Buckingham Palace Gardens

CHAPTER

FOUR

PITT RECEIVED GRACIE’S information with a surge of optimism. He paced the room he had been given, turning it over in his mind. If it could be proved that the old man the boot boy had seen entering the Palace with the box delivered to Cahoon Dunkeld was guilty, then the case could be closed with no worse scandal than a certain laxity on the part of the guards who had allowed him in. But even that was something for which they could hardly be blamed. He had come because he was a carter delivering a box belonging to one of His Royal Highness’s guests. And if he had taken one of the dinner knives, the sudden opportunity presenting itself, then he had not arrived armed, or with the intent to commit murder.

So how on earth had he found the prostitute and persuaded her to go with him to the linen cupboard? What had happened to her clothes? No one had yet found them. And more than that, if he were a lunatic seeking a victim at random, why not one of the maids he met in a corridor?

He must have known the prostitute and deliberately sought her out. By the time he had gone upstairs he already had the knife, taken from downstairs because the dinner plates had long since been removed from the dining room.

It was imperative that they find out more about the woman: her nature, her background, even her other clientele. The crime could be personal after all. He must contact Narraway and tell him. Perhaps after all there was an escape from the appalling conclusion that the murderer had to be one of the guests.

He turned on his heel and went immediately to Tyndale to ask him for permission to use the telephone. Permission granted, he called Narraway and told him the latest development and the necessity of finding out as much as possible about the woman. Then he sent for the footman, Edwards, and questioned him again.

“This box that was delivered for Mr. Dunkeld between midnight and one o’clock on the morning of the murder,” he began.

Edwards looked uncomfortable but his gaze did not waver. “Yes?”

“Can you describe this carter?”

Edwards chewed his lip, moving his weight from one foot to the other. “Didn’t really look at ’im. I was too busy carryin’ that box up the stairs. ’E ’ad the back end of it.”

“How large was it?” Pitt asked.

“’Bout three feet long, maybe four, an’…” Edwards gestured with his rather large hands, describing the shape of an ordinary luggage chest, broader than it was deep. “Like that.”

“Heavy?”

“’Bout like yer’d expect with books an’ papers.”

“Lot of books?”

“Dunno, forty or fifty maybe. Don’t carry books very often.”

“Where did you put it, at what hour of the night?”

“In the sittin’ room next door to ’ere. Can’t ’ardly take it to ’im at midnight, can I? ’E could be doin’ anythin’!” The shadow of a leer touched his mouth and then vanished again. “As it was, ’e was there anyway, like ’e was expectin’ it. An’ ’e told us to come back for it in ten minutes or so. Seems the carter wanted ’is box back.”

Pitt found himself disliking the young man intensely.

“Describe as much as you saw of the carter,” he ordered.

Edwards shrugged. “Din’t really see ’is face. Oldish, stooped over. Had a hat on, jammed down ’ard, an’ a coat with a collar. Half-mitts on ’is hands, probably for drivin’ the horse. Weren’t that cold.”

“What was the cart like?”

“Don’t know.”

“Four wheels, or two?” Pitt insisted.

“Four.”

“And the horse?”

“Dunno. Pale. A gray, I suppose.”

“And did you go back in ten minutes?”

“’Course I did!”

“Where did you go in the meantime?”

Edward’s eyes widened. “You think he could ’ave done it?”

“Could he?”

Edwards looked reluctant. “Don’t see how. ’E were only in the place a few minutes. An’ ’e went downstairs an’ out the back, then in again. Was the murder real gory, like?”

Pitt winced with distaste, remembering the woman’s torn entrails, pale in all the blood. “Yes.”

“Then I don’t see as ’e could. ’E was clean as a whistle,” Edwards replied unblinkingly. “Not even any dirt on ’im, let alone blood.”

“You’re certain?” Pitt’s hopes sank.

“Yes, sir. Ask Rob, the boot boy, ’e’ll say the same thing.”

“What was the boot boy doing up at that time of the morning?”

“Lookin’ for a piece of cake, most likely. Always eatin’, ’e is.”

“But Mr. Dunkeld was waiting for you, you said? Where?”

“On the stairs. Told us not ter take it any further up, we might waken the ladies. Said it was books ’e needed in a hurry, an’ we was ter put it in the room there off the passage, an’ ’e’d take ’em out, an’ we was ter come back and take the box away. Carter never went up to where the linen cupboard is,” he added.

“And you went back for the box and the carter took it again?”

“Yes. Bleedin’ heavy box it was too. Must’ve been teak, or somethin’ like that. Couldn’t see at that time o’ night in what light there was.”

“And it was midnight, no later?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. For now you can go.”

Reluctantly, Pitt was forced to abandon the idea that the carter could have killed the woman. He was back again to the inevitability that it had to have been one of the guests of the Prince of Wales.

He was on the next landing, weighed down with a sense of disappointment he knew was unreasonable, when he met Cahoon Dunkeld coming up.

“Ah, afternoon, Pitt,” Dunkeld said briskly. “His Royal Highness would like to see you.” He frowned. “For heaven’s sake take that rubbish out of your pocket, man. And straighten up your cravat. You look as if you’ve slept in your shirt! Doesn’t your housekeeper have an iron, or a needle and thread?”

Pitt knew he was untidy, and had never cared until now, but the insult to Charlotte stung him like a hot needle. He ached to be just as rude in return, but he did not dare to. Only for short stretches of time, an hour or two at most, did he forget that he was in Queen Victoria’s palace: he, the son of a gamekeeper who had been deported to Australia for stealing from his master’s estate. He was never certain who knew that, and who did not. If he were to retaliate, he always half expected the stinging contempt of the rejoinder.

Shaking with anger he took the handful of objects out of his coat pocket and redistributed them as evenly among his other pockets as possible, then straightened his cravat.

Dunkeld made no comment but his expression was eloquent. With a shrug of exasperation, he led the way to the room where the Prince of Wales was waiting. To Pitt’s deep annoyance, he followed him in.

Pitt stood to attention. He knew better than to speak first or to stare around at the ornate ceiling and the magnificent pictures that almost covered the walls.

The Prince was dressed in a linen suit of a nondescript color. He was neatly barbered and looked considerably better than the last time they had met. His eyes were less bloodshot, and though his skin was a trifle mottled, it was more likely from a lifetime of indulgence than a single drunken night and the devastating shock of murder.

