Buckingham Palace Gardens

CHAPTER

TWO

ELSA DUNKELD AWOKE to find Bartle, her lady’s maid, standing at the foot of the bed with a tray in her hands. The curtains were already opened and the sun streamed in, lighting the unfamiliar room. It was a moment before she remembered where she was. She had slept poorly, troubled by dreams of empty corridors, through which she was looking for someone she never found. They were there in the distance, and then when she approached, they turned to face her and were someone else, strangers she fled from.

“Good morning, Bartie,” she said, sitting up slowly. She saw that the tray was set not for morning tea but for breakfast. She had not wished for breakfast in bed, but perhaps that would be pleasanter than facing the others again so soon.

“I’m afraid it isn’t a very good day, Miss Elsa.” Bartle set the tray down on the table beside the bed to leave Elsa room to arrange herself comfortably. She had been with Elsa since before her marriage to Cahoon Dunkeld seven years ago, and never doubted with whom her loyalty lay. She was in her fifties, broad-hipped, sensible but with a startlingly fresh sense of humor. Mostly she kept her opinions to herself, which, considering what they were, was just as well.

“I don’t suppose it will be any worse than yesterday,” Elsa replied with a slight smile, pushing her hair back off her brow. “We can manage it for a week.”

“I’m afraid today will be a lot worse,” Bartle said grimly. “You’d better take a sip or two o’ that tea.” She placed the tray on Elsa’s lap and poured from the pot without being asked to.

“Why? Is Mr. Dunkeld in an ill temper?” As soon as Elsa had said it she regretted being so frank. She should keep her fear to herself.

“Not as far as I know, ma’am,” Bartle answered, pulling her lips tight. “In fact, full of ’imself. Taking charge of everything.”

That was unusual candor, even for Bartle. For the first time it occurred to Elsa that there was something really wrong. “What is it?” she said nervously. “What’s happened?” She imagined some romantic intrigue. The first and most obvious one that came to her mind concerned Cahoon’s daughter by his first marriage, Minnie Sorokine. Minnie was in her late twenties, tall and slender, yet with a voluptuous grace. She was not conventionally beautiful; instead, she had an air of daring and glamour about her that was more exciting than mere regularity of features or flawlessness of complexion. It suggested passion and originality, a challenge to master. There was something unsatisfied in her that gave her a restlessness many men found attractive. Eight years ago she had married Julius Sorokine. This fact was so painful to Elsa that she couldn’t bear to dwell on it, and yet neither could she fully leave it alone. Minnie and Julius’s wedding had happened just before Elsa had married Cahoon, although Elsa was ten years Minnie’s senior. Family obligations had delayed the point where Elsa was able to marry, which in fact had not been a hardship because there had been no one she truly loved. But then she met Julius, and of course that was far too late. By then he was her son-in-law, and there was no hope at all for any other relationship between them, just a dream that there could have been something infinitely, passionately better than this! Her life could have had laughter in it, kindness, the sharing of joy and pain, the trust and the inner gentleness that is love.

But Minnie had not found it in Julius, or she would never have indulged in that brief, white-hot affair with Julius’s half-brother, Simnel Marquand.

“What is it, Bartie?” Elsa said more abruptly. “Stop fussing with the things on the dressing table and tell me.” She took a second sip of her tea, steadying herself.

Bartle put down the tortoiseshell-backed hairbrush. “The gentlemen had a…a party last night,” she said stiffly. “It seems one of the trollops they had in got herself killed…in the linen cupboard of all places.” She sniffed. In spite of her words, her face was crumpled with pity. “I can’t imagine what the stupid creature was doing there. Although I suppose they have to do whatever they’re paid for, poor things.”

“Killed?” Elsa was incredulous. The cup nearly slipped out of her hand. “What kind of an accident can you have in a linen cupboard, for goodness’ sake? You must be mistaken.”

“It wasn’t an accident, Miss Elsa,” Bartle explained miserably. “They’ve got the police in. That’s why everyone’s having breakfast in bed. The Prince has asked everyone to stay in their rooms until it’s been seen to.”

“That’s absurd.” Elsa struggled to grasp the meaning of what Bartle had said. “No one here would kill anybody, and surely the Palace, of all places, cannot be broken into?”

“No, miss. That’s what’s so bad about it,” Bartle agreed, waiting for Elsa to understand.

“It must have been an accident.” Elsa’s mind raced to think what could have happened. She had gone to bed early, as had the other three women, to avoid the appearance of even knowing about the party. “That’s the only thing possible. It’s ridiculous to get the police in.”

“Shall I lay out the green and white muslin, Miss Elsa?” Bartle asked.

“If the woman is dead, I should wear something darker,” Elsa replied.

“She was a street woman, miss. And you’re not supposed to even know about her,” Bartle pointed out.

