Buckingham Palace Gardens

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

THAT’S NOT ENOUGH,” Pitt said. He was standing with his back to the window in the room in the Palace they had given him, and he was still granted the use of it for a few hours longer. It was early afternoon, and time was rapidly running out. Very soon Pitt and Narraway would be thanked and dismissed.

Narraway was standing by the table, facing the light. He looked tired and tense.

“Who was the woman in the box?” Pitt went on. “Who killed her, and where?”

“Well, Dunkeld didn’t kill her,” Narraway pointed out. “He never left the Palace. So either it was the carter, or whoever paid him to bring her.”

“Dunkeld hired Sadie,” Pitt continued. “He must have told her a great deal of what was to happen. So where is she now? Keeping out of sight. Which means he paid her well.” Other thoughts were swirling in Pitt’s mind. “Who would Dunkeld trust sufficiently to have him bring a box to the Palace door, with a murdered woman in it? Would he dare take the risk that the man didn’t know what he had?”

Narraway considered for a moment or two. “Hell of a risk,” he said finally. “Dunkeld is a gambler, but not a fool. He would eliminate any danger he could. I’d say the carter was the accomplice, possibly even the murderer.”

“And Dunkeld disemboweled her when she was here?” Pitt asked. “I think he broke Minnie’s neck, almost certainly by accident, and cut her afterward to make it look the same, as if it had been broken on purpose. That’s why the injuries on the two women were so similar.”

Narraway’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “And he made them after he’d knocked Julius senseless in order to mark Julius’s face with cuts and bruises, and accounted for the marks on himself. Clever bastard. But who’s the accomplice? Thank God we don’t have to find him to convict Dunkeld!”

Pitt jerked his head up. “No, but I damn well want him! Are you trying to tell me he came across that girl dead just when he happened to need her? Right height, right build, right coloring, face similar enough, and nothing else wrong with her? No rashes, broken bones, scars or blemishes, no missing teeth, nothing to account for her death except the knife slashes we saw? He may have broken her neck, to make sure there was no blood to seep out of the box, but he killed her to meet his needs. I want him, Narraway, and I don’t intend to stop until I get him.” That was a warning and he meant it as such.

“Where do you propose to start?” Narraway asked. “By the way, if you have anything at all to ask anyone here, you’d better do it now. You’ll never get back in again.”

“Not even to trace a murder?”

Narraway gave a short bark of laughter. “Not if your life depended on it, Pitt. You found them the wrong answer.”

“I didn’t choose who was guilty!” Pitt protested. “The Prince chose the wrong man as his friend.”

“A cardinal sin,” Narraway agreed. “In fact completely unforgivable. Don’t fool yourself he will ever excuse you for pointing that out! Now he has to admit to Watson Forbes that he made a mistake, and he will not like that either.”

“Will Forbes accept? You said he’d retired, didn’t you?”

Narraway bit his lip. “He seemed adamant to me that he didn’t believe in the idea. He thought it would be bad for Africa, and in time destroy what was beautiful and unique. He said such a railway would cut through the heart of the country and vandalize the soul of it.”

“He said that?”

“Not in those words.” Narraway looked vaguely uncomfortable at the vividness of his own imagination. He was acutely conscious of the fact that he had never been to Africa. “But that was the essence of it. He might well turn the Prince down.”

“Two women murdered, and for nothing,” Pitt observed. “We don’t even know who the first one was.”

“The African one? We never will.”

“No, I’m not sure she had anything to do with it, except as a tragedy to make us think Dunkeld had to be innocent, and Sorokine guilty. I meant the woman in the linen cupboard, whom we thought was Sadie. Who was she? Did the carter who brought her here kill her simply for Dunkeld to use? Did he do it knowing what it was for? Or does he simply kill for money?”

“Too dangerous,” Narraway said immediately. “Dunkeld would be a fool to put himself in the hands of a man like that.”

“Then he was a conspirator. And he had to know Sadie in order to find a woman sufficiently like her,” Pitt added. “So he’s intelligent, resourceful, devious, and has a hell of a cool nerve. He’s not just an assassin for hire.”