First he thanked Dunkeld, then looked appraisingly at Pitt.

Pitt felt uncomfortable, like livestock at a market, but he remained motionless.

“Oh, hello…Pitt, isn’t it?” the Prince said at last. “Is everybody giving you the assistance you need?”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” Pitt replied.

“It’s not an inquiry for your health, man,” Dunkeld growled. “What progress have you made?”

Pitt was not an equal, and he was acutely aware that he could only lose by behaving as if he were, no matter how Dunkeld provoked him. He smiled. He could be utterly charming, when he wished. “It was an inquiry for my professional needs,” he said calmly. “His Royal Highness’s help is necessary for our success, and I am grateful for it.”

The Prince glanced at Dunkeld, a cold, puzzled look, then back at Pitt. “Well taken, sir,” he said quietly. It was a reminder to Dunkeld not to assume too many liberties. Pitt glanced at Dunkeld’s face and saw the burning humiliation in it, for an instant, and wished that he had not. Worse, he knew Dunkeld had understood it.

“I am quite satisfied, sir, that none of your domestic staff could be guilty.” Pitt forced himself to speak gravely, addressing the Prince. “Two people were where they could observe the servants’ staircase at the relevant time. No one came or went.”

“And one of those two couldn’t have done it?” the Prince said hopefully.

“No, sir. One of them was Mr. Dunkeld, and the other was his manservant.”

The Prince swiveled to stare balefully at Dunkeld. “You didn’t say so!” he accused him.

Dunkeld stood his ground, the anger momentarily vanished. “I did not realize it was the relevant time, sir. I assume Mr. Pitt has worked that out somehow?”

The Prince turned to Pitt, his eyes cold.

“Yes, sir,” Pitt answered. “The woman was last seen alive sometime between midnight and one o’clock, and from the rigidity of the body when we found it, she must have died before half-past two in the morning, when Mr. Dunkeld’s manservant left the landing and could no longer observe the bottom of the staircase up to the servants’ sleeping quarters.”

Dunkeld shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tense and impatient.

Pitt ignored him. “I learned of an old man who came into the Palace with the delivery of a box for Mr. Dunkeld,” he went on. “But he was observed for all except a few minutes, which would not have been long enough to commit this crime.”

The Prince’s rather protruding eyes widened. “Wouldn’t it? Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir. Also his hands and clothes were clean of any blood.”

The Prince paled visibly. Perhaps Dunkeld had given him some idea of how much blood there had been. Now he turned to Dunkeld again. Pitt would like to have asked to leave, but he did not dare to. He was ashamed of himself for yielding to the pressure. This was his profession, and Dunkeld was no one of importance to Special Branch. He held no office in the Palace, only the power of his personality and the need the Prince seemed to feel for his presence. What was the Prince afraid of? Scandal? Another crime? Or that something hideous would be exposed? Did he know who it was, and dared not say?

Pitt felt a loathing for his own helplessness.

“Sir,” he said firmly. “We are left with the only conclusion possible, which is that one of the gentleman guests here killed this unfortunate woman.”

“Oh, no!” the Prince said immediately, shaking his head several times. “You must be mistaken. There is some alternative you have not investigated. Dunkeld, explain it to him!” He shrugged, as if Pitt were a problem Dunkeld should deal with.

Pitt clenched his fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. This time he must not allow Dunkeld to dominate him. He drew in his breath to speak, but Dunkeld cut in before him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dunkeld said very softly to the Prince. “But he is right. It pains me very deeply to say so, but it can only have been one of us. That is what is so very terrible about this situation.” His face was tense. His eyes seemed almost black in the shadows of the room in spite of the fact that the sky was vivid blue beyond the velvet-curtained window.

The Prince stood frozen, his eyes wide, his hands half raised helplessly. “But we trusted these men!” he said with dismay. “They are outstanding, all of them! We need them for the railway!” He turned again to Dunkeld, as if he might offer some explanation that would make the situation different.

“I don’t know, sir,” Dunkeld said unhappily. “I could have sworn for all of them myself.”

“You did!” the Prince said with sudden petulance.

Dunkeld’s face tightened. “I did for their intelligence and their skills, sir. And for their reputations.”

The Prince’s expression tightened in irritation. “Yes. Yes. I’m sorry. Of course you did. I wish we could have had Watson Forbes. He would have been the perfect man. Do you think we could still persuade him? If…if the worst happens and we find”—he took an awkward, suddenly indrawn breath—“if we lose someone?”

Dunkeld bit his lower lip. “I doubt it, sir. But of course I will try. Forbes told me unequivocally that he has retired from his African interests.”

“If I asked him personally?” the Prince asked, staring at Dunkeld.

“Of course I am sure he would do anything within his power to please you, sir. We all would,” Dunkeld replied, but there was no warmth in his voice. He made the remark merely to placate, and Pitt could see that, even if the Prince could not. He looked temporarily mollified. “But I fear the reason he has forsaken all his African interests stems back to the death of his son,” Dunkeld went on as though an explanation was necessary.

The Prince was puzzled. “Death of his son? What happened? Surely that is not sufficient to make a man of his skill and resource abandon the work of his life?”

“It was his only son,” Dunkeld’s voice dropped even further, “and he died in dreadful circumstances nine years ago. Poor Forbes was very shaken by it. I heard tell that it was he who found the young man, or what was left of him.” There was a look of distaste on his face and his mouth turned down at the corners. “It was crocodiles, or something equally nightmarish. I wasn’t in Africa myself at the time. My son-in-law, Julius Sorokine, was there. And I believe Quase and Marquand were too. And Forbes’s daughter, Liliane. It was before she was married.” His mouth tightened. “You can hardly blame Forbes if he has settled his affairs there and does not wish to return, particularly with the very people he must associate with the bitterest tragedy in his life.” His voice quite gently insisted that the Prince observe the decencies of such a loss.

His Royal Highness appeared resigned. He would not abide being thwarted by people, but circumstances, he knew, he could not fight. The rituals of death had to be observed. He had survived his mother’s mourning for three decades and never even penetrated the shell of it.

He looked back at Pitt as if he had suddenly remembered his presence. “This is a very unhappy situation,” he said, as though Pitt might not have understood what they had said. “I would be obliged if you could be as tactful as possible, but we have to know who is responsible. It cannot be left.”