“She’s still dead,” Elsa retorted.

Bartle did not reply, but went on laying out the expensive morning gown of printed linen and muslin. It had a deep collar heavily frilled with lace and ribbons, and more lace down the front and at the sleeves. A wide, dark green ribbon tied around the waist and fell on the first tier of the skirt. The middle tier was plain green linen, the third heavily gathered muslin again. Cahoon was generous, and of course he expected his wife to look both beautiful and expensive. It was a reflection upon him. He had married Elsa because she knew how to conduct herself, to say the right things, and use the correct form of address for everyone. She was an excellent hostess. Her dinner parties never failed. She had a gift for knowing exactly who to invite with whom. And she never complained. That was part of the bargain between them.

“Bargain” was a terrible word to describe a marriage, and yet, tacitly, that is what it had been, in spite of the turbulent physical beginning. And that was past now. Emotionally she bored him, which both hurt, because it was humiliating, and was a kind of relief, because she no longer desired him either. He was intelligent, commanding to look at, and he certainly afforded her a life of luxury, travel, and conversation with most interesting people—men who invented, explored, dared, and governed all over the Empire.

Elsa knew she was envied. She had seen the quick fire of interest in other women’s eyes, the flush to the skin, heard the altered pitch in their voices. She had enjoyed it. Who does not wish to have what others so clearly want?

But at the end of even the most vigorous or luxurious day, even if briefly physically intimate, at heart she was alone. She and Cahoon did not share laughter or dreams. She did not know what hurt him or moved him to tenderness, nor did he appear to know it of her. What twisted the knife in the wound was the fact that he did not wish to.

Would life with Julius have been any different? It was a sudden, bitter thought that if he did not love Minnie, maybe then perhaps he was not capable of loving anyone.

IT WAS A long, frustrating morning alone. She did not go to the withdrawing room for the guests’ use until shortly before luncheon. The walls were lined in vivid yellow brocade exactly matching that of the sofas and the seats of the elegant, hard-backed chairs. The enormous windows, stretching almost to the height of the ornate blue-and-white ceiling, were curtained in the same shade. The mantel was also white, with tall blue lamps on either end of it, giving the whole room a delicate, sunny feeling. The carpet was pale blue and russet. The only darker tones were the surfaces of the tables in the center and against the wall, where one might rest a glass.

Elsa found only Olga Marquand there, wearing a plum gown that did not flatter her dark looks. It should have been warming to her sallow complexion, and yet somehow it failed. Nor did its severe line lend her any suggestion of softness. A gathering, a drape, an additional tier of skirt might have helped.

Olga was a little above average height and very slender. With more confidence she would have been elegant, but looking at her now, Elsa realized how little Olga had the spirit to fight. She did not brazen it out and make people believe that her square shoulders and angular grace were more interesting than the more traditional curves of someone like Minnie. She had high cheekbones and a slightly aquiline nose. Her brow was smooth and her black hair swept back from it with unusual classic severity. Her dark eyes were hooded. At their first meeting Elsa had thought Olga uniquely beautiful. Now she seemed beaky, and cold.

Olga turned as Elsa entered the room. “Have you heard anything more?” she asked quietly. Her voice was good, even rich. “Who is it who died? Why is everyone being so secretive?”

“My maid said it was one of the…the women from last night’s party,” Elsa replied, keeping her own voice low as well.

Olga raised her arched eyebrows. “What did she do, fall downstairs blind drunk?” Her voice was raw with disgust, though perhaps it was pain. Elsa could only guess how she felt about her husband associating with such women, even if it was only to please the Prince of Wales. Perhaps he thought he had no choice, if they were to ensure the Prince’s support in their bid to gain the contract for a railway right from Cape Town to Cairo, like a spine to all Africa. Did Olga understand that, or did it hurt too much for her to care?

Elsa looked at her and thought how different they were. She realized with surprise that she was not repulsed by the thought that Cahoon should have indulged himself with either the brandy or the women. She would have, in the beginning, but not now. Olga cared to the point where she could not keep from betraying the pain of it, even in front of others. It was more than self-possession or dignity, or a trespass on her pride. She still loved Simnel, in spite of everything.

Olga was staring at her, waiting for a reply. She was angry, perhaps because Elsa was not hurt as she was, or maybe because it was Cahoon who had arranged the evening.

“In the linen cupboard, I believe,” Elsa said aloud.

“You must be mistaken.” Olga was derisive. “How can you kill yourself in a linen cupboard? Did she suffocate in a pile of sheets?”

“I gather it was worse than that, but I don’t know how.”

Olga tried to hide her shock. “You mean somebody did it deliberately? That’s absurd. Why would anyone bother?” There was an infinity of contempt in the final word.

