Buckingham Palace Gardens

CHAPTER

EIGHT

PITT HAD A restless night. He disliked being away from home. He missed Charlotte acutely. Since joining Special Branch, he could no longer tell her the details of his cases, which meant she was unable to help in the practical ways she used to when he dealt with simple murders. All the same, her presence, her belief in him, made him calmer and stronger.

The pieces of information Gracie had brought him were extraordinary. They must mean something, and yet he could make no sense of them. He had asked the cook about the port bottles, and she had confirmed that Mr. Dunkeld had brought them as a gift for the Prince. They had contained port of a quality far superior to any that would ever be used in cooking. They had been served at table for the gentlemen. He did not mention the blood. Whatever warnings he gave, she would be bound to tell someone—probably everyone.

He had made inquiries about the broken china, but received no reply. They all disclaimed any knowledge. Similarly, everyone said the Queen’s sheets must have been put in the linen cupboard by mistake, and no one seemed to understand that they had been slept on. They simply denied the possibility.

When he finally drifted off to sleep, it was into a tangle of dreams. The glory of Buckingham Palace was mixed with the stink and terror of the back alleys of Whitechapel, where those other fearful corpses of women had been found.

He woke with a start, his heart pounding, and sat upright in bed, for a moment at a loss as to where he was. There was a wild banging on his door. Before he could answer, it swung open and Cahoon Dunkeld staggered in, his face ashen gray in the light from the corridor.

Pitt scrambled out of bed and instinctively went to him. The man looked as if he were about to collapse. Pitt grasped him by the shoulders and eased him into the single chair.

Cahoon drooped his shoulders forward and buried his head in his hands. Whatever had happened, he seemed shattered by it.

Pitt lit the gaslamp and turned it up, and then waited until Cahoon regained control of himself.

When at last he sat up, his face was blotched where his fingers had pressed against it and his eyes had a fevered look. He was so fraught with emotion his body was rigid and he could not keep his arms still, as though he were desperate to do something physical but had no idea what or how.

He rubbed his hand over his brow and up over his head. His knuckles were bruised; one was torn open.

“It’s Minnie,” he said hoarsely. “She was behaving erratically all day, but I thought she was just seeking attention, as she does. She…she needs to be admired, to draw people’s eyes, occupy their thoughts. Her husband is…” His jaw clenched and for several moments he was unable to continue.

Pitt thought of completing the sentence for him, to prompt him to go on, but decided the issue was too grave to misdirect. He waited, motionless.

Cahoon took a shuddering breath. “At dinner she kept raising the subject of the dead woman in the cupboard. I told her fairly sharply to be quiet about it. I thought she was afraid, and losing control of herself. Oh God!” His chest heaved and he seemed to clench all the muscles of his upper body.

Pitt began to be afraid. “What has happened, Mr. Dunkeld?” he demanded.

Slowly Cahoon raised his head again and stared at him. “During the night I thought about what she’d said. I was awake. I’ve no idea what time it was. I went over and over it, and I began to wonder if she knew something. She told me quite openly that she had been asking a lot of questions of the servants, and discovered what she wanted to know. I…I didn’t believe her.” He seemed desperate that Pitt should understand him. “I thought she was showing off.”

“What has happened, Mr. Dunkeld?” Pitt said more urgently, leaning forward a little. The man in front of him was obviously laboring on the borders of hysteria. He was an adventurer, an explorer used to commanding other men. When the body in the linen cupboard had been found it was he who had taken charge, deciding what to do, supporting and comforting the Prince of Wales. Whatever it was that had driven him to this point must have shaken him to the core. Had he discovered that the murderer was close to him, in his own family? Then it must be Julius Sorokine. Minnie, as his wife, knowing his nature, even his intimate tastes and habits, had suspected him. Pitt had always found it hard to believe that a woman of any intelligence at all—and honesty—could be married to such a man, and have not even a shadow of doubt, of fear.

The tears were running silently down Cahoon’s cheeks.

Pitt touched his shoulder gently. He did not like the man—he could not afford to forget the threats he had made, or his pleasure in the power to do so—but at this moment he was aware only of pity for him.

“I became afraid for her,” Cahoon said, his voice half choked. He rubbed his hand over his face again, spreading a fine smear of blood across it from the cut on his knuckle. His cheeks were swollen. “I…I went to warn her. I wanted her to be careful. I don’t know what I thought she would do!” He stopped abruptly.

“Did you warn her?” Pitt demanded. “Did she tell you what she knew? You can’t protect him, whoever he is! Don’t you…?” Pitt’s words died on his lips. Cahoon’s eyes held such horror it froze him. “What happened?” he shouted.

“I found her,” Cahoon whispered. “She was lying on her bedroom floor, her throat cut, her…” He shuddered violently. “Her gown was ripped and her…her stomach torn open and bleeding. Just like…oh God! Just like the whore in the cupboard. I was too late!”

There was nothing to say. Pity was so inadequate a response that even to attempt it was an insult. Pitt was drenched with guilt. If he had done his job sooner, more intelligently, more accurately, this would not have happened! Minnie Sorokine would still be alive. He expected Cahoon to tell him that, even to lash out at him physically from his own pain. The blows to his body could scarcely hurt more than the self-condemnation in his mind. Minnie had been so burningly alive, and Gracie had followed her around, asking the servants about the broken china, and the buckets of water. From the answers she had deduced what had happened—and Pitt was still fumbling without an idea in his head! He was stupid, criminally incompetent. He could see no end to the darkness of his guilt.

