Buckingham Palace Gardens

CHAPTER

THREE

ON THE DAY the murder was discovered at the Palace, Gracie Phipps had been the all-purpose maid at the Pitts’ home for nearly eight years. She was twenty-one now and engaged to marry Police Sergeant Samuel Tellman. Gracie was intensely proud of working for such a remarkable man as Pitt. She had no doubt whatever that he was the best detective in England.

When she began in his service, she had been four feet ten inches tall and could neither read nor write. She had not considered the possibility of ever doing either. However, Charlotte Pitt had offered to teach her. Now Gracie could not only read newspapers but even books and, more than that, she enjoyed it. She had also grown a whole inch and a half.

She was reading in her bedroom with the attic windows open to the rustling of leaves and the distant sounds of traffic, when there was a knock on the door. She was startled. It was dark outside and must be late. She had lost count of time in the adventure on the pages.

She stood up quickly and went to answer the knock.

Charlotte was on the landing, still fully dressed but with her hair rather less than tidily pinned, as if she had put it back up again in haste.

“Yes, ma’am?” Gracie said with a flutter of alarm. “Is something wrong?” Her mind went instantly to Pitt, having been called out in an emergency early that morning. There had been no message from him since. “Is Mr. Pitt all right?”

“Yes, perfectly, I believe,” Charlotte said with an oddly rueful smile. “Mr. Narraway, from Special Branch, would like to see you. He has something to ask you.” Her expression softened. “Please feel perfectly at liberty to answer him as you wish to. Whatever you say will be acceptable to me, and I shall see that your decision is respected.”

“Wot…wot’s ’e gonna say?” Gracie asked with panic rising inside her. She knew Narraway was Pitt’s superior. He was a strange man, quietly spoken and elegant in a lean, very dark sort of way. But Gracie had seen hard men in the East End of London where she had grown up, men who carried knives and knew how to use them, whom she would not have backed in a fight against Mr. Narraway. There was something in him only a fool would challenge. Except when he looked at Mrs. Pitt. Then he was just as human and easily hurt as anyone else. Gracie thought she might be the only one who could see that. It was odd what people missed sometimes. “Wot does ’e want wi’ me?” she said again.

“Come down and you’ll find out,” Charlotte told her. “I’m not carrying a message down to the head of Special Branch to say you won’t see him!”

Gracie thought about her hair, which was straight as rain, screwed up in a knot at the back of her head, and her dark blue dress, which was more than a little crumpled. She would be putting a clean one on tomorrow anyway, so she had not bothered about sitting on it.

“Just as you are.” Charlotte must have read her thoughts. “He will mind a few wrinkles far less than he will mind waiting.”

That was alarming. Gracie smoothed her skirt once, ineffectively; her hands were shaking. Then she followed Charlotte down to the landing, past the bedroom doors of Jemima and Daniel, the two Pitt children, then on down the next flight to the hall.

Narraway was waiting in the front parlor. He looked extremely tired. His face was lined and his thick, dark hair with its sprinkling of gray was definitely less neat than usual. He was apparently too restless to sit down.

Gracie stood to attention. “Yes, sir?”

Charlotte closed the door and Gracie hoped to heaven she had remained inside, but she dared not look round to find out.

“Miss Phipps,” Narraway began, “what I am about to tell you, you will keep with the same absolute discretion you do all things you learn in this house. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir! I know what discretion is,” Gracie said indignantly. “I don’t talk about things to no one wot in’t their business.”

“Good. Mr. Pitt was called this morning because there has been a murder at Buckingham Palace, where the Queen lives. Although she is not there at the moment, fortunately. However, the Prince of Wales is.”

Gracie stared at him speechlessly.

“A prostitute was knifed to death,” Narraway continued. “And her body was left in the linen cupboard in the guest wing, where there are presently eight people staying. They are on extremely important business with His Royal Highness.”

“An’ Mr. Pitt’s gonna find out ’oo killed ’er,” Gracie finished for him. “Don’t worry, sir. We can take care of things ’ere.”

“I’m sure you could, Miss Phipps.” Narraway nodded very slightly, the briefest possible flash of humor in his eyes. “However, that is not what your country requires of you.”

Charlotte let out her breath with a sigh.

Narraway colored faintly, but he did not turn to look at her.

“Wot d’yer mean, ‘my country’?” Gracie asked, completely bewildered. “In’t nothing I can do.”

“I suggest you get to the point, Mr. Narraway,” Charlotte cut in at last. “If I may say so, you are wasting time, and it is late.”

Narraway looked uncomfortable. There had been a distinct edge to Charlotte’s voice, and Gracie was sorry for him. Her awe of him vanished. She had heard it said that no man was a hero to his valet. Perhaps he wasn’t to any servant who could read emotions in him that were so oddly vulnerable.

“Wot is it yer’d like me to do, sir?” she asked gently.

A flash of gratitude crossed Narraway’s face for an instant, then vanished. “I would like you to take temporary employment at Buckingham Palace, Miss Phipps. The position is already secured for you, as a general between-stairs maid. No one will know that you are really working for Special Branch, assisting Mr. Pitt, except Mr. Tyndale, who is in charge of the servants in that wing. It is a difficult job, and possibly dangerous. One of the guests there is a murderer. We need someone whose skill and discretion we can trust absolutely, and I have no man at all who could pass himself off as a servant. He would be found out in half an hour. You would not. Pitt says you are observant and trustworthy. It will be for only a few days at the most. We have to solve this crime before Her Majesty returns from Osborne.”

He looked at her very steadily. “If this becomes public, the scandal will be appalling. Will you do it? You will report to Mr. Pitt and do whatever he tells you, to the letter.”

