Buckingham Palace Gardens

CHAPTER

TWELVE

PITT WENT BACK to his bedroom and lay on the bed, but he did not sleep again. He believed Elsa about the Limoges dish, because Cahoon did not deny it. Certainly she was desperate to save Julius Sorokine because she was in love with him, but even so he did not think she was lying. Were she to do that, she would have done it sooner, and to more effect. She would probably have said that he had been with her at the time of the death of one of the women, or even both.

Would Sorokine have agreed to that, even if it were a lie, in order to save himself? Many men would, regardless of the cost to Elsa’s reputation, and possibly her marriage. Pitt did not think Cahoon Dunkeld would be loath to divorce her for adultery, especially one so publicly acknowledged.

If Dunkeld had brought a Limoges dish identical to the one broken, that was surely too extraordinary to be a coincidence.

Was there something in this whole terrible affair that was premeditated? The murder of Sadie? But none of the women had been here before. And surely they couldn’t predict which ones would come. Killing her in such a way was the impulse of a madman. Even were it in some way thought of in advance, how would anyone know she would be in the Queen’s bedroom, or that that particular dish would be broken? It was not possible. That was why Dunkeld had not taken more care to keep his bringing the dish secret, perhaps unpacked it himself. It was coincidence, something that made sense only afterward. But how?

And the port bottles, at some time filled with blood—there was no proof whether they had come full or been emptied out then refilled, possibly from the kitchen. But if the latter, by whom, and when? How could anyone obtain the blood, and fill the bottles unseen? There was always kitchen staff around. Nevertheless, it must have been the case: a fine example of opportunism.

Bringing them full of blood spoke of detailed and very careful planning for a very precise need.

Was it even imaginable that in some way the murder was foreseen? By whom? Obviously Cahoon Dunkeld. A man does not plan to be insane at a specific time, in a specific way.

But a man might know that someone else is insane and that certain very particular events will fire a breakdown of his usual control. If a man is terrified of spiders, or thrown into a rage by being laughed at, then his behavior is foreseeable.

A man who commits grotesque, uncontrollable murders is triggered into such action by a certain series of events happening in order. The pressure becomes cumulative, and he cannot bear it. Did Cahoon Dunkeld understand such a weakness in someone, and deliberately design the events that would make it explode? Could any man be so evil? Of course. There was no evil imaginable that someone would not commit. But would Dunkeld be so reckless, here in the Palace? The dangers were enormous. But then so was the prize—if it were the African railway that was at stake.

The sunlight came through a crack in the curtains and fell in a bright bar across the floor. Pitt stared at it, bewildered. How could a murder help Cahoon in that project? It looked far more likely to ruin it.

Perhaps it was not the railway that was the prize at all, but something else. Maybe it had to do with Julius Sorokine’s love for Elsa. Did Dunkeld care enough to punish Sorokine for…what? Pitt doubted they had ever acted on their feelings. And Dunkeld did not love her, of that he had no doubt at all.

Perhaps it was to free Minnie, and what happened to Julius or to Elsa was immaterial. That was easier to believe.

Then who had killed Minnie? Surely that was never part of Dunkeld’s plan. Had Julius Sorokine been a far wilder and more dangerous weapon than he had foreseen? What a vile irony!

And why the Queen’s bedroom? That must have been planned, because that was where the Limoges dish was. Had he always intended to move the body and place it in the linen cupboard, or was that improvisation? Why? Pitt’s mind was racing. If Sadie had been killed in the Queen’s bedroom, by the time she was moved to the cupboard, she would have stopped bleeding profusely. So the extra blood was to fling around so it looked as if she had been butchered there. Then it was meant from the beginning, all of it. But again, why?

And why was she naked? Minnie had been fully clothed. Was the answer that Sadie had been murdered in madness, but Minnie had been killed because in her driving curiosity she had come far too close to the truth?

Again, an obscene irony. Dunkeld had provoked a terrible murder born of madness, in order to destroy his son-in-law and free his daughter from the marriage. Then her intelligence had made her such a danger that in hideous sanity Sorokine had aped his own lunacy and killed her to protect himself. No wonder Dunkeld now looked like a man haunted by far more than grief.

How could Pitt prove that? How much did it matter? If Sorokine were guilty of the murders, then he had to be put into an imprisonment of some sort. That was just. Dunkeld was a man even more evil, in that he had deliberately hired a prostitute with the intention of provoking Sorokine into murdering her, but his plan had exploded in his face, destroying his only daughter for whose freedom the whole tragedy was devised. Surely to live the rest of his life knowing that it was he who had caused her death was a more exquisite punishment than the law could ever devise?

And what would happen to Elsa? She would eventually either sink into madness, clinging to the delusion that Sorokine had been innocent. Or she would eventually realize he was guilty: a divided man, half of him charming, cultured, someone she could love; the other devoid not only of sanity but of the basic elements of compassion and decency that make one human.

Pitt could not imagine that Dunkeld would afford her any kindness. Her punishment for falling in love with someone else, the man who had also failed to love Minnie, would be continuous cruelty. He would exercise it both privately and publicly.

Pitt needed to prove all of it. Justice required it, whether the Prince of Wales liked it or not and, in turn, punished Pitt.

He must have drifted to sleep because he awoke with a jolt to hear a knock on the door. He sat up slowly, struggling to remember where he was, fully clothed on the big bed. The feeling of claustrophobia was tight in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Before he could answer coherently the door opened and Gracie came in, carrying a tray of tea. He could see the steam rising gently from the spout of the small pot.

“Yer bin up all night?” she said with intense concern.

“No,” he assured her, swinging his legs down and standing. He pushed his hair out of his eyes. The stubble was rough on his cheeks and his head ached with a dull, persistent throb. “No,” he added.

“Elsa Dunkeld woke me at about three, or four. She said Dunkeld brought a Limoges plate in his luggage, exactly like the one that was broken. I mean identical to it. I presume that was the one I saw in the Queen’s room. And also a crate of port as a gift for the Prince of Wales.”

Gracie poured the tea and handed him the cup. “It’s ’ot,” she warned him. “Why’d she tell yer that? ’Ow’d she know the port bottles mattered, if she don’t know about the blood?”

“She didn’t, I asked her,” he explained. “She knew about the Limoges dish because she saw it in Cahoon’s cases, and everyone knows we’ve been looking for one by now. Thank you.” He took the tea. She was right, it was very hot. He wished it were a little cooler; he was thirsty for it. The fragrance of it was soothing even as steam. Drinking it would make him feel human again.

“Then Dunkeld done it,” she said with satisfaction.

“He didn’t do the one in Africa,” he answered, wishing it were not so. “I think he provoked Sorokine into it. He knew he was mad, and what it was that made him lose control and kill. He deliberately created the circumstances, then altered the evidence so we…” He stopped. He could not think of a reason.

“Wot?” she asked. “Why din’t ’e just let us catch Mr. Sorokine?”

“Because he didn’t want a scandal in the Palace,” Pitt answered. “He still needs the Prince’s backing for the railway. He’s taking a hell of a chance.”