You are wearing your unhappiness too openly, Elsa thought. It does not make you more attractive. Aloud she said, “I don’t know. But men do a lot of things for reasons I don’t understand.”

“Including having women like that to a party!” Olga added bitterly.

Liliane Quase entered in a swirl of pale golden-green skirts, light, airy, and feminine. She was beautiful in an abundant way. She had creamy skin, dark auburn hair, and eyes of golden brown. She was just a little too short to have real grace, but most of the time she disguised it with cleverly cut gowns that suggested more height than she had. Today the line of the gathered second tier was lower than usual, sweeping outward and making her legs seem far longer. Another woman would notice the artifice, but a man would not.

Elsa found herself smiling very slightly. She also knew that Liliane wore a higher heel to her shoes and had learned to walk in them very gracefully. She must have practiced a long time.

“For goodness’ sake, it’s necessary to humor the Prince of Wales, Olga!” Liliane said impatiently. “It’s probably largely harmless, a bit of showing off. It’s all very silly, but it’s even sillier of you to allow yourself to be offended by it. You give it more importance than it deserves.” She looked around for some form of aperitif, and saw nothing. “Women who keep taking offense are very tiresome, my dear. Nothing bores a man faster. Take my advice and pretend you don’t care a fig. In fact, better than that, don’t allow yourself to care.”

Olga drew in her breath to make a stinging retort, then apparently could not think of one. “Elsa is hinting that she was murdered,” she observed instead.

Liliane swung around to regard Elsa with surprise. “Who is saying such an idiotic thing?” Her voice was perfectly steady, but her eyes were bright and her gaze unnaturally firm. “Murdered how?”

“I don’t know,” Elsa admitted. “But she was found in the linen cupboard.”

“The linen cupboard!” Liliane exclaimed. “By whom, for heaven’s sake? Probably some stupid maid in hysterics. I dare say the wretched girl was with child and tried to abort herself. I expect they’ll get it cleared up, and we can all get back to what matters. There is a great deal to discuss yet to ensure that His Royal Highness is fully aware of all the facts.”

“I’m sure he knows the map of Africa as well as we do,” Olga told her. “It’s really quite simple. Cape Town is on the coast of South Africa, which is British anyway. After that the railway would go up through Bechuanaland, then the British South Africa Company territory. There is only the stretch between German East Africa and Congo Free State that is foreign, then we are into British East Africa. Sudan might be tricky, but then there’s Egypt, which is British, and we are in Cairo. It isn’t largely the diplomatic issues that are the problem.” She dismissed them with a jerk of her hand. “It is the engineering. Let the police clear up whatever happened to this woman in the cupboard. It’s totally absurd for such a thing to hold up discussion of a railway that will change the face of the Empire. There must be prostitutes dying every day, somewhere or other.”

“This is not ‘somewhere or other,’” Elsa pointed out. “It is a linen cupboard in Buckingham Palace, not twenty yards from my bedroom door, or yours, for that matter.”

“My dear,” Liliane said with elaborate patience, “it is as irrelevant to you as if it were in China! For goodness’ sake forget about it, and concentrate on being charming to His Royal Highness. It’s probably not good manners even to mention such a thing, let alone be seen to be disconcerted by it.”

“Positively vulgar!” Minnie said from the doorway. “A guest should never appear to find anything odd, no matter what it is. Good morning, Elsa, Mrs. Marquand, Mrs. Quase.” She looked superb. Her morning gown was a rich golden yellow with a long, two-tiered skirt that swayed when she moved and had ribbons at her throat and wrist. The bloom of youth was in her skin, her eyes were bright, and she had a kind of concentrated energy so delicately controlled that she seemed to be more alive than any of the others. It was an inner excitement, as if she knew something they did not. Elsa sometimes wondered if that were so.

“I suggest we don’t refer to it,” Minnie added, moving toward the door into the dining room. “Where is everyone else?”

“It is more than a misfortune in domestic arrangements,” Elsa said tartly. Minnie’s callousness annoyed her, as did everything else about her at one time or another. Minnie’s father’s intense admiration for her was almost a fascination, as if she were a reflection of himself. But most of all, of course, the spur to her dislike was that she was Julius’s wife.

“No, it isn’t,” Minnie contradicted her with a slight shrug. “People do die. It can’t be helped. It is rude to make much of it. I should be fearfully embarrassed if one of my maids died vulgarly when I had houseguests.”

“Of course you would,” Julius agreed, coming in from the hall. “Dying vulgarly is a privilege exclusive to the upper classes. Servants should die decently in bed.”

“Don’t be witty, Julius,” Minnie snapped. “It doesn’t become you. Anyway, she wasn’t a servant, she was a…”

“Where should they die, my dear? In the street?” he inquired languidly.

She opened her eyes very wide and stared at him. “I have no idea. It is not a matter I have ever considered.” She swung round, elegantly turning her skirt with a little flick, and walked away into the dining room.