“You don’t have to, Gracie,” Charlotte interrupted quickly. “It’s dangerous. This man has already killed a prostitute, by cutting her throat. You are quite free to say no, and no one will think less of you.”

Gracie’s voice trembled. “That in’t true, ma’am. We’ll all think less o’ me. Specially I will. I got ter go an’ ’elp Mr. Pitt.”

“And Her Majesty,” Narraway added.

Gracie squared her shoulders and stretched to her full height of almost five feet. “An’ that poor cow wot were killed. ’Oo’s gonna get justice for ’er if we don’t, eh?”

Narraway swallowed and cleared his throat. There was only the slightest trace of a smile on his face. “No one, Miss Phipps. We are greatly obliged to you. Will you be so good as to pack a bag with whatever you require? Uniforms will be provided for you. I shall wait and take you tonight. The sooner you begin, the better.”

Gracie turned at last to look at Charlotte fully, to try to make certain from her eyes rather than her words that she really wished her to go.

“Please look after yourself, Gracie,” Charlotte said softly. “We shall miss you, but it won’t be for long.”

“What about the laundry then?” Gracie said anxiously in a last grasp for safety.

“I’ll get Mrs. Claypole to come in an extra day,” Charlotte replied. “Don’t worry. Go and help Mr. Pitt. I think he may need you far more than I do, just at the moment.”

“Yes. O’ course I will,” Gracie agreed, her heart beating suddenly high in her throat. “Observant and trustworthy,” he had said. That burned like a flame inside her.

AN HOUR LATER Gracie was in Buckingham Palace being introduced by Pitt to Mr. Tyndale. They were in the housekeeper’s room, but Mrs. Newsome herself was absent. She was not to know Gracie’s purpose here. Only Mr. Tyndale was to be aware of it, and that delicately balanced situation was going to require some skill to maintain. At the moment Mr. Tyndale was explaining Gracie’s duties to her, and the basic rules of behavior to be followed by servants.

“This will be entirely different from any other post you may have held,” Mr. Tyndale said carefully, seeing her ramrod-straight back and figure so small that all dresses had had to be taken up to prevent her from tripping over the skirts. It obviously took him some effort to conceal most of his disbelief that she could really be here on behalf of Special Branch.

“Yes, sir.” She had no intention of telling him that she had come to the Pitts when she was thirteen and had never worked for anyone else. He was not so very big himself, and he too squared his shoulders and walked an inch or two taller than he really was.

“You will not speak to any of the guests unless they first speak to you, do you understand?” he continued gravely.

“Yes, sir.”

“And in no circumstance at all will you speak in the presence of His Royal Highness, or, if she should come through to dine with the guests, the Princess of Wales, or to any other member of the household. And that includes ladies-or gentlemen-in-waiting.”

“No, sir.”

“You will perform ordinary household duties such as sweeping, dusting and polishing, fetching and carrying as you are asked. You will wear your cap and apron at all times. You will speak to the menservants only as necessitated by your duties, and there will be no giggling, flirting, or generally making a nuisance of yourself—”

“Miss Phipps is here from Special Branch, Mr. Tyndale,” Pitt cut across him coolly. “She needs instruction regarding Palace etiquette, not in how to conduct herself with dignity. You might remember, sir, that you require her assistance in this unfortunate matter, and she requires and has a right to expect your protection as she helps me to learn the truth as rapidly and discreetly as possible.”

Tyndale colored. “You may count on me, Inspector,” he said stiffly. “If I offended you, Miss Phipps, I apologize. Ada will show you to your room. I have seen to it that you do not have to share. I imagine that might have made your task more difficult.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tyndale.” She was indeed very grateful. It was going to be hard enough to take orders all day without having to share a bedroom as well. She realized with a jolt how accustomed she had become to doing her duties as she pleased. It seemed like a very long time ago that she had first come to the Pitt house, a scruffy and awkward child needing to be taught almost everything. Now fully in charge, able to read and write, and engaged to be married, she was on the brink of becoming a thoroughly respectable woman.

She turned to Pitt. “’Ow do I tell yer if I larnt summink, sir?”

“I’ll find you,” Pitt promised. “And…thank you, Gracie.”

She gave him a huge smile, then, aware of how inappropriate it was, she turned on her heel and went out into the passage to wait for Ada, who would show her up to bed.

ADA PROVED TO be a pretty girl with flaxen blond hair and clear, fresh skin. She regarded Gracie with only a mild interest. The look on her face suggested that she thought anyone so small and thin was not going to prove a threat to her place in the hierarchy, nor was she likely to be a companion of much fun.

“Come on, then,” she said briskly, in one phrase establishing her superiority in the order of things.

The narrow bedroom, actually designed to accommodate two people, was right at the top of the stairs. It was quite well appointed, and the window looked out over a vista of treetops toward the distant roofs of the city. Gracie thanked Ada, and as soon as the door was closed behind her, unpacked her meager belongings to put away in the chest at the bottom of the bed. She was barely finished when there was a knock on the door again. A different maid, who introduced herself as Norah, brought a dark uniform dress, which looked to be the right size, and a freshly starched cap and apron, handsomely trimmed in lace.

“I’ll call you at six,” she said cheerfully before leaving and closing the door behind her.

But tired as Gracie was, sleep was almost impossible. She lay on one side, then the other, then on her back staring up at the ceiling. She was in Buckingham Palace! She, Gracie Phipps, was on a special mission for Mr. Pitt. Someone had knifed a prostitute to death in a linen cupboard in the guest wing a couple of floors down from where she lay, and she was to help him solve the case. How on earth was she going to do that? Where should she even begin?