“You’ve made your point, Pitt,” Narraway agreed with the ghost of a smile. “We have to find him, and Dunkeld isn’t going to help us. It is almost certainly the carter, but there is no reason to suppose he actually looks anything like the man the servants glimpsed on the night he brought the box. His clothes were nondescript and dirty, he wore a hat, and fingerless mittens to protect his hands. Usual enough if you’re driving a horse, or lifting boxes. We’d better start with looking for Sadie.”

“She’ll have disappeared,” Pitt told him. “Dunkeld will have paid her to do that.”

“I know!” Narraway snapped, his temper closer to the surface than he wished to betray. “I mean where she used to be. Dunkeld found her in some brothel, or through a pimp. London can be a small city at times. He met her somewhere. Other women will know her. They might have seen the carter.”

Pitt nodded. “I’ll find him if he’s in London.”

Narraway swore. “We may not have long. Since the scheme has failed, as soon as he knows Dunkeld’s caught, he may make himself scarce. He could go anywhere: Glasgow, Liverpool, Dublin, even the Continent. I’ll call every contact I have in the police. Thank God for inventions like the telephone. I don’t think we have anything more to do here.”

Less than half an hour later, when Pitt was in the sitting room and Narraway had returned to his office, the Prince came in, closely followed by Watson Forbes. It was instantly apparent that Forbes had accepted the Prince’s offer. How it had been phrased, or what additional incentive had been offered, was not mentioned. Everyone was introduced, although only Olga Marquand had not previously known him. Pitt was merely mentioned. Forbes’s eyes lingered on him in a moment’s interest, but he did not speak.

“Mr. Forbes has accepted the responsibility of Dunkeld’s position to lead the building of a Cape-to-Cairo railway,” the Prince announced with a smile. “He is by far the best man in England for the task; in fact, very possibly the only man who could succeed. We are very fortunate that he has agreed to pick up this burden, immediate from today. I have promised him that he will have the total co-operation of everyone involved, and the freedom to make any decision in the furtherance of our cause that he considers wise and just.”

Complete control. Was that the power Dunkeld had had? Or was it Forbes’s price? The very slight emphasis the Prince placed on the words suggested that it was the latter.

“Her Majesty will return from Osborne in two days,” the Prince continued. “I am very pleased at that time to present to her such a magnificent project for the Empire she loves so dearly.” He turned to Forbes and made a small gesture of invitation.

Watson Forbes stepped forward, smiling. “Thank you, sir. It will be my privilege to serve my country, and future generations in that great Continent of Africa. Gentlemen, we have a momentous opportunity before us. It will call for every resource of mind and body that we possess. Let us not underestimate it. We shall require all the honorable assistance that we may be offered, or lay claim to. And we must be of a single mind. This is not for the glory of any one man, but of our Queen and country.”

Pitt slipped away without excusing himself, and no one except Julius Sorokine noticed.

PITT LEFT THE Palace and took a hansom cab to Narraway’s office. It had been only a matter of days that he’d been on the case, and yet his sudden sense of freedom was immense, as if he had escaped from enclosing walls, opulent as they were and hung with some of the greatest works of art in Western civilization. Now he was surrounded by the noise of traffic, hoofs, wheels, voices shouting, and occasionally the barking of dogs. It was midafternoon, hot and dusty, but the sense of space, even crowded as it was, and the urgency that drove him, was exhilarating. He found himself sitting forward as if it would somehow add to his speed.

Dunkeld was to blame for much. He was an arrogant and callous man, but he had not killed the prostitute, whoever she was. Whether the man who had was a willing colleague, Pitt did not yet know, but he was guilty of a brutal murder, purely for the convenience of having a body with which to blackmail the Prince of Wales. He, at least, would be someone they could charge, try, and, in the end, hang. There would be no secret incarceration in an asylum for him. Not that death, even on the end of a rope, might not be better than the rest of one’s life in a place like Bedlam.

Pitt alighted a street away from Narraway’s office—a precaution of habit—and ten minutes later was upstairs in his usual chair at the far side of Narraway’s desk.

“Forbes accepted,” Pitt said briefly. “Complete control.”

Narraway nodded. “I think the carter was a colleague, not an employee. Dunkeld would never be fool enough to trust anyone with that sort of power over him.”