Pitt had no intention whatever either of abandoning it or of conceding defeat. The Prince’s manner was patronizing, and it pained Pitt like a blister, but there was nothing he could do to retaliate. He thought of the night’s indulgence and the appetites that had precipitated it. Both men here had been perfectly happy to buy the use of the woman’s body for the evening, under the same roof as their sleeping wives. The callousness of it revolted him. And now it was the fear of scandal and the inconvenience that moved them to concern. The Prince at least had possibly even been intimate with the woman, caressed her body, used her, and the next morning she had been found hacked to death. They were annoyed because a man bereaved of his only son had withdrawn from business in Africa and did not wish to assist in building their railway.

The magnitude of it, the power of those mere individuals, the sheer arrogance stunned him. And it frightened him that men so childlike should have such power.

“It will not be left, sir,” he said stiffly. “It was a hideous crime. The woman’s throat was cut, her abdomen torn open, and her entrails left hanging.” He saw the Prince shudder, and he felt some satisfaction as the color drained from his skin, leaving him pasty and with a film of sweat on his brow.

Dunkeld sighed to indicate he found Pitt crude and more than a little tedious, but that he had not expected better.

“Really!” he said wearily, turning to the Prince. “I apologize, sir. Pitt is…doing his best.” Quite obviously he had been thinking that he was of an inferior social class, roughly the same as the dead woman. Only the implication was that while she had quite openly been a whore, and fun in her own way, Pitt was a prude and utterly boring.

Pitt’s temper soared. It was only the look of slight amusement on Dunkeld’s face when it was toward Pitt and averted from the Prince that held him in check from lashing back.

“Mr. Dunkeld is quite right, sir,” he said instead. “But it is an extremely delicate matter. Naturally all the gentlemen say they were in bed, but considering the manner of the evening’s entertainment, their wives cannot corroborate that.”

“Menservants?” the Prince asked with a moment of hope.

“All the gentlemen dismissed them, sir, except Mr. Dunkeld.”

“Oh. Yes, I forgot. Well, there must be something you can do! What do you usually do in cases like this?”

“Ask questions, look at facts, at evidence,” Pitt replied. “But not all murder cases are solved, especially where women of the street are concerned.” He clearly wanted to add “and their customers,” but knew he would never be forgiven for it. It was not worth the few moments’ satisfaction; worse, it would be highly unprofessional. He must rescue himself now, before anyone else spoke. “But people who are lying usually trip themselves up, sooner or later,” he went on a little too quickly. “Crimes like this do not happen without some event first that stirs the murderer beyond his ability to control his obsession.”

“And you’ll look for that?” the Prince said dubiously.

Pitt felt the color hot in his face. Put like that it sounded completely ineffectual. He forced himself to remember the number of cases he had solved that had at one time or another appeared impossible. “And other things, sir.” He forced himself to smile, and it felt like a baring of his teeth. “But I should be grateful for any assistance you could offer, any insight. I appreciate that speed is of the greatest importance, as well as discretion.”

Two spots of dark, angry color appeared on Dunkeld’s sunburned cheeks, but even he dared not contradict Pitt now. The air was electric in the room. One could believe that, beyond the tall windows, a summer storm was about to break.

“Yes,” the Prince agreed unhappily. “Quite. Of course, any help at all. What is it you wish to know?” He did not look to Dunkeld, but Pitt had the impression that he was preventing himself from doing so only with a conscious effort.

Pitt knew he might never have this chance again. “Were there any disagreements at all, either between the guests, or between guests and the women? Candor would be of the greatest service, sir.”

The Prince seemed quite relieved to answer. “Sorokine was in a poor temper,” he replied. “He wasn’t rude, of course, just discourteous in his unwillingness to join in. He seemed preoccupied.”

Pitt forbore from suggesting that possibly he did not enjoy such entertainment and was unable to disguise the fact.

As if reading his thoughts, Dunkeld interrupted. “Before you imagine any finer feelings on his part, Inspector, Sorokine is a man of the world, and quite capable of enjoying himself like a gentleman. I believe he had had some altercation with his wife, and with his brother, Simnel Marquand. He is my son-in-law, but I admit, his temper is uncertain.”

“And the other gentlemen participated more wholeheartedly?” Pitt asked.

“Certainly,” the Prince answered without hesitation. He smiled for a moment before the memory clouded with the horror of the morning. “Yes,” he repeated.

“You all retired at what hour?” Pitt pressed.

The Prince’s face registered distaste. It was a tactless question, indelicate. Pitt was aware of it and of the discomfort in the room. But he had no intention of catering to this sudden sensibility. Their delicate feelings were for themselves, as if they had been observed in some bodily function by a prurient stranger. Perhaps that was pretty close to the truth. He waited.

“I did not look at my pocket watch,” the Prince said coldly. “I imagine it must have been something after midnight. Sorokine went earlier.”

“I see. Each of you with a separate woman?”

“Naturally!” the Prince snapped. He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind. The color was still hot in his face.

“Which of you was with the woman who was killed, sir?” Pitt asked.

“I was,” Dunkeld answered quickly.

Pitt knew it was a lie, both from Dunkeld’s face and from the Prince’s. It was an absurd moment, and equally it was irretrievable. He saw the Prince’s flash of gratitude and then his mortification in Pitt’s recognition of it, as if he had been caught in an act of cowardice.

“I see,” Pitt said quietly, forcing his expression into blandness, without the amusement and the contempt he felt, although it was difficult. “And how long did she remain with you, Mr. Dunkeld?”

“I didn’t time it!” Dunkeld said with a flare of temper. “And before you ask, I have no idea where she went. Presumably to one of the others, and her death.”

“We know from Edwards, one of the footmen, what time the other two women left,” Pitt pointed out, “and what time the third woman must have died, from the time she was last seen and the state of the body.”

“Then, as you implied before, it must have been Sorokine, Marquand, or Quase,” the Prince said with total despondency. “I suppose you had better find out which one. Thank you, Dunkeld. I appreciate your discretion and your loyalty. You may go…er, Pitt.”

Pitt bowed his head and went out into the corridor, closely followed by Dunkeld.