Julius glanced at Elsa, a faint, rueful smile on his face, and then sighed and followed after his wife.

Elsa felt her throat tighten and her heart lurch.

Then the moment was broken by Simnel coming in. Although he was Julius’s half-brother, they were not alike. Julius was taller and broader at the shoulders, and Elsa could see a greater imagination and more vulnerability in the line of his mouth than in Simnel’s. But then she was more certain of her emotion than of her judgment. Perhaps that was only what she wished to see.

“What on earth is going on?” Simnel asked, looking around. “Who are the men asking questions and sending the servants into hysterics? I just saw one of the maids with tears streaming down her face, and she ran from me as if I had horns and a tail.”

Cahoon came in practically on his heels. “There’s been an ugly incident,” he answered, as if the question had been addressed to him. “One of last night’s whores was murdered. Regrettably we have to have the police in, but if they do their job properly, they may clear it up within a day or so. We must just keep our heads and go on with our work. Shall we go in to luncheon.” That was an order more than a suggestion. “Where is Hamilton?”

Elsa disliked the use of the word whore. It sounded so pitiless, particularly when her husband was being brutally frank. She had despised the women when they were alive, but now that one of them had been murdered she felt differently. It was uncomfortable, even disconcerting, but for the sake of her own humanity, she told herself that she needed to observe their common bond more than their differences.

Cahoon went into the dining room ahead, leaving her to follow, with Olga beside her. The Prince of Wales was obviously not joining them, so there was little formality observed. They each took the places at which they had sat the previous day, the women assisted by servants.

This room also was magnificent, but too heavy in style for Elsa’s taste. She felt dwarfed by the huge paintings with their frames so broad as to seem almost a feature of the architecture. The ceiling stretched like the canopy of some elaborate tent, with the optical illusion of being arched. It was beautiful, and yet she was not comfortable in it. Certainly she did not wish to eat.

The soup was served in uncomfortable silence before Hamilton Quase joined them, taking the one empty chair without comment. He was tall and slender, and in his late forties. He had been handsome in his youth, but his fair hair had lost its thickness. His face was burned by the sun and marred by an absentminded sadness, as if he had forgotten its exact cause, or possibly chosen to forget it.

Liliane looked at him anxiously. The footman offered him soup but he declined, saying he would wait for the fish. He did accept the white wine, and drank from the glass immediately.

“You’d expect a place like Buckingham Palace to be safe, wouldn’t you!” he said challengingly. “How the devil can a lunatic break in here? Can anyone walk in and out as they please?”

“Nobody walked in,” Cahoon told him. “Or out.”

Hamilton set his glass down so violently the wine slopped over. “God! You mean he’s still here?”

“Of course he’s still here!” Cahoon snapped. “He was always here!”

Hamilton stared at him, the color draining from his face.

“You’re frightening the women,” Julius said critically to Cahoon. He glanced around the table. “Nobody broke in, and nobody will. One of the servants completely lost control of himself and must have hit her, or strangled her, or whatever it was. It’s a tragedy, but it’s none of our business. And there is certainly nothing for us to be afraid of. The police will deal with it.”

Hamilton raised his glass in a salute to Julius, and drank again.

Liliane relaxed a little and picked up her fork.

“Knifed her,” Cahoon filled in as the butler placed the fish in front of him. “Cut her throat and…and her body. I’m afraid this is going to be unpleasant.”

“How do you know?” Simnel asked with more curiosity than alarm. He glanced at Minnie, and then back at Cahoon.

“I found her,” Cahoon said simply.

Elsa was startled. The wineglass slipped in her fingers and she only just caught it before it spilled. “I thought she was in a linen cupboard!”

“What on earth were you doing in a linen cupboard so early in the morning?” Julius asked with a very slight smile. “Or at any time, for that matter.”

“The door was open,” Cahoon told him tartly. “I smelled it.”

Liliane wrinkled her nose. “If we must have this discussion at all, could we at least put it off until after we have finished dining, Cahoon? I’m sure we are grateful that you seem to be taking charge of things, but your zeal has temporarily overtaken your good taste. I would prefer to have my fish without the details.”

“I’m afraid we are not going to escape all of the unpleasantness,” Cahoon said drily. “The servants are bound to be useless for a while. Some of them may even leave.”

“One of them needs to,” Julius pointed out.

Elsa wanted to laugh, but she knew it was out of fear rather than amusement, and wildly inappropriate. She choked it back, pretending to have swallowed badly. No one took the slightest notice of her.

“It makes you realize how little you know people,” Olga murmured.

“One doesn’t know servants,” Minnie corrected her. “One knows about them.”

“If they knew about him, they would hardly have employed him.” Julius looked at her coolly.

