance excited him. He said he had noticed nothing unexpected, and he did not look to Tyndale for support. He reported that both women seemed cheerful, definitely a little drunk, but not in any way afraid or alarmed. Certainly neither of them had suffered any injury. He himself had gone to bed when most of the clearing-up had been done and the main reception room at least was ready for the morning.

“Close to two o’clock, sir, or as near as I can recall,” he finished.

“And you went to bed yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you pass anywhere near the linen cupboard on your way up to your quarters?” Narraway put in.

Edwards was deeply unhappy and now consciously avoiding Tyndale’s eyes. “Yes, sir, I did. I walked along that very passage. I shouldn’t ’ave. We’re supposed to go the long way round, but it was late and I was tired. It’s hard work making certain everything’s right. Bottles, glasses, cigar ash on the good rugs an’ all. Stuff spoiled. It’s no five-minute job, I can tell you.”

“Don’t you have maids to help?” Narraway asked him.

Edwards looked aggrieved. “’Course we do, but not at that time o’ night. An’ it’s still my job to see it’s right. All the furniture back in its places, marks washed out, everything smelling like new again. So the ladies who are guests come down in the morning an’ can’t even smell there was a party, never mind see the dregs of it around.”

Pitt wondered if any of the women were fooled, or if it simply allowed them the dignity of pretending they were. There were occasions when blindness was wise.

“You passed the linen cupboard,” he prompted.

“I didn’t see or ’ear nothing,” Edwards told him quickly.

“Or smell anything?” Pitt asked.

Again Tyndale moved uncomfortably, and with an obvious effort forbore from interrupting.

Edwards drew in his breath and bit his lip. “Smell?” he said shakily. “What would I smell? You mean…” He could not bring himself to say the word.

“Blood,” Pitt said for him. “It has a sweet, ironlike smell, when there is so much of it. But I imagine if the door was closed that would be sufficient to conceal it. The door was closed, wasn’t it? Or was it ajar? Think back, and be very careful to answer exactly.”

“It was closed,” Edwards said without thinking at all. “If it’d been open I’d ’ave seen it. It opens that way, the way I was going.” He took a deep breath. “Was she…was she in there then?” He gave an involuntary shudder, betraying more vulnerability than he had meant to.

“Probably not,” Pitt replied, although the moment after he had said it, he thought perhaps he was wrong. She had almost certainly been killed before that, and from the amount of blood, she had obviously been killed in the cupboard. But if Edwards were right and the door had been closed, then someone else had opened it between two o’clock when Edwards passed, and six or so when Dunkeld found the body.

Edwards also could prove neither that he had gone to bed nor that he had stayed there.

“He must be lying about the door being closed,” Narraway said as soon as Edwards was gone.

“Or the latch is faulty,” Pitt answered. “We’ll look at it, Mr. Tyndale.”

“No, sir, it’s perfectly good,” Tyndale replied. “I closed it myself…after…after they took the body away.”

They spoke to the rest of the male staff as well and learned nothing of use. No one had found the dead woman’s clothes. Tyndale ordered tea for them, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Newsome, herself brought it up on a tray with oatmeal biscuits.

They stopped long enough to drink the tea and eat all the biscuits. Then they interviewed the menservants of the four visitors, this time without Tyndale present, because they were not his responsibility. They gave the same unhelpful result.

Mrs. Newsome brought more tea, and this time sandwiches as well.

“One of them must be guilty,” Narraway said unhappily, taking the last of the roast beef sandwiches and eating it absentmindedly.

“She didn’t do that to herself. And no woman would do that to another, even if she could.”

“We’d better speak to all the female staff,” Pitt said resignedly.

“Somebody is lying. Even the smallest slip might help.” He would have liked another sandwich, but there was only ham left now, and he didn’t fancy it. “I’ll get Tyndale to fetch them.”

It took a great deal of patience to draw from them very little indeed. No one knew anything, had heard anything, or seen anything. There were tears, protests of innocence, and a very real danger of fainting or hysterics.

“Nothing!” Narraway said in exasperation after they were all gone. “We haven’t learned a damn thing! It could still have been anyone.”

“We’ll start again,” Pitt replied wearily. “Somebody did it. There’ll be an inconsistency, a character flaw somebody knows about.” He was repeating it to comfort himself as much as Narraway. Impatience was a fault in investigation, sometimes a fatal one.

He turned to Tyndale. “Where do the guests’ servants sleep?”

“Upstairs in the servants’ quarters,” Tyndale replied. He looked exhausted, his skin blotched on his cheeks, the freckles standing out on the backs of his hands resting on the tabletop. “We’ve plenty of room for them. All guests bring their own personal servants.”

“Maybe they’ll remember seeing or hearing something. Do they eat with the Palace servants?”

“Not usually,” Tyndale responded. “They’re not really part of Palace discipline. We have no control over them.” He said it wearily, as if with long memory of unfortunate incidents.

“Please get them back here, one at a time.”

They began with Quase’s man, who said only what he had said before. The second to come was Cahoon Dunkeld’s man, florid-faced and sunburned like his master. He stood to attention.

“Came down the servants’ stairs, sir?” he said to Pitt’s question. “No, sir. Not possible, sir, unless it were after two in the morning. I was up an’ about myself, sir. Pantry at the end o’ that corridor, right opposite the bottom o’ the stairs. Was up there getting Mr. Dunkeld an ’ot drink, sir. Bit of an upset stomach, ’e had. In an’ out, an’ along that corridor, I was, right from the time ’e came up to bed.”

“An upset stomach?” Narraway’s eyes opened very wide.

The man looked uncomfortable. “Yes, sir. If you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, His Royal Highness can ’old ’is drink rather better than most. Mr. Dunkeld doesn’t like to let ’im down, so ’e keeps pace, like, but times are ’e pays for it. Best prevent that, if you can. Spot o’ the hair o’ the dog as bit you, if you get my meaning?”

“That’s usually the following morning!” Narraway said tartly.

The man pulled his mouth into a grimace. “I got me own remedies, sir. Duty of a gentleman’s gentleman to know these things. I couldn’t see the door to that cupboard ’cos it’s round the corner from the pantry, but I could see the servants’ stairs, an’ I’d stake me oath no one came down that way. Not before ’alf-past two in the morning. An’ just Mr. Edwards went up.”

“You said two!” Narraway said sharply.

“Yes, sir. I waited another ’alf hour, in case Mr. Dunkeld needed me again. ’Ad a cup o’ tea meself. No point in just getting to sleep, an’ ’aving to get up an’ go back down again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.” He still stood straight as a ramrod. “An’ in case you’re thinking as it was me as killed that poor creature, Mr. Dunkeld’ll swear for me, sir. Didn’t ’ave time, nor any idea, to do summink like that.”

“Thank you,” Narraway said thoughtfully, his face bleak and pale. “That’ll be all.”

“Yes, sir.” He withdrew gratefully.

Narraway looked at Pitt. “I am afraid it begins to look as if this party of His Royal Highness’s will require a great deal more investigation. If what Edwards and Dunkeld’s man say is true, then the conclusion cannot be avoided that one of the guests is a madman.”