As soon as they were beyond possible earshot Dunkeld caught him by the arm and swung him round, almost knocking him against the wall. “You incompetent fool!” he snarled. “That is the future King of England you were talking to as if you were some self-righteous maiden aunt. Who the hell do you think you are to patronize him with your working-class prudery? Do you have any idea what a fool you make of yourself? No one expects you to behave like a gentleman, but at least have the wit to keep your moral judgments to yourself. Your manners belong in the gutter, where presumably most of your trade is.”

“Yes, it is,” Pitt replied between his teeth. Dunkeld’s face was less than a foot from his, and he could feel the heat of the man’s rage physically and smell his skin. “But I find gutters run in the most unexpected places.” His eyes did not leave Dunkeld’s.

Dunkeld swung his right shoulder back as if to strike him, then seeing Pitt’s unflinching gaze, he changed his mind. Suddenly he smiled, with an ugly curl of the lip. “If I were in your place, I should want to use this opportunity to better myself and earn the gratitude of my future sovereign, so my sons could find a more honorable occupation,” he said between his teeth. “Perhaps they could even escape such employment as the police, clearing up other people’s filth. And my daughters might marry tradesmen rather than their employees. But obviously you have neither the wit nor the vision for that.”

He let go of Pitt’s arm at last. “You’re a fool. If you really are the best Narraway has, God help the country. Go and get on with your questions. I suppose it would be pointless telling you not to offend anyone?”

“It would be a waste of time giving me orders at all, Mr. Dunkeld,” Pitt said a little hoarsely. “I answer to Mr. Narraway, not to you.” He walked away, refusing to straighten his jacket from the way that Dunkeld had left it.

But as he went down the corridor he could not stop Dunkeld’s words beating in his mind. Had his sense of disgust sounded self-righteous? Had he shown it where a better man would not have? He did not like Dunkeld, and he had been unsophisticated enough to allow the man to see it, and no doubt the Prince of Wales as well. And obviously the Prince not only liked and trusted Dunkeld, he seemed to be relying on both his judgment and his loyalty.

Pitt could have shown loyalty as well, and some sympathy for a man who had unwittingly invited into his home—or more accurately his mother’s home—a man who had turned out to be a lunatic. If he had, he would have earned the Prince’s gratitude, and taken the next step up the ladder toward being a gentleman.

Never mind whether he owed that to his children. Every man wants his sons and daughters to have more than he had. Unquestionably he owed it to Charlotte. She had been born into a financially comfortable and socially respected family. Her sister, Emily, had married Lord Ashworth, and on his death inherited his fortune. Her son had all his father’s privileges to inherit. Charlotte had married Pitt, and her son would have the best education Pitt could afford for him, but nothing else.

Dunkeld was right; he could have given Charlotte more than that for her children, even for himself, and had allowed his pride and anger to stop him. He was startled by his own selfishness, and sick that it had taken Dunkeld, of all people, to show it to him.

He was in one of the main corridors now. It was vast compared with his own house. How could he possibly feel so shut in, almost imprisoned, in such a place? He should be proud to be here at all, not longing to escape.

He must learn all he could about the guests, including Dunkeld himself. Narraway was investigating the facts: reputation, financial standing, ambitions, friends, and enemies. Pitt must explore their natures, their angers and fears, their knowledge of one another. One of them had slashed a woman to death. Underneath the courteous, intelligent exterior there had to be a madman driven by a hatred so bestial he could not control it even within the Palace walls.

Pitt spoke to Hamilton Quase first. He was obliged to draw him from a conversation with Marquand, but he could not find Julius Sorokine, and he was not going to address Dunkeld again so soon.

He had something of a plan. It was not enough to give him confidence, merely a place to begin. He sat in a large armchair in the room Tyndale had given him. He was facing Hamilton Quase in one of the other chairs. Quase crossed his legs elegantly and waited. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot and his skin, beneath the darkening of sun and wind, was mottled by too much drink. He kept his hands still in his lap, but Pitt thought that were he to hold them more loosely, they might tremble.

“Will you describe the party to me, Mr. Quase?” Pitt began bluntly. “From the beginning. Who arranged it? Whose idea was it?”

Quase looked slightly surprised. “You don’t think the murder of that unfortunate woman was planned, surely? Why on earth would anyone do something so…so stupid? And dangerous.” He had a good voice, stronger than one might have expected from his slightly unsteady air.

“What do you think?” Pitt returned.

Quase’s eyebrows rose even higher. “I’ve no idea who did it, if that’s what you are asking.”

Pitt smiled very slightly. “If you did know, why would you not have told me?”

Quase smiled back with a sudden flash of humor. “Is there some kind of penalty for the first one of us to answer a question? Do we lose?”

“Lose what?”

“The struggle, the battle of wits,” Quase replied.

“Then I have won,” Pitt told him.

“Oh…yes.” Quase smiled back. “I answered you. Does it feel like a victory?”

“Not at all. Why would we be battling? Are we not on the same side?”

“That depends upon how far we go,” Quase answered. “I don’t know who killed the woman, or why. I suppose I wish you to find out, but there are answers that I would not like.”

“There will probably be answers that no one likes,” Pitt agreed.

“Murder affects far more than the murderer and the victim.” He leaned back a little, as if relaxing in his chair. “We all have loves and hates, and secrets. That doesn’t affect the questions I have to ask, and go on asking until I know who killed her, and can prove it.”

Quase looked at him with mild amusement. There was something else in his eyes, which Pitt found too complicated to read, but it was a kind of unhappiness, as if an old wound were aching again. “Then you had better begin,” he said quietly. “I warn you, I have absolutely no idea who killed her, and still less why. She seemed a perfectly harmless sort of tart.”

“Did she?” Pitt was feeling his way carefully. It was an odd investigation. The victim was someone who was a stranger to all of those who could possibly be guilty of killing her. No one admitted to ever having seen her before. “What was she like?” he asked. “For that matter, what was her name?”

Quase frowned, but there was a crooked smile on his lips. “Sadie, I think. I didn’t actually…er…speak to her, if you like? She was not here for my amusement, except most indirectly.”

“Whose?”

Again Quase was slightly surprised. “His Royal Highness’s, of course.”

“Why was she especially for him?”

“Actually, she seemed intelligent,” Quase said frankly. “She had quite a ready wit. Not cruel at all, just very quick. She could read and write, and she had a considerable knowledge of men and of human nature. I mean emotional as well as the more obvious aspects.”

“A courtesan rather than a whore?” Pitt asked. He should have expected that.