“I’m not sure what I think,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “I’m not certain if the plan originally was Dunkeld’s or the other man’s, or even if it changed halfway through, when Minnie died. Perhaps each of them thought the plan was theirs, and in fact there were two?” He saw the wry look in Narraway’s face. “But I am absolutely certain that I want to find the man who killed that girl, whoever she was. If we don’t care about justice for her as much as for Minnie, or Julius Sorokine, or the Prince of Wales, then we are the wrong people for this job.”

Narraway’s face was wry, and for a minute uncharacteristically gentle. “There are plenty of wrong people in jobs, Pitt, but I admire the sentiment, even if we may not be able to live up to it. I’ve sent orders to every police station in the city within an hour’s travel of the Palace to see if they know of a prostitute missing from her usual patch, if any brothel’s lost a girl, or any street woman known as missing, whatever the reason.”

“We can’t sit here and wait!” Pitt protested. “How long is it going to take before someone reports her, or any police station cares? It could be—”

“Hours,” Narraway cut across him. “Or less.”

“Days,” Pitt contradicted him. “Or not at all.”

“I don’t think you understand the importance, Pitt,” Narraway observed drily. “One has only to mention bombers or anarchists and even the busiest and least sympathetic policeman will take notice. If there is any report at all, we will have it before dark.”

Pitt had to be content. Narraway forbade him to leave, and it was as dusk was beginning to close in that the report came. It was still barely dark when they alighted at the police station on the Vauxhall Bridge Road, less than three miles from the Palace.

Narraway did not waste time or energy on niceties. He introduced himself and came immediately to the point. “You reported a prostitute missing, possibly dead,” he said to the constable on duty. “I need to see your superintendent.”

“He’s busy with—”

“Now,” Narraway said grimly.

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me, Constable, unless you wish to be charged with treason,” Narraway snapped.

In less than five minutes a local dignitary had been hurried out, and they were in Superintendent Bayliss’s office where he stood uncomfortably, a pile of papers on his desk, and a mug of gently steaming tea.

“Who is missing?” Narraway asked quietly. “When, and from where? Describe her.”

“I don’t know what she looks like,” Bayliss began, then changed his mind. “Charming enough, I’m told. Brown hair, nicely built.”

“When was she last seen, and where?”

“About a week ago, Bessborough Street, just short of the Vauxhall Bridge, sir. There’s a house there that looks perfectly respectable, but it’s a rather good brothel. Caters to the carriage trade.”

“Who brought in the report?”

“Constable Upfield.”

“Get him. I need him to take us there, in an hour. They’ll be open for business, and I want a local man who knows them to be with us.”

“Can you tell me what it’s about, sir?” Bayliss asked reasonably.

“No, I can’t, and you would prefer not to know.”

“If it’s on my watch, sir, I need to know, whether I like it or not.”

“It’s not on your watch. This is Special Branch business. Get me Constable Upfield.”

“He’s off duty…sir.”

“Then get him back on,” Narraway snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

It was a long night of questioning, arguing, threatening. It was after midnight by the time they elicited the information that Kate, the missing girl, had gone out to see a client in the mews. He had wanted to look at what he was buying and she was willing to oblige. This particular man had had very precise tastes. Apparently he had already tried one or two other houses, and found nothing to his liking. However, Kate suited him, according to the boot boy, and she had gone with him.

“Gone?” Pitt said quickly. “Not into the house?”

“No, poor stupid cow.” The boot boy shook his head. “’E spoke nice, but that don’t mean nothin’. Don’t even mean ’e got money, let alone sense. Some o’ them up-market toffs is the worst.”

“When did she go?”

“Gawd knows.”

“Didn’t you go after her?” Narraway snapped. “Later, if not then.”

The boot boy gave him a dirty look. “I’m ’ere ter ’elp business, not drive it away!”

Pitt knew that whether the boot boy had followed her or not—and he probably had—he was not about to admit it. He would have known roughly what had happened, and been very willing to keep it secret rather than help the police investigate the establishment. The quality trade they aspired to would take their patronage somewhere else rather than risk visiting a house that was the subject of any kind of police interest. In the service of survival he would have concealed the crime, had there been one. If they could find who had killed her themselves—and they would try—then they would execute their own justice. Pitt realized he should have told Narraway that before they came.

“Of course,” Pitt agreed aloud. “No one wants a Peeping Tom when they’ve taken a girl along the street a little. Who found her? You? Or should we ask someone else?”