“I imagine they thought they did.” Cahoon began to eat again. “None of us know as much about people as we imagine we do.” He glanced around the table, his eyes for a moment on each of them.

“We have all known one another to some degree for years, but I have no idea what dreams are passing through your mind, Julius. Or yours, Hamilton. What do you wish for most at this moment, Simnel?”

“A peaceful luncheon and a productive afternoon,” Simnel replied instantly, but there was a touch of color in his cheeks and he did not meet Cahoon’s eyes, still less did he look at Olga.

Elsa knew he was thinking of Minnie. Probably they all did. She stole a very quick glance at Olga, and saw the pallor of her skin and the pull on the fabric of her dress as it strained across her hunched shoulders. For a hot, ugly moment she hated Cahoon for his cruelty.

Minnie was concentrating on her plate, the shadow of her eyelashes dark on her cheek. She seemed to glow with satisfaction.

“Slashed with a knife?” Elsa said aloud. “Whoever takes a carving knife to an assignation in the linen cupboard? It doesn’t make any sense!”

“Cutting a whore up with a carving knife doesn’t make any sense wherever you do it, Elsa,” Cahoon said abruptly. “We aren’t looking for a sane man. Surely you realize that?”

She felt humiliated, but she could think of nothing to say that would rebut his remark. Of course she knew it was not a sane thing to do. It had been an impulsive observation.

Oddly, it was Hamilton Quase who defended her. “Someone who is sane enough to pass as a Palace servant probably appears sane in most things,” he said with a casual air, as if they were discussing a parlor game. “If he were running up and down the staircases with wild eyes and blood on his hands, someone would have noticed.”

“Providing they also were sober,” Olga said waspishly. “And not doing much the same! Were any of you sober enough last night to have noticed such a thing?”

“Unkind, my dear,” Hamilton responded, picking up his glass again. “You should not remind a man of his lapses, especially in front of his wife.”

“She is the one person with whom they are quite safe,” Cahoon responded, looking across the table at Liliane.

Liliane’s eyes were very bright and there was a touch of color in her cheeks. She too seemed to search for something to say, and not to find it. For a moment a shadow crossed her face with possibly hatred in it. Then, as if the sun had returned, it was gone. “Of course,” she said with her lovely smile. “Are we not all loyal to family and friends? Such a thing is hardly worth remark.”

Julius applauded silently, but none of them missed his gesture.

Minnie shivered. “It’s a horrible thought.” She looked at her father, shrugging her shoulders elegantly, avoiding everyone’s eyes but his. “I hope they find him very soon.”

“Don’t make any assignations with servants in the linen cupboard in the meantime,” Julius told her. “You should be safe enough.”

Cahoon froze, his face red. “What did you say?” he demanded, his voice like ice.

Julius paled slightly, but he held Cahoon’s eye and repeated his words exactly.

Cahoon leaned forward, knocking a water glass over and ignoring the mess on the table. Elsa knew she should intervene, but she was afraid of Cahoon when he lost his temper. She tried to speak, though her mouth was dry and her throat tight.

“You are speaking of my daughter, sir!” Cahoon said loudly. “You will apologize to her, and to the rest of us, or I will horsewhip you!”

“No, sir,” Julius corrected him. “I am speaking of my wife. I think sometimes you forget that. And undoubtedly sometimes she does.”

For once Minnie blushed.

Cahoon’s face was still red, his eyes blazing.

“Calm down and don’t be an ass,” Hamilton Quase said calmly and with a delicate derision. “Nobody is fooled by any of this. We are all afraid. There’s a madman loose in the Palace, and he may be downstairs socially, but there is no bar on the stairway and he can come up anytime he wishes, as demonstrated by the fact that the wretched woman was found in the cupboard on our landing. Please heaven, let’s hope this policeman is up to his job and takes the man away as soon as possible.”

Cahoon turned to regard Hamilton coldly. “Do you have any idea what you are talking about, Hamilton? I saw the woman’s body! It was like nothing you have ever imagined. Or perhaps you have? How long were you in Africa?”

Liliane was gripping her fish fork as if it were a weapon, her knuckles white. She stared at Cahoon, hatred in her eyes. “Long enough to show courage and resolution in the face of tragedy, Mr. Dunkeld, and to know how to help people rather than make things worse by losing his temper and his judgment,” she said loudly. “How long were you there?”

Hamilton looked at her with some surprise, and a sudden, overwhelming tenderness in his eyes. Then he turned to Cahoon.

Elsa wondered what they were talking about. She could see Julius’s eyes widen, and a faint flush on Hamilton’s face. They were referring to something specific. They knew it. She, Minnie, and Olga were completely confused.

Slowly Cahoon sat back in his chair.

Elsa found herself shaking with relief.

The servants, who had stepped back, resumed their silent duties, and one by one everyone began to eat again.

Elsa’s mind raced. What had Cahoon been referring to? It had been an attack on Hamilton somehow, and Liliane had leaped in to protect him, as she seemed to do so often. From what? What was she afraid of? According to Cahoon, a woman of the streets had been murdered here where they were guests, and everyone was afraid. But were they all afraid of the same thing, or was it different for each of them?

The main course was served. Cahoon introduced the subject of the great railway again. The men all contributed from their various skills and fields of knowledge as to the difficulties they might face and how they should be overcome.

Simnel was a financier, brilliant at attracting funds at the most excellent rates. What he had to say was in many ways dry: lists of bankers and wealthy men who would be willing to invest. It was the wealth of his knowledge and his memory for detail that impressed. He knew not only everyone’s worth, but their history, and, if he chose to, he could be amusing in recounting it.

He spoke mostly to Cahoon, but he included all of them. When he looked at Olga it was casual, as it was to Elsa and Liliane, no more than that. When he looked at Minnie there was a heat in his eyes, and he moved his glance quickly, as though he knew he betrayed himself.

He did not look at Julius at all. Elsa wondered if it were guilt because Minnie was his wife, or something older and deeper than that. Did he want Minnie for himself, or was it really because by taking her he was cuckolding his brother?

They moved to discussing one of the most difficult legs of the journey diplomatically, which, as Olga had said, lay between German East Africa and Congo Free State. Julius touched briefly on how it was both a political and a logistic problem. It was his art to persuade, suggest compromise, know every nation’s ambitions and fears, strengths and weaknesses, so he could offer a solution that left all parties feeling as if they had had the best of the deal.

Elsa listened to him intently, and only moved her gaze from his face when she noticed Cahoon watching her, and then Minnie’s smile. Julius had never once looked at her. Was he afraid in case his looks were too close, too soft? Or did he simply have no wish to? How much of what she remembered was really only imagination, her own wish, her burning hunger, and for him merely politeness, possibly even embarrassment?

Minnie was so vivid, so alive. Cahoon was watching her now, his face brooding, but his eyes bright with pleasure. He was the organizer of men and labor. He had a farsighted vision in planning the movement of machines, timber, and steel. He knew where to buy and how to ship. He was passionate about the whole vision and the excitement of it rang in his voice. He seemed to radiate energy.

Minnie turned quite deliberately to watch him.

What he was describing would be the backbone of Africa from the Cape of Good Hope, which divided the South Atlantic from the Indian Ocean, almost seven thousand miles, up across the equator, to the delta where the Nile poured into the Mediterranean. In spite of herself, Elsa was fired up by the vision too.

Lastly Hamilton spoke. He was the engineer. He could not only weigh and judge the more obvious issues, he could make leaps of the imagination laterally, create possibilities no one else had considered, solve problems, and devise new methods of doing things. He spoke well, with dry, self-deprecating humor. Was it a mannerism, as if he had been taught the vulgarity of self-praise? Or did he really have so little regard for his own abilities?

Elsa looked at Liliane, to see if she perceived it also, and saw fear without knowing of what. Then she wished she had not understood so clearly. She was guilty of an intrusion.

She was not really interested in the facts. Of course, she wished the project to succeed because it was what the men wanted. It would bring them both immense financial profit, and even more, it would inevitably bring fame and honor. She knew that was what Cahoon hungered for.

She looked at him where he sat now, his broad shoulders hunched a little as if his jacket restricted him, his face intent.

What he wanted was recognition, title. He had a compelling hunger to be ennobled, and to become part of the Prince of Wales’s circle. That was the highest in the land, since the Queen had no circle anymore. She had lived in a kind of seclusion ever since Prince Albert’s death more than three decades ago.

Elsa looked across the table where Minnie was watching her father. There was a warmth in her face, an ease in her eyes and mouth, and yet she was still not entirely comfortable. Her concentration was too direct.

They were all pretending to be absorbed in the intricacies of the great plan, but she wondered how many of them were actually more interested in their own hungers? Why did Minnie find Simnel attractive? Was it to test her power because she could not find in her own husband the passion she longed for?

Suddenly Elsa was assailed by guilt. She imagined being in Minnie’s place, married to Julius. To the outside world she would possess a happiness any woman would desire. Elsa did! Yet in reality perhaps Minnie was also alone, close but never touching in the heart or mind, nearness without intimacy. How many people lived like that?

Someone was speaking to Elsa, but she had not heard him. It was Cahoon, and he was angry that she was not listening. It showed a lack of respect. Did it hurt anything more than his vanity? He wanted her to love him, she knew that. But why? For the power it gave him? To feed his self-esteem? Or because he too ached for tenderness, someone to share his laughter and pain?

“Elsa!” His voice was sharp.

She must pay attention. “Yes, Cahoon?”