“Elegantly put,” Quase agreed. “Yes. She wasn’t actually particularly pretty. I’ve certainly seen many prettier. Good skin and eyes, but otherwise very ordinary. It was her personality, her laugh, her suppleness of mind as well as body. And she sang very well. She really was entertaining.” A sadness passed over his face, and for a moment it was as if his attention was far away.

Pitt winced, wondering how much of what he was saying was the truth and what the omissions were. Perhaps it was the things he was not telling that would have been the most revealing.

“Poor creature,” Quase said quietly. “She was so alive.”

Pitt breathed in and out slowly, suddenly struck by the belief that Quase was speaking not of this woman, but of some other. He dismissed it as fantasy. He must be more tired than he thought. It was getting toward late afternoon and he would not go home tonight; perhaps not tomorrow either. “You observed her very closely,” he said at last.

“What?” Quase looked up.

“You observed her very closely,” Pitt repeated. “She must have been in the room for some time, and spoken quite a lot.”

“No. Just an impression.”

Quase was lying.

“You had seen her before?” Pitt asked. “Perhaps purchased her services on some other occasion? Please don’t deny it if it is true. It will not be too difficult to find out, and then a great deal of other information would emerge as well.” The threat was veiled but perfectly clear.

Quase smiled broadly, but his eyes were pinched with hurt. “A waste of your efforts, Mr. Pitt. I have many vices. I am a moral coward at times. I debase myself to serve men who have higher office than I and lower morality, and I know it. Certainly I drink too much. But I do not frequent the whorehouses of London, or of anywhere else. As you may have noticed, I have a very beautiful wife.” He drew in his breath and let it out with a sigh of pain. “And unlike some men, I find that quite sufficient.”

Pitt believed him. Some sense of delicacy prevented him from pursuing the subject. “I understand Mr. Sorokine went to bed early also. Is that correct?” he asked instead.

A flash of appreciation lit Quase’s eyes and then vanished. “Yes. And alone, if that is what you are asking. Whether he remained alone or not I have no idea.”

“So there were three women for Mr. Marquand, Mr. Dunkeld, and His Royal Highness,” Pitt concluded.

“It would appear so,” Quase agreed. “I stayed up until they retired, which was around midnight. What happened after that I have no idea. As far as I am concerned the women earned their fee by being extremely entertaining company and making a somewhat plodding evening pass with pleasure.”

“A plodding evening?” Pitt raised his eyebrows.

“His Royal Highness, when sober, can be heavy going,” Quase told him with a flicker of a smile. “And when drunk, even heavier. A bit like plowing a field after a week’s rain. Dunkeld is a bully, as you may have observed. Marquand is good enough, I suppose, although I find his rivalry with Sorokine rather a bore. They are half-brothers—I assume you knew that. Sorokine himself can be rather a bore because he is absorbed in his own problems, which he wears heavily. And before you ask me, I don’t know, but I assume they are largely to do with his wife, whose behavior with Marquand is outrageous.”

“And would not tell me if you did,” Pitt added.

“Precisely,” Quase agreed.

“So it was an enjoyable evening? No quarrels? No tension as to who should have which woman?”

Quase laughed outright. “Between whom, for God’s sake? His Royal Highness took what he wished, Dunkeld would choose between the other two, and Marquand would have what was left. If you really need me to tell you that, then you haven’t the wits to find out what the menu was, let alone who killed that poor creature!”

“It is not only what I learn, Mr. Quase, it is who tells me, and how,” Pitt retorted, then immediately wished he had not. He had defended himself, and thus betrayed his need to do so. Too late to pull it back. “Thank you. Would you ask Mr. Marquand to come, please?”

Five minutes later Simnel Marquand came in and closed the door behind him. “I really can’t help you,” he said before he had even crossed the floor. He sat down, less gracefully and less comfortably than Hamilton Quase. He was a good-looking man with an intelligent and sensual face. He dressed well, but without that effortless elegance of a man who, once having understood fashion, can follow it or ignore it as he pleases.

“I did not see the poor woman after I went to bed,” he explained. “And I have no idea what happened to her. I didn’t see anyone around in the corridor, and I understand you have already accounted for the servants. It seems inexplicable to me.” He spoke as if that were the end of the matter.

“It seems so,” Pitt agreed. “And yet it must be simply that we have not found the explanation. The facts are inescapable. Three women came for the evening, two left, and the third was found dead in the linen cupboard. The servants are accounted for and the only other person to come beyond the kitchen and be alone even for a few moments was the carter who helped the footman carry Mr. Dunkeld’s box up the stairs. He was alone for only a matter of minutes, and was not upstairs in the bedroom corridor. Also, he had not a spot of blood on him when he left. If you had seen the poor woman’s body, you would know that could not be the case with whoever killed her.”

Marquand was pale, his body unnaturally still. It obviously disturbed him that Pitt was so graphic. He had strong hands, slender but with square tips to the fingers. Just now they were clenched with an effort to stop them trembling.

“I did not kill her, and I have no idea who did,” he repeated.

Pitt smiled. “I had not been hopeful that you could tell me, Mr. Marquand. But you could describe the party of that evening.”

“It was just a…” Marquand began, then stopped. “Yes, I imagine you have never attended such a…an evening?”

“No,” Pitt agreed soberly. The sarcastic observation was on his tongue, and he refrained from making it only because he had to. “Presumably the ladies retired to bed early, and then the…women were conducted in?”

Marquand’s lips tightened and a very slight color stained his cheeks. “You make it sound vulgar,” he said critically.

Pitt leaned back. He could not get Olga Marquand’s dark, sad face out of his mind. And yet that was foolish. She was probably quite used to these arrangements and would surely know that accommodating the Prince of Wales was largely what her husband was here to achieve.

“Then explain it to me,” he invited.

Marquand’s eyes opened wide. “For God’s sake, man, are you envious?” he said in amazement. “I can assure you, you could have had as much fun at a singsong at your local public house! More at a good evening in the music halls, pleasures which are not open to His Royal Highness, for obvious reasons. The ladies retired, not that they wouldn’t have stayed, if society permitted such liberty. We drank, probably too much, sang a few songs, told some very bawdy jokes, and laughed too loudly.”

Pitt imagined it. “Are you telling me that you all went to bed separately?” he inquired, not bothering to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“No, of course not,” Marquand snapped. “The Prince took the woman who was later found dead. Sarah, or Sally, or whatever her name was…”

“Sadie,” Pitt supplied.