“I…er…I dunno.”

Narraway glanced at Pitt, and was silent.

“It would be better,” Pitt began judiciously, “if we didn’t have to discuss this with anyone else. Let us just suppose you were unlucky enough to have been the one who found her. The wisest thing would be to move her somewhere else, wouldn’t it.” He said it as an observation of fact, not a question. “It all comes down to the same thing in the end. She’ll be found by police, if it makes any difference, which it doesn’t really. If it was a toff, they’re never going to find him. She’ll get a decent burial, and your business is safe. Isn’t that right?”

Narraway’s eyes widened very slightly in the lamplight. In the distance a cart rumbled by them, the horses’ hoofs louder on the cobbles in the comparative stillness of the night.

“Yeah,” the boot boy agreed reluctantly.

“So who did you find to take her away for you? I don’t suppose you have any idea what they did with her?”

“I don’t wanter know!” The boot boy’s voice rose indignantly.

“Of course you don’t. Well, she will get a decent burial, I can promise you that.”

The boot boy looked relieved, his sallow face easing a little.

“In return I would like to know exactly what the man looked like who took her away, and how he took her, cart, carriage, wagon, dray?”

“Cart,” the boot boy said immediately.

“What color horse?”

“What?”

“You heard me! What color was the horse?”

The boot boy swore under his breath. “Gawd! I dunno! There was Kate lyin’ in the street wif ’er neck broke. An’ yer think I’m carin’ wot color the bleedin’ carter’s ’orse is? Light color—gray, summink like that. ’Oo cares?”

“And the carter?” Pitt persisted.

“Scruffy old devil. I gave ’im a guinea ter put ’er somewhere else, at least a mile away. Best the other side o’ the river.”

“Can you remember his face?”

“No, I bleedin’ can’t!” He swore again under his breath.

“Try. It’s worth your guinea back.”

“Sharp face, wi’ eyes like coals,” the boy said instantly. “An’ ’e ’ad mittens on ’is ’ands, I remember that.”

“Thank you.” Pitt turned to Narraway. “Have you got a guinea?”

Narraway also swore, rather more fluently, but he produced the guinea.

They returned to the police station and mustered all the men they could, from that station and the two on either side. They spent all night asking, probing, questioning to trace the passage of the cart from Bessborough Street to Buckingham Palace. By dawn they were certain of it.

Pitt and Narraway stood by the magnificent wrought-iron railings, the first light tipping the gold on them, the wind rustling in the leaves across the park. Pitt was so tired his limbs ached, and his eyes felt full of hot grit.

A troop of Horse Guards came out of the Palace yard, uniforms magnificent, harness and spurs gleaming in the broadening light, horses’ hoofs crisp on the road. They looked like a cavalry from some heroic dream.

Was that what the Cape-to-Cairo railway was: a heroic dream? Or just single-minded, oppressive empire-building at the expense of a more primitive people? Who was right, Cahoon Dunkeld or Julius Sorokine?

“Where did the carter go from here?” he said aloud.

Narraway dragged his attention back to the present. He was so tired his face was seamed with lines, dragging down his features and hollowing his eyes. It was clear it cost him an intense effort to control his mind and focus it. “It must have been about this time of day, possibly a little earlier,” he replied. “But some of the same people will be about. I suppose we’d better begin asking.”

Pitt nodded and led the way across the street toward the nearest sentry. He asked the man if he had been on duty a week ago.

The man ignored him. Only then did Pitt remember that they were not allowed to speak. They were trained to ignore all comments or actions unless they constituted a threat. He turned and saw Narraway smiling behind him. It gave his face life again.

“All right,” Pitt said, shaking his head. “You ask him.”

Narraway produced his identification as the head of Special Branch. After a moment’s doubt, the sentry replied that he had been on duty.

Narraway asked him about the carter, and if he had seen him, which way he had gone.

“To the right, up the Buckingham Palace Road, sir,” was the unhesitating reply.

Narraway thanked him, and he and Pitt set out, footsore and hungry. A sandwich from a peddler, a cup of hot tea from a group of cabbies around a brazier, and sixpence worth of bootlaces from a one-armed soldier on the corner of Buckingham Palace Road traced the carter at least that far.