“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Are you ill?”

“No.” She must think of a quick lie. “I was wondering if the policeman was having any success.”

“There are two of them, and they are from Special Branch,” he corrected her. “Apparently they are more discreet than the regular sort. I asked you if you would like to come with me to Cairo when we negotiate some of the details there.”

Instantly she wondered if Julius would be involved. Did Cahoon mean diplomatic details, or engineering? She could not ask. And did she want to be near Julius or not? Did she want the heightened loneliness, the wondering? If she became certain that he did love her, it would fill her heart. It would be desperately sweet, overwhelming. But there was nothing that they could do about it, ever. He was married to her stepdaughter. There could never be happiness in a double betrayal.

Or she would discover that he did not love her, only desired her, as Simnel had Minnie—and, it seemed, still did—with a hunger filled with resentment because it was a kind of bondage. This only triggered more emptiness within. Did she want to know if he was shallower than she thought, worth less? Or even worse, that she herself was?

“Elsa, take command of yourself!” Cahoon snapped. “Do you want to come or not?”

“Yes, of course,” she answered, because she could think of no excuse. Or perhaps it was because she could not let go of the chance to spend time with Julius, whatever the cost. All reason was against it, and yet she had chosen to do it unhesitatingly.

She used to feel as if she and Minnie were a world apart from each other, so different there was no possibility of understanding between them. Perhaps she was wrong, and in reality she was just like Minnie, only with slightly less flair.

THE AFTERNOON WAS miserable. The men resumed their discussions, joined at about three o’clock by the Prince of Wales, who looked formal and very serious. Elsa spoke to him only briefly, but she could see that he was still suffering from the effects of a night of self-indulgence and then the most appalling shock. He greeted her with his usual courtesy, but did not say anything more than to inquire after her well-being and wish her a good afternoon. She could not help noticing the relief in his face when he saw Cahoon walking over toward him, smiling and with a confidence in his stride and in the set of his shoulders that suggested he was master of events. There was nothing to fear after all.

Of course there wasn’t, she told herself. It was tragic for the woman concerned, and it was most unpleasant, but no more than that.

She filled in the afternoon walking in the gardens alone for a while, then played cards for an hour with Olga, who seemed to find as much difficulty as she did in concentrating. At afternoon tea she made conversation with Liliane, mostly gossip neither of them cared about. Who had said what to whom had never mattered much to either of them.

At about quarter to six Bartle came to Elsa’s room to tell her that the policeman would like to speak with her.

“With me?” Elsa was startled. “Whatever for? I have no idea what happened.”

Bartle’s expression was grim. “I don’t know, Miss Elsa. But he an’ the other one’ve been talking to the regular servants here all afternoon. He just spoke to Mrs. Quase, an’ now he’d like to see you. I think there’s something badly wrong, ma’am.”

Elsa opened the door to the small sitting room with more curiosity than trepidation. The man she found inside was taller than she had expected, but otherwise he appeared fairly ordinary, apart from an unusual intelligence in his eyes. He was clean-shaven. His hair was curly and too long, and she noticed immediately that his coat hung badly, possibly because the right pocket bulged with something large inside it. His shirt collar sat crookedly and his tie was too loose. He looked tired.

“Good afternoon,” she said, closing the door. “I believe you wished to speak with me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Dunkeld,” he replied, stepping back a little to make room for her to pass him easily and choose whatever chair she wished.

“My name is Inspector Pitt.”

She was surprised. His voice was excellent, deep, and with both the timbre and the enunciation of a man of education, which he could not be, or he would not be employed in such an occupation. Everyone knew that except in most serious command, police were from the lower social orders. Even the better servants frowned on them.

She sat down in one of the smaller wing chairs and adjusted the skirts of her afternoon gown. “I cannot help you,” she said politely. “I know very little of the Palace. This is the only time I have been here, and it is only two days since I arrived.”

“Yes, I know that, Mrs. Dunkeld.” He took the seat opposite her, which was upright and less comfortable. “Are you aware of what happened here last night?”

She noticed that he looked concerned, as if he were obliged to tell her something she would find distressing. She wanted to put him at ease. “Yes, I am. One of the women who came to the party yesterday evening was murdered.”

He looked surprised that she could be so blunt about it. She wondered if he had been afraid she did not know what manner of women they were.

“You have been questioning the servants all day, to find out who is responsible,” she added. “I hope you have been successful. The reason we are His Royal Highness’s guests concerns a matter of the greatest possible importance. It would be far better if the gentlemen were all free to continue with their business without further distress.” She chose the words to be as tactful as possible, leaving open the suggestion that there was pity for the dead woman as well as inconvenience involved. She could not tell from his face if he understood that. There was a flash of humor in his eyes that could have meant anything. It disconcerted her because she could not read him as swiftly as she had imagined she would.