She had not had time to tell Samuel about it, and perhaps she shouldn’t anyway, not until it was over. But what a story she would have then! She could imagine his face as she described it. She’d wager a week’s money he had never been inside Buckingham Palace in his life.

All the same, she would rather have told him now. He was a good sleuth, really good. He would have done this far better than she. But he despised being in service. They had had lots of arguments about it. She thought it was just silly pride to prefer being cold and hungry, living in some rot-smelling rooms and drinking water from a well that might not even be clean, just to say for yourself whether you came or went. Better to have a warm room, good food every day, and be as safe as anybody is, at the price of being told what to do.

Everybody had to obey rules, no matter who you were. They were just different sorts of rules. He couldn’t see that. Stubborn, he was. But then she wouldn’t really want him much different, even if more sensible. She smiled in the dark as she thought of him. She would be able to tell him all about it soon. She would make notes, just to remind herself—about the Palace, not the detecting. That was secret from everybody—except Mr. Pitt, of course.

She must have finally gone to sleep because she was jolted awake by a knock on the door, and a moment later Norah was standing by her bed with a candle in her hand. She waited until Gracie actually climbed out and stood up in her nightgown, bare feet on the floor.

“Can’t ’ave yer late on yer first day,” she said cheerfully, and, satisfied, turned to leave. “Breakfast’s in the servants’ ’all at ’alf-past six. Don’t miss it or yer’ll be ’ungry.”

Gracie thanked her, then she poured the water she had fetched the night before. She set about getting ready, as well as she could, in both body and mind.

The uniform dress was a trifle large, especially around the waist, but with the apron tied it looked very smart. It was perfectly ironed, with not a suspicion of a crease, and the lace was as good as a lady’s. The cap felt uncomfortable, but when she peered at herself in the small glass on top of the chest of drawers, she was surprised how much she liked the look of it. She was self-conscious, but rather pleased all the same.

The servants’ hall was less grand than she had imagined it, and considerably more utilitarian, but then she had never worked anywhere but in the Pitts’ house. Her visions of large and wealthy establishments was based solely upon Charlotte’s sister’s house, where she had stayed briefly several years ago. The Palace was somewhat similar, and that was in a way comforting. The large beams across the ceiling were also hung with dried herbs, and there were polished copper pans and utensils on the farther wall.

There were a dozen other people there, including Ada, who was pretty and very smart in a clean black dress, which flattered the curves of her figure. Her lace-edged apron was tied tightly around her waist. Gracie was shown her place at the table and joined them silently. Mr. Tyndale stood at the head, Mrs. Newsome at the foot. Mr. Tyndale waited a moment while everyone composed themselves, then he offered the daily prayer. He hesitated before the end, and Gracie, with her eyes closed, wondered if he was going to mention the dead woman, but had changed his mind.

They all obediently sat down and were served with porridge, then toast and jam and tea. She had expected more conversation. Were they always as subdued as this, or was it because of the murder? How much did they know about it? She watched them guardedly as she ate, trying not to be observed doing so.

“Is them police still ’ere?” one of the maids asked nervously.

“’Course they are!” a dark-haired footman told her. “They’re gonna be ’ere till they find which o’ the guests killed ’er, aren’t they!” That was a challenge, not a question.

“An’ ’ow are they goin’ ter do that, then?” Ada asked him. “Nobody saw it, or we’d know already, wouldn’t we!”

“I dunno!” the footman said sharply. “I in’t a policeman, am I! They gotta ’ave ways.”

Gracie plunged in. “I ’spect they’ll ask questions.”

“Well, you don’t ’ave ter worry.” The footman grinned. “It weren’t none of us. One o’ the gentlemen’s gentlemen was up ’alf the night, an’ ’e swears as none of us came down the stairs.”

“You watch yourself, Edwards,” Mr. Tyndale said warningly. “You’re a bit too free with your comments.”

“Sorry, Mr. Tyndale,” the footman apologized quickly, but he was looking at Gracie under his lashes.

“Of course it wasn’t one of us,” Mrs. Newsome added. “Nobody ever entertained such an idea.”

“I entertained a few ideas,” Ada said under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Newsome put down her knife and regarded Ada coldly.

“I wouldn’t entertain the idea, ma’am,” Ada replied with practiced innocence.

Someone giggled.

“Am I going to have to require you to leave the table?” Mrs. Newsome said frostily.

“No, ma’am,” Ada whispered.

The rest of the meal was concluded in silence. Finally they were told they might leave. Gracie excused herself, aware that both Mr. Tyndale and Mrs. Newsome were watching her, although for entirely different reasons.

It was Ada’s task to look after her, tell her what to do and show her where to begin. Either she was fortunate or Mr. Tyndale had seen to it that she was employed in the guests’ area of the wing rather than the kitchens or the laundry. First they collected all the appropriate brooms, brushes, pans, dusters, and polish they would need, then went up the stairs to begin.

“We gotta clean the sitting room and the bedrooms,” Ada told her. “’Course, we gotta be sure as the guests in’t in there, nor their maids neither.”

“Do they all have their own maids?” Gracie asked.

Ada gave her a withering look. “’Course they do! Where d’yer come from then?”

Gracie wished she had bitten her tongue before she spoke. She changed the subject very quickly. They were in the long upstairs corridor. She looked around in awe, not quite sure what she expected. It was spacious, with a higher ceiling than anywhere she had been before, and all decorated with elaborate gilded plaster, but other than that it was not unusual. There were no crowns in the plaster molding, no footmen in their dark livery and white gloves waiting for orders; in fact, no one else at all. It was completely silent. One of the doors was narrower than the others.

“Is that the cupboard there?” she asked in a whisper.