“All right, Sadie. I took Molly and Dunkeld took Bella. I never saw the others again. Are you sure that one of the other women could not have killed Sadie? In a jealous rage, or some other kind of quarrel, possibly over money? That seems quite likely.”

Pitt decided to play the game. “Is that what you think could have happened?” he asked.

Marquand stared at him. “Why not? It makes more sense than any of us having killed her! Do you think one of us took leave of our senses—for half an hour, hacked the poor creature to bits—then returned to bed, and woke up in the morning back in perfect control, ate breakfast, and resumed discussions on the Cape-to-Cairo railway?” He did not bother to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“I would certainly prefer it to be one of the other women,” Pitt conceded. “Let us say, for the sake of the story, that it was Bella. She left Mr. Dunkeld’s bed, crept along the passage awakening no one, happened to run into Sadie, who had chanced to have left the Prince’s bed, stark naked. They found the linen cupboard and decided to go into it, perhaps for privacy. Then they had a furious quarrel, which fortunately no one else heard, and Bella, who happened to have had the forethought to take with her one of the knives from the butler’s pantry, cut Sadie’s throat and disemboweled her. Fortunately she kept from getting any blood on her dress or her hands or arms. Then she quietly left again, with Molly, whom she had found, and was conducted out of the Palace and went home. Something like that?”

Marquand’s face was scarlet, his eyes blazing. Twice he started to speak, then realized that what he was going to say was absurd, and stopped again.

“Perhaps you would tell me a little more of the temper, the mood of the evening, Mr. Marquand?” Pitt asked, aware that his tone was now supremely condescending. “Was there any ill-feeling between any of the men, or they and one of the women?”

Marquand was about to deny it, then changed his mind. “You place me in an invidious position,” he complained. “It would be preposterous to imagine that the Prince of Wales could do such a thing. I know that I did not, but I cannot prove it. Dunkeld was presumably with the other woman, Bella, except when he went to unpack his damned box of books, and it seems he can prove it.” The inflection in his voice changed slightly, a razor edge of strain. “My brother, Julius, retired early and alone. He did not wish to stay with us, and did not give his reasons. The Prince of Wales was not pleased, but it fell something short of actual unpleasantness.”

“Mrs. Sorokine is very handsome,” Pitt remarked as casually as he could. “Probably he preferred her company to that of a street woman.”

The tide of color washed up Marquand’s face again. “You are extremely offensive, sir! I can only assume in your excuse that you know no better!”

“How would you prefer me to phrase it, sir?” Pitt asked.

“Julius went to bed in a self-righteous temper,” Marquand said harshly, hatred flaring momentarily in his eyes. “His wife did not see him until luncheon the following day.”

Pitt was disconcerted by the strength of emotion, and embarrassed to have witnessed it.

“Did he tell you this, or did she?” he asked.

“What?” The color in Marquand’s face did not subside. “She did. And before you ask me, I have nothing further to say on the subject. Julius is my brother. I tell you only so much truth as honor obliges me to. I will not lie, even for him.”

“I understand. And of course Mrs. Sorokine is your sister-in-law,” Pitt conceded. Actually he did not understand. Was Marquand’s anger against his brother because he had placed him in a situation where he was forced to lie or betray him? Or was it against circumstances, the Prince and his expectations, even Dunkeld for engineering this whole situation? Or his own wife for making him feel guilty because he attended the party, and perhaps enjoyed it?

Pitt elicited a few more details of fact, and then excused him. He then asked to see Julius Sorokine, even though he had left early and would apparently know far less than the other men.

Julius came in casually, but there was an unmistakable anxiety in him. He was taller than his brother, and moved with the kind of grace that could not be learned. His ease was a gift of nature. He sat down opposite Pitt and waited to be questioned.

“Why did you leave the party earlier than everyone else, Mr. Sorokine?” Pitt asked bluntly.

The question seemed to embarrass Sorokine, and it flashed suddenly into Pitt’s mind that perhaps rather than spend at least some of the time with one of the prostitutes his father-in-law had provided, he had been with another woman altogether, of his own choosing. Perhaps that was why the handsome Minnie Sorokine had been confiding in her brother-in-law.

“Did you have an assignation with someone else?” Pitt asked abruptly. “If so, they can account for your time, and it need not be repeated to your wife.”

Julius laughed outright, in spite of his discomfort. It was a warm, uncompromising sound. “I wish it were so, but I’m afraid not. I was totally alone. Even my manservant cannot account for more than the first half hour or so, which cannot be the relevant time, since the women were all still at the party.”

“Why did you leave early?” Pitt asked. “Were you ill? You seem well enough today.”

“I was perfectly well,” Sorokine replied. He looked self-conscious. “I simply preferred not to indulge in that kind of pleasure.”

Pitt’s eyes widened a little, not certain if he was leaping to unwarranted conclusions.

Sorokine understood him instantly and blushed. “I have a certain regard for a woman who is not my wife,” he said a little huskily. It obviously embarrassed him. “I would prefer that she did not see me drinking and fornicating with prostitutes. I care for her opinion of me.” He lifted his eyes and stared at Pitt with surprising candor.

“I apologize,” Pitt said, then felt foolish. He was doing no more than his job, and the thought had been a brief idea discarded. But he would remember that about Julius Sorokine. It was another layer of the complicated emotions that lay between these people. Was he referring to the gorgeous Mrs. Quase, whose husband drank too much and spoke so disparagingly of himself?

It would be easy enough to understand. Or the unhappy Olga Marquand, elegant, stiff, and withdrawn, his brother’s wife? Or was it Elsa Dunkeld, as remote as an undiscovered country, where everything there was still to be found? He would be a brave man who would abandon Cahoon Dunkeld’s daughter and try to take his wife!

He looked carefully at Sorokine’s face and did not see that kind of courage in it. The strength was there, but not the fire, nor the resolve.

Pitt asked him a few more questions, but learned nothing that seemed to be of value. Finally he excused him and sent for Dunkeld again.

“Well?” Dunkeld asked as he closed the door. “Have you achieved anything, apart from insulting the Prince of Wales and disturbing everyone else?” He did not sit down but remained standing, towering over Pitt, who had not had time to rise to his feet.