They asked around Wilton Place, Chester Street, and Belgrave Square, then into Lowndes Street and beyond. No one had seen him.

“Probably all still in bed,” Narraway said miserably, shivering with exhaustion. “He could have gone anywhere.”

“Servants wouldn’t be in bed at this hour,” Pitt replied, moving his weight from one foot to the other to ease the ache. “There was somebody putting out rubbish, beating a carpet, or carrying coals. Look around you.”

Narraway turned obediently. There were sounds of movement everywhere. A sleepy scullery maid fetched a scuttle of coal, her hands dirty, apron crumpled. A message boy strode along the pavement, whistling cheerfully. Somebody opened an upstairs window.

They tried again, knocking on areaway doors, kitchens, stopping the few people in the street. No one had seen the carter they described.

“He must live here!” Narraway said in disgust an hour and a half later. “We haven’t got time for this, Pitt. We’ll never find him this way.”

“I need breakfast,” Pitt replied. “I’m so thirsty I feel as if my tongue is as trodden on as the soles of my boots.”

“There’s nowhere around here to get anything.” Narraway looked miserably at the elegant façade of Eaton Place. “I know people in this damn street! But I can’t go and ask them for breakfast.”

“Who do you know?” Pitt inquired. “Which houses?”

“No!” Narraway was aghast. “Absolutely not!”

“To avoid them,” Pitt explained patiently.

“What are you going to do?” Narraway was too tired to hide his apprehension.

“Go and question someone’s servants inside,” Pitt replied with a faint smile. “Preferably in the kitchen. I’m not above asking the cook for a cup of tea and a piece of toast. I’ll even ask for one for you, if you like?”

“I like,” Narraway said grudgingly.

“Then I can think,” Pitt added. “We’re going about this the wrong way.”

“Couldn’t you have told me this ten miles ago?” Narraway asked sarcastically.

Fifteen minutes later, sitting at the table in a large and very well appreciated kitchen, they were sipping tea and inquiring about strangers in the neighborhood, possible break-ins, theft of harness or other stable supplies. They gained no information of any value whatsoever, but at least they had done it sitting down with tea, toast, and rather good marmalade.

The scullery maid returned to her chores and the cook resumed the preparation of breakfast for the household. They had both answered the brief police questions and satisfied their charitable consciences.

“I didn’t see it until now,” Pitt replied to Narraway’s original question.

“What? You are trying my patience, Pitt.” Narraway took another slice of toast from the rack and buttered it.

Pitt passed him the marmalade. “We lost the carter because he changed appearance. Which says he was in some form of disguise, even if only different clothes, attitude, and manner, and a good deal of dirt on his face.”

“Because he was not a carter by occupation,” Narraway agreed.

“We know that too. It doesn’t tell us who he was, or more importantly, where he is now.”

“It tells us he might be known without the disguise.”

“Ah…” Narraway took the point this time.

“What do we know about him?” Pitt went on. “Dunkeld must trust him, not only not to betray him, but his competence, his nerve, his ability to find the right sort of woman who would be taken for Sadie at a very rough glance…”

“Very rough?” Narraway questioned. “She was identified as Sadie.”

“By Dunkeld himself,” Pitt reminded him. “She only had to answer a verbal description: brown hair, blue eyes, average height, handsome build.”

“But he had to be there at the Palace doors with her in a box, not long after midnight,” Narraway agreed. “So he was someone Dunkeld trusted. We’ve no idea who that is. Could be dozens of people.”

Pitt leaned further forward over the table. “But who told Dunkeld how the woman in Cape Town was slashed? He wasn’t there. He made a point of saying that, and you confirmed it. The murder wasn’t common knowledge; in fact the whole episode was pretty well covered up.”

Narraway frowned. “Are you saying he was there?”

“No! I’m saying that someone who was there told him about it. And he trusted them enough in this for them to conspire together. He put his career, even his life, in their hands. Why did they do this for him?”

“Someone equally interested in the project,” Narraway answered. “Which comes back to Sorokine, Marquand, or Quase. But none of them left the Palace! They could have told him about the woman, if one of them killed her, but why in God’s name would they trust him with information like that? It could get them hanged! And if they’d trust Dunkeld never to use it against them, either they truly are insane, or else they had a hold on him so great he wouldn’t dare betray them? Is that what you are saying? It doesn’t tell me who the carter is. A three-way conspiracy?”

“No, just two,” Pitt shook his head. “Dunkeld wanted to get rid of Sorokine.”

“Sorokine could still be the madman from Cape Town,” Narraway cut across him. “Perhaps he’s done it again, since then, and Dunkeld knew, and that’s how he found out the method.”

“Too complicated, and still doesn’t tell us who the carter is,” Pitt told him, at last taking another bite of his toast and drinking half his tea before it was cold. He filled the cup again from the pot.

“Then what does?” Narraway ignored his own tea.

“We are assuming the plan is not working.” Pitt’s mind was racing from one improbability to another. “What if it is?”

“Dunkeld will hang for treason,” Narraway replied. “His daughter is dead and his wife despises him and is in love with Sorokine, whom he hates. I would say that is about as much failure as it’s possible to have.”

“Not Dunkeld’s plan, his co-conspirator’s,” Pitt corrected. “The carter, whoever he is.” At last it was beginning to clear in his mind, threads were emerging. “Who has won?”

“No one, unless getting rid of Dunkeld was what they wanted,” Narraway replied. “But Sorokine turned down the leadership, and neither Marquand nor Quase were offered it. They have even less autonomy under Forbes than they had before.”

“But Forbes had no part before, and now he has complete control, and the Prince’s profound gratitude,” Pitt said.

Narraway stiffened. “Forbes? But he doesn’t even approve of the damn railroad! His financial interest is in shipping!” A sudden spark lit in his eyes and slowly they widened.

“Exactly,” Pitt breathed out. “And what better position than leader of the project from which to make certain it never succeeds?”

“God Almighty!” Narraway breathed out. “He was the carter! He knows about the murder in Cape Town because he was there too! You’re not saying he killed her. Are you?”

Pitt thought for a moment. “What is Quase so afraid of? And he is, he’s terrified. Liliane too, but she doesn’t know of what.”

“He killed the woman, and Forbes knows it?” Narraway shook his head. “You’re wrong, Pitt. He would never allow the man to marry his daughter.”

“It’s not something Quase did.” Pitt was still making his way through the myriad of facts in his mind. “It’s something he knows.”

“Forbes killed them himself?” Narraway struggled with it.

“I don’t know.”

“We can’t prove it…” There was an anger and deep frustration in Narraway’s eyes and in the tight line of his lips. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“I don’t know what he did,” Pitt went on as if Narraway had not spoken. “But he did something, before he killed Kate. And Hamilton Quase knows about it, but Liliane doesn’t.” An idea was forming in his mind, one that Narraway would hate. “At least I think she doesn’t, although like Minnie, she may be working her way toward it. I wonder whom she loves more, her father or her husband.”

“Pitt!”

“Yes?”

“Don’t look at me with that air of innocence, damn it! We can’t prove anything against Forbes. All we have are guesses, and we could be wrong.”

“But we aren’t,” Pitt said it with growing assurance. “I don’t know if it was just to get rid of Dunkeld and take over the project, so he could see it fail, or there were other reasons as well…”

“Such as what?”

“I don’t know.” He didn’t, but he was beginning to guess, though it was not yet a thought he was prepared to share with Narraway. If his plan failed, and it well might, Narraway needed to be able to deny any knowledge of it. Pitt believed that to be fair. It was also the only chance he had of putting it into action. If he knew, Narraway would stop him. He would have to.

Pitt finished his tea. “We had better go back to the Palace. See if there is time to wash and shave before the Prince of Wales makes any formal appointment of Watson Forbes. I’ve got a clean shirt there. Perhaps Tyndale can get something for you.”

Narraway gave him a filthy look, but he did not argue.

At the Palace, Pitt changed hastily into a cleaner and less crumpled shirt, then went straight to the anteroom where they were all waiting to be ushered in for the Prince’s announcement. They looked somber and more than a little nervous. Neither the Prince of Wales nor Watson Forbes was there, but Gracie was. She looked unfamiliarly formal in a black stiff dress. Her white, lace-trimmed cap and apron were crisp and cool as snow. Her face showed intense relief when she saw Pitt, but since everyone else turned to look as he came in, she did not dare approach him.

Narraway was not there yet.

Pitt hesitated a moment, aware of what he was risking: Narraway’s anger; perhaps even the loss of his support, which might mean Pitt’s job. If he were right, the Prince of Wales would not forgive him. Even when he was king, his enmity would last. Above all, Pitt’s disgrace would cost Charlotte any hope she might have of once again being part of Society. All doors would be closed to him, and his children.

And if he did not try, he would deliberately have let go a man who would kill again and again in order to gain what he wanted.

He walked forward to Liliane Quase, who was standing a couple of yards from her husband, who was talking to Simnel with his back to her. But as always she was close, as if guarding him.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Quase,” Pitt said quietly. “This must be a desperate decision for you.”

Her marvelous eyes widened, dark with sudden terror. She started to speak, but the words died in her throat. She moved away from him, a step closer to her husband, her hand out, as if she would touch him.

Pitt made a guess, not certain what he meant. “He was willing to pay any price to earn your love, wasn’t he? Are you willing to let him? Even his life?” He was still guessing. “He was originally the one meant to take the blame for that woman’s death. Only his hatred of Julius made Dunkeld change the plan.”

“You can’t know…” she began, shaking her head from side to side.

“Your father won’t let the project succeed, you know. All his own money is in shipping,” Pitt went on.

She shook her head harder. “No…you’re wrong!” Her voice was no more than a whisper.

“Why does your father want your husband dead? What does he know that is so dangerous?”

She turned away from him and for an instant he thought he had lost.

Sensing her panic, Quase swung round toward her. Simnel Marquand moved away.

Liliane stared at her husband.

“What did you do for him?” she asked, her voice trembling now. “It was Eden’s death, wasn’t it? Everything was different after that.”

He looked at her with such pain and such gentleness that it met her worst fears. Pitt saw her body stiffen.

“It was Eden who killed that woman in Cape Town, wasn’t it?” There was no doubt or hesitation now. “Did he really fall into the river with the crocodiles?”

Hamilton did not answer.

“By accident?” she said hoarsely.

“Don’t ask, Liliane. It was best that way, cleaner than a trial and…” He could not say it.

“Hanging,” she finished for him. “And family disgrace. My father killed him, and you covered for them both, why? For my sake?”

“Of course. Why else would I do anything?”

“Even though he would have had you hanged for killing that poor woman in the linen cupboard?”

“I didn’t know that.”

Her eyes did not leave his. “You know it now.”

Two liveried footmen came and opened the doors, announcing that His Royal Highness would receive them.

Liliane glanced at Pitt, and the ghost of a smile touched her lips. Then she took her husband’s arm and walked into the throne room beside him.

Olga and Simnel Marquand followed, then Elsa on Julius’s arm, as was proper for the survivors of Dunkeld’s family.

Pitt offered his arm to Gracie, who hesitated, uncertain what to do. Then with a tight little grip, she took it.

Narraway followed last, a little breathless and in a borrowed shirt.

The throne room was magnificent, pale-walled, gleaming with gold, high windows letting in the shimmering sunlight. There was hardly any furniture to fill the space. The Prince and Princess of Wales stood at the far end ready to receive them. On either side were other members of the royal household, the Prime Minister and several members of his cabinet.

Gracie gasped and would have tripped on her skirt were she not hanging on to Pitt’s arm with a grip of iron.

Even Pitt was impressed more than he had ever intended to be. His courage wavered. He was absurd even to think of doing such a thing. He would be betraying Narraway’s trust in him.

Watson Forbes was in front of the Prince, a little to one side. The Princess stood apart, isolated by her deafness.

The Prince gestured for them to come forward.

Gracie’s hand tightened on Pitt’s arm so hard her fingers hurt his flesh. They stopped just behind Elsa and Julius. Pitt was pleased that they were so close to each other. They had moved in step, instinctively. He thought of Charlotte and wished she were here, and yet Gracie deserved to be present. And perhaps it was better Charlotte was not with him; thinking of her might destroy his courage.

Simnel was presented, with Olga beside him, and the Prince thanked him for his loyalty and skill.

Hamilton Quase was presented, and Liliane. Hamilton’s engineering brilliance was praised.

Julius was presented next, and the Prince sensibly excused his withdrawing from his diplomatic role because of the very recent death of his wife, for whom he was still in mourning. Elsa was presented as his mother-in-law, also very naturally mourning. Nothing was said of her being a second wife to Dunkeld, who was not mentioned at all.

Narraway was presented in his capacity as head of Special Branch, here to make certain every safety precaution was in place. The Prince thanked him also.

This was the moment of decision. Pitt stood face-to-face with his future king. It would never happen again. Either he condemned Forbes now, or his silence made Forbes safe forever.

“Your Royal Highness,” Pitt said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. He must be fair to Gracie. “May I recommend to you, ma’am, your most loyal and brave servant, Miss Gracie Phipps, who has assisted Special Branch in the service of the Crown.”

Gracie stood frozen in awe. She looked about thirteen.

“Indeed,” the Prince said with some surprise. “I am obliged to you, Miss Phipps.”

Suddenly Gracie’s legs gave way and she dropped a far deeper curtsy than she had intended. She managed to rise again only by hauling herself up on Pitt’s arm.

Pitt remained where he was.

The Prince of Wales stared at him with slight irritation. Pitt took a deep breath. This was the moment. “I regret, sir, that the railway will not be built by Mr. Forbes,” he said.

“Nonsense,” the Prince said savagely. “Please step back, sir! Do not compel me to call for assistance. It would be most embarrassing for you.”

“Mr. Forbes has misled you, sir,” Pitt said relentlessly. His voice was trembling, but he made it loud enough for the whole room to hear him. Was he ruining himself and his family? “He has expressed his belief that such a railway would be injurious to Africa and its peoples, and his own personal fortune is invested in shipping. He wishes to lead the project only in order to sabotage its success. Also, regrettably, he was responsible for a murder in Africa, and for the murder that His Royal Highness sent for Special Branch to solve. I am deeply sorry, sir. Could a resolution have been found earlier, you would not have been troubled at this late date.”

The Prince’s face was gray but for two spots of hectic color in his cheeks. “What the devil are you talking about?” he hissed. “He wasn’t even in the Palace when the woman died, you nincompoop! What murder in Africa? Have you taken leave of your wits entirely?”

“His own son, sir,” Pitt said as levelly as he could. “Eden Forbes. Tragically, he was mentally unbalanced, and murdered a half-caste prostitute in Cape Town. Rather than have him publicly tried and hanged for it, and knowing that it was a compulsion he would continue to follow, Mr. Forbes took him to a lonely place and executed him himself.”

The Prince stood paralyzed.

Watson Forbes swung round and took a step toward Pitt. Liliane interposed herself between them, facing her father. He looked at her eyes, and saw grief, and rage, and loyalty to her husband.

There was utter silence in the vast, glorious room. Every man and woman in it stood like figures in a painted tableau, gorgeous, lifeless.

Gracie’s nails dug into Pitt’s arm.

Pitt felt the sweat break out on his body and the instant after he was cold again.

Narraway was the first to move. He stepped up beside Pitt and bowed deeply to the Prince. “The matter is entirely closed, Your Royal Highness. The innocent have been vindicated and the guilty discovered and will now be arrested. I regret profoundly that it had to be done in your presence. We would all much rather you had not had to be distressed by it.”

The Princess of Wales stepped forward at last, linking her arm in that of her husband, and then she turned to Pitt, her eyebrows raised.

“I am deeply sorry, ma’am,” Pitt apologized humbly. “But I could not stand here and lie to His Royal Highness, and thus cause him to approve someone, in ignorance of their nature, and then be embarrassed later.”

“Your timing is unfortunate, sir,” the Princess said drily. “But I suppose your information is better late than not at all. You may go and finish your business. His Royal Highness is obliged to you.”

Pitt bowed again. “Ma’am.” Then he turned and withdrew as commanded, knowing that the Prince of Wales’s eyes followed him all the way to the great doors. He would neither forgive nor forget this wound, dealt in the throne room, in front of his court and his future ministers.

“’E in’t gonna get over that,” Gracie said in a hoarse whisper when they were back in the anteroom. “But yer done right.” She took a deep breath and smiled up at him. “I knew yer would.”

“Thank you, Gracie,” he said shakily. He thought of putting his other hand over to loosen the fierce grip of her fingers on his arm, but then decided not to. Perhaps it was enough.