Ada gave a convulsive shudder. “Yeah. We can’t go inter it, thanks be ter Gawd. I’d faint at the thought, I would. But it means we gotta bring all the linen up fresh from the laundry every day, which is all more work.” She looked Gracie up and down. “You in’t never seen nothing like the work there is ’ere. We gotta do the sittin’ room first, before any o’ them gets up an’ wants it.”

She started walking again. “Come on, then! The gentlemen was in it last night an’ we never got to finish it ’cos o’ bein’ asked questions all day by that police. Scruffy lookin’ object ’e is, an’ all. Must ’ave a wife wi’ two left ’ands, by the look of ’is shirt collar. Still, I s’pose ’e were clean enough, an’ that’s more’n ’e might a’ bin.”

Gracie resented the slur on Pitt’s shirts bitterly, but she could hardly say so. She had ironed them herself, and they had been perfect when he put them on.

They were in the sitting room now and Ada looked around critically. “Smells summink awful, don’t it? It’s them cigars Mr. Dunkeld ’as. I dunno ’ow ’is wife stands it. ’E must taste like dirt.”

“I don’t s’pose she’s got no choice,” Gracie replied. Pitt did not smoke and she was aware of the heavy, stale odor here. It was a beautiful room, floored with ancient wood worn rich and dark with time and polish. Rows of huge, gold-framed portraits and still-life paintings hung on the walls. There was a magnificent fireplace with an ornate, carved, and inlaid marble mantel and a considerable number of heavy sofas and armchairs. There were small wooden tables here and there for convenience, and their polished tops were as bright as satin, except for the odd one soiled by wet glasses or ash. There was also ash in several places on the carpet, and at least one stain as if something dark like wine had been spilled.

Ada noted Gracie’s stare. “You should’ve seen it the night o’ their ‘party,’” she said with a curl of her lip. “In’t nothing now.” She drew in a sharp breath. “Well, don’t stand there gawpin’ at it! Get on wi’ cleanin’ it up.”

“Wot is it?” Gracie asked, looking at the stain, her imagination racing. Wine? Blood?

“That in’t none o’ your business!” Ada snapped. “You work ’ere, Miss Pious. Yer gotta learn ter keep yer opinions ter yerself an’ don’ ask no questions. There’s two sets o’ rules in life: one for them, an’ one for us, an’ don’t you never forget it. Don’t matter wot you think. Understand?”

Gracie drew herself up stiffly. Already she did not like Ada, but that was unimportant. She was here to help Pitt, and Mr. Narraway. “I don’t care ’ow it got there,” she said coldly. “I gotta know wot it is ter get it out proper. Is it wine, or coffee, or blood—or wot is it?”

“Oh.” Ada looked somewhat mollified. “That’s ’is nibs’ favorite chair, so it’ll be brandy, I ’spect. Soap an’ water’ll do most things, baking soda for smells, an’ tea leaves for general dust an’ stuff.”

“I know that,” Gracie said with dignity, then instantly regretted it. She might need Ada’s help later on. It almost choked her to apologize. “Not that I in’t grateful ter be told,” she added. “I wouldn’t want ter do it wrong.”

“Yer wouldn’t, an’ all,” Ada agreed heartily. “Mrs. Newsome’d ’ave yer! An’ don’t dawdle around. We in’t got all day. They won’t all be stayin’ in their rooms till luncheon today. We got catchin’ up ter do.”

Gracie bent obediently and set about lifting stains, sweeping up ash, polishing wood and marble, while Ada spread the damp tea leaves all over the rugs to absorb the dust, and then swept them all up again.

Gracie looked at the fireplace. It was tidy enough because there were no fires necessary in sitting rooms at this time of year, but the marble did not look clean. Should she say so, or would it be viewed as criticism of Ada’s skills?

“Wot yer staring at?” Ada demanded. “Won’t do itself!”

“Is that good enough?” Gracie gestured toward the marble.

“It’ll ’ave ter be,” Ada replied. “Takes a day or two to do it proper. Got ter leave the paste on. Can’t ’ave that when we got guests.”

“Wot d’yer do it with?” Gracie asked.

Ada sighed impatiently. “Soap lees, turpentine, pipe clay, and bullock’s gall. Don’t yer know nothing, then?”

“I do it with soda, pumice stone, an’ chalk mixed wi’ water,” Gracie replied. “Comes up straightaway.”

“Ain’t you the smart one!” Ada was clearly annoyed. “An’ if it stains it worse, oo’s gonna get the blame, eh? This is Buckingham Palace, miss. We do things the right way ’ere. Don’t you touch that fireplace ’ceptin’ wi’ wot I tell yer. D’you ’ear me?”

Gracie swallowed. “Yes.”

“Yer do all the light mantels, an’ make sure yer do ’em proper,” Ada said, pointing to the glass over the gaslamps. “I want ’em like crystal, right? No marks, no smears, no scratches. An’ if you break one yer’ll pay for it out o’ yer wages…fer the next year!” She stood with her arms folded, watching until Gracie picked up the cloth again and began to work.

Gracie knew she had made an enemy. It was a bad start. Her mind raced as to what on earth Mr. Narraway thought she could do to help Pitt. She knew very well that over a length of time servants learned a lot about their masters, or mistresses. You saw faults and weaknesses, you learned to know what people were frightened of, what they avoided because they could not face it, and what made them laugh. You certainly knew who they liked and who they did not. It was easy with women. How a woman dressed and how long she took to do it, how many times she changed her mind, told you all kinds of things.

But was that any use?

A servant could watch people in unguarded moments. Having a servant in the room was regarded as being alone. But how long would she have to spend coming and going, fetching things, cleaning and tidying up, before she saw or heard anything that mattered?