Pitt remained seated, deliberately trying to appear relaxed. “The large box that arrived for you shortly before Sadie was murdered,” he said calmly, crossing his legs comfortably. “What was in it, and where is it now?”

“What?” Dunkeld’s voice rose angrily. “You called me away from my meeting to ask me that? Have you discussed anything at all as to who killed the wretched woman?” He leaned forward. “Have you completely lost your grasp, man? Have you any idea what has happened? Someone has murdered a prostitute in the Queen’s residence! What does it require to spark you into some action? One of these men, God help us, is a maniac.”

Pitt leaned back slowly and looked up at him. “I assume you mean one of the other three: Marquand, Sorokine, or Quase?”

Dunkeld looked a little paler. “Yes, regrettably, of course I do. Do you know of any alternative?”

“What was in the box?” Pitt asked again. “You were apparently expecting it? Why did it come at that hour of night? Carters don’t usually deliver at midnight.”

Dunkeld sat down at last, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Books,” he said gratingly. “Mostly maps of the regions of Africa with which we are concerned. Yes, I was expecting them. They are extremely important to the work we plan to do.”

“Then why did you not bring them with you?” Pitt asked.

“I sent for them from a dealer!” Dunkeld snapped back. “If I had had them in my possession when I came, then of course I would have brought them with me! Are you a complete fool?”

“And whoever sent them to you delivered them at midnight?”

“Obviously! I don’t know why it took him so long. What the devil has that got to do with the woman’s death?”

“I don’t know what anything has to do with it yet. Do you?”

Dunkeld controlled his temper with clear difficulty. “No, of course I don’t, or I would tell you. You obviously need every scrap of help you can find.”

“As I remember it, Mr. Dunkeld, it was you who called us,” Pitt replied.

Dunkeld’s face darkened dangerously. “Why you arrogant, jumped-up oaf! You are a servant. You are here to clean up other people’s detritus and keep the streets safe for your betters. You are the ferret that decent men send into holes in the ground to hunt out rabbits.”

“Then if you want your rabbit hunted and you are incapable of getting it out yourself,” Pitt said icily, “you had better employ the best ferret you can find, and give it its head. Otherwise the rabbit will escape and you will be left standing over an empty hole.”

Dunkeld stood up slowly. “I shall not forget you, Pitt.” It was blatantly a threat.

Pitt rose to his feet also. They were of equal height, and standing too close to each other for civility or comfort. But neither would move. “I shall probably forget you, sir,” he replied. “I meet many like you, in my field of work.” He smiled very slightly. “Thank you for answering my questions. I don’t think I need to ask you about the…party…you organized for the Prince of Wales. I have several rather good accounts of it already.”

Dunkeld spun round on his heel and slammed the door on his way out.

IT WAS AFTER six o’clock and Pitt was sitting in the same room again, mulling over the impressions he had gained from the four men. He was wondering if he should ring the bell and ask whoever answered it if he could have a cup of tea, when there was a tap on the door.

“Come in,” he said with surprise. Gracie was not supposed to contact him so openly, and he could think of no one else who would approach him.

But when the door opened it was not Gracie who stood there, but an elegant woman in her middle years. She was beautifully dressed in the height of fashion in very dark silk, tiered from the waist down and with a slight train. There was expensive lace at her bosom and a cameo at her throat, which Pitt estimated would have cost as much as a good carriage.

He rose to his feet, certain she must have mistaken the room.

“Good afternoon,” she said courteously. “Are you Inspector Pitt?”

“Yes, ma’am.” It seemed ridiculous to offer to help her. She was obviously very much more composed than he.

She smiled slightly. “I am lady-in-waiting to the Princess of Wales. Her Royal Highness would be greatly obliged if you would attend her. I can accompany you now.” It was phrased as if it were a request, but quite clearly he could not refuse.

“Of…of course.” His mouth was dry. His mind raced as to why she would want to see him, and what he could say to her. The first thought was that Dunkeld had reported him for rudeness. But why would the Princess of Wales summon him rather than the Prince? What kind of lie could he possibly think of to avoid telling her of the situation he was investigating? How much did she know anyway? He had heard that she was severely deaf. Perhaps she knew nothing and wanted to ask why he was here. What should he say?

He followed the lady-in-waiting obediently. She led him a considerable distance through wide, high-ceilinged corridors until they came to what was apparently their destination. She knocked and then went in without waiting for an answer, signaling Pitt to follow her.

The room in which he found himself was richly overfurnished like the others he had seen, high-ceilinged and crusted with plasterwork gilded and painted, but he did not even glance at it. His total attention was focused on the woman who sat in the tall chair by the window, a tea tray on the carved table in front of her. It was set for three. There were tiny sandwiches on a plate and very small cakes cut to look as if they had wings poised above the whipped cream. There were also fresh scones he could actually smell, a dish of butter, one of jam, and one of clotted cream. He swallowed as if tasting them. He had not realized before how hungry he was.

“How kind of you to come, Mr. Pitt,” the woman at the window said graciously. Pitt had heard that Princess Alexandra was beautiful, but he was still unprepared for the perfect skin, the flawless features in spite of her being now well into her middle years.

What did one say to a deaf princess who would one day be queen? Did it matter? Would the lady-in-waiting help him? Should he raise his voice, or was that inexcusable, regardless of her hearing?

He gulped. “It is my honor, Your Royal Highness.” Was that too loud?

She was watching him closely. What was she going to ask?

“Please sit down,” she invited, indicating the chair opposite her. “Would you care for tea?”

Should he accept, or was the invitation merely a form of politeness? He had no idea. Did she know how rude he had been to the Prince?

“Please accept,” the lady-in-waiting said quietly, from a step or two behind him. “Her Royal Highness wishes to speak with you. The tea will be very agreeable.”

“Thank you,” Pitt said more gently. “Thank you, ma’am.” He sat down, aware of being clumsy, as if he were all arms and legs, as uncoordinated as if he were still an adolescent.

The lady-in-waiting poured the tea. It was very hot, obviously only just brought in, and the fragrance of it was delicate but unmistakable.

“You have a very difficult task, Mr. Pitt,” the Princess observed, taking a small cucumber sandwich and indicating that he should do the same.

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. He took a sandwich carefully, wondering if he could possibly stretch it to three mouthfuls.

“Have you met all His Royal Highness’s guests?” she inquired. She had fine eyes, intelligent and very direct.