Cahoon was talking again. “I went to tell Julius…her husband. It seemed the natural thing to do.”

“Yes?” Pitt could only imagine the man’s grief.

Cahoon was staring at him. “I found him in his bedroom. He was up, half dressed, even so early. He just stared at me.” Cahoon began to tremble. “His eyes were wild, like a lunatic’s, and there was blood on his hands and face, scratches, tears in his skin. I…I knew in that moment that it was he who had done that to her. I couldn’t bear it. I…I lost all control and I beat him…God knows why I didn’t kill him. I only came to my senses when he was lying on the floor and I realized I was beating an unconscious man. Somehow the fact that he no longer even knew what I was doing to him robbed me of the rage long enough for me to regain mastery of myself.”

Pitt imagined it. They were both big men, physically powerful. Julius was younger, but taken by surprise he could have lost the advantage. Nevertheless, Pitt understood now what the torn knuckles and the bruises still swelling and darkening on Cahoon’s face meant. It had been a hard fight, even assuming it was brief.

“Where’s Sorokine now?” he asked softly. He felt no blame for Cahoon. If it had been Pitt’s own daughter, Jemima, he would have torn the man apart.

“Still senseless on the floor, I imagine. But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Cahoon smiled bitterly, and winced at the pain in his jaw. He put his hand up tentatively. “I think he loosened a tooth.”

“Go back to your own room, Mr. Dunkeld,” Pitt told him. “I’ll go with you. You had better awaken your wife and I’m afraid you will have to tell her what has happened. Shall I send for her maid? Get tea, or brandy? Would you like one of the other women to be with her? Mrs. Marquand, or Mrs. Quase? To whom was she closer?”

Cahoon stared at him. “What?” His eyes seemed unfocused.

“Someone must inform Mrs. Dunkeld,” Pitt said again. “If you don’t feel well enough, then somebody else can. I will, if you wish, but I am sure in those circumstances, Mrs. Dunkeld would prefer to be up and dressed.”

“She was not Minnie’s mother,” Cahoon said flatly. “Call who you want. What about Sorokine?”

“I’ll call Mrs. Quase to be with your wife, then I’ll go and see Mr. Sorokine. Go back to your own room. Would you like someone to be with you?”

“No. No, I’d rather be alone.” Cahoon rose to his feet very slowly, swaying a little, and Pitt cursed the fact that he had no sergeant with him to whom he could delegate other tasks.

He walked along the silent corridor beside Cahoon as far as his own bedroom, and left him there. Then he retraced his steps quickly to Hamilton Quase’s room and knocked abruptly on the door.

There was no answer. Perhaps he had drunk too much the night before to come to his senses easily. Pitt had no recourse but to go directly to Mrs. Quase. It was not something he wished to do.

She answered after only a few moments. She was wrapped in a silk robe and her glorious hair was loose around her shoulders.

“Yes?” she said anxiously.

“Mrs. Quase, I am sorry to disturb you. I tried to waken Mr. Quase, but—”

“What is it?” she cut across him. “Tell me.”

“I am afraid Mrs. Sorokine is dead. Mr. Dunkeld is profoundly disturbed, too much so to inform Mrs. Dunkeld, or to be with her. I must see Mr. Sorokine, and it may take me some time. I regret having to ask, but will you please tell Mrs. Dunkeld, and be with her?”

All the blood left her face, her hand flew to her mouth. “You…you mean Minnie…was killed?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so.” As soon as he had said it he realized he should not have done so when she was standing. She swayed and grasped hold of the handle of the door, leaning against it, trying to support herself.

“Have I asked too much of you?” he said apologetically. “Should I call Mrs. Marquand?”

“No! No,” she protested. “I shall go to Elsa immediately. But that’s foolish. I’ll call my maid to bring tea for both of us. Then I’ll go. I shall be perfectly all right. How absolutely dreadful. One of us is raving mad. This is worse than any nightmare.”

He apologized again, thanked her, and went to Julius Sorokine’s room. He wondered for a moment if he should at least look at the body first, then realized that the rooms would connect, and if Julius were returning to his senses, there was no way of preventing him from changing such evidence as there was, or even further desecrating the body. Pitt needed help, but there was no one he could trust, or who had seen death with such violence and tragedy before.

He did not knock, but opened the door and went straight inside.

The scene that met his eyes was exactly what he expected from Dunkeld’s description. A slender bedroom chair was splintered and lying sideways on the floor. A robe, which might have been on the back of it, was stretched across the carpet. Even the large, four-poster bed had been knocked a trifle off the straight, as if someone heavy had collided hard against it. A tall dresser of drawers was also crooked, and the silver-backed brush set, box of cuff links and collar studs, which had presumably been on top of it, lay scattered on the carpet. Julius Sorokine himself lay on the floor on his face. He was wearing trousers and a shirt and no jacket. He was motionless.

Pitt closed the door behind him and walked over. He bent down and touched Julius’s neck above the collar. The pulse was strong and steady, and even before Pitt straightened up, Julius began to stir.

“Sit up slowly, Mr. Sorokine,” Pitt told him.

Julius rolled over, opening his eyes. He stared up at Pitt with obvious confusion. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice gravelly. He coughed and sat up, wincing with pain. His face was bruised and there was a heavy gash across his cheek, blood smeared on his lip and chin. His hair was tousled. However, unlike Cahoon, he had already shaved, possibly in cold water, since there was no sign of his manservant having been here.