It was a horrid realization, being as unimportant as a piece of furniture. It meant people didn’t care in the slightest what you thought of them. She imagined what Samuel would say! Charlotte Pitt had never treated her like that.

But one of these wealthy and important men was a lunatic who mutilated women and left them bleeding to death in cupboards. She felt shivery and a little sick at the thought. Like a picture flashing before her mind came the memory of finding that terrible body in Mitre Square. She had never been so frightened in her life. That was ripped open too, like the other Whitechapel victims. Why did anybody do something like that?

“’Urry up!” Ada said peremptorily. “We gotta be out of ’ere before anyone wants ter use it, an’ we ain’t nowhere near finished yet. Get them dirty dusters up, an’ them glasses. Make sure there in’t no rings left on the tabletops, or Mrs. Newsome’ll ’ave yer skin.”

“There’s a scratch on the top over there,” Gracie pointed out, indicating an elegant Sheraton table.

“Yeah. Done it the other night when their tarts was ’ere.” Ada’s voice was sharp with disapproval. “Dunno why they can’t just keep ’em in the bedroom. In’t like they could sing, or nothin’.”

“Do you like working here?” Gracie said quickly.

Ada looked surprised. “’Course I do! Meet some very good sort o’ people. Never know where it could take yer, if yer lucky and play yer ’and right.”

“Where could yer work better than ’ere?” Gracie was amazed.

“Not work, yer dozy cow!” Ada said in disgust. “Yer wanter work all yer life? I wanter marry someone with a nice steady job an’ ’ave an ’ouse o’ me own. No one ter tell me when ter get up an’ when ter go ter bed.”

It was on the tip of Gracie’s tongue to say, “I’m going to marry a policeman! And not just a constable, a sergeant.” Then she realized she could never say that here. A pity. It would stop Ada’s patronizing air quickly enough.

“Wot is it?” Ada asked her, staring, duster in her hand.

“Yeah.” Gracie let her breath out. “I see wot yer mean. One o’ them guardsmen’d be nice.”

Ada laughed. “They’re gentlemen, stupid! Yer a daft little article! Where d’yer come from, then? Yer better lookin’ out fer a delivery boy, or summink o’ that sort. When yer finished ’ere yer can sweep the stairs. Then yer can fetch the linen up from the laundry, so we can change all the beds when we do the rooms. An’ don’t ’ang about. There in’t no time ter waste.”

“I’m coming.” Gracie was amazed how much she resented being ordered around. She had not expected it to be so difficult. Maybe Samuel had something after all. But freedom came at a very high price. And she was here to help Pitt, and to work for her country.

Perhaps the bedrooms might yield some piece of information, although she could not think what it would be. How on earth could she learn anything useful? What would be useful anyway? How would she recognize it if it were there? And what would happen to Pitt if they failed?

However, she had very little time to spare to do more than clean up, dust, tidy, straighten, and fetch linen for Ada. It was hard work going up and down the stairs, and there was a rigid hierarchy among the servants in which she was at the very bottom, which Ada never allowed her to forget. In spite of the fact that she was twenty-one, and therefore very senior for a maid, on this occasion she was passing herself off as far less, and it pinched a little that it was without any difficulty at all. Narraway had told Mr. Tyndale both her real age and that which she was assuming, and he had not argued. She was the newest here, and that was what counted. Ada enjoyed her power and made the most of it. She must have been new once, and she was making sure of her repayment for every indignity she had suffered.

Gracie was on her way up with a pile of towels she could hardly see over the top of when Edwards caught up with her and offered to carry them for her. “No, thank you,” she declined.

“Independent, are we?” he said with a slight edge of offense in his voice.

She avoided his eyes, not wanting to see what might be in them. “Not really,” she said steadily, climbing the steps by touch more than sight. “Can’t afford ter get the wrong side of anyone on me first day.”

“An’ what if I think you’re being standoffish?” he asked. “Too good to take a bit of an ’and from someone?”

“You wouldn’t be so daft!” she said sharply, hoping to heaven it were true. She didn’t need trouble from an amorous footman. “Yer know Ada better’n that, even if yer don’t know me.” She promptly tripped over the bottom step of the next flight, and he grabbed at her arm to steady her. “Thanks,” she said tartly. “Now don’t get me on the wrong side o’ nobody, please.”

“Ada’s gone downstairs,” he replied. “I’ll ’elp yer put these in the rooms, so yer don’t fall over yer feet again.”

“Yeah? An’ if one o’ them ladies comes into ’er room, ’ow are yer goin’ ter explain that then, eh?” she said quickly. “Don’t yer get caught up ’ere on this landin’, or them police is goin’ ter ask yer ’ow often yer come up ’ere when yer in’t supposed ter!”

That silenced him smartly, and she was relieved to see him go back down the stairs again, leaving her alone to place the towels. Since Ada was gone, she had a little more time. She must make use of it.

She was quick in the women’s rooms. Mrs. Quase’s bedroom was very feminine. She had lots of perfumes and decorative combs, pretty handkerchiefs, silver-backed brushes, creams and ointments in crystal jars. Gracie imagined a woman very keen to preserve her beauty. She could not resist a quick look into the wardrobe, and estimated enough money spent on dresses to pay a score of maids for a year. From what she could see, her frocks were all immaculately cared for.

Mr. Quase’s room was different. There was no smell of perfume in it, rather more like leather and boot polish. The surfaces were very tidy and there was a case for papers. She touched it and found it locked.

Mr. Dunkeld’s room also had a case in it, larger than Quase’s, and it was locked as well. There were expensive cuff links and collar studs in a small bowl. They looked like gold. His shaving things were expensive also, and he had silver-backed brushes for hair and clothes, a silver-handled shoehorn, and an engraved silver whisky flask with a pigskin case on the dresser. He was obviously a man who liked to have expensive possessions and show off a little. The room still smelled vaguely of cigar smoke, for all Ada’s attempts to get rid of it. They would have to come back with more lavender and beeswax polish. What a waste of time!