“Yes, ma’am.” He must add something more. He was sounding stupid. “I have spoken more to the gentlemen this afternoon. I am not sure if the ladies can tell me much.” How much did she know? He must be desperately careful not to tell her anything she had not already heard. That would be appalling.

“You may be surprised,” she said with a very slight smile, amusement fleeting and then gone. “We observe more than you think.”

He had no idea how to answer her, and he did not think it polite to take another bite of the sandwich.

She sipped her tea. “You may find that they also have been quite aware of tensions, likes and dislikes, and of rivalries.”

“I will ask them, ma’am,” he promised, although he thought it a useless exercise.

“You are thinking that they will be too loyal to their husbands to tell you anything that could be of use in this unpleasant matter,” she went on.

The last piece of the sandwich went down his throat the wrong way, probably because he drew in his breath at the same time. He found himself coughing and the tears coming to his eyes. He was making a complete fool of himself. It was a kind of nightmare.

“Take a sip of tea, Mr. Pitt,” she suggested gently. “It will no doubt be better in a moment. Do not try to speak and make it worse, please. I quite understand. I have noticed a few small nuances of character myself, which you may find of help.”

He thought that so unlikely as to be impossible. What could she conceivably know of the ways of prostitutes, or the more violent elements in men’s nature? He could not say so because courtesy forbade it, and he was still afraid of choking if he tried to speak.

She smiled a little absentmindedly, as if her attention was already engaged in marshaling her thoughts. “I have noticed that Mrs. Sorokine has a certain air of wanton glamour about her that does not seem to hold her husband’s eye at all,” she said with devastating candor. “I do not think he is affecting indifference. I saw no signs of it in him. If he looked at anyone unobtrusively, it was at his stepmother-in-law, Mrs. Dunkeld.”

Pitt cleared his throat. “You are very observant, ma’am.”

“I have plenty of time,” she said ruefully, but the calm expression in her face barely changed. “When you are deaf, people do not talk to you a great deal. It is too much trouble to make themselves understood. Few realize how much of understanding comes from seeing a person’s face, and watching them while they speak. You might be surprised how often the eyes and the lips give different messages.”

He knew she was right. That was very often how he sensed that someone was lying, even before he knew the facts. “And what did you observe in the others, ma’am?” he asked.

She frowned slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

He repeated the question more slowly and a little more loudly. He could feel his face color with the awkwardness of it. He felt as if he came across as faintly condescending, although he did not intend to be.

“Oh.” This time she understood. “Mrs. Marquand is very unhappy. Watch her face in repose. She alternates between anger and misery. And Mrs. Quase is frightened. Her hands are always fiddling with something.”

“And Mrs. Dunkeld?” he asked.

Obviously she had not heard him. “And Mrs. Dunkeld,” she went on, “is afraid of her husband, which is quite different. Mrs. Quase is, I think, afraid for Mr. Quase. Although what she believes may happen to him I do not know. Mrs. Dunkeld never looks at Mrs. Sorokine. I think perhaps she does not dare to, in case her eyes betray her.”

“You are extremely observant, ma’am,” he said sincerely.

“Please drink your tea.” She gestured toward the tray. “It is far less pleasant cold. And try a scone or two. It is not impolite. I requested them for you and shall be disappointed if you do not enjoy them.”

He dared to smile at her. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She smiled back in a suddenly charming gesture. “You see, I would make a better detective than you think. Mr. Dunkeld does not like Mr. Sorokine. I do not hear what he says, but I see his eyes. Even though he laughs, it is not a laugh of warmth or of pleasure. He is an angry man.”

“Do you know why, ma’am?” Pitt asked.

She did not hear. “My husband likes him, but I do not. I think he is using His Royal Highness in order to obtain something he wishes for. Not that that is unusual, of course. One must expect it. However, the Prince sometimes thinks better of people than I believe is justified. He imagines that those with whom he enjoys his leisure time are more of a like mind with him than they really are.”

Pitt had a glimpse of loneliness that was terrible, a world where no one was equal and no one dared speak the truth if it would not please you. You would always be floundering in a sea of lies. “I’m sorry,” he said with intense feeling.

She must have understood from the movement of his lips. “You have a gentleness in you, Mr. Pitt. Please remember how that poor woman died, and that whoever it is you are looking for has no pity at all, for her or for you.”

He was stunned into silence.

“Do have some cream with your scone,” she offered. “It adds greatly to the pleasure.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he accepted. He felt obliged to take it, with considerable gratitude. It was delicious.

“We are all naturally very disturbed,” she went on, as if answering some comment he had made, although in fact he had his mouth full. He wondered if she had even the faintest idea what had really happened, of the violence, the hostility involved. “No one can be expected to carry on as usual,” she continued. “But we must make an effort. It is part of our duty, do you not think?”

“Yes, ma’am, if at all possible.” He swallowed and made the only reply he could. He could hardly disagree with her.

“All sorts of little things have to change, of course. Do you care for some more tea? Eleanor, my dear…”

The lady-in-waiting poured it before Pitt could answer.

“Thank you,” he said quickly.

“It is gracious of you to spare me the time,” the Princess went on. “I am sure you are much occupied. Of course, it could be something to do with the railway, but I confess I do not see how. They all seem very keen on it, except perhaps Mr. Sorokine. He made some remark, but I am afraid I did not hear all of it. But there was doubt in his face, I remember that, and the others were all annoyed with him. So much was clear.”

She took a scone herself and covered it with jam and cream. “What time was the poor creature killed, Mr. Pitt?”

Pitt froze. So she knew!

“In the early hours of the morning, ma’am. Before half-past two.”

Beside him the lady-in-waiting stiffened.

Alexandra saw it. “Oh, do be realistic, Eleanor,” she said briskly. “I am deaf, certainly, but I am not blind. I know perfectly well what the party was all about. What I don’t know is why the bath was still warm.”

“I beg your pardon?” Pitt said before he realized the impropriety of it.

“The bath was warm,” she repeated, offering him another scone.

“The cast iron holds the heat from the water for a while afterward, you know. Otherwise it is quite cold to the touch. It was still noticeably warm at eight o’clock. I touched it myself.”

“Which bath, ma’am?”

“His Royal Highness’s, of course. But his valet did not bring water up. Do have more cream over that. It makes all the difference.”

Pitt took it from her quite automatically, his brain racing, his fingers almost numb.