She squinted at him, thinking hard. “If ’e wanted ter get rid o’ Mr. Sorokine, why din’t ’e ’ave this murder ’appen somewhere else, anytime?”

“I suppose because somewhere else Sorokine might have got away with it.” He was thinking as he spoke. “The police would have assumed it was someone extremely violent or degraded. Here we know it could only have been one of three men. There was no possibility of anyone having broken in from the outside.”

She nodded. “Wot are we gonna do, then?”

He smiled at her automatic inclusion of herself. Her loyalty was absolute, it always had been.

“Find out what causes Sorokine to lose control,” he replied, taking the first sip of tea and swallowing it jerkily because it was still too hot. “And then prove that Dunkeld knew it, and deliberately created a situation in which Sorokine would snap.”

“Then you can ’ang ’im?” she said hopefully.

“Sorokine or Dunkeld?”

“Dunkeld, o’ course! ’E’s the wickeder!” She had no doubt whatever.

“Something like that,” he agreed, sipping the tea again, and smiling at her.

PITT WENT TO see Cahoon Dunkeld after breakfast. He had spent the intervening time shaving and making himself look as fresh and confident as he could. Then he remarshaled his evidence and the conclusions it had taken him to. When eventually he spoke to Dunkeld alone, it was in one of the beautiful galleries lined with pictures.

“What is it now?” Dunkeld said impatiently, facing Pitt squarely, his weight even on both feet.

Pitt put his hands in his pockets and stood casually, as if he intended to remain some time. “I believe you are an excellent judge of character, Mr. Dunkeld. You know a man’s strengths and weaknesses.”

Dunkeld smiled sourly. “If you have only just come to that conclusion, then you are slower than a man in your job should be. Is it a job, or profession, by the way?”

“It depends upon how well you do it,” Pitt replied. “At Mr. Narraway’s level, it is a profession.”

“I am not so far impressed with Mr. Narraway’s judgment of a man’s strengths and weaknesses,” Dunkeld said pointedly, his eyes looking Pitt up and down with distaste.

Pitt smiled. “How long have you known that Sorokine was insane? Since he killed the woman in Africa, for example?”

“I didn’t think he would do it again.” Dunkeld was clearly annoyed by the tone of the question.

“No, I assumed that, or you would hardly have allowed him to marry your daughter,” Pitt agreed.

“Obviously!” Dunkeld snapped, shifting the balance of his weight slightly. “Have you a purpose to this, Inspector?”

“Yes. I was wondering at exactly what juncture you thought he was mad.”

Suddenly Dunkeld was guarded. He sensed danger, although he could not place it. “Does it matter? Sorokine is guilty. The details will probably always be obscure. Your job is to tidy it up in the best, most just, and most discreet way that you can.”

“How did you know it was Sorokine?” Pitt pursued. “Given that you are a good judge of character, what did you see that I missed?”

Dunkeld smiled. “Are you trying to flatter me, Inspector? Clumsy, and you have based it upon a wrong assumption. I do not care what you think.”

“I am trying to learn,” Pitt said as innocently as he could. Dunkeld angered him more than anyone else he could remember. Even understanding his weaknesses, his driving need to belong to a class in which he was not born, his general need for admiration, even the bitter loss of his daughter, Pitt still could not like him. “People who kill compulsively,” Pitt went on, “insanely, are triggered into the act by some event, or accumulation of events, which breaks their normal control, so most of the time they appear as sane as anyone else. But I imagine you have realized that.”

“I have,” Dunkeld agreed. He could hardly deny it. “You seem to be stating the obvious—again.”

“What was it that triggered Sorokine?”

Dunkeld blinked.

“Don’t you know?” Pitt invested his voice with surprise. “What was the woman like, the one he killed in Africa?”

Dunkeld thought for a moment. “Another whore, I believe,” he said casually. “Not young, into her late twenties, not particularly handsome, but with a fine figure. A certain degree of intelligence, I heard, and a quick tongue. A woman who could entertain as well as merely…” He did not bother to finish.

“Like Sadie,” Pitt concluded.

Dunkeld’s contempt was too great for him to conceal. “You seem to have arrived at an understanding at last,” he observed sarcastically.

Pitt gave a very slight shrug. “Did you realize this before, or after, you hired Sadie to come here and entertain the gentlemen of the party?”

Dunkeld’s temper flared, his eyes bright and hot. “Are you suggesting I knew, and allowed it to happen?”

“Why on earth would you do that?” Pitt inquired, meeting Dunkeld’s glare. “Unless it was deliberately to get rid of a son-in-law you dislike, and allow your daughter her freedom.”

Dunkeld drew in a deep breath, shifting his weight again. “And you think I would allow a woman to be killed for that?”

Pitt remained motionless. “Do you believe he would have gone on killing, every time the same set of circumstances arose?” he inquired with no edge to his voice.

Dunkeld considered his answer before he gave it. “Do such men usually stop, if no one prevents them?” he countered.

“Not in my experience,” Pitt replied.

“Then to ensure he was caught, it is desperate perhaps, but better than allowing him to continue,” Dunkeld reasoned. “You did not catch him.”

“I was not in Africa.”

“Your arrogance is amazing!” Dunkeld almost laughed. “And do you suppose if you had been, that you would have done any better? For God’s sake, man, enclosed in the Palace, with only three of us to choose from, you still couldn’t do it!”

“Is the Limoges china part of his…obsession?” Pitt asked.

“I’ve already told you, that was a favor to His Royal Highness, and has nothing to do with Sorokine,” Dunkeld said huskily. “Now you will have to deduce the rest for yourself, or remain in ignorance. I have a vast amount of arrangements to make. In spite of my daughter’s death, the railway will still proceed, and now I must make up for Sorokine’s loss, and find someone to take his place. I imagine I shall not see you again. Good day.” And without waiting for Pitt to reply, he turned and strode away.

NARRAWAY ARRIVED A little before ten, looking tired and unhappy. His face was deeply lined, accentuating the immaculacy of his clothing. He told Pitt immediately what he had learned, summarizing the murder in Cape Town by likening it to the death of Sadie. There was no more information of significance about Julius Sorokine.

They were alone in Pitt’s room. The sun was bright beyond the window, the air enclosed and stale. Narraway sat opposite Pitt, his legs crossed.

Pitt heard nothing that surprised him, but he realized he had been hoping there would be. It was unprofessional to dislike a man deeply enough to wish him guilty of such a crime. Likewise, he felt guilty that he liked Julius—or perhaps it was Elsa he liked, because she was vulnerable, and trying so hard to find her courage. There was something about her that reminded him of Charlotte. It was possibly no more than a way of turning her head, a certain squareness of her shoulders, but it was enough to waken a response in him and make him want to protect her. Disillusionment was one of the deepest of human wounds.

“The similarity is too close to be coincidence,” Narraway said finally. “Whoever killed the woman in Cape Town also killed Sadie, and Minnie Sorokine as well. Presumably in her case it was because she knew who he was, and threatened him. He will have mimicked his usual style either from compulsion, or to make it obvious it was the same hand who did it.”