She noticed also that he had seven books on the shelf, all to do with Africa. She would like to have looked at them, but she could not risk being caught.

Mrs. Dunkeld’s room had no trace of the smoke. It smelled of lily of the valley, cool and clean, not sweet like Mrs. Quase’s room.

She went down for more towels and came back up again.

Mrs. Sorokine’s room was remarkable for the scarlet robe splashed across the bed and the strings of pearls and crystals flung on the dressing table amid a profusion of hair ornaments and jars of cream and perfume. Fearing she might come back any moment, because the room looked so interrupted, Gracie dared not stay. She placed the towels and left.

Mr. Sorokine’s room was a surprise, largely because of the number of books, and none of them was about Africa, as far as Gracie could see. There was one on the bedside table with a marker in it. She picked it up and looked at the title: The Picture of Dorian Gray. She opened it at random and started to read. She was immediately so absorbed in the strength of the words, the evil and passion in them, that she did not hear the door open. The first she was aware of him was when he spoke.

“Can you read it?”

She was so startled the book slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor. “I’m sorry!” she said too loudly, feeling the heat scorch up her face.

He bent and picked it up, being careful to straighten the pages. “Can you?” he asked again.

She stared at him in horror. He was a tall man, handsome, with a broad brow. He had strong features, but not insensitive. Somehow, she would have expected his eyes to be brown, not the gray they were. She nodded. It was not a matter of not lying to him so much as not denying the gift Charlotte had given her.

He smiled. “What did it say?”

“It were about wanting to be beautiful always,” she answered, gulping. “An’ young.”

He looked satisfied, as if her answer pleased him. “I’ll leave it on the table,” he told her. “Then you can look at it again. You can put the towels on the dresser.”

She had left them in a heap on the bed. Her face still burning, she picked them up and put them where they should be. Then, with hands shaking, she fled into the corridor.

Without looking at anything at all, she replaced the towels in Mr. and Mrs. Marquand’s rooms, and gathered up all the old ones. She staggered down to the laundry with them, occasionally dropping one or two and having to go back and pick them up, awkwardly, dropping others as she did so.

Downstairs in the laundry finally she dumped the lot of them in one of the big wicker baskets and decided to take a look around. If anyone found her here, she could easily say she was looking for soap or bran or any of a dozen other things. It was part of her duties to be familiar with all the cleaning materials available. She saw plenty of bran. Charlotte had shown her how to use that to clean stains out of good fabrics. There was white spirit—probably gin—for the same purpose; also soap, pumice, chalk, turpentine, pipe clay, flowers of sulfur, black rosin, several large lumps of yellow wax, laundry blue, and fresh-made starch. Below that were bottles labeled for oxalic acid, salts of sorrel, sal ammoniac, and gum arabic.

She changed her mind about attempting to help with laundry and decided to do some detecting instead. She pulled out the other wicker laundry basket and opened it up. Her heart beat violently and her stomach lurched. It was full of sheets, white, with scarlet splashes fading into brown. They were soaked, spattered, and smeared with blood. At the edges it was dull and dried, but in the middle the stains were still red and when she touched her fingertip to them they were damp. Poor woman. There was so much of it! She must have bled and bled. Gracie was a little numb at the thought. What would make anybody do such a thing? And here, of all the places in England.

But then a lot of this was not really as she had thought it would be. It was the Queen’s house. It should be different from everywhere else in the world. And yet the dust and the ring marks on tables, the dropped ash, the scuffs on the floor, were exactly like anyone’s house. Except that Pitt would have picked up after himself, and since he could not afford to replace his carpets and tables—he had had to save up to buy them in the first place—he would have taken more care of them.

One of those men really had killed that woman. Why? What kind of rage made you do something like that? Did they think they could get away with it? She had already realized that the servants here protected people from having to pay for reality the way most people do. Would they hide even this? Was that part of the job description? Were they paying you not only for your time and your obedience but for your conscience as well? She could just imagine what Samuel would say about that!

But would it help you if the law came after you? That was a totally new thought. Did Pitt have any real power here? If not, why would they pretend with nice words that they wanted him to expose the culprit ready for prosecution, only then to cover it up and deal with it themselves? She knew the answer: because they couldn’t find out without him. Perhaps they needed his brains but not his honesty. How would they make him keep silent about what he knew? Did he face a danger he knew nothing of?

She was cold now, even though it was steaming hot down here, and the air was full of the smell of soap and washing soda. What could she do to help him? Should she warn him? Would that be good, or only make it worse?

She started to look through the sheets again, deeper into the basket. This might be her only chance to examine them before they were washed. They were of a quality she had never felt before: fine and soft, their threads so fine they could have been silk. And she could smell the sickly odor of the blood.

They were all stitched with tiny holes along the seam at the hem. She had seen people do drawn thread work like that. It took hours. It was beautiful. Some of them had other embroidery on as well. The two very best had what looked like a V and an R, in satin stitch, and a little crown. Victoria Regina. It could only mean one thing: The Queen’s sheets had been in the cupboard where the poor woman was killed! But they were drenched in blood, soaked in it! And they were crumpled. They had been lain on, in fact they had been slept in. The blood was smeared and marked more lightly, as if transferred from someone’s body who had rolled in it.

Gracie galvanized into movement. She must hide them where they could not be found, then go to fetch Pitt. She had no idea what this information meant, but someone was lying pretty badly, because this made no sense at all. Who had stolen the Queen’s sheets, and used them, and for what? To carry the poor woman’s body, to cover it up, to hide it for a while?