He looked at her steadily, a very slight frown between his brows. “The prostitute that the Prince had chosen for himself was found in the linen cupboard this morning,” he told her. “I’m afraid she was completely unclothed, and she had been slashed to death with a knife.”

Elsa was stunned. For a moment she found it hard to breathe. Cahoon had mentioned a carving knife, but she had thought he was being deliberately brutal. From this quiet man with his bulging pockets and his steady eyes, quite suddenly the woman’s death had a reality that was shocking. She started to speak, and then had no idea what she wanted to say.

“We have questioned all the servants,” Pitt continued, “and found that none of them could be responsible.”

For a moment she did not understand. “You mean someone broke in?” she said incredulously. “But we are in the Palace! That could not happen. Or are you saying it was one of the guards? I find that hard to believe. Are you certain?”

“No one broke in, Mrs. Dunkeld. The guards can account for one another. This is the sort of crime that a man commits alone.”

“You mean it was…?” She did not wish to use the words necessary to explain herself. Why had she supposed the murder had been committed merely out of anger? Given the occupation of the woman, it could be assumed that she had earned her fee. “Poor creature,” she added, imagining what it must have been like. Involuntarily her mind flew to occasions of intimacy with Cahoon when she had been aware of her own helplessness, and frightened of him, even physically hurt. He had taken pleasure in her pain, she was sure of that now. It had excited him.

“I’m sorry.” The policeman was apologizing to her. Had her face been so transparent? She felt the heat rise up on it. Please heaven this man mistook it for modesty. She was allowing him to unnerve her. Cahoon would find that contemptible.

“I am quite capable of facing facts, Mr. Pitt,” she said sharply. “Even if they are unpleasant. I have not lived my entire life in the withdrawing room.”

If he understood her, there was no reflection of it in his expression, except perhaps a flash of pity. “No one broke in, Mrs. Dunkeld. I am afraid that leaves no possibility other than that it was one of the guests.”

She had thought herself already stunned. This was beyond belief. “You mean one of us?” Her voice was high-pitched; she refused to accept the thought. “That’s absurd!” Even as the words spilled out, she knew it was not absurd. All kinds of people have passions that lie beneath the disciplined surface, until some fear or hunger makes them momentarily ungovernable. Usually it is violent words that break through, or something beautiful or precious is smashed to pieces in rage. What prevents it from being a human being? The conventions of society and the fear of punishment. All human life must be regarded as sacred, or one’s own may be endangered as well. But do women who sell their bodies for others to use count as human life in the same way? If they did, could one buy them in the first place?

He was watching her.

“I have no knowledge that could be helpful, Mr. Pitt,” she said as steadily as she could. “As you must already know, the gentlemen remained at the party, and we retired early. I did not see anyone again until my maid woke me this morning and told me there had been a tragedy, and we were requested to remain in our bedrooms.”

“Do you know at what time your husband retired?” he asked.

He must be aware that they had separate rooms. This was a perfectly usual thing for the wealthy, but not, she imagined, for the class to which he belonged.

“No, I don’t,” she answered. “Perhaps if you ask the other gentlemen, they will be able to tell you.” Not counting the Prince of Wales—and that he should be guilty was unthinkable—there were only four of them: Cahoon, Julius, Hamilton, and Simnel. What this policeman was saying seemed inescapable, and yet it was also ridiculous. He did not know them, or he would not even imagine it.

But how well did she know them? She had been married to Cahoon for over seven years, lived in his house, sometimes intimately, at other times as strangers, misreading each other, saying the same words and meaning different things. She knew his mind. He was lucidly clear. But she had never known his heart.

Hamilton Quase was charming when he wished to be, but Liliane was obviously afraid for him. She leaped to defend him as if he were uniquely vulnerable. Memories flashed into Elsa’s mind of looks between Liliane and Julius, a sudden pallor on Hamilton’s face, and a smile on Cahoon’s, then a thinning of the lips, an unnatural change of subject.

“I would help you if I could, Mr. Pitt,” she said, struggling to sound resolute and in control. “This is an appalling thing to have happened, for all of us, but of course mostly for the poor woman. I retired a little after nine. I have no knowledge of what happened after that. You will have to ask my husband, and the other gentlemen.”

“I have done, Mrs. Dunkeld,” Pitt replied. “Each says that after the…entertainment…was finished, he retired alone. Except Mr. Sorokine. He says he left them early, and they all confirm that he did, as do the servants. Unfortunately, since he did not share a room with Mrs. Sorokine, or see her again until morning, that is of little value to us in excluding him.”

She felt her face burn. “I see. So you know nothing, except that it was one of us?”

“Yes. I am afraid that is exactly what I mean.”

She could think of no reply, not even any protest or question. The silence lay in the room like a covering for the dead.