“Compulsion,” Pitt replied. “It doesn’t matter whether it was the same hand or not; in neither case would it protect him. And although she was a lady, there was apparently a good deal of the whore in her, at least outwardly.”

Narraway looked at him sharply. “Are you saying she worked out that the Limoges dish was broken, and that it mattered?”

“And that it was replaced.” Pitt told him about Elsa’s visit to him, and her story of having seen an exact duplicate in Dunkeld’s cases.

“And do you believe her?” Narraway asked with slight skepticism. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Don’t you think, setting personalities and dislikes apart, that the shards were probably something else, and that the dish in the Queen’s room was never broken in the first place? Elsa Dunkeld probably has far more grounds for hating her husband than you do.”

“If it was irrelevant, then why did the Prince of Wales lie about it?” Pitt retorted. “Tyndale refused to discuss it, and now Dunkeld says he brought one, but as a personal favor to the Prince, and his honor prevents him explaining to us why.”

Narraway pulled a very slight face of distaste. “Because it is something foolish and rather grubby, and they find it embarrassing,” he said regretfully.

Pitt was unsatisfied. “I want to go through it one more time, step by step.”

“If you wish,” Narraway conceded. “But only once. Then we must act.”

AFTER GRACIE HAD left Pitt with his tea, she returned temporarily to her regular duties. As soon as breakfast was finished, she and Ada began the tidying up and changing the linen. She wanted to investigate the one thing that continued to arouse her curiosity. She had cleaned Cahoon Dunkeld’s bedroom and dressing room every morning since she had been here.

Where were the books that were supposed to have come in the box in the middle of the night? There were no more than half a dozen in Mr. Dunkeld’s quarters, nor were there many more in the other rooms.

“Where’d they all go, then?” she said to Ada as they were dusting in the sitting room.

“’Ow do I know?” Ada said indignantly. “Mebbe these is them, for all it matters. Get on wi’ yer job.”

Gracie looked at the titles. “But these are all poetry an’ novels,” she said. “An’ stories o’ the lives o’ real people. ’Ere’s the Duke o’ Wellington, an’ there’s Prime Minister ’Orace Walpole.”

“An’ ’ow der yer know that, Miss Clever?”

“’Cos it says so on the cover, o’ course,” Gracie replied. “Wot d’yer think, I looked at the pictures?”

“Since when did you learn ter read, then?”

“Since a long time ago. Why? Can’t you?” She stared at Ada as if she were looking at a curiosity.

“Yer don’t ’alf ta give yerself airs,” Ada retorted. “Yer in’t gonna last long. Tuppence worth o’ nothin’, you are.”

“So, where’s the books, then?” Gracie went back to the original question. “Or is that yer way o’ sayin’ yer don’t know?”

“’Course I don’t know!” Ada spat back. “But I do know me place, an’ that’s more’n you do! Need someb’dy ter show it ter yer, an’ I’ll be ’appy ter take the job. I think termorrow yer’d better do all the slops, chamber pots an’ all. An’ not just your share, you can do Norah’s an’ Biddie’s as well.”

Gracie was beginning to wonder if there had been books in the chest at all, but it was obvious Ada was not going to help.

“Yer know so much, Miss Ever So Clever,” Ada said, flicking her duster around the ornaments on the mantel. “You should be careful about all them questions yer keep askin’. Yer so sorry for Mrs. Sorokine, ’oo were actually a bit of a cow, if yer ask me. Lot o’ grand ways with ’er nose in the air, but under it no better’n a tart ’erself, jus’ less honest about it. Askin’ jus’ the same questions as she did, you are. Want ter end up wi’ yer belly cut open, do yer? Not that yer’ve got anythin’ as’d drive any man wild, ’ceptin’ as ’e got cheated, thinkin’ as yer was a woman, an’ all! Put yer in a matchbox, we could—an’ a good idea that’d be, an’ all.”

Gracie felt the sting of insult. She was very aware that she was small, and too thin. There was nothing feminine or shapely about her. She had no idea why Samuel Tellman wanted her, except that to begin with she would have nothing to do with him. Now the whole idea of their marriage was frightening, in case she disappointed him terribly. But Ada would never know that.

What was important right now was that Ada had told her something she had not known: Minnie was also interested in the box, and what had been in it, or had not been.

“Yer reckon as that was wot got ’er killed?” she asked, forcing the rest out of her mind.

“Yeah! I do, an’ all,” Ada responded. “Always askin’ questions, she was, just like you. If yer don’t want nobody ter cut yer throat, then keep yer mouth shut!”

“I’m gonna tidy the bedrooms,” Gracie said, picking her duster up and striding toward the door. Actually she was going to find Mr. Tyndale. She needed his help and there was no time at all to waste. She wished she had realized the possible importance of the box before, but the beginning of an idea had only just entered in her head.

As she crossed the landing she heard Ada shouting behind her. She was tempted for an instant to go back to tell her, extremely patronizingly, to keep her voice down. Good servants never shouted, absolutely never! But she could not afford the luxury of wasting the time it would take.

She found Mr. Tyndale in his pantry and went in without even thinking of leaving the door open.

“Mr. Tyndale, sir,” she began. “I know yer got Mr. Sorokine all locked up, but there’s still things as we don’t know, an’ we gotta be right.” She drew in her breath and hurried on. “We gotta be able ter explain everythin’. Mr. Dunkeld ’ad a box come on the night Sadie was killed, right about the same time. ’E said as it were books, but there in’t no books in ’is rooms, nor in any o’ the other rooms neither, nor in the sittin’ room.”

“The sitting room has at least fifty books, Miss Phipps,” he said gravely. “Possibly more.”

She kept her patience with great difficulty.

“Yeah, I know that, sir. But they in’t books on Africa like Mr. Dunkeld said ’e sent for so urgent they ’ad ter come in the middle o’ the night. All the ones ’e got were the same as ’e ’ad before.”

Tyndale frowned. “How do you know that, Miss Phipps?”

“’Cos I looked!” she said as politely as she could manage. Why was he so slow? “I can read, Mr. Tyndale. I think as ’e ’ad somethin’ else come in that box, an’ somebody’s gotter know wot it were.”

Tyndale looked uncomfortable. “It may have been something for the party, which could be private,” he pointed out.

Gracie felt herself coloring with embarrassment. She had no idea what such a thing would be, and would very much rather not find out. But that was another luxury detection would cost her. “There in’t nothin’ private when there’s murder, Mr. Tyndale. Somebody must ’a seen it, wotever it were. Edwards ’elped carry it in. ’Ow ’eavy were it? Books? Yer can feel if somethin’ slides around inside a box yer carryin’. ’Ow ’eavy were it when they took it out again?”

Tyndale still looked just as uncomfortable. “I have no idea what was in it, Miss Phipps. I have no right, and no wish, to inquire into such things. It is better not to know too much of the business of our betters.”

She was touched with pity for him, and impatience.

“Mr. Dunkeld in’t your better, Mr. Tyndale,” she said gently. “An’ I don’t think anybody ’oo pimps around wi’ tarts is either!”

“Miss Phipps!” He was aghast and his voice was probably louder than he had intended it to be.