She had the sheets in her hands when she heard footsteps on the stairs and one of the maids giggling. Then Edwards the footman’s voice was quite clear, cajoling, wheedling.

“C’mon, Ada! You know you want me to!”

Gracie had never been in that position herself, but she knew exactly what he meant. What she did not know was whether he was right, and Ada was perfectly willing. Either way, Gracie’s presence here would make an enemy for life of at least one of them, most likely both. And she was doing badly enough with Ada as it was. She found herself hot with embarrassment that she might accidentally witness something she would very much rather not.

“Cheeky!” Ada said warmly. “I don’t know nothin’ o’ the kind! You fancy yerself way too much, Mr. Edwards, an’ that’s a fact.”

“Not ’alf as much as I fancy you!” he retorted. “’Old still, then!”

They had not seen Gracie yet, but a couple of steps farther down into the laundry and they would. Worse, they would realize that she had to have heard them. What would she do? She was revolted at the thought of hiding in one of the baskets, full of other people’s dirty sheets. She might even get marked with blood herself, and how would she explain that? But she had to have these sheets for Pitt. There was no other way out of here, just the one flight of stairs, and Ada and Edwards were already at the foot of it. If Gracie had not been so small, and bent double half behind the linen basket, they would have seen her by now.

She must hide the sheets safely: That was more important than saving herself from embarrassment, or even bullying in the future. It was only for a few days, after all! But how? What could she do to distract their attention? She stared around at the shelves with all their jars and packets, then at the big copper tubs bubbling away with the sheets and towels in them. If she opened the flue on the boiler, it would roar up quickly. There would be steam all over the place—perhaps even a small flood. She could hide the embroidered sheets, stuff them in the bran tub temporarily, and when Ada and Edwards were busy trying to stop the flood, she could come from the bottom of the stairs as if she had just arrived. It might work. It had to.

She crouched behind the basket and reached for the long wooden spirtle that was used to stir the linen around. It would be just long enough to reach the flue, if she were very careful. Her arm ached with the weight of holding it up from one end and keeping it steady. She must make no sudden moves or it might catch their notice.

Ada was giggling more loudly and Edwards was talking softly to her the whole time. If Gracie didn’t do something pretty soon, this was going to get worse. The spirtle was long and awkward. There were tears of frustration in her eyes by the time she finally hit the flue open. Then the spirtle slipped out of her grip and clattered to the floor.

Miraculously neither of them took any notice. If she got caught now, Ada would never forgive her. She could not afford that. Ada hated her enough already. Gracie had wild thoughts of finishing up in the linen cupboard like the prostitute. Had she also seen something that she shouldn’t have, poor soul? Was that what had got her killed? It was about the only reason that made any sense. But what could she have seen here that anyone cared about? They seemed to do anything they wanted to anyway.

Seconds ticked by. Ada was resisting, thank heaven, playing a game. Gracie had no idea where to look for Pitt. Could she ask Mr. Tyndale to find him?

Steam belched out of the copper and the lid banged up and down with the force of it. It happened a second time before Ada realized what it was and gave a yelp of horror. Edwards must have thought it was something he had done, because he laughed.

“The copper’s on too ’igh, stupid!” Ada shouted, as steam billowed out and filled the room. “Come an’ ’elp me get it off!”

As she plunged forward, yanking her dress straight as she went, Gracie slipped through the steam toward the stairs, then turned around rapidly, and gasped with surprise.

“Wot ’appened?” she cried out as if aghast.

“Never you mind!” Ada shouted at her. “Go and get on wi’ yer own job. I’m all right ’ere. Yer swept the stairs yet? Well, do it then! Don’t stand there gawpin’!”

“Yes, miss,” Gracie said obediently. She scampered upstairs before the steam cleared and she was obliged to see Ada’s open dress and general disarray.

Gracie realized that once someone put those sheets into the boil, no one would be able to prove a thing. She nearly asked Mags, the other between-stairs maid, if she had seen the policeman, then realized she had no explanation for wanting to know, so instead she went immediately to her alternative plan and found Mr. Tyndale.

He was alone in the butler’s pantry, inspecting the silver to see if it had been cleaned to perfection. He looked very serious, frowning a little.

She knocked on the door.

He looked round with irritation, then saw who it was. “Miss Phipps? Is something wrong?” he asked anxiously.

She came in and closed the door behind her. “Yer’d better call me ‘Gracie,’ sir,” she corrected him, feeling awkward and yet savoring a flicker of very definite enjoyment. “I gotter speak ter Mr. Pitt, very urgent, but there in’t no way I can ask anyone where ’e is. I found summink as could be very important. Can yer ’elp me?”

“Yes, of course I can. What have you found?” He was clearly worried.

She shook her head. “I gotter tell Mr. Pitt.”

Tyndale was embarrassed. He obviously felt foolish for having asked, and then been rebuffed.

Now she was sorry for him, and perhaps a trifle foolish also for making him uncomfortable. He might remember it and not be the ally she needed. She swallowed hard. This could be the wrong judgment, but regardless of that she had better be quick. “Can I ask you summink, sir?”

He was still guarded, uncertain of the correct protocol with her. She was a servant, and yet she was not. “Certainly. What is it?”

“The sheets with V R stitched on ’em, an’ a little crown…does anybody get ter sleep on them ’ceptin’ ’Er Majesty, like?”

“Where did you see those?” he asked sharply.

“In the laundry.”

“That’s impossible! Her Majesty is at Osborne, and no one else uses them. Thank you for telling me. I shall find out what has happened and put a stop to it.”