“What happened, Mr. Sorokine?” Pitt asked him. “Please stay sitting on the floor.” He made it sound like an order. He was afraid that if Sorokine got to his feet, he could easily start another fight. He was at least as tall as Pitt, and judging by the grace with which he had moved previously, very fit.

Julius blinked. Then memory rushed back. “God! Minnie!” He started to get up.

Pitt put out a hand and pushed him back again, so that he rolled a little, off-balance. “What happened, Mr. Sorokine?”

Julius shivered. “Cahoon came storming in here, eyes blazing like a madman, snarling something about Minnie, and took a swing at me.” He touched his face and drew his fingers away, covered in blood. “Knocked me over against the bed. When I got up again, I asked him what the devil was the matter. He just shouted something else indistinguishable and hit me again. This time I saw it coming and hit him back. I knocked him against the dresser and everything went flying.” He shook his head, then winced. “I thought that might bring him to his senses, but it didn’t. He seemed to be completely off his head.” He looked totally bewildered.

“He came back and hit me,” he went on. “First with his left hand, which I ducked, then he caught me with his right. We struggled a bit more. It was ridiculous, like two drunks in an alley. He must have got the better of me, because the next thing I remember was a hell of a blow, then you talking to me.” He blinked. “What’s happened to Minnie? We made the devil of a row. She must have heard us! Did she call you? That’s stupid. I’m not going to lay charges. He’s my father-in-law, God damn it!”

Pitt could almost have believed him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sorokine, but your wife is dead.”

Julius looked as if Pitt had hit him again. “What?”

Was it possible he had some kind of mental aberration where he had no idea afterwards what he had done? It would explain why no one had realized his guilt before; he did not even know it himself.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said clearly. “Mrs. Sorokine is dead.”

“How?” Julius demanded. “It wasn’t Olga, was it? Poor woman.” He closed his eyes again, drew in his breath as if to say something further, then changed his mind and looked up at Pitt, waiting for the answer.

“No, sir. No woman did to her what Mr. Dunkeld described. I’m afraid I’m going to have to lock you in here until I can contact Mr. Narraway again and have more men brought. I’ll have one of the Palace servants bring you something to eat, and possibly see if you need medical help.”

“Me?” Julius seemed not to grasp what Pitt had said.

“Yes. Mr. Dunkeld said you had those injuries on your face before he came in.”

“Injuries?” He put his hand up again to his lip as if he had forgotten the pain and the blood. “No, I didn’t. I told you, he came in here and hit me!” Then the color fled from his face and he got to his feet so swiftly Pitt lurched backward away from him.

“God Almighty! You think I killed her!” Julius said, aghast. “I haven’t even seen her since last night.” He swung round. “Is she…?”

Pitt moved rapidly past him to block his way to the dressing room and the connecting door. “No, sir. Not yet. Don’t oblige me to handcuff you to the bed. That would be most unpleasant for you.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Julius said quietly, letting his arms fall to his sides. “And I didn’t touch the other woman either, poor creature.”

Pitt went back to the main door and turned the key in the lock, then he put it in his pocket and went through the connecting door, pushing the bolt home on the farther side. He did not know what to believe, but he had to follow the evidence.

In spite of what Cahoon had said, he was not prepared for the sight of Minnie Sorokine sprawled across the floor of her bedroom, her throat scarlet, her gorgeous flamingo-pink gown half torn off her, and the lower half of her torso ripped open and bright with blood.

He walked toward her, feeling sick, and kneeled down beside the billowing skirts. There could be no question as to whether she was dead or not, and not much as to what had caused it. No one could live with a throat wound like that. It was almost from ear to ear, and her head lay at a crooked angle, as if her neck itself were broken.

She was cold to the touch. He had expected her to be. She was still wearing her evening gown. Her lady’s maid had not been in. He would have to inquire as to why not, but he assumed it was a matter of discretion. She would come if she were sent for, and, if not, maintain a tactful absence.

Pitt forced himself to look at the mutilations. The throat wound was worse than Sadie’s, but the slashing of the lower abdomen was considerably less. In fact there was almost a hint of decency about it. The cut was higher up, less overtly sexual, and her bosom had not been exposed at all. Was that because some part of Julius’s brain had remembered, even in his madness, that this woman was his wife? The thought was repulsive, and peculiarly painful. Not that Pitt had never before known killers that he had liked, even understood.

But there was nothing understandable about killing Sadie. None of the men had ever seen her before. And now this! No wonder Cahoon Dunkeld had been half out of his mind with horror and grief. Julius was fortunate Dunkeld had not killed him. Had he been a slighter man, less fit, perhaps he would be dead now also, not simply locked up.

Pitt sat back on the carpet and considered what he should do. He must get in touch with Narraway, obviously; send for him to come to the Palace at once. It seemed as if the case was at an end, although there must be a great deal of evidence to collect. For what? They could hardly have a public trial of two murders at the Palace! Could it qualify as a state secret, because of where it had happened? Or would they decide that Julius Sorokine was hopelessly insane, and lock him away without a trial at all? That would be the obvious thing to do.

Even so, the evidence must be conclusive. No doctor of any honor would pronounce him mad except as proved by the fact that he had killed two women. If it seemed just as reasonable that it was actually someone else responsible, then there was nothing against him at all. All his other behavior was above reproach, even morally, let alone legally.

But considering the issues, no doubt a doctor would be found who would not be too squeamish in examining details, and who would be easily enough persuaded.

Pitt could not allow that. His own conscience found it unacceptable. If Julius Sorokine were to spend the rest of his life locked away in an asylum for the criminally insane, then Pitt must be satisfied beyond any doubt that was even remotely reasonable that it was he who had killed the women.

He could not leave Minnie’s body sprawled where it was without first making an accurate diagram of it, of the mutilations and the exact nature of them. He must also search and describe the rest of the room. There was probably nothing that would tell him anything beyond the obvious: She had come up in order to retire, and someone else had entered the room either after her or before. It was almost certainly her husband. They had quarreled and ended fighting, literally.

He looked at her again and saw more clearly now that there were bruises on her face. They were little more than marks, since she had died very shortly afterward. But there were also scratches on her hands and lower arms, as if she had struggled to defend herself. That would account for the scratches on Julius’s face and hands, which Cahoon had said he had seen as soon as he had gone into Julius’s bedroom, and before he had attacked him himself.

With shaking hands Pitt drew her as she lay. It was out of proportion and the lines were uncertain, because he could not stop his trembling. Then he sketched the room roughly. It was difficult to tell if anything was seriously out of place; perhaps the maid would know. He would have to ask her. Nothing was broken or torn, except a small crystal bowl whose pieces were in the wastebasket. There was no glass on the floor. The breakage could have happened at any time since the basket was last emptied—presumably yesterday morning.

It seemed indecent to leave Minnie here, but there was nowhere else he could put her until Narraway came. It had been different with Sadie. Cahoon had had her moved to the ice house, almost as if she were a side of beef: an action that was distressing but highly practical. The police surgeon would be given both bodies later.

He took the top sheet off the bed, which had not been slept in, and laid it over her. Then he went out into the corridor, taking the key with him, and locked the door from the outside.

He went downstairs, found Tyndale, and asked permission to use the telephone. It was fifteen minutes before he made contact with Narraway. He was alone in the butler’s pantry with the door closed.

“What is it?” Narraway said eagerly.

“There’s been another murder,” Pitt replied. He heard Narraway’s breath drawn in sharply. “Mrs. Sorokine,” he went on. He was oddly out of breath. “In her own bedroom. Otherwise it is almost exactly the same. Done roughly the same time of night. Found by Dunkeld. So far it appears most likely that it was her husband.”

Narraway was silent for several moments. “I’m surprised,” he said at last. “Although I shouldn’t be. It had to be one of them. Is that your judgment, Pitt, that it was Sorokine?”

It was not his judgment, it was facts forced on him. “I’m not certain yet. I’ve locked him in his room. We’ll have to prove it.”

“Of course we’ll have to prove it! Why, in God’s name? Why would he kill her where he’s bound to be found out? Is he raving?”

“No. He seems perfectly sane, just stunned.”

“Admit anything?”

“No.”

“I’ll be there in an hour, or less if I can.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pitt hung up the instrument and left the pantry to where Tyndale was waiting for him, pale-faced.

“There has been another death,” Pitt said bleakly. “Mrs. Sorokine. She is in her bedroom. Obviously you will tell the maids not to enter it, without giving them any reason. Similarly you will not enter Mr. Sorokine’s room. He is locked in it, for the time being.”

Tyndale struggled for a moment to keep his composure. His hands were clenched together and shaking. “I’m very sorry, sir. This is dreadful. Have you informed His Royal Highness? He will be very relieved that you have solved the problem, even if it is a tragic resolution.”

Pitt had not even thought of the Prince of Wales, but clearly he would have to be told. However, that task should not be left to Cahoon Dunkeld.

“No,” he said unhappily. “Will you arrange for me to do that, please? As soon as possible—in fact immediately. In the circumstances there cannot be anything of more urgency.”

“Yes, sir, certainly,” Tyndale agreed. He straightened his coat quite unnecessarily, and left. Fifteen minutes later he returned and conducted Pitt through the magnificent corridors and galleries to the same room where the Prince had received Pitt before.

This time he looked quite different, almost comfortable: a benign middle-aged gentleman with unusually courteous manners. He was dressed in a pale linen suit and his face had a healthy glow.

“Good morning, Pitt,” he said warmly. “Tyndale tells me that this wretched problem is solved. Terrible tragedy. But I am delighted, my dear fellow, that you have got to the bottom of it so quickly, and with what has to be regarded as the utmost discretion. Dunkeld was quite right to call in Special Branch.” Then his face filled with consternation. “Oh my God! Of course Mrs. Sorokine was his daughter. I had quite forgotten. How perfectly terrible! He must be quite ill with grief. I shall send him my own physician, in case there is anything he can do. Is there anything else? What can I offer?”

“That is most compassionate of you, sir,” Pitt replied. It was impossible to mistake the pity in the Prince’s face, or in the entire attitude of his body. “But I think for the moment there is nothing. I have sent for Mr. Narraway, and we will deal with the matter as quickly as possible. Once we have established beyond doubt that it is Mr. Sorokine who is responsible, I imagine the best thing to do will be to have him declared insane, and incarcerated where he can do no further harm.”

“The man’s a…a…” The Prince was lost for words savage enough to say what he felt.

“Madman, sir,” Pitt finished for him.

“Monster!” the Prince corrected Pitt.

“Yes, sir, it would seem so. But I think we do not wish the world to know that. It would be better for all if we agree it is insanity, an illness of the mind, and treat him accordingly. A trial would benefit no one.”

“A trial.” The Prince was clearly alarmed. “Good heavens, no! You are quite right, of course. Put him away. Best thing altogether.”

“As soon as we are certain.”

“Certain?” The Prince’s eyebrows rose. “My dear fellow, there can hardly be any doubt. Cahoon himself suspected him, you know? But of course he was loath to believe it. His own son-in-law. What a fearful thing.”

Pitt was surprised. “He didn’t tell me he suspected Sorokine. Why? Did he know something he kept from us?”

The Prince looked embarrassed. “I am afraid you will have to ask him, if you feel that it still matters. But surely now he has been proved hideously right, and paid such a price for it, there can be no purpose served by pointing that out to him?”

“No, sir. I would much rather that you told me,” Pitt urged.

“I can’t. A matter of honor,” the Prince said blandly. “I gave my word, you see, and that is the end of it. I’m sorry. But surely in the circumstances it doesn’t matter anymore? Sorokine left the party early on the night the other poor creature was killed. He must have stabbed her also. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to have the matter ended, and so completely, before Her Majesty returns. I am obliged to you, Mr. Pitt. I shall not forget it. Thank you for coming to tell me personally.”

It was a dismissal, and there was nothing for Pitt to say further that would not be argumentative and, in the circumstances, inexcusable. He thanked the Prince and withdrew.

Half an hour later he met Narraway, and took him immediately to see the body of Minnie Sorokine.

Narraway stood on the carpet and stared down at her, his dark face crumpled with unhappiness. “It looks the same,” he said miserably. “But it’s not! One was a professional whore, the other was his wife.”

Pitt frowned. “She flirted very openly with Simnel Marquand, Sorokine’s half-brother.”

Narraway stared at him incredulously. “Enough to provoke this? Are you saying it is some kind of moral judgment on whoring?”

“No, I’m not. Mrs. Sorokine spent a great deal of yesterday going around asking various questions of the servants,” Pitt told him. “Gracie followed her and heard most of it. It seemed to be about people’s comings and goings on the night of the first murder, including in particular a broken dish of blue, white, and gold that nobody knows about, and Tyndale says doesn’t exist.”

“What in hell are you talking about, Pitt? You’re rambling, man!

Pitt kept his temper with some difficulty. He was tired, his head ached, and suddenly he was very cold. The walls of the Palace, with all their ornately framed works of art, closed in on him. He was trapped here.

“I don’t know,” he said stiffly. “Mrs. Sorokine spent all day asking questions, and seemed to be very satisfied with the answers. And when Gracie asked Tyndale about it, she was told pretty abruptly that she should leave the matter alone. It concerned private misbehavior of the Prince of Wales, and was irrelevant to the murder of the prostitute.”

Narraway stared at him. “On the same night?” he said dubiously. “Having a busy time, wasn’t he!”

“I rather gathered he went to bed with one of the women, and fell into something of a drunken sleep,” Pitt said. “Perhaps he didn’t. Do you think we need to know?” He was hoping profoundly that Narraway would say they did not. “Surely it’s the same piece of unfortunate behavior—unfortunate in Tyndale’s eyes. He’s a bit stiff.”

“Where does the broken plate come into it?” Narraway asked. “So the Prince broke a plate! What of it?”

“Tyndale says there is no such plate. He is adamant.”

“Perhaps it was a vase, or an ornament of some other kind?” Narraway suggested.

“And Tyndale really imagines Gracie doesn’t know what kind of assignation it was with those women?” Pitt said incredulously. “He knows she is with us.”

Narraway ignored him and looked down at Minnie’s body again. “That’s a fearful blow across the neck. Very violent. Looks as if he’s almost severed her spine. Did you find the knife?”

“No. We need to search his room.”

Narraway stiffened with a jerky tightening of muscles, then relaxed again. “Well, if he kills himself that may be just as well. We can’t ever let him go free. But you should have looked, all the same. Now we’ll have to be extremely careful going in to see him.”

Pitt cursed his stupidity for not having searched Sorokine’s room. Yet it was not a thing he had wished to do alone, with Sorokine in there with him. He would be far too vulnerable. He produced the key, and he and Narraway went out and along the corridor.

Julius was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, but he could not conceal the tension in him, or the fear. The blood had dried on his face and the scratches were sharp, the bruises darkening painfully. He sat up, staring at them.

Pitt allowed Narraway to speak.

“Where are your clothes from last night, Mr. Sorokine?”

Julius blinked. “My suit is in the wardrobe and my shirt’s in the clothes basket, along with my personal linen. There’s no blood on them, if that’s what you are looking for.”

“And the knife?” Narraway asked. He sounded completely unperturbed, but there was a flicker of anxiety in the muscles of his neck and jaw.

“I have no idea,” Julius told him. “I did not kill my wife.” He looked at Pitt. “Do you think she knew…what happened to her? Did she suffer?”

Narraway drew in his breath, then let it out again.

“No,” Pitt answered. “She fought, but it looks as if there was only one blow to the neck, and that killed her.”

Julius winced.

“She was asking questions of the servants yesterday,” Narraway continued. “What did she tell you she had found out?”

Julius looked puzzled. “I don’t know. At dinner she made a lot of oblique remarks to Cahoon, as if she expected him to understand.” His voice rose a little as though it were an effort to force it through his throat. “Are you saying that is why she was killed? She worked out who had murdered the woman in the cupboard?” He sat up straighter.

“Can you think of another reason?” Narraway asked.

Julius hesitated only a moment. “No.” His face was filled with grief—not agony, but a kind of deep, quiet pain.

Pitt looked at him and was brushed with a fear that if he were truly mad, then it was an invisible insanity, a rage that refused to show through the veneer of what seemed to be a reasonable, even decent man. How could one know? How could one judge or guard against it? Anyone could have the madness to kill just behind the smile. One’s best friend!

“Pitt, search the dressing room for the knife,” Narraway ordered. “Or any clothes with blood on them, or tears.” He remained standing, facing Julius, who still sat on the bed. He could not afford to turn his back on him, however calm he seemed.

But an hour later they had found nothing suggesting violence of any kind. He had apparently fought with Minnie, and cut her throat and her abdomen, without getting even a spot of blood on his shirtsleeves. There was no ash in the fireplace to indicate anything destroyed.

“He must have stripped before he went into her room,” Narraway said when they were alone in the corridor again, tired and defeated. “Which seems singularly premeditated—and sane.”

“Or it isn’t him,” Pitt argued.

Narraway chewed his lip. “This is still very ugly,” he said almost under his breath. “Whatever the result, we’re going to have to treat it as madness, and have whoever it is put away quietly.” His voice was suddenly passionate and afraid. “But so help me God, Pitt, we have to have the right man. Apart from the injustice of it, we can’t afford to leave the real one free.”

ELSA’S FIRST REACTION had been one of horror and pity at the waste of life. She sat on her bed, rigid with misery. She knew she had not ever truly liked Minnie. The relationship had been uneasy from the outset. Elsa had replaced Minnie’s dead mother, at least socially, if not in Cahoon’s affections. Not that he ever mentioned his first wife, and certainly he never made comparisons, or spoke of her with grief. She should have found that strange, but at the time she had been so fascinated by his power and the weight of his emotion, she had been flattered that he wanted her at all. And he had, then. But how quickly he had grown tired!

Minnie had seen that, and understood it. The coldness between Elsa and Minnie had become one of mutual contempt on one level, a degree of tolerance on another. It was a situation from which neither could escape. For survival, it was best to make as little trouble as possible.

And then there was Julius. Elsa was no longer sure about anyone else’s emotions. This ghastly week had shaken every certainty she had. Looking at them all around the dinner table yesterday evening she had realized she had very little idea what any of them truly cared about, loved or hated, longed for, wept over. Olga’s isolation and self-disgust were simple, at least on the surface. But why did she not fight back? Had victory become pointless to attempt? Was her pallor and weariness disillusion rather than defeat?

Simnel’s infatuation with Minnie was not hard to understand. She had had fire and passion, laughter compared with Olga’s misery. But were any of these attributes anything more than patterns on the surface? Was Minnie’s fire only appetite? And Olga’s chill only a result of the pain of rejection freezing her? She had barely even mentioned her children, as if she had no more heart to fight with the weapons she had.

Liliane was obviously terrified that Hamilton would drink too much and let slip some awful secret, either his own or someone else’s. Was it about the murder of the other woman in Africa, so much like the ones here? She protected him as if he had been one of her children rather than her husband.

And Julius. That was the blow that left her numb. She could not accept that he had murdered Minnie, destroyed all that fierce will, that hunger and greed for life, whatever the cost. Minnie had been selfish, even cruel, but she had been as bright as a fire. To have snuffed her out seemed almost a crime against nature.

Elsa felt a searing pity for Cahoon. He had looked bruised to the heart when he had told her how Minnie had died, as if he had lost part of himself. She wanted to reach out to his agony but it was closed hard and tight inside him, and he turned away from her. Moments later he had actually left the room and she had stood alone, bewildered, bruised by rejection, and desperately sad.

She did not want to speak to anyone else, and yet to remain sitting in her room alone seemed even worse. She stood up and walked over to the window. She stared out at the heavy, summer trees, barely seeing them. Who had done this? It could not be Cahoon. Minnie was the one person he loved. She could remember a score of times she had seen them together sharing a joke, an idea, the kind of instant understanding from half a sentence that people have when they are truly close. She had never known it herself. Her father had been a distant man who did not see women as friends, only as beings of comfort, dependency, warmth, obedience, and virtue.

Minnie had been nothing like that. She was hungry, selfish, brave, and strong, like her father. Cahoon fought with her, but he admired her. If he could have found a woman like that to marry, he would have been happy.

Was it Simnel, struggling to free himself from his uncontrollable fascination with Minnie who had finally killed her? It had led him to betray the wife he had once loved in a different way, not only privately but, because he could not conceal it, publicly as well. Olga must have seen it every day, during every mealtime at the table: the pity and the impatience in the eyes of her friends because she did not know how to fight back.

Elsa was cold, in spite of the sun coming through the window. Had Olga fought back at last?

No. That was ridiculous. If Minnie had been killed in the same way as the street woman, then it had to have been a man who had done it. Except that if Elsa could think of copying the original murder, then couldn’t Olga, or anyone? Could a woman be driven to that kind of fury by jealousy?

It wasn’t simple jealousy, not a matter of hating someone for having what you did not, or even hatred for taking it from you. It wasn’t love that had robbed her, it was the heat of physical need, the raging appetite that destroyed both judgment and honor. It had consumed Simnel like a disease.

Most of all it might have been the humiliation, the destruction of belief in herself, even in love, the ultimate betrayal. How far was that from madness?

Surely Olga could not have killed the street woman too? No. That was utterly different. There was nothing personal in it—if it had even happened. The prostitutes had been brought in to entertain, not necessarily anything more, although the possibility and the assumption of more extensive services were there.

The other thought, which was waiting on the edge of her mind, refused to be denied any longer. If Olga could kill out of jealousy and humiliation, then how could Elsa deny that Julius could too? And Julius would have the strength to kill Minnie, who was a big woman, tall and graceful with full bosom, rounded arms, and perfect poise. Olga would not have the strength, unless she had taken her totally by surprise. Julius would.

But had he cared enough to do it? Elsa had no idea, not really. She knew the outer man: the courtesy, the dry humor, the seeming gentleness, the way he met her eyes when she spoke to him. She knew intimately, passionately, what she hoped he was, dreamed he was, but what had that to do with reality? How much was she in love with something that existed only in her own mind? How much was anyone?

It is so easy to see what you need to see, perhaps it is even necessary.

What had Julius seen in Minnie? What had he believed of her? He must once have thought she would be warm and loyal, gentle to his faults, strong to her own truths, that she had an inner core that could not be tarnished.

Or perhaps being beautiful and willing was enough? Had he an integrity that could not be broken, stained, bought, if the price were high enough?

For that matter, had she herself?

There was a knock on the door. She assumed it was Bartle and told her to come in without bothering to turn away from the window.

“I’m sorry to intrude on you, Mrs. Dunkeld, but it is necessary.”

She whirled round and saw the policeman just inside the doorway.

“Oh!” She drew in her breath sharply. “Yes. Of course it is. Do you wish me to come to your sitting room?”

“Yes, please, if you are well enough. Otherwise perhaps your maid could wait with you?” he replied.

“I’m quite well enough, thank you,” she accepted, following him out of the door again and down the stairs to the room he had been given. Bartle knew her too well; she did not want her here for the questions he would ask. She sat in the chair opposite him.

He apologized for having to distress her. She dismissed it. “You have no choice,” she said. “We have to know who did this.”

He nodded slightly. “Did Mrs. Sorokine confide in you at all yesterday, or the day before, Mrs. Dunkeld? It seems she had a strong suspicion as to who had killed the woman found in the cupboard, and was asking a great many questions.”

Elsa was startled. She was about to deny it completely when she remembered how excited Minnie had been, and the way she had hinted at the dinner table that she had learned something no one else knew. She was showing off for her father. They had all heard her. Perhaps one of them had realized that she was on the brink of learning the whole truth, and exposing it.

Pitt was watching her. She must face him and reply.

“No. She made hints during dinner, but that’s all they were. I didn’t understand. It all sounded…” She was searching for the right word. “It sounded obscure to me. I thought she was just trying to be the center of attention. I’m…so sorry.” That was an admission of guilt. She was guilty of not listening, not judging more kindly, not even trying to love Minnie.

She met Pitt’s eyes, and saw more understanding in them than she wished to. She turned away, and realized that in doing so she was still betraying herself.

“Can you remember what she said?” he asked.

“It sounded like nonsense.” She tried to recall Minnie’s words. “It was something about china, a lot of cleaning up, and how much her father had helped the Prince of Wales. Do you think she really knew who killed the woman?” She hoped that was it, prayed that it was! Then it would be nothing to do with Julius, or Olga. Please God!

“Don’t you think so?” he asked softly.

“Well…yes. I suppose so…unless it is just…no, that seems to be it.” She was fumbling. She should be quiet. Why was she saying too much, like a fool?

“Did someone have another reason, Mrs. Dunkeld?”

She looked up at him quickly. There was compassion in his eyes. Chill struck her to the bone. Could he possibly know about Minnie and Simnel? Did he suspect Julius?

“Did they?” he repeated.

Could he already know about the affair? If she lied to conceal it, then he would know she was trying to protect Julius. It would seem extraordinary to him, suspicious. Minnie was her stepdaughter; that is where her loyalties should lie. At least she must pretend they did. And yet everyone knew of the affair. Someone would tell him, probably they already had. Pitt would know she was lying if she pretended not to know.

“From anger perhaps,” she suggested. “Mr. Marquand was…attracted to her. How far it went I can only surmise, but it was intense, at least for a while.” She made it sound so prosaic, reducing passion to a commonplace thing. “Regrettably, such things happen all the time,” she added. “People do not kill over it. They may weep, or even lash out in some way or other. It’s best to maintain all the dignity one can, and trust that it will pass. Regardless of that, Mr. Pitt, it was no reason to kill the prostitute who had nothing to do with our private affairs. None of us had ever seen or heard of her before. And you said that Minnie had been asking questions that led you to believe that she had some idea who killed the poor woman. Surely that is why she was also killed?”

“It does seem to be the case,” he agreed. “My own inquiries tell me that she spent most of yesterday asking questions of the servants, and she appeared to have discovered something that made her very excited, as if she had found the answer.”

“And…” Elsa gulped. “You think she confronted someone?”

“I think someone realized that she knew,” he amended.

“I don’t know who it was.” The moment she had said it she knew she had spoken too quickly. He had not asked her. She had already said she had no idea. She felt her face burn.

He was looking at her steadily. “Mr. Dunkeld has no doubt that it was Mr. Sorokine. He confronted him and they fought. They both have injuries to face and hands.”

She did not understand. All she wanted to do was stop Pitt from believing it. What could she say? If she defended Julius and blamed Cahoon, then Pitt would see her emotions quite nakedly. Was that what he was trying to do, see if Julius had killed his wife and was trying to blame Cahoon?

“If they fought…” she started, then realized the remark was pointless, and stopped.

“Neither of them denied that,” he said. “And Cahoon says that Julius had his injuries before their fight.”

She did not understand.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was very gentle now, as if he pitied her. “Mrs. Sorokine fought for her life. Whoever killed her would have scratches and perhaps bruises as well.”

She had to say it. The words were like a nightmare, but if she did not say them, it would be even worse. How could she outthink him? “My husband would never have killed his daughter, Mr. Pitt. He loved her deeply, far more than he loved anyone else.”

“Didn’t Mr. Sorokine also love his wife?” he asked.

She could not read the expression on his face now. He had gray eyes, very clear, as if he could see into the horror and confusion inside her.

“I imagine so,” she said hesitantly. “One always assumes. And when it is family, even more so. I…I can’t believe that Julius killed her.”

He waited.

It was a stupid thing to have said, and yet it was true. Whatever Cahoon had seen, or said he had seen, she did not believe Julius had murdered either the woman in the cupboard or Minnie. She would not believe it; the burden of loss it would bring was more than she could carry.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunkeld. I don’t think I have anything else to ask you at the moment,” Pitt said.

She had betrayed herself. He knew what she felt. She saw it in his face. She was embarrassed, as if she were emotionally naked. She rose to her feet, tried to think of something to say so she could leave with a shred of grace, but there was nothing. She went to the door and opened it without speaking again.

CHANGING HER MORNING GOWN for one suitable for luncheon, she found herself alone with Cahoon. It was the one thing she had wished to avoid. Bartle had already left when he came into her dressing room. She swiveled around to face him. She always felt uncomfortable when he was behind her.

He looked haggard. He had aged ten years since yesterday. She felt a moment’s stab of pity for him again. It would have been instinctive to have touched him, to have gone over and put her arms around him and held him, but the barrier of estrangement was too high. They had touched in the heat of physical hunger, but never in tenderness, the need of the heart or the mind.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.

He was watching her, his eyes so dark she could see no expression in them. “You didn’t think Julius would do that, did you!” It was a challenge, not a question.

A shiver of alarm went through her. “Of course I didn’t,” she said abruptly.

“You didn’t know him as well as you thought!” A flash of pleasure lit his eyes, almost of triumph.

She was cold inside, frightened that he could hate her enough to savor hurting her, even in the depth of his own loss.

She tried to look surprised. “Why? Did you imagine it then?” She must be desperate to be fighting back. She had thought of doing it before, but never had the courage.

Rage flared in his face. “For God’s sake, you stupid creature, do you think I would have let him into the same house as my daughter if I had?” His voice was hoarse, almost cracking with grief.

Again the pity for him drowned out her own anger. “None of us saw it, Cahoon, or we would have done something and prevented this,” she told him gently. Was he blaming himself for not having had Julius arrested before this happened? How could she tell him that it was not his fault without sounding both insincere and patronizing?

He was looking at her with that strange kind of triumph again, as if snatching some shred of victory out of the disaster. “They won’t hang him, which is a pity,” he went on. “They’ll keep it all secret, to protect the Prince of Wales. They’ll just take him to some madhouse and lock him up there for the rest of his life.” There was something almost like a smile on his face, and he was watching her intently.

As if she should have seen it from the beginning, she suddenly understood with blinding clarity that he had always hated Julius. In spite of Minnie’s death, he was still able to rejoice in his destruction. Elsa couldn’t help but wonder if her husband had planned all this. Was the prostitute’s death supposed to implicate and ruin Julius?

Why? Because Elsa loved him? Cahoon did not love her; he never had. But she belonged to him. This was not jealousy, it was hatred for having been insulted. His vanity was wounded, his right of possession injured.

Would she let him trample over her like this? Did she think Julius had butchered that woman, then when Minnie worked it out and faced him, he had killed her in the same way? If she said nothing, then she was admitting that she did, and that would always be part of her. Better to deny it, whatever it cost, than surrender the dream now.

“They will have to prove him guilty first,” she said aloud.

“They will do,” he replied, eyes shining again. “Cling on as long as you can, Elsa! Imagine all you like. You don’t know men, and you don’t know love. You never did! Julius is a madman. Minnie had the courage to face that. But then she was always braver, stronger, and better than you!”

She looked at him and saw the hate in his face, for Julius, and for her too. In all his agony over Minnie—and she believed that—he had a joy that Julius would be destroyed as well. Perhaps it was all he had left now.

Except to destroy her too.

How would he do it? If Julius was locked in his room, he could not cut her throat and her stomach and blame him for it. But he could implicate her somehow, in something, and then put her aside, divorce her. Then perhaps he could marry Amelia Parr!

She looked at him, searched his face, and believed with ice-cold certainty that it was true. There was nothing to protect her, except her own nerve and intelligence, and a will not to be beaten.

“We’ll see,” she said softly. “It isn’t the end yet.”