The pantry door swung open and hit the wall. Mrs. Newsome stood in the opening, her face bright pink, her eyes blazing. “Miss Phipps, I have warned you as much as I intend to about your behavior. Mr. Tyndale may be too kindhearted, or too embarrassed, to discipline you. I am not. You are dismissed. You are not suitable to have a position here at the Palace. Ada has complained about you. Both your work and your attitude are unsatisfactory. And now I find that you have deliberately disobeyed my orders that you were not to come here alone with any gentleman member of staff, and close the doors. You place Mr. Tyndale in an impossible situation. Pack your boxes and you will leave tomorrow morning. I shall give you a character, but it will not be a good one. The best I can say for you is that, as far as I know, you are honest and clean.”

Tyndale’s face was scarlet. He was mortified with shame, both for what Mrs. Newsome apparently thought and because he had failed to protect Gracie from her wrath. He knew no way to extricate himself now without letting her down. Perhaps also he was disappointed that Mrs. Newsome should think so little of him as to have leaped to such a conclusion.

It was up to Gracie to protect him. He was in this position because of his duty toward her, which he had promised to observe. The case was nearly over. Mrs. Newsome was going to be either a friend or an enemy. Neutrality was no longer an option. Gracie made her decision.

“Mr. Tyndale, I got ter tell ’er,” she said earnestly. “It in’t that I’m not grateful, I am. But we need ’er ’elp, an’ we in’t got time ter mess around ’opin’.”

He nodded very slowly. “I understand.” He looked over Gracie’s head. “Mrs. Newsome, would you be so good as to close the door? I find myself in a position where I am obliged to break a trust, or face an even worse situation. I would like to do it as discreetly as possible.”

Mrs. Newsome blinked. The color had not ebbed from her face, but she was no longer so certain of herself. She closed the door in obedience, but she still stood as far away from him as possible. The air in the small room was charged with emotion.

“Mrs. Newsome,” Tyndale began. He glanced at Gracie, then continued. “Miss Phipps is working here for Special Branch. Mr. Narraway asked me to take her on, and keep her position here completely secret, so she might have as much freedom, and safety, as possible in helping Inspector Pitt to learn the truth of what happened to the two unfortunate women who have been murdered.” He was speaking too quickly, gasping for breath. “If she has appeared to take liberties, they have been necessary in order to carry out her primary duty. There was no one she could confide in except me, therefore she was obliged to speak to me alone. Ada is a busybody with a jealous and cruel tongue. If anyone should be dismissed, it is she.”

Mrs. Newsome stared at Gracie as if she had crawled out of an apple on the dessert plate. Then she looked past her at Mr. Tyndale again. “I see. I understand why she has behaved so…indiscreetly. What I do not understand, Mr. Tyndale, is why you did not feel as if you could have trusted me with the truth. I would have thought after all the years we have worked together, you might have thought better of me, indeed would have known it.” She turned round and put her hand on the doorknob to leave.

“I was asked not to, Mrs. Newsome,” Tyndale said miserably. “It was not my choice.”

She kept her back to him. Her voice trembled. “And did you complain? Did you say that it was necessary to take me into your confidence, and that I am to be trusted as much as you are?”

He did not answer. He had been distracted with anxiety, even fear, and he had not.

Gracie sighed. This was all so terribly painful, and it did not have to be. “Mrs. Newsome, ma’am,” she said softly, “if yer ’adn’t ’ated me, if yer’d bin nice ter me, like it were all all right, then someone like Ada’d ’ave known there were summink different, an’ she’d ’ave worked it out. It weren’t until Mrs. Sorokine got killed as we knew ’oo it were as done it. An’ ter be honest, even now we in’t fer certain sure. Not completely. There’s still things we don’t know—like wot were in that box wot Edwards ’elped ter carry up the stairs ter Mr. Dunkeld the same night as poor Sadie were gettin’ killed. An’ wot were in it when ’e took it back down again.”

Mrs. Newsome turned and stared at her. The color in her face was ebbing away, leaving only two blotches on her cheeks. She looked at Mr. Tyndale as if Gracie had not even been there. She drew in her breath sharply, then let it out in silence.

“We gotta find out,” Gracie urged. “We in’t got much longer before they ’ave ter take Mr. Sorokine away!”

Mrs. Newsome reacted at last. “Then I suppose we had better speak to Edwards, and see what he tells us about the box,” she replied. “I will send for him, and return.”

The moment she was gone, Gracie pushed the door closed again and looked at Tyndale. He was still unhappy. Something had been lost that he had no idea how to replace.

“She’s ’urt because she got left out,” she observed. “Yer did right ter tell ’er. We in’t got no choice.”

“Indeed,” he replied, but she knew that was not what he was thinking. Mrs. Newsome had not trusted him, and nothing she could say or do now would heal that.

“She don’t trust yer,” Gracie said aloud.

He did not meet her eyes. “I am aware of that, Miss Phipps.” He was angry and hurt that she should make a point of the obvious.

“An’ she sees it like yer don’t trust ’er,” she added.

“That is quite different! I was bound to secrecy by duty. I did not imagine for a moment that Mrs. Newsome had done anything wrong,” he protested.

Gracie gave a tiny shrug. “No, Mr. Tyndale, I don’t s’pose yer ever done nothing wrong like she thinks neither, but yer works bleedin’ ’ard ter protect them as does, an’ turn a blind eye ter things wot curls yer stomach. ’Ow’s she ter know?”

He looked startled, then deeply embarrassed. He could think of nothing to say, but she could see it in his eyes that quite suddenly he understood, and a wealth of conflict and realization opened up in front of him. Perhaps she had said far too much, but it was too late to take it back.

Mrs. Newsome returned with a very nervous Edwards, who answered Mr. Tyndale’s questions without any of his usual insolence.

“Yes, sir, it was heavy.”

“Did they rattle around?” Tyndale asked. “Move at all when you changed the balance going upstairs?”

“No, sir, not much moving at all. If it wasn’t books, what was it, Mr. Tyndale?”

“I don’t know,” Tyndale replied. “How heavy was it when you took it down again?”

“Pretty much the same, sir.”

Gracie felt her heart pounding. Maybe she was right!

Tyndale looked at her, puzzled, then back at Edwards. “Are you certain of that?”

“Yes, sir. It was still heavy. I reckon as he sent some books back as well.”

“Did you look inside it?”

“No, sir! ’Course I didn’t.”

“Thank you. You can go,” Tyndale told him.

As soon as he was gone, Gracie excused herself also and raced up the stairs to find Pitt. It was the last piece of the puzzle.

“’Ave they took ’im yet?” she said breathlessly.

“If you mean Sorokine, no.” He looked up from the paper he was writing for Narraway, a brief and unsatisfying account of the case. There would be no prosecution. Perhaps tonight Pitt would be in his own bed.

Gracie closed the door and came over to the table. “Mrs. Sorokine were askin’ about the china pieces, the cleanin’ up, an’ the Queen’s bed linen, weren’t she? An’ mebbe she saw the dish in Mr. Dunkeld’s case too.”

“Yes.” He seemed too weary, and perhaps disappointed to ask her why she cared. “An’ she knew about the bottles wi’ blood in,” Gracie went on.

“An’ mebbe she knew that that case Mr. Dunkeld ’ad on the night o’ the murder, wi’ urgent books on Africa, didn’t ’ave no books on Africa in it.”

“How do you know that?” He put the pen down and discarded his writing. The tiredness slipped away from him. “Gracie?”

“’Cos they in’t nowhere,” she answered. “Yer know wot I reckon, sir? I reckon as they brought summink else in in that box, ter do wi’ the murder, an’ it went out wi’ summink in it too.”

“Something like what?” He frowned, leaning forward now. “What, Gracie?”

It was as mad an idea as anything going on in the mind of whoever was killing people. She hardly dared tell him. He would laugh at her, and never trust her with anything important again.

“Gracie?” His voice was urgent now, a sharp edge of hope in it.

She dreaded being a fool, perhaps making him look stupid in front of Mr. Narraway—and worse than that, in his own eyes. Should she stop now, before she said it?

“Yes, sir,” she gulped. “We bin’ thinkin’ all along that someone went ravin’ barmy, off ’is ’ead, an’ found poor Sadie, wherever she were, an’ took ’er ter the Queen’s bedroom and lay with ’er, then killed ’er…”

“I know it isn’t good.” He pursed his lips. “Even lunatics usually have a pattern that makes sense to them. I’m not happy about it, but the evidence shows that’s where she was killed, and quite early in the evening. She must only just have left the Prince of Wales.”

“It looks like she were killed there,” Gracie agreed, her throat so tight she could hardly breathe. “But it in’t all that easy ter get inter that ’e could go there in the middle o’ the night an’ take a tart there. There’d be servants around. ’E’d take an awful risk. An’ why do it?”

“Someone did,” Pitt reasoned. “I saw the room, and the blood. And someone broke the dish, even though it was replaced—” He stopped suddenly.

“Wot is it?” she asked.

“By Cahoon Dunkeld,” he finished very slowly. “And he hated Sorokine. He wouldn’t cover anything for him.” His eyes grew bright.

“He was covering for someone else, Gracie! Someone whose gratitude would be worth a fortune to him!”

“’Is ’Ighness?” she barely breathed the words. It was terrible! The worst nightmare she could imagine. What would Pitt do now? He wouldn’t cover it up—he couldn’t, not and live with himself. And if he said anything, no one would believe him, and they’d all cover it up so he would look like a liar—worse, a traitor to the throne. Perhaps that was what they all did anyway!

Pitt’s would be one voice alone, against all of them. He would be ruined. They would see to it. They would have to, to cover for themselves because of all the other things they’d hidden and lied about over the years.

It hurt, all the dreams broken, but there was no time to think of that now. She must look out for Pitt.

“Yes, why not?” Pitt was saying. “He would go along to the Queen’s bedroom, and no one would take any notice. In fact he could have arranged to have no servants about. He lies with Sadie, falls into a drunken sleep, and wakes up with her dead beside him, and blood all over the place. He’s terrified. He calls Dunkeld to help him. Dunkeld moves the body and…” He stopped.

“Wot?” she demanded. She was so frightened every muscle in her was clenched.

He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “No, it makes no sense,” he admitted wearily. “I was going to say he put the body in the linen cupboard and used the port bottles full of blood to make it look as if she had been killed there. And replaced the broken Limoges dish. But that would mean it was planned very carefully in advance.”

He looked at her, horror deepening in his face. “Gracie, he knew someone was going to be killed, and where! And come to that, how! The only way he could do that would be if he killed her or had someone else do it. And however sure he was of Sorokine’s madness, he couldn’t guarantee he would do it in the Queen’s bed, beside the Prince of Wales! Or that it would be Sadie, and not one of the other women, or with any of the other men.” He bit his lip. “He brought the blood with him, and more important he brought the Limoges dish!”

“So ’e knew wot room it would ’appen in,” she followed his reasoning, although it frightened her so she was cold in the depth of her stomach. “Wot if the Prince jus’ woke up an’ all the blood were over ’im, but not ’er? Then it wouldn’t matter where she were killed.” She gulped. “Mr. Pitt, I got an idea as she weren’t killed ’ere at all. That box wot were brought in ’ad another body in it, not ’er. An’ Sadie packed ’erself inter the box again an’ were taken out without no one knowin’ ’cept Mr. Dunkeld.”

Pitt stared at her, a dawning understanding of the entire plan on his face. “Dunkeld was the one who hired the women!” he exclaimed. “They were allies in it. To blackmail the Prince of Wales into helping them with the African railway. Then he couldn’t afford not to be entirely on Dunkeld’s side, no matter what he actually believed. Dunkeld simply used the opportunity to get rid of Sorokine at the same time!”

Gracie blinked. “Then ’oo killed Mrs. Sorokine? ’Oo did she accuse? It ’ad ter be ’er pa, because ’e were the one wot ’ad the dish.”

His face creased in pity. “Poor Minnie. She was far too clever for her own survival. I dare say he didn’t mean to kill her, just lost his temper and—”

“Yer don’ slit someone’s throat ’cos yer lost yer temper,” Gracie pointed out. “An’ yer certainly don’t slice their guts open.”

“He had to make it look like the first crime,” Pitt reminded her. “And he had to make the first crime look like the one in Cape Town.”

“’Ow’d ’e know wot that one were like?” she asked.

“From someone who saw it, I don’t know who. But it fits, Gracie.” His voice took on a vibrancy again. “Dunkeld planned it for long before he came. He brought blood, and a replacement dish. He knew it was there. Someone must have shown it to him. He’s been the Prince’s guest here before.”

Gracie shivered.

“He had a dead woman brought in,” Pitt went on. “And you’re right, Sadie was part of the plot. It could be she who insisted on sleeping in the Queen’s bed!” He was speaking more rapidly, his voice eager now. “When the Prince was in a drunken stupor, perhaps aided by a powder of some sort, she slipped out and went to Cahoon.

“Perhaps she even helped Cahoon take the dead woman out of the box, before getting into it herself. After the box was removed, Cahoon carried the dead woman, probably in a blanket or something, and put her beside the Prince, and splashed some of the blood around. He kept the rest to put in the linen cupboard, then went to bed. That’s why we could never find Sadie’s clothes—she was still wearing them. Cahoon had already arranged for a message to come, and went to waken the Prince himself, and make absolutely certain he was in the spot to see the mess, and offer to help!”

“The bleedin’ bastard!” she said with profound feeling. “Wot yer gonna do? Yer can’t let Mr. Sorokine be put away for it!”

“Of course not. I’m going to see His Royal Highness.” He rose.

“Be careful!” she cried out. “Mr. Pitt, ’e in’t goin’ ter—”

“When Mr. Narraway comes back, tell him what has happened,” he cut across her. “And ask him to wait until I return.” He left without even looking back to see if she would obey.

She stood still, hands clenched, her body shaking.

She was terrified for what would happen to him. Suddenly everything that mattered was falling apart. The people she had regarded with admiration were no wiser or braver than she was. The Palace itself was just like anywhere else, full of pettiness, ambition, and shifts of truth. And now Pitt was walking straight into disaster like a child going to feed lions, and she hadn’t stopped him, and there was nobody to ask for help.