“Yer mustn’t do that, sir!” She all but grasped hold of him, getting her hand as far as to touch his sleeve before she snatched it away.

“It’s a clue, or least it may be. Yer gotta keep it a deadly secret till Mr. Pitt says yer can tell. It’s a murder, Mr. Tyndale. Yer can’t tell nobody nuffin’.”

He looked pale. “I see.”

At that moment there was a sharp rap on the pantry door, and a moment later it flew open and Mrs. Newsome stood in the entrance. She was a good-looking woman in an agreeable, ordinary way, but now her face was flushed and her eyes were hot. “What are you doing in here, Gracie Phipps?” She looked from Gracie to an obviously uncomfortable Mr. Tyndale, now also coloring deeply with both anger and embarrassment.

“She came…” he started, and then floundered badly.

Mrs. Newsome’s face tightened, her eyes hard.

Ridiculously, Gracie thought of Ada and Edwards on the laundry stairs, and felt the heat in her own cheeks. She must rescue Mr. Tyndale. The idea was absurd, and revolting, but it was abundantly clear what Mrs. Newsome thought. And Mr. Tyndale was only in this situation because he was helping Gracie. He might care what Mrs. Newsome believed of him, but even if he didn’t, he would care bitterly about being thought to behave inappropriately with a brand-new serving girl less than half his age.

Gracie lied with ease. “I came ter give ’im a message as the policeman’d like ter see ’im, ma’am.”

“Really,” Mrs. Newsome said coldly. “And why did he ask you to deliver such a message?”

“’Cos I were there, I ’spect,” she said, her eyes wide.

“Indeed.” There was no light whatever in Mrs. Newsome’s face.

“Well, in future, Gracie, you will get about your duties without speaking to policemen, and you will not come into the butler’s pantry, or into any other room, and close the door. Do you understand me? It is completely inappropriate.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am, I won’t.” Gracie swallowed her anger and her dignity with quite an effort.

“I told her to close the door, Mrs. Newsome,” Tyndale suddenly found his voice. “I did not wish other staff to be hearing a message from the police. It is distressing enough having them here at all. Everyone is upset.”

Mrs. Newsome’s face expressed disgust that was almost comical. “Do you imagine I am unaware of that, Mr. Tyndale?” she said scathingly. “While you are here counting the knives with Gracie, I am trying to find Ada; assure Mrs. Oliphant that she will not be murdered in her bed; persuade Biddie that she cannot leave, at least until the police tell her she can, and she’ll get no character from me for leaving us in the lurch. I am also trying to stop Norah from having hysterics, and make sure someone dusts the hall and at least gets a start with the ironing.” She picked at a stray wisp of hair across her brow and poked it back into its pins savagely, making the whole effect worse. “And in case you have not noticed,” she went on, “one of your serrated-edged meat knives is missing. You should have twenty-four.” Less flustered, she would have been a comely woman, and not as old as Gracie had at first assumed.

Suddenly Gracie was aware of a vulnerability in her that almost took her breath away. Mrs. Newsome was jealous. It was absurd, and desperately human. She cared for Mr. Tyndale.

“I had better go and see what the policeman wants,” Tyndale said unhappily. “I…I know it is difficult. Please do your best, Mrs. Newsome. And I know one of the knives is missing. I shall speak to Cuttredge about it.” He closed the drawers in which the knives sat in their green baize slots, and locked it with one of the keys from his small, silver chain. Then he walked past both women and went out to look for Pitt.

Gracie and Mrs. Newsome stared at each other. The silence grew increasingly awkward.

“May I be excused, please, ma’am?” Gracie said at last, her mouth dry. She wanted intensely to escape the emotion in the room. She must not allow Mrs. Newsome to know how much she had seen. She would never be forgiven for it.

“Yes.” Mrs. Newsome straightened her skirt automatically, her own much larger key ring jangling. “Of course you may. Is Ada looking after you, showing you what to do?”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am.” She would say nothing about what Ada was really doing in the laundry, or that Ada was something of a bully. It was difficult to think that Mrs. Newsome could be so blind! But one did not tell tales.

“Good. Since it is eleven o’clock, you may go to the kitchen for a cup of tea.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Gracie bobbed rather an awkward curtsy. It was not something she was used to doing; Charlotte would have found it ridiculous.

Along the corridor, in the huge kitchen with its Welsh dressers of crockery and copper pans on the walls, rafters hung with herbs, Cuttredge was sitting in one of the hard-backed chairs. Mrs. Oliphant, the cook, was in another opposite him. There was a teapot on the table, several clean cups, and two plates of fruit cake.

“I reckon it were stole!” Rob, the boot boy, said with a shrug. “Yer won’t never find it.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Oliphant retorted sharply. “You keep a still tongue in your head, boy, or you’ll go to bed with no dinner!”

He bit his lip, but his expression said he knew a lot he dared not say.

“Well what, then?” Mrs. Oliphant demanded. “Who stole it? You saying one of us is a thief?”

“’Course I in’t,” he said indignantly, his round eyes widening.

“Why’d anyone ’ere take a knife for? Can’t sell it, can yer, not one dinner knife.”

“It was probably dropped,” Cuttredge put in.

Mrs. Oliphant ignored him. “Well, there’s no one else, unless you think one o’ those wretched girls took it?” she said to Rob. “They weren’t nowhere near the dining room, you stupid boy! Dinner was all cleared away before we took ’em up. You don’t feed tarts like them. What are you thinking of?”

“There was the old feller,” Rob said stubbornly.

“What old feller?” Mrs. Oliphant challenged. “’Ere you. Gracie, that your name? Well, sit down, girl. Pour yourself a cup o’ tea. Cake’s fresh. Oh, come on!” