Buckingham Palace Gardens

CHAPTER

TEN

AFTER NARRAWAY HAD gone, Pitt abandoned pretense and asked Tyndale to send Gracie to him. She came ten minutes later, carrying a tray of tea with three slices of buttered toast and a dish of marmalade. She put it down on the table and stood more or less to attention. She looked very small, miserable, and a little crumpled.

“Sit down,” he said gently. “The tea’s good, but it was only an excuse to get you here.”

She obeyed. “Is it true they done ’er in like the poor thing in the cupboard?” she asked. Her face screwed up as she searched his eyes, frightened of what she would see.

For her sake he tried to conceal his own sense of panic. “Yes, almost exactly. It has to be the same person. You said she was asking questions all day.”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “An’ I think as she knew ’oo did it. It were in ’er face, in the way she walked, gettin’ more an’ more excited, like, all the time. She were addin’ it up an’ it made sense to ’er, even if it don’t ter us.”

“Tell me again who she spoke to and all you know about it.”

She nodded, tight-lipped. He could see her fear for him in every angle of her small body.

“I dunno everythin’,” she started. “’Cos I couldn’t follow ’er all the time. She could ’ave spoke ter others as well. But she were on ter Biddie an’ Norah about the sheets, an’ ter Mags as well, an’ ter Edwards about buckets an’ buckets o’ water up an’ downstairs inter the other part goin’ that way.” She pointed vaguely. “This place is so big I in’t never certain where anyone’s gone ter, but it were out o’ this wing, inter one o’ the places we in’t allowed. An’ they come back wi’ all them bits o’ broken china.”

She looked even more unhappy. “I asked Mr. Tyndale, an’ ’e went all peculiar, like ’e were scared ’alf out of ’is wits. I in’t never seen ’im like that, an all sort o’ stiff an’ proper bloke like ’im. Wot is it, Mr. Pitt? Is it ’cos ’ooever done it is mad? Is that’s wot’s got ’im so scared? Like the back streets ’as come inter their palace wot they thought was all safe from real life?”

“It could be, Gracie,” he said. The thought had flicked through his mind, but he was surprised that she had seen it so sharply. Did it hurt her as it hurt him? Perhaps disillusion was the same, whoever you were. “But it’s something more than that as well. Did Mrs. Sorokine know about the port bottles?”

She shook her head.

“I dunno. I don’t see ’ow she could. ’Less someone else saw ’em an’ told ’er? But I reckon if anyone saw ’em, they’d just ’ave thrown ’em out ’cos o’ the flies. You wouldn’t ’ardly go an’ tell guests, would yer? An’ she wouldn’t ’ave asked, ’cos why would yer? ‘Excuse me, but ’ave yer seen any old wine bottles wi’ blood in ’em?’”

“All the same,” Pitt said thoughtfully, “I wonder if she knew, or guessed? Or if they have nothing to do with the murder.” But even as he spoke, he did not believe it. “That means premeditation,” he said aloud.

“Wot?” she frowned. “’Ave yer tea, Mr. Pitt. Lettin’ it go cold don’t ’elp.”

“No. Thank you.” Absentmindedly he poured it, only marginally aware of the fragrant steam in the air. “It means it wasn’t a sudden crime of madness, on the spur of the moment, like losing your temper. If somebody brought blood in bottles, then they planned it beforehand. You can’t get blood into a wine bottle easily. You would have to use a funnel and pour with great care.”

Gracie frowned. “’Course,” she agreed. “But ’oose blood, an’ wot for?”

“A diversion,” he answered. “That’s all it could be. And it could be any sort of blood, an ox or a sheep, or a rabbit.” He spread marmalade on the first slice of toast and bit into it.

“In’t that much blood in a rabbit,” Gracie pointed out practically.

“Yer could get it at a butcher’s. D’yer s’pose it were blood ter put on the Queen’s sheets, ter scare us off lookin’ too close elsewhere, like?”

He smiled. He had wondered the same thing.

“In’t gonna work, though, is it?” she asked anxiously, trying to read his eyes.

“No,” he answered her. “We won’t stop looking for the truth, whatever it is.” He saw her relax and realized the conflict of emotions crowding within her, led by the fear of disillusion. It was the pain that had tugged at the edge of his own feelings ever since arriving here. He did not wish to see the fragility of those he had grown up admiring, believing to be not only privileged but uniquely deserving of honor. In spite of all their frailties of taste and even loyalty to one another, he had still imagined in them a love of the same values as the best of their subjects. He had taken for granted the acceptance of responsibility for one’s acts, good or bad, of kindness and truth, the value of friendship, and gratitude for good fortune.

She was looking at him steadily, reassured. “Wot d’yer want me ter do, sir? You got the bottles, but I can see if Mrs. Sorokine asked anyone about them?”

His first thought was of Gracie’s safety. “No. You can’t do that without betraying that you found them.”

She stared at him, her eyes widening.

He had hurt her feelings by refusing to let her help. “You have no way of explaining except by saying that you found them,” he said, wishing that he had put it that way in the beginning. “I can’t afford to have them know who you are yet. And someone might work it out.”

“You in’t sure as ’e did it, are yer?” she said in awe.

He had not realized she knew about Julius Sorokine, but he should have. Orders had been given to Tyndale for all the staff that they must leave Julius’s door locked, and food was to be delivered only by Tyndale himself, taking a manservant with him. That would go around the staff like wildfire. Suddenly they would all feel safe. The mystery was solved and the madman locked up. Gracie would have assumed the same thing. Now she was staring at him with a clarity sharper than his own.

“If we are to lock him up for the rest of his life, we have to be certain, beyond any question,” he answered, trying to convince himself. “At least I do.”

She nodded slowly. “Well, if it in’t ’im, then it’s someone else,” she said quietly. “I’ll see if Mrs. Sorokine found out about them bottles or not. But more’n anything else for meself, I’d like ter know wot that blood were for, an’ ’ow it got ’ere.”

“Gracie, be careful!”

“You be careful, Mr. Pitt,” she answered him fiercely. “If it weren’t Mr. Sorokine, it’s still one o’ ’em guests. It in’t one o’ the servants, so they won’t be after me. ’E may be mad as an ’atter, but ’e in’t daft. An’ it in’t the only thing goin’ on ’ere neither, sir. I don’t like to say it, but there’s summink ’orrid as Mr. Tyndale knows about an’ ’e don’t want nobody else knowin’ it.”

“Then don’t look for it!” he said sharply. “That’s an order. Do you hear me?”

She sat very stiffly. “Yes, sir, course I ’ear yer. Can I go now, then? If they in’t gonner work out ’oo I am, then I in’t better be ’ere longer’n I can explain, ’ad I?”

He watched her go with a sense of misgiving, as if the solution he had first grasped were already slipping out of his hands, and out of control.

He took another piece of toast and ate it without being aware of the taste.

Could Minnie have confided in anyone else, perhaps asked them questions that might have indicated her train of thought? Perhaps it did not matter to the case, but it mattered to him that he understood what had happened and saw all the pieces fit together. It was more than simple hurt pride that Minnie Sorokine had organized all the elements into a clear picture and made sense of them, and he had not. As long as he did not see the connections, he would fear that somewhere there was a mistake, and the conclusion might be wrong. It nagged at his mind that they were proving a crime of uncontrollable insanity, committed with careful and intricate forethought. Were there two minds at work here?

Who would Minnie confide in, apart from her father? The men had been busy with the project, unavailable to her most of the day. She would not have spoken to Elsa; relations between them were strained.

Olga Marquand was consumed in her own unhappiness, and must have hated Minnie enough to have destroyed her herself, if she could have. That meant it had to be Liliane. Was Liliane any less afraid now?

Pitt found her outside in the gardens alone, walking close to the flower beds. Their vividness and perfect order seemed a mockery of the agitated way she moved and the distracted look in her face under her broad-brimmed hat, which shaded her complexion from the glare of the sun.

He caught up with her, speaking when he was still two or three yards away, because he could see from her attitude that she was unaware of his approach.

“Good morning, Mrs. Quase.”

She froze, and then turned slowly. In the warmth and perfume of the silent garden she was even more beautiful than in the formal setting. Her eyes were golden brown, and what was visible of her hair shone like polished copper, but lighter and softer.

“Good morning, Inspector,” she replied. “Are you lost?”

“Not literally,” he replied. “I was hoping to speak to you for a few moments.” He was not asking permission, merely phrasing his intention courteously.

“Metaphorically?” she asked, then instantly wondered if she had used a word he did not know. She saw from his smile that that was not so. She blushed, but it would have been clumsy to apologize. She hurried on instead. “I thought you were sure it was Julius. Cahoon seemed to think so. But the poor man is really devastated with grief. I am amazed he did no more than beat Julius senseless.”

She looked away from him, across the ordered clumps of flowers and the perfectly cut lawn, which was smooth as a table of green velvet. There was a gentle buzzing of bees, and now and again a waft of perfume in the sun. “We are not very civilized, are we?” she observed. “The veneer is no thicker than a coat of paint. You would be amazed what hideousness lies underneath such a commonplace thing.”

“It seems Mrs. Sorokine saw through the paint very clearly,” he replied. She had given him the perfect opening.

Her shoulders tightened. There was a small pulse beating in her throat. “You think that is why she was killed? She saw something in one of us that whoever it was could not live with? Or could not let her live with?”

“Yes. Don’t you?” he asked.

“I suppose it is the only answer that makes sense.”

Was she assuming he meant the murder of the prostitute and therefore did not say so, or was she afraid it was other things, a different secret?

“Was she always curious about people’s actions and reasons?” he pressed. “The day before yesterday she was asking a great many questions, particularly of the servants.”

She frowned. “Was she? I didn’t know. I hardly saw her. She certainly made a lot of oblique remarks at dinner, as if she were determined to provoke someone. I thought then it was Cahoon, but obviously it was Julius.”

“Did she speak to you before dinner, Mrs. Quase? Or to anyone else, do you know?”

She considered for several moments before replying. A butterfly drifted across the flower heads and settled in the heart of one. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

“She asked my husband if he had given the Prince of Wales any wine, as a gift,” she replied. “Then she asked Mrs. Marquand the same thing.”

“And had either of you, so far as you know?”

“No. I assume it was Cahoon. If it had been Julius, she would either have known the answer already, or have asked him.”

So Minnie had known about the wine bottles, or else guessed their use!

“Thank you, Mrs. Quase.”

She looked at him curiously. “What has wine to do with it? There is any amount of the best wine in the world in the cellars here.”

“I think it was the bottles she was interested in, not the wine. Did she mention broken china to you?”

“No. Why?” She shivered. “Why does it matter now, Inspector? Isn’t it all over? Poor Minnie asked too many questions, and found out something she would have been happier not to know. I know that is foolish. One can protect people one loves from some things, small mistakes, but not murder. I suppose he is mad.” She looked away from Pitt, over the flowers. “I knew Julius before he met Minnie, you know. I could have married him, but my father was against it. Perhaps he was wiser than I.” There was pain in her voice, surprisingly harsh.

“Was that in Africa?” he asked.

She stiffened, almost imperceptibly. Her voice was husky, so quiet he barely heard her. “Yes.”

He remembered that her brother had died there. Was that the tragedy that touched her now? “And you met Mr. Quase, and married him instead,” he said. “Do you believe your father had some knowledge of Mr. Sorokine’s nature that decided him against your marriage?”

“He didn’t say so. It…it was a difficult time for us. My brother died in terrible circumstances…in the river.” She struggled to keep control of her voice as she turned away from him. “Hamilton was marvelous. He helped us both. He dealt with the arrangements, saw to everything for us. I grew to appreciate his strength and his kindness, and his extraordinary loyalty. After that…Julius seemed…shallow. I realized how right my father’s judgment was.” She stood motionless, her back and shoulders rigid. “Poor Minnie, so strong, so sure of herself, so…so full of passion and spirit…and in the end so foolish.”

Everything she said was true, but Pitt wondered if she had liked Minnie. There was nothing he could read in her to tell him.

“Mrs. Quase, did she say anything to you about what she learned from all her questions? I need to know.”

“Why? It’s over, and Minnie’s dead.” There was a curious finality in her voice.

“It’s not all over,” he corrected her. He disliked speaking to her back. He could see nothing of her expression. Was that on purpose? “I have not proved what happened,” he went on. “Or why the prostitute was killed, and all sorts of other things that seem to make very little sense.”

“Does it really matter?” There was fear undisguised in her voice now.

“Yes. Don’t you want to clear it all up, before you leave?”

She turned even further from him. “I imagine we will leave quite soon. I don’t know how we can continue without Julius. And I expect Cahoon will hardly feel like going on, at least for some time.”

“Will that grieve you very much? Or your husband and Mr. Marquand?”

She was surprised into looking back toward him. “I don’t know. It was always Cahoon who cared about it most. I expect he will find another diplomat to take Julius’s place.”

“Did Mrs. Sorokine say anything to you about her deductions?” he asked yet again.

Her eyes cleared. “She said she knew where it had happened,” she replied. “Rather a pointless remark, considering that we all know it happened in the linen cupboard. I thought she was simply trying to get attention. I’m ashamed to say that now.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Quase. Did she mention broken china?”

“No.” There was dismissal in her face. “But then that’s hardly very dramatic, is it?” She turned away and started to walk slowly along the grass.

He did not follow her. Instead he went back toward the entrance to the Palace again, turning her words over and over in his mind. There seemed only one possible conclusion: Sadie had not been killed in the cupboard where she was found, in spite of the blood.

But as soon as he made sense of one set of facts, it made nonsense of another. The sheets were soaked with blood, and even a lunatic would not have killed her in one place and then carried the naked, bleeding body to the cupboard.

Had she been attacked, even fatally, and then carried, perhaps rolled up in sheets, to the cupboard, in order not to have been found in a place linked to any one person? And then the Queen’s sheets, in which she had been carried, were put in the laundry, in the hope they would never be found and looked at closely enough to be identified? That was beginning to make more sense.

So where had she been killed? In whose bed? Surely Julius Sorokine’s. How had Minnie known?

He was back inside the Palace again. Painstakingly he spoke to all the staff Gracie had seen Minnie with the day before she died. Each one repeated what she had told him.

Minnie had followed a curious trail with growing excitement. She had asked about sheets. She had been intensely interested in the shards of broken china, where they had come from and their color and shape. This she had apparently inquired of Mr. Tyndale, and met with a brief and dismissive answer. She had also been interested in the footmen coming and going with buckets of water. She had asked about wine, what was drunk and where it came from, yet there was nothing to suggest she knew of the port bottles Gracie had found.

The other focus of her questions had been the arrival and departure of the women, and the delivery of the large wooden box of books and papers for Cahoon Dunkeld. Exactly what had happened when, and where were the books now?

Pitt was totally confused. Three women had arrived, two had left, and the third had been found dead. The carter had never been alone and unaccounted for anywhere near the upstairs floor, let alone any of the bedrooms. What, if any of it, was relevant to Sadie’s death?

He went over the facts again in his mind. The one thing that seemed to arise again and again, but of which he had no physical proof, were the shards of broken china that Tyndale had so vehemently refused to discuss with Gracie. Something about them had frightened him even more than the presence of prostitutes in the guest wing of the Palace, even when one of them was murdered. Either it was something so precious it was beyond Pitt’s ability to imagine, or else its breakage, added to the other evidence, meant something so appalling it had to be concealed at all costs.

His imagination could create nothing so disastrous. No matter how difficult or distasteful, or how absurd, he must try to find the pieces. And he must do it discreetly. Tyndale would know where they were put, and if he knew Pitt was looking, he might destroy them.

On the other hand, that might be the only way to find a score of pieces of china in a place as vast as this. Time was very short indeed. As early as tomorrow he might be forced to charge Julius Sorokine, and the case would be closed. There would be no trial, no weighing of evidence, and certainly no defense. Pitt’s own doubts were the only voice Sorokine would ever have to speak for him.

That left Pitt no alternative. He was aware that Narraway was uncomfortable still questioning the evidence. As well, there was a certain kind of disloyalty in pursuing something that could embarrass the Prince, and which would without doubt rebound against Narraway himself, possibly against the whole of Special Branch. Pitt might pay for it, and he was very conscious that he might ultimately give Narraway no option but to dismiss him.

If that happened, he would find it very hard to gain another job he would love as he did this, or for which he had any capability, and no one else would keep his family. Had he the right to make them pay for his moral decisions?

If he accepted the evidence as it was and let Julius Sorokine go to Bedlam for killing the two women, a living hell of both body and mind, what would Pitt himself become? A man Charlotte could still love? Or one she would slowly grow to dislike and in the end to despise, mourning for what he had once been?

It was a high price to pay, but even as he was turning it over in his mind, he knew the decision was made. He sent for Gracie again, deliberately using Tyndale to find her.

“Yes, sir?” she said hopefully, when she came in. “Yer got suffink?”

“We have to find the broken china,” he replied.

“You mean the dish, or whatever it were? Mr. Tyndale’s real scared about that.” Her eyes were grave with doubt. “’E’ll ’ave seen to it as it’s ’id good.”

“I know. He might be the only person who knows where the pieces are,” he agreed. “He won’t tell me, but if he thinks I am going to search every corner of this place until I find them, then he might be alarmed into destroying them completely, ground into unrecognizable powder.”

“Yer want me ter tell ’im as yer lookin’ for it, an’ mebbe ask ’im for it again?” she said.

“Yes, please. Tell him I’m going to get help in if I need it, because I’ve realized it’s crucial to the case.”

“Is it?”

“I don’t know. Minnie Sorokine seemed to think so. And if it isn’t, why hide it?” He looked at her small, curious face and realized she felt like a betrayer, tricking a man who had risked his own safety and comfort to befriend her. “I’m sorry,” he added gently. “I have to be sure Sorokine is guilty. I think they’ll arrest him formally tomorrow, and after that there’ll be no one to speak for him. There’ll be no trial.”

She was very pale. “I know. They’ll just put ’im in Bedlam in the filth an’ the screamin’.” She took a deep breath and let it out a little shakily. “I’ll go an’ tell ’im.” She looked close to tears. She turned quickly and went out of the door, small and very stiff, in a dress that had been altered but was still too big for her. He knew he had torn her loyalties as he had his own.

He found it far from easy to watch Tyndale after Gracie had spoken to him, without it being obvious that he was doing so. Several times he had to hang back and leave Gracie to appear busy with a tray in her hands, or a mop and a bundle of laundry.

It was nearly two hours after he had asked her help before she came to him with a parcel of broken china concealed in a cardboard box, and passed it to him wordlessly. She looked white and miserable. The fact that she said nothing, expressed no recrimination at all, made it worse.

Together they walked back up the stairs to his room and put it down on the table. She stood in front of it, not even allowing him to question whether she was going to remain or not.

Very carefully he unwrapped the newspaper around the pieces and looked at the debris. It was exactly as Walton had said: small pieces of broken china, some of it not more than chips and dust, other pieces as large as an inch across. There was blue and gold paint on them in an exquisitely delicate pattern: tiny little lattice in gold, leaves and the edge of what looked like a woman’s dress. The largest piece was curved as if from the side of a pedestal.

Gracie picked up a lump that was mostly white, and turned it over in her fingers. “Looks like it were the bottom, or summink,” she said thoughtfully. “But why make all that fuss over a broke dish? Why ’ide it instead o’ just throwin’ it out like anythin’ else wot’s bust. D’ yer think it’s summink special? Royal, like?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt said honestly, picking up another piece, which was quite large and of irregular shape. “The painting on it is beautiful, but I don’t know what it could be.” He turned it over. “It seems to have a painted inside as well as outside. And that bit looks too flat for a bowl. I wonder if it’s a lid? How could anyone break something this badly? It’s completely smashed.”

“Throw it at the wall,” Gracie said, screwing her face up. “Yer don’t bust summink like this by just droppin’ it, even on a stone floor. An’ it come from upstairs. Wood floor’d just break it ter pieces, but this is like someone trod on it, on purpose, like.” She stared at it in dismay. “’Oo’d do summink rotten like that, just break a dish wot’s beautiful inter little bits, on purpose?”

“I don’t know, but I think perhaps we need to.” Pitt pushed his fingers around the broken shards carefully, searching for anything large enough to identify. “There’s not much, is there. Have you ever broken a large dish, Gracie?”

She blushed unhappily. “Yeah.” She did not add any details.

“Was this how much of it was left?”

“No. Were a lot more. But I broke cups before, an’ they weren’t this much in bits, not the good porcelain ones. D’yer reckon as this weren’t a reg’lar plate, Mr. Pitt?”

“Yes, I do, Gracie. I just can’t work out what it was.” He pulled out a small, round piece, three-quarters of an inch at its widest. He turned it over, looking at it carefully. It was mostly plain white, but there was a little bit of writing on one side—the letters IMO and what looked like an E, incomplete.

It was part of a word, and suddenly he knew what the word was: “Limoges.” He had seen it before written on exquisite porcelain: candlesticks, chargers, vases, bowls, and figurines. Long ago in the police he had dealt with theft of such works of art.

“It was an ornament,” he said quietly. He turned over the piece in his hand again. “I think this was part of the base. The name was on it. The gold was probably the rim. The blue would be part of a picture.”

“Is it very precious?” she asked, her face tight in sympathy with whoever had broken it. “Somebody’s gonna lose their place ’ere ’cos they smashed it?”

“Do you think that is enough to explain Mr. Tyndale hiding it?” Pitt said instead of answering her.

She shook her head, a stiff, tiny gesture.

“It seems to have been broken the night Sadie was murdered,” he went on, thinking ahead. “It has to have had something to do with it. That’s the only thing that would explain why he would go to so much trouble to conceal it.”

“’Ooever it belongs ter is goin’ ter be pretty angry,” she said seriously.

“He’s not hiding it from them; they’ll find out anyway,” he said. “He’s hiding it from us.”

“D’yer think so?” She frowned.

“Yes, otherwise he could have told us in confidence, and we would have thought no more of it. Domestic breakage is hardly Special Branch business. I wonder where it came from, whose room it was in?”

“D’yer reckon as that poor cow stole it?” Gracie looked doubtful. “’Ow would she ’a got it out? Dishes in’t easy ter carry without someone seein’ ’em.”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “And why would Mr. Tyndale wish to protect a prostitute who was also a thief? I think the fact that it is broken is what matters.”

“Yer gonna ask Mr. Tyndale?” She was looking at him now in intense concentration.

“Yes, I am.”

Pitt spent a little more time searching for other pieces large enough to give a better idea of the shape and diameter of the plate, and formed the opinion that it was possibly a pedestal dish rather than a flat one. Some of the pieces were too thick to be part of an ordinary plate.

He put them in the box again and carried them down to the butler’s pantry, where he found Tyndale with ledgers open and a pen in his hand. Apparently he was working on the cellar records. He looked up. Pitt came in and closed the door.

“What may I do for you, Mr. Pitt?” Tyndale said coolly.

Pitt leaned against the wall. “Tell me where the Limoges pedestal dish was, and how it came to be broken,” he replied.

The color bleached from Tyndale’s face and his voice came only with an effort. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no idea what you are talking about. Her Majesty has literally thousands of pieces of porcelain. If one has been broken, I know nothing of it. I don’t believe it was in this wing. If it were, one of the maids would have told me.”

“Mrs. Sorokine knew where it came from,” Pitt told him.

Tyndale looked even whiter. Pitt was afraid he was on the verge of some kind of attack, possibly his heart. “I’m sorry.” He meant it, but he could not afford the mercy he would have liked. “Julius Sorokine faces a lifetime in an asylum, without trial. Before I let that happen to anyone, I am going to be certain beyond any sane or reasonable doubt that he is responsible for the deaths of these women. I am going to find out who smashed a Limoges plate the night Sadie was killed. I can do it quietly, with your help, Mr. Tyndale, or I can question every manservant in the place, and find out whatever it was Mrs. Sorokine found out, and which very likely cost her her life!”

“Her husband killed her,” Tyndale told him, his voice catching in his throat. “This…this breakage had nothing to do with it. It’s another matter altogether, and private.”

“There is no privacy where there is murder, Mr. Tyndale. What was the ornament, and where was it? How did it get broken, and why did you hide it?”

Tyndale was wretched. He loathed lying and it was naked in his face.

“It was broken by accident. I didn’t hide it, I simply disposed of the pieces. There is no point in keeping them. No one could mend it. For heaven’s sake, Inspector, it’s shattered! It’s dust!”

“I can see that. I can also see that it was Limoges, and probably very beautiful. Where was it and who broke it?”

“One of the maids, but no one is taking responsibility. I can’t punish anyone for clumsiness when I don’t know who it is.” Tyndale looked eminently reasonable, his voice was steadying again.

Pitt had not the slightest doubt that he was lying. Minnie Sorokine had pursued this, and learned what it was. How? What questions had she asked that Pitt had not? Why had Tyndale answered her, and yet would not tell Pitt? What terrible thing had her questions made him realize?

“At what time?” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” Tyndale was putting off answering.

“When was it broken? At what time? That will tell you who did it, surely?”

“I…I don’t know.” Tyndale was flustered. “Some time the…the day of the death of that woman. We were all upset. I dare say we didn’t notice it immediately.”

“A Limoges plate was lying smashed on the floor, and the maid cleaning didn’t notice it?” Pitt said with open disbelief. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tyndale, but that won’t do. Where was the dish?”

“I don’t know.” Tyndale’s face was set in refusal.

“It was a pedestal dish,” Pitt said, guessing as he went. “Mostly white with a blue picture in the center, and a gold edge. I found pieces of those.”

“I don’t know,” Tyndale repeated stubbornly.

“Then I shall ask the maids,” Pitt replied. “And the footmen. Someone will have seen it. Don’t they dust regularly?”

“Yes, of course they do! But…” Tyndale tailed off. His face was blotched; a muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Assemble the staff in the servants’ hall, Mr. Tyndale. I shall speak to them in fifteen minutes. I want everyone there,” Pitt ordered.

Tyndale hesitated.

“Don’t oblige me to ask the Prince of Wales’s assistance in this,” Pitt warned.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with the murder!” Tyndale protested again. “It’s…it’s a domestic matter! This is absurd.”

“An ornament is smashed on the night of a murder,” Pitt said grimly. “Someone was in the room, and committed a violent and extraordinary act, perhaps of rage. I want to know which room it was, and who was there. Assemble the staff, Mr. Tyndale.”

Tyndale left obediently, walking like a man under condemnation of some fearful punishment.

Pitt waited, feeling guilty. Was he really pursuing a clue that would explain the anomalies in the case and enable him to be satisfied that Julius Sorokine had killed both Sadie and his own wife? Or was he merely determined to force his will on Tyndale because he had defied him, and Pitt wanted an answer for no reason except his own satisfaction? Did he resent the fact that Minnie Sorokine could assemble these facts and deduce the truth, and he could not? Had she known some extra fact that he had not?

In fifteen minutes exactly he walked to the servants’ hall and saw them all dutifully lined up, hot-faced and frightened. Gracie was at the front, probably so as not to be hidden behind taller, plumper girls. He avoided looking at her.

“A Limoges plate was broken on the night the prostitute was murdered,” he said gently. “It was probably a pedestal plate, mostly white with a painting in the middle with quite a lot of blue in it and a gold rim. I don’t think any of you broke it. I think it may have been one of the guests, either the one who actually killed the woman, or someone who saw what happened.” That was a stretch of the truth. “I want to know which room it was in.”

They all stood staring at him. No one spoke.

“Who does the dusting?” he asked.

“Me and Norah, mostly,” Ada said nervously. “An’ Gracie, since she come.”

“Which room was that dish in?” Pitt asked.

“I dunno.”

“Didn’t you dust it?”

“I never seen it.”

Pitt turned to Mrs. Newsome. “You are the housekeeper—aren’t you responsible for works of art? Especially valuable ones?”

“Yes, I am,” Mrs. Newsome said stiffly. She looked puzzled and unhappy. She was avoiding looking at Mr. Tyndale so clearly that it was obvious.

“Where was that dish kept, Mrs. Newsome?”

“I don’t recall a dish like that,” she said flatly.

“Did you send maids to clean up, wash and scrub a room on the morning of the murder?”

“Of course. The linen cupboard. But only after you told me to,” she said stiffly.

“Before that! At the end of this wing, or into the east wing?”

“No. And the east wing is not my responsibility. I would be exceeding my authority to do that.”

There was nothing else he could think of to say. They stood stiffly, shoulders back, faces carefully blank. No one was going to tell him. There was nothing for him to do but accept defeat with the little dignity left him.

He returned to his own room confused and angry. He paced the floor, trying to think of a way to force Tyndale’s hand. He was certain Tyndale knew where the plate had been, and had told Minnie. The more he refused to say, the more certain Pitt became that it mattered.

It had belonged somewhere. Why were they all lying? He had not seen a flicker in the faces of any of them, even Mrs. Newsome. Was there any point in asking Gracie to speak to them? Were there any tiny pieces embedded in a carpet, or into the wood of the floorboards, between the cracks? Might Gracie even have seen it already, without recognizing what it was?

He went to the bellpull and was about to ring it, when another thought occurred to him. His hand froze, fingers stiff, still clinging to the pull. Maybe they were not lying. Perhaps they had not seen it because it was not in any of the rooms they cleaned. What if it had been in the Prince of Wales’s own rooms?

A furious quarrel, a hysterical woman, china smashed. It would have to be concealed—at any price. Is that what had happened? Perhaps Sadie had refused to do something that was asked of her, or been unable to? The Prince was drunk. He had lost his temper and lashed out. And what? Killed her? Cut her throat with one of the dining room knives, and then gone on slashing at her?

Had he been so drunk he had then passed out, then woken up in the morning beside the bloody corpse, and sent for Cahoon Dunkeld to help him?

There was a knock on the door and Pitt whirled round as if it had been a shot. He steadied himself, breathing in and out slowly, his heart pounding. “Yes?”

Gracie came in and closed the door behind her. She stood still, leaning against the knob, staring at him. “’E din’t tell yer, did ’e?” she said softly. “Wot does it mean, Mr. Pitt? They in’t lyin’. Nobody knows, fer real. Wot’s goin’ on?”

“I think it means it was in a room they don’t go into,” he replied, his mouth dry. “Mr. Tyndale knows where it was, and he’d rather be blamed for concealing murder than tell anyone.”

Her eyes grew wider and her face more tight and drawn. He knew she had thought the same thing. He was sorry she had had to know this. She would not have had to if he had not brought her here. It was unfair. She was civilian, not police, and certainly not Special Branch. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Wot are yer goin’ ter do?” she whispered. “Mr. Tyndale in’t never gonna tell yer. An’ if it were smashed in a fight or summink, ’e would, ter save yer thinkin’ wot yer is now. There weren’t no blood on it, though.”

“I know that. But if it didn’t mean anything, and had nothing to do with Sadie’s death, then why is Mr. Tyndale lying about it? And he is lying.”

“I know.” The misery in her face was naked. “’E’s protectin’ ’Is Royal ’Ighness. I reckon as ’e does quite a lot o’ that. It’s ’is…’is kind o’ loyalty. Mr. Pitt…”—she frowned, screwing up her face—“d’ yer reckon as that’s right? Is that wot we’re supposed ter do? ’Ave yer gotta do it too? An’ me?”

“And let Sorokine spend the rest of his life in a madhouse for something he didn’t do?” he asked.

She shook her head minutely. “Wot are we gonna do, then?”

He sat against the edge of the table. “I’m not sure. That plate wasn’t just knocked off something and broken into two or three pieces. It was smashed beyond recognition in an uncontrollable rage. Whether she laughed at him, belittled him, threatened to tell everyone and make a mockery of him, we’ll never know. But he flew into an insane fury and cut her throat—”

“Wot with?” she interrupted.

“Maybe the table knife—there was blood on it. Or maybe a different knife altogether, a paper knife or fruit knife he had there. We wouldn’t have found it because we haven’t looked. The other knife was put into the linen cupboard after we took the body out anyway. The blood could have been from anywhere.”

“Then she weren’t killed in the linen cupboard, were she?” Gracie said.

“No. She will have been killed in his room. That’s why the footmen were up and down with buckets of water, cleaning up.”

“You reckon as ’e called ’em?” she said with disbelief.

“No. I think he called Cahoon Dunkeld. I expect the footmen only brought the water. I should think Dunkeld, and possibly even the Prince himself, did the principal cleaning. They wouldn’t trust anyone else with a secret like that.”

“Wot are we gonna do?” Fear was sharp and bright in Gracie’s eyes. “We can’t never say as ’e done it! They’ll ’ave us ’anged fer treason!”

“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “But if he killed Mrs. Sorokine as well, he has to be stopped. He’ll do it again. Dunkeld can’t protect him, and I doubt he would want to—not when his own daughter was the victim.”

“Then why in’t ’e said summink?” she asked. “Why’d ’e let yer blame Mr. Sorokine?”

“He didn’t ‘let’ me, he told me himself that it was Sorokine.” He realized as he said it that it made no sense. Did Dunkeld really believe it was Julius who had killed Minnie? Maybe he thought the Prince was innocent, and somehow Julius had done it, or maybe all three of them were involved? “I don’t know,” he went on. “I don’t understand. If the Prince killed her in a drunken rage, then fell into a stupor and woke in the morning and panicked, he could have sent for Dunkeld to help him. Dunkeld moved the body, with the bloodstained sheets, into the linen cupboard, so at least it wouldn’t be found in the Royal quarters.”

Gracie’s eyes never moved from his face.

“The Prince had a bath to clean himself up,” he went on. “And maybe sober himself as well. That would explain why the Princess found the bathtub still warm, when she did not expect him to have used it. In the meantime Dunkeld cleaned up the room and had the remains of the broken ornament removed, and everything else tidied up. Then he made a pretense of finding the body himself, to ensure we were called and the evidence kept under some control.”

“Only Mrs. Sorokine got too clever, an’ worked it out?” she finished. “Did ’e kill ’is own daughter then, to ’ide it? That’s ’orrible! ’E don’t owe that kind o’ loyalty ter the Queen even, nor nobody! An’ din’t yer say as the way she were cut open were jus’ the same as the other poor cow…I mean woman?”

“Yes.”

“Then stands ter reason it were the Prince as done that too, don’t it?”

He felt helpless to deny it, and yet he could not bring himself to say so. “I don’t know.”

“D’yer still think Mr. Sorokine done it?” she asked.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Pitt said reluctantly. “I can’t see Dunkeld killing his own daughter. Killing a wife is different. Tragically, that happens often.”

“Ter protect ’Is Royal ’Ighness?” Gracie’s expression was one of disbelief mixed with a crowding, terrible fear. “I think ever so much o’ the Queen, but I couldn’t kill none o’ me own ter protect ’er, even if she never done a thing wrong in ’er life. An’ I wouldn’t put down a dog ter save ’Is Royal ’Ighness, if he done that ter Sadie. I don’t care wot ’appens ter the Crown, nor nothin’. I don’t want a Crown wot’s red wi’ blood.”

“No, Gracie, neither do I,” Pitt admitted. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’ll do something, I promise you.”

Her face brightened.

“Yer’ll tell Mr. Narraway, when ’e comes back, won’t yer? Mebbe ’e’ll know wot ter do?”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “He’s looking to see if he can find anything in Sorokine’s past to show he’s done it before.”

Gracie gave a little sigh, puzzled and unhappy. “Yer gonna be all right?” she asked anxiously. “Yer in’t goin’ ter let anyone know wot yer think, are yer?”

He smiled. “No, of course not. And don’t you either! As far as we are concerned, the guilty man is Julius Sorokine. We are just tidying up the proof. That’s an order, Gracie.”

“Yer don’t ’ave ter order me.” She gave a shudder and pulled her apron straight so sharply that she undid one of the ties. She made a bow of it again, crookedly, then excused herself, closing the door with a snap behind her.

Pitt had not lied, yet he had not told Gracie the exact truth. He felt he had no choice but to speak to the Prince of Wales directly. It was an interview he was not looking forward to. The only thing worse would be to see Julius Sorokine condemned and still be uncertain if he were guilty.

This time he did not ask for Dunkeld’s assistance in obtaining an audience, or Mr. Tyndale’s either. He had no intention of allowing himself to be denied. He was obliged to wait for nearly forty-five minutes.

“Yes, Inspector?” the Prince said when he was finally shown in. “I have already been informed that Sorokine has been arrested and confined to his room. No doubt Mr. Narraway will bring men to remove him with all discretion. Will that be tonight? I can see that cover of darkness would be better. I thank you for your rapid and…and tactful conduct of the matter. I deeply regret that we could not bring it to a conclusion before Mrs. Sorokine also lost her life.”

In one sweeping statement he had thanked Pitt and condemned him for his failure to save Minnie, and concluded their business. It was highly skilled. It forced Pitt into an absurd position if he insisted on remaining.

“Mr. Narraway is looking into Mr. Sorokine’s past, sir,” he began tentatively. “To see if there is any other incident of a similar nature.”

“Quite right,” the Prince agreed, nodding his head. “But that is not my concern, nor that of those involved with the railway. We will have to think of replacing Sorokine. That will be our most immediate task. Thank you for your information, Mr. Pitt, but it is not necessary to let us know anything further. Good day to you. I shall naturally thank Narraway for lending you to us in so complete a fashion.”

Pitt gritted his teeth and felt his face burn. It was partly a result of being so dismissed that allowed him to stay on the spot.

“I am sure Mr. Narraway will appreciate that, sir, and inform you that we are always at your service. I believe he will arrange to take Mr. Sorokine tomorrow.”

“A very sad end. I liked him. But if that is how it has to be done,” the Prince said wearily. “It is of little importance now.”

“They will also remove Mrs. Sorokine’s body,” Pitt went on, still standing in the same spot, although the Prince had moved half a step closer, and he felt crowded. There was a battle of wills between them.

“I imagine Mr. Dunkeld will wish her to have a Christian burial at some church of his choice, perhaps a family crypt.”

The Prince looked taken aback. “Yes…yes, I imagine so. It will…” He stopped because what he had been going to say sounded callous and he changed his mind and bit back the words. So much was clear in his expression. “I would attend, but it would draw unwelcome attention. Poor man.” A flicker of anxiety crossed his face. “I hope you will be discreet with taking Sorokine away. It would displease me deeply if there were to be a fuss now, causing speculation. Perhaps you could have him carried out, as if he were ill? In a way he is.” He gave a slight shudder of distaste. “Under proper restraint, of course.”

Pitt’s temper flared up and he physically ached with the effort of controlling it. He had liked Sorokine too. The Prince would think him very ordinary, very unsophisticated for it, but Julius Sorokine was the only one who had declined to attend the party, even though he was not in love with his wife, and she very clearly had had an affair with his half-brother.

“There are one or two matters I still need to clear up,” he said quickly, speaking with his jaw tight, teeth almost clenched, slurring his words. “We must leave the matter beyond any question.”

“Surely it is beyond question now?” the Prince said, eyebrows arched. “Sorokine killed the woman, his wife deduced it and confronted him, and he killed her. What else is there to know? He is clearly insane. It is not only discreet, but merciful that we have him committed to private care for the rest of his life. Were he a lesser man he would be hanged.”

“He would also be tried first, and given the opportunity to defend himself,” Pitt retorted instantly, and just as instantly knew that he had made an unforgivable error as far as the Prince was concerned.

“How?” the Prince said coldly. “By claiming that he is a lunatic? We already know as much.”

Pitt was acutely aware that he was in the presence of the man who would one day, perhaps soon, be his sovereign, and to whom he would swear his oath of allegiance. In this man’s name all the law of the land would be administered. He felt a traitor even to allow such thoughts into his mind, but they were there.

“Sir, in the course of the killing of the woman, Sadie, a piece of Limoges china was broken into very small pieces indeed. From what is left of it, I can judge its approximate shape and coloring. It appears to have been a pedestal dish, white, with a picture with clear cobalt blue figuring quite prominently and a gold rim. In what room was that dish kept?”

The Prince stared at him, blinking several times. His skin looked curiously sweaty, although the room was cool.

“Sir?” Pitt repeated.

“I don’t recall such a dish,” the Prince said huskily. “There’s a great deal of porcelain…ornaments…things around. I haven’t noticed it.” He blinked again.

“Perhaps you might notice its absence?” Pitt suggested. “Since the servants of the guest wing cleared away the pieces, but none of them will admit to it, it has to have been in this wing, and to have been important.”

“I can’t imagine why.” The Prince was annoyed. “A domestic accident, and a servant trying to cover it, are hardly the concern of Special Branch.” There was finality in his tone and he seemed about to turn and walk away.

“Was it in your room, sir?” Pitt said abruptly. “That would explain why the servants don’t recognize it, except Mr. Tyndale, and he is afraid to tell anyone where it was. I shall have to work it out by a process of elimination.”

The Prince froze. “You exceed your duty, Inspector.” His voice was icy now, but it lacked the firmness Pitt would have expected. He stared, blinking, the sweat beaded on his forehead. “You know who killed both the prostitute and poor Mrs. Sorokine. Arrest and remove him. That is all that is required of you. I thought that was made clear. If it was not, then allow me to do so now.”

“What was explained to me, sir, is that a prostitute had been found hacked to death here in the Palace, and it was my duty toward Her Majesty to find out what had happened, who was responsible, and to deal with it with both speed and discretion. I cannot believe that Her Majesty would not also require that it be dealt with justly. That was not said because I assume it was not considered necessary to say it. And justice is also very practical. Injustice does not lie down quietly.”

They stared at each other, the Prince’s face mottled with ugly color, and loathing bright in his eyes. “What was this dish like?”

“I think it was probably a pedestal dish, sir, Limoges,” Pitt repeated. “There was a lot of white and blue on it, and some gold lattice.”

“I had one something like that in my own rooms. Perhaps it did come from there.” The Prince hesitated, as Pitt made no response. “I dare say the woman took it. Later, when she quarreled with Sorokine, it got broken.”

“Is anything else missing, or broken, sir?”

“No.” There was total finality in the single word.

“Obviously you did not see her leave, sir,” Pitt pointed out. “She could hardly have taken a pedestal dish and hidden it on her person without your noticing.”

The Prince said nothing. He could not argue with such a conclusion without appearing ridiculous.

“Could Mr. Sorokine have come for her?” Pitt went on relentlessly. “How was the arrangement made for them to meet? Why would she take the dish? Surely there are other things of beauty and value in your rooms, sir? Possibly easier to carry or conceal.”

“Of course I didn’t see her take it!” the Prince snapped. “And I have no idea how she managed to meet Sorokine, or even if she did. I can’t see that it matters. It happened. She’s dead.”

“Where are her clothes, sir?”

“What?”

“She was found in the cupboard completely naked.”

The Prince’s face was ashen, his eyes blazing. “For God’s sake, man! I have no idea! Ask Sorokine. Search his rooms. Although he’s had plenty of time to get rid of them by now. Who knows what a madman does?”

“Is it possible, sir, that you were deeply asleep, and he could have fought with her in your room, broken the dish there, and even torn her clothes there?”

“I…” He thought about it for a moment or two, and realized that Pitt was using a polite term for asking if he could have been so drunk that he had been insensible. But it was still an escape. “I suppose so,” he said grudgingly.

“Then may I look and see if he left any trace, sir, any evidence that would prove it?”

“I can’t see why it matters. I’ve told you, it could have happened,” the Prince said crossly.

“It is a matter of justice, sir.”

They stood facing each other, staring. Perhaps it was the reference to justice that broke the stalemate.

“Very well, if you insist,” the Prince snapped.

“Thank you, sir,” Pitt accepted.

But he found nothing of any interest whatever in the Prince of Wales’s rooms. There was not even any obvious gap where the Limoges dish might have been. His bedroom and dressing room were gracious, comfortable, but not unlike the rooms of any middle-aged gentleman of his privilege and enormous wealth. Certainly there were no shards of porcelain or crystal embedded in the carpet, and no stains of any sort, blood or wine. Nothing was torn, scraped, or otherwise damaged. If any crime had been committed here, it had been done entirely without leaving a trace.

Pitt left feeling confused and as if somehow he had also been beaten in a game of wits. It felt like a hollow pain inside him. He had escaped a danger, faced a man who had the power to damage him seriously, if not ruin him, and he had found nothing at all. In fact he had made a fool of himself.

He walked slowly along the corridor back toward the guest wing, trying to scramble his thoughts together and make sense out of a miasma of facts that seemed to be without meaning.

He became aware of a calm and very discreet woman standing where the corner turned.

“Mr. Pitt,” she said quietly.

He focused his attention. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales, would like to speak with you, if you can spare a few moments,” she said. It was a gracious way of phrasing what amounted to a command.

Pitt found the Princess in her sitting room as before. She was dressed in a high-necked tea gown with a froth of lace at the throat. She sat with her back ramrod straight and her head high. She was a beautiful woman, but more than by her coloring or regularity of feature, he was impressed by her dignity. She was what he expected and wished royalty to be. He stood to attention automatically.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” she said with a very slight smile. “I hear that poor Mrs. Sorokine has also become a victim of tragedy. I am so sorry. She was an unfortunate young woman.” She did not explain the remark, but regarded him as if she assumed he would understand the subtleness of her implication.

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “I am afraid so.” He inclined his head to make his agreement clearer.

“Is it true that Mr. Sorokine is responsible?” she asked.

He gestured confusion by spreading his hands outward an inch or two. “It appears so.”

She understood. “But you are not certain?”

“Not yet, ma’am.”

“Do you expect to be?”

“I wish to be. I wish very much to be.”

She nodded slowly. Apparently she had understood. There was a flash of what could have been gratitude in her eyes, including a shred of the faintest, self-mocking humor. “I am sure. Is there any way in which I might assist you? I see that you have just been speaking with His Royal Highness.”

“Yes, ma’am. There was a piece of Limoges porcelain broken and I was inquiring whether he knew where it was normally kept. None of the servants appears to recognize it.”

“And it has to do with the death of one of these poor women?” she asked. “What was it like?”

“It is hard to tell from what is left, ma’am, but it seems to have been a pedestal plate.” He outlined it with his hands. “With a lot of gold lattice, I think around the rim, and a picture in the middle with bright cobalt blue.” He spoke slowly, but he was still not sure, from the look of total bewilderment in her eyes, if she had understood him at all. “Blue, like the sky.” He looked upwards. “And gold around the edge.” He made a circle in the air with his finger.

“I hear you, Mr. Pitt,” she said softly. “Your diction is excellent. But I am puzzled. There is exactly such a dish in Her Majesty’s own bedroom. She is very fond of it, not for itself particularly, but because it was a gift from one of the princesses, when she was quite young.”

She must have misunderstood him after all. And yet meeting his steady gaze she appeared to be perfectly certain not only of what she had said, but also the enormity of its meaning. He struggled to think of something to say that was not absurd.

The Princess rose to her feet. “I think, Mr. Pitt, that we had better go and see if Her Majesty’s plate has indeed been broken. When she returns, we should have some explanation, and apology for her, if it has. Will you come with me, please?”

“Yes…ma’am.” He obeyed, walking quickly around her to reach the door before she did and open it for her. He did not know whether he was exultant that she had told him where the dish belonged, or if it terrified him even more. If it was the Queen’s dish, how had it come to be smashed? Had the Prince taken it? Why, for heaven’s sake? Was he completely mad? If the Princess of Wales realized what it meant, what would she do? Had Pitt, in his blindness, fallen into the middle of a Palace plot? Was the Prince of Wales insane? Did the Princess know it and intend to use Pitt somehow to expose it?

No. That was all delirious thinking. There was a perfectly rational explanation. Probably it was some thieving servant after all. That made infinitely more sense.

He followed a pace behind her along the wide corridors into another wing altogether. She spoke briefly to a servant and then to another. Finally he followed her, with two liveried footmen and a lady-in-waiting, into Queen Victoria’s rooms.

They were oddly as Pitt had expected: too much furniture, all large and beautifully carved, pictures, ornaments, and photographs everywhere. The sunlight slanted in through high heavily curtained windows and made colored patterns on the carpets.

“There,” the Princess said, pointing to an ornate mantel. On it stood a beautiful Limoges pedestal dish, with gold leaf around the edges, trellises woven of gold, and in the center a painting of a romantic couple on a garden seat. It was not the sky that was deep blue, but his coat, and a robe around her shoulders and down to the ground at the back.

The Princess turned and looked at Pitt, her eyes wide, questioning.

“Was there a matching pair?” he asked, feeling foolish.

“No,” the lady-in-waiting answered for the Princess, perhaps fearing she had not heard.

Pitt walked around, making a pretense of looking for a space from which another dish could have been taken, but not expecting to find it. He was puzzled, beaten a second time. He looked at the bed. Did it have the beautifully monogrammed sheets on, like the stained and crumpled ones Gracie had found in the laundry? He dared not look. There was no possible excuse for it, and what did it matter?

He bent and touched the heavy tapestry curtains, feeling the texture of the cloth. It moved very slightly, and he saw a darker patch on the carpet below. It looked like a stain. He bent and put his finger to it. It was dry. He licked his finger and touched it again. His finger came away smeared with brownish-red.

A charge rippled through him like electricity. It was blood. He looked at the skirt to the bed, exploring it with his fingers. He found a seam where there appeared to be no reason for one. He straightened up and moved quickly to the same place on the other side. Here the skirt was even, and there was no seam. A piece had been removed and its absence disguised. More blood? An accident? An illness?

But it was not yet completely caked in. It could not be more than a few days old—in other words, it occurred since the Queen had left and been at Osborne on the Isle of Wight.

He walked back to the Limoges plate again and bent down to the floor below the mantel. It was old, beautiful, weathered by time and years of polishing. But in between the boards there was a fine white dust, as of broken porcelain. Something had been smashed here.

He turned very slowly and stared around the room. They were all watching him, the Princess, the lady-in-waiting, and both footmen. With the horror of certainty, he knew what had happened: For whatever reason, whoever had done it, this was where Sadie had been murdered.

She had been moved from here to the linen cupboard for the most obvious of reasons. But why the extra blood in the port bottles? To make it look as if she had been killed in the cupboard, so no one would look any further? Was it animal blood from the kitchen? Had someone used the port bottles simply to carry it upstairs?

Three bottles seemed excessive. There had not been that much blood in the cupboard. Had they poured the rest away?

His mind was racing—on fire.

Who had? Certainly not the Prince. He had still been slow-moving with the remnants of a drunken hangover when Pitt had seen him the morning after. The answer was obvious: Cahoon Dunkeld. The Prince had woken to a horror almost beyond belief: Not only was there a dead woman beside him, but he was in his mother’s bed. He must have been hysterical. He had sent for Dunkeld, who had come instantly and done all he could to contain the situation, disguise it, and even find someone to blame—his son-in-law, Julius Sorokine, whom he hated anyway: for not loving Minnie, and perhaps for taking Elsa’s love, real or imagined.

And of course the Prince’s debt to Dunkeld could never be paid. Even all the support he could give for the Cape-to-Cairo railway would be a small thing in comparison with what Dunkeld had done for him. It was the most brilliant piece of opportunism Pitt had ever seen. He despised Dunkeld’s morality, and at the same time admired his nerve and his invention.

Did Minnie Sorokine have any idea how her father had used the crime?

And if the Prince of Wales was guilty, what could be done about it? Even as the question formed in Pitt’s mind, he knew the answer. The Prince would be put away quietly. They would claim some illness for him—perhaps typhoid, like his father! There would be no scandal. As with Julius Sorokine, he would simply disappear. There would be a tragic notice of his death. No one would ever know the full truth.

He thanked the Princess and walked out of the room, his mouth dry, his legs trembling, hands slick with sweat and yet cold.