Hot tears scalded her eyes.

AGAIN PITT HAD to wait until the Prince was willing to see him. Time was slipping through his fingers. Any minute Narraway would return with police to take Julius away. Of course he could be released afterward, but it would be far better not to make the error in the first place. People were loath to admit fault; the more important it was, the more reluctant.

He wrote a short letter on a page from his notebook and handed it to the footman. All it said was, “I realize what Dunkeld has done to help. But now more help than that is needed. Pitt.”

He was conducted into the Prince’s presence five minutes later, and the footman withdrew, leaving them alone. The Prince was white-faced, sweat shining on his brow.

“What do you mean by this, sir?” he demanded, holding up the scrap of paper. “It looks like an attempt at…at blackmail!”

“No, sir,” Pitt said with as much respect as he could pretend. “It is an attempt to avoid blackmail. I believe Mr. Dunkeld went to considerable trouble, and ingenuity, to make you seem acutely vulnerable, sir, and I intend to see that he does not profit from it.”

“I don’t know what you mean. You are on dangerous ground, Inspector. Cahoon Dunkeld is a friend of mine, a gentleman of skill and honor, and very great loyalty. Far more than you, I may say, who are paid to be a servant to the Crown!” he accused him.

“Yes, sir.” Pitt breathed in slowly, knowing the risk he was taking. If he was wrong, he would be ruined. He would not even walk a beat as a common policeman after this. “You entertained a prostitute of particular intelligence and skill, who insisted she would give her favors only if she could do it in the Queen’s own bed.”

“How…how dare you, sir?” the Prince sputtered.

“You saw no harm in it,” Pitt continued. “You took her there, and after she kept her word, you fell asleep, probably assisted by a little laudanum in your drink. When you awoke there was a dead woman beside you, or possibly only a great deal of blood.” He stopped, afraid the Prince was going to have a heart attack or apoplexy. He seemed to be choking, grasping at his collar, and he had gone ashen gray. Pitt had no idea how to help. He had not foreseen this.

He turned and strode to the door to call for assistance.

“Wait!” the Prince cried out. “Wait!”

Pitt stopped.

“I didn’t kill her!” the Prince said desperately. “I swear on the Crown of England, I never hurt her at all!”

“I know that, sir,” Pitt said quietly, turning back to face him. “She was dead before she was ever brought into the Palace.”

“She can’t…what are you saying? I lay with a dead woman? I assure you she was very much alive!”

“Sadie was, yes. But the corpse beside you, and later in the linen cupboard, was not Sadie,” Pitt explained. “That is why her clothes had to be removed. The difference would have given it away. And there was probably no time. Dunkeld took care of it all for you, didn’t he? Ran a bath, told you to wash away all the blood, and he himself removed the body and the bloody sheets. Later, he had trusted servants clean up the mess, the blood on the floor, and replaced the broken Limoges dish, which you thought you had smashed in your rage with the poor woman.”

The Prince simply nodded. He was still gray-faced, his eyes almost glazed. He was mortified with embarrassment at being exposed as such an incompetent libertine in front of Pitt, of all people.

“He told you to say nothing, and it would all be all right. He would get in Special Branch, and they would keep the matter discreet,” Pitt continued.

“What about Sorokine?” the Prince floundered. “If he wasn’t guilty, why did he kill his wife, poor woman?”

“He didn’t,” Pitt said simply. “She worked out the truth, and must have faced Dunkeld with it. I don’t imagine he intended to kill her, he probably only tried to silence her, and they both lost their tempers. They were very alike. When he realized he had struck her too hard he had to make it look as if it were the same as the other crime, and the one in Africa too, of which he could not have been guilty. It must have been one of the hardest things in his life to have cut her like that, even though she was already dead.” He thought of Minnie’s body lying with that slit-open abdomen, but her bosom still decently covered. She had not been gutted as the other women were.

The Prince was staring at him in undisguised horror.

“He must have waited all night,” Pitt went on. “We can only guess how fearful that was for him, alone with her body. Then in the early morning he went in to accuse Sorokine, and fought with him, his purpose being to mark Sorokine as if from a fight with Mrs. Sorokine, and even more than that, to disguise the marks on himself where she had fought for her life.”

“God in Heaven!” the Prince breathed out. “What are you going to do now?”

“Arrest Dunkeld and release Sorokine,” Pitt replied. “And hope it is still possible to keep most of this quiet. But we will not be able to shut Dunkeld away and say he is mad. There will have to be a trial, at least for the murder of Mrs. Sorokine. I’m sorry, sir. If another way can be found, it will be.”

The Prince swallowed with difficulty. “Please…please try…”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

PITT RETURNED TO his rooms and found Narraway waiting for him, pacing the floor. Gracie was still present as if she were standing guard.

“Is she right?” Narraway demanded as soon as Pitt had closed the door. His face was drawn, his eyes haggard.

Pitt did not ask what Gracie had said; he knew she had understood it all perfectly. “Yes,” he said to Narraway. “I just confirmed it with the Prince of Wales. Not surprisingly, when he woke and found the corpse of a naked woman, covered in gore, beside him in the Queen’s bed, he panicked. He certainly didn’t look at her face long enough to see it wasn’t the one he went to sleep with—if he looked at her face even then!”

Narraway blasphemed thoroughly and with intense feeling. “What a diabolical shame. A cold nerve, though!” He glanced at Gracie, wondering whether he should apologize to her for his language. In this situation she was not exactly a servant. A certain better nature won. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“’S all right,” she told him graciously.

He looked startled, then nodded his appreciation.

Pitt concealed a smile. “We should arrest Dunkeld for the killing of his daughter,” he said to Narraway. “Accidental or intentional. And free Sorokine. I’m looking forward to that.”

“Just a moment!” Narraway jerked up his hand as if to hold Pitt back. “Can we prove it?”

“Minnie knew the whole plot!” Pitt said impatiently.

“Yes, but can we prove that?” Narraway insisted. “And not only that she knew it, but that she would have betrayed him by telling everyone. If we can’t do both those things, he could still say it was Sorokine, either because he killed Sadie, or simply out of jealousy over her affair with Marquand.”

Pitt took a deep breath, his mind racing. He was certain in his own mind, but was there proof, beyond any reasonable doubt?

“He was the one who arranged for the three women to come. It was his box of books the corpse came in.”

“We know it was his box,” Narraway agreed. “We have deduced that the corpse came in it, and Sadie went, but there’s no proof.”

“No books came,” Pitt told him. “Edwards carried something up in it, and something of similar weight down again.”

“Servant’s word against Dunkeld’s,” Narraway said.

“No books,” Pitt argued. “All the African books, of which there are not many, were here already. All the other men will testify to that.”

“Moderate,” Narraway granted. “Who saw the Limoges dish, apart from Dunkeld’s wife, who hates him, and is in love with Sorokine? I think it hangs on that.”

“His valet,” Pitt replied.

“And he’ll testify?” Narraway said with heavy disbelief. “Even if he did, it’s his word against Dunkeld’s again. From your account the Prince of Wales never saw the dish broken, and he can’t be called to testify anyway.”

“Tyndale!” Pitt exclaimed. “He knew the dish was broken because he helped clear it away and hid the pieces. He lied to me about it, and to Gracie.”

“And you think he’ll implicate the Prince in any wrongdoing?” Narraway’s eyebrows shot up.

“No, sir, but he’ll testify against Dunkeld, who tried to implicate and then blackmail the Prince.”

Narraway’s face was bleak, his mouth tight. “The newspapers will have a field day with that! It’ll never come to trial, Pitt. Dunkeld knows it, and so do I. Perhaps we could prove it, with the dish, the box; we can’t prove that he brought the port bottles in full of blood. Certainly someone did a lot of cleaning up in the Queen’s room, and Sorokine’s never been in the Palace before. But it’s all academic. Dunkeld has us. The best we can do is at least not charge Sorokine.”

“No, sir,” Pitt said in a hard, quiet voice. “Dunkeld was going to blackmail the Prince of Wales, the heir to the throne. If he didn’t do it explicitly, it was always implicit, for the rest of his life.”

“I didn’t think you’d be a royalist after all this, Pitt,” Narraway said with irony and confusion in his voice.

“I don’t have much respect for the man, but I do for the office,” Pitt snapped. “But that isn’t the point.”

Narraway opened his eyes wide. “Blackmail is a filthy crime.”

“Not blackmail,” Pitt said tartly. “Treason.”

“Treason?” Then in a flash of fire in the mind, Narraway understood. “Of course. We charge him and try him for treason. Secrets of the State—a closed court. Thank you, Pitt. I am profoundly obliged.”

Pitt smiled, the blood warming his face again.

Gracie gave a long sigh of relief.

“Who killed the poor woman in the linen cupboard?” Narraway asked almost casually.

“God knows,” Pitt admitted. “Maybe He is the only one who ever will. She might be just some murder victim of the night.”

“Exactly like the one in Africa?” Narraway asked sarcastically. “Who the hell brought her?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Narraway raised his eyebrows. “I imagine you would like to find out?”

“Yes, I would. First I would like to go and release Sorokine.” Pitt smiled. “I’d take help for Dunkeld, if I were you. He’s a big man with a very violent temper.”

Narraway looked at him coldly. “I have no intention of going alone, Pitt! Do you take me for an idiot?”

They reached the door together, then Pitt turned to Gracie. “Which one do you want to see?” he asked. “You deserve to take your choice.”

“Thanks,” she said primly. “I think as I’ll come with you and tell Mr. Sorokine ’e’s free. ’E were real nice ter me. Let me read in a book by Oscar Wilde, like I were a real sort o’ person as could understand it.”

“You are,” Pitt told her. “How perceptive of him. When we get home, I shall buy you a copy for yourself.”

“Thank you,” she accepted.

They went downstairs together and found Mr. Tyndale, who gave them the key to Julius’s room.

“I’m very glad, sir,” he said gravely. “Mr. Sorokine was always very civil.” He glanced only briefly at Gracie, confused now as to exactly what her status was.

She avoided his eyes too, so as not to make it even harder for him.

Up the stairs again Pitt knocked on Julius’s door, then opened it and went in.

“Your courtesy is very pleasant, if a trifle absurd,” Julius said quietly. He was fully dressed but ashen-faced. His hands were clenched by his sides and he stood so stiffly he swayed very little, concentrating on keeping his composure.

Pitt held out the door key in his open hand, offering it.

“I apologize, Mr. Sorokine. I am now perfectly certain that your account of events was a true one. I regret the extreme distress you have been caused.”

Julius stared at him, then at the key in his hand. Then slowly he reached for it, took it and held it, smoothing his fingers over it as if to assure himself it was real. Then he looked up at Pitt again.

“Cahoon?” he asked hoarsely. “Why? He’s the only one of us who couldn’t have killed the poor woman.”

Very briefly Pitt explained the main outline of the case to him.

Julius sat down on the bed. “God Almighty!” He breathed out the words so they sounded more like a prayer than a blasphemy.

“If you will excuse me, sir, I need to go and help Mr. Narraway. Arresting Mr. Dunkeld may not be easy. If there is anything you need, Gracie will get it for you.”

Gracie moved forward. “Yes, sir,” she said with great satisfaction. “’Ow about a nice fresh cup o’ tea, an’ a toasted tea cake with currants in it an’ butter?”

Julius smiled, but there were tears in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said huskily. “I’ll admit, luncheon wasn’t much. I’d like that…before I…join the others.”

She went to make it herself, choosing the tea cake with the most currants and sultanas, and being generous with the butter. When she took it up to him, he was delighted and ate the tea cake as if it was the first food he had tasted with any pleasure for days.

She glanced over to the bedside table and saw Oscar Wilde’s book open on it.

He saw her look. “Would you like it?” he offered.

“I couldn’t!” she said intently, blushing that he had caught her looking at it.

“Yes, you could,” he replied. “I can get another one. I would like you to have it. I have something to celebrate. Let me make a gift of it to you.” He reached out his hand, then saw the butter on his fingers and smiled ruefully. “Just take it. Please?”

She picked it up, holding it tight. “Thank you, sir.”

He was still smiling.

PITT AND NARRAWAY found Cahoon Dunkeld with the Prince of Wales. They were obliged to wait until he had finished his discussion and was walking back alone along the corridor toward his own room. They caught up with him at the door and followed him in, to his intense annoyance.

“What the devil’s the matter with you?” he demanded, spinning round to face them, his face twisted with fury.

Narraway closed the door behind him. “Naturally, as Special Branch, we do not have the authority to arrest anyone, but in these unusual circumstances, I am obliged to make an exception.”

“Good,” Cahoon snapped. “You do not need my permission. Get on with it!”

“I know I do not need your permission,” Narraway replied tartly. “Cahoon Dunkeld, I am arresting you for the murder of Wilhelmina Sorokine. You will be—”

Cahoon’s face turned scarlet. “Her husband killed her,” he said between clenched teeth. “If you seek to avoid your duty and blame this on me, I shall speak to the Prince and have you dismissed. And don’t doubt he can do it.”

“Probably,” Narraway conceded with a tight smile. “But he won’t, not since he knows that you had a dead prostitute brought in and disemboweled in the Queen’s bed, in order to blackmail him for the rest of his life. He will resent that—I can assure you.”

“Rubbish! You’re hysterical,” Cahoon said with disgust, but his voice was slurred and his hands were clenched till the knuckles shone.

“No, Mr. Dunkeld, Minnie was hysterical when she put all the pieces together. She saw the Limoges dish in your luggage; she knew the one in the Queen’s room had been broken; but you must have known in advance that it would be, or why bring one identical? She knew the box came in and went out with the same weight in it, and there were very few new books on Africa, if any at all. And she knew you: your nature, your courage, and your arrogance. And you knew that she would want a price for her silence, possibly the clearing of her husband from blame. Profoundly as you loved her, you could not afford to let her ruin you—and she would have.”

Cahoon stared at him. “You can’t prove that,” he said at last. “None of it.”

“Yes,” Narraway said, glancing only for a second at Pitt, knowing he could not afford to take his eyes from Cahoon for any longer than that. “I can. A court might not compel your wife to testify, or believe her if she did. They might think your valet merely a distinguished servant, if a frightened one. But they will believe Tyndale, a Palace butler who owes you nothing. He saw the shards of the broken dish, and he saw the new one that replaced it.”

“Sorokine brought it!” Cahoon’s lips curved in the tiniest smile.

“How did he know about it?” Narraway asked. “He had never been to the Palace before, still less to the Queen’s bedroom. You did. He did not arrange the prostitutes to come that evening, nor did he send for the box of books that don’t exist. Small pieces of evidence, Cahoon, but many of them, and the Limoges dish was a touch of reality too far. The blood was necessary, but that smashed dish was what caught you.”

Cahoon took a deep breath. “Pity,” he said, in control of himself again. “But you won’t charge me with it. If you think you can ever bring this to the public, then you are an even bigger fool than I supposed, and having seen you and your oaf there,” he glanced at Pitt, “even the last few days, believe me, I thought you fool enough!”

Narraway’s cheeks paled with anger and his eyes glittered. “Of course we won’t!” he said with bitter relish. “I mentioned the murder to disconcert you. I believe in your own way, you loved her. After all, she was a female reflection of yourself, perhaps morally a little better, but then she was younger.” His smile widened a fraction. “All of it needs to be proved, of course, but the charge is for attempting to blackmail the heir to the throne.”

Cahoon was incredulous. “Blackmail? He’ll never bring a charge, you imbecile!”

Narraway stood perfectly still. “I’m bringing the charge, Mr. Dunkeld, of treason. Naturally, to protect the security of the nation, it will not be a public trial.”

At last Dunkeld understood. The blood drained from his skin. He swayed very slightly, then, as if catching his balance, he turned and lunged at Pitt, fists flailing.

Pitt raised his foot hard and caught him in the groin. Dunkeld screamed—a high-pitched, tearing sound—and doubled over, pitching violently into the doorpost with a crack that must have knocked him almost senseless.

Narraway gaped at Pitt in amazement.

Pitt shrugged very slightly, a warmth of satisfaction seeping through him. He might be ashamed of it later, but right now it felt good. “No point fighting his fists,” he observed. “I’d lose.”

Narraway shook his head. “He couldn’t have escaped.”

“No, of course not. But he would have half killed me, with nothing to lose, and I think that’s what he wanted.”

Narraway sighed. “Fool,” he said sadly. “You’d better tie him up. Can’t afford to leave him with his hands free, not that one. Then lock the door.”

“Yes, sir,” Pitt agreed.

Narraway turned at the door. “Thank you,” he added.

THE GUESTS MET in the sitting room with the Prince of Wales present. He was deeply distressed that the project had collapsed, but with the arrest of Cahoon Dunkeld it no longer had the driving force necessary to succeed. His displeasure was profound, overtaking his earlier embarrassment. But then, as Pitt observed to Narraway in a whisper, anger is always less uncomfortable than shame.

Liliane looked immensely relieved that the ordeal was over. Her eyes shone, her skin glowed, all her old beauty animated her face again. Hamilton seemed sober, the weight of immediate fear lifted from him too.

Simnel was quiet, the death of Minnie wrapping him in a pall of grief. Whether it had been her husband or her father who had killed her made no difference to him. He was still imprisoned by his need, leaving Olga as alone as before.

Julius was subdued. He had been too near a lifelong incarceration with the insane to recover in an hour or two. He had looked into an abyss and he could not dismiss or forget it.

Elsa also sat alone. Her husband had been arrested for killing his daughter. She faced a social nightmare of proportions she could not even guess at, but the man she loved was free, and that joy could not be taken from her. It burned in her eyes with a quiet, beautiful heat.

“Tragic!” the Prince of Wales said fervently. “A great talent, a great driving energy, lost to…to…”

“The lust for power,” Simnel filled in for him.

“Quite.” The Prince was irritated by the assistance. He would have found the phrase if he had been given the time. “Now we shall have to struggle to find a man to replace him. Someone who knows the project, understands it, and has the strength of will to guide it through. And the good name and reputation among the people whose investment and support we will need.”

Several people murmured their agreement.

The Prince turned to Julius. “You have been through a nightmarish experience, Sorokine. Unjustly suspected. Proved yourself worthy, though. I am sure you could step into your father-in-law’s place. Take a little time to grieve for your wife. I’m very sorry. You have my deepest condolences. Inform me when the funeral is, and, with your permission, I shall attend. The Princess of Wales also. Then meet with me privately, and we can make the appropriate arrangements. You will lead the company from now on.”

“Thank you, sir,” Julius said gravely. “I will, of course, inform you of my wife’s funeral, and be most honored if you, and the Princess of Wales, would attend. But I cannot assume my father-in-law’s place leading the company.”

“After a decent interval, of course,” the Prince agreed. “But my dear fellow, whatever private grief may afflict us, the fate of nations does not wait.”

“It is nothing to do with grief, sir,” Julius said respectfully. “I mean that I am not willing to do it, not that I don’t have the skill, although that is certainly also possible. I do not believe it is the right thing to do. I have had time to give it much thought, and I have come to the conclusion that the African Continent should be opened up slowly, according to the will of the many different nations whose land it is. I believe that the British Empire’s role lies at sea, as it has in the past. We can ship the great wealth of these people from the ports of the Indian Ocean, the Pacific, and the Atlantic around the rest of the world. It will be more than enough power and profit for us, and leave Africa to its own people.”

The Prince stared at him as if he could not believe what he had heard. He looked hard at his face, and saw neither fear nor indecision in it, nor did he see a weakness he could use or ambition he could satisfy. He did not look at Elsa, but Pitt did. Her eyes shone with the radiance of a woman truly in love. She reminded him even more of Charlotte, and the thought was to him a sweetness he could hardly contain.

“You will regret that decision, Sorokine,” the Prince said in a hard, tight voice. He did not elaborate on it, but it was a threat, and for a moment the room was quiet and cold.

“No doubt it will have a cost,” Julius admitted. “But it is what I believe to be right, sir, and that leaves me no choice.”

Liliane moved very slightly in her chair so the rustle of her green-gold silk skirt drew attention to her. “Your Royal Highness, if I may suggest it, my father, Watson Forbes, is an even greater expert in African affairs than Mr. Dunkeld. He has retired from active interest, but in such an extraordinary circumstance as this, he may be persuaded to return, as a service to his country. If you were to ask him, sir, I cannot imagine that he would refuse you.”

The Prince’s face revealed a sudden leap of hope. “Do you think so? My dear Mrs. Quase, how perfectly excellent! How generous of you. I shall write to him immediately and have the letter delivered within the hour. Thank you so much. You have served the Crown and the Empire most nobly. Please be good enough to give me his address.”

“Of course, sir.” She rose to her feet and followed him out of the room.

“The King is dead, long live the King,” Hamilton Quase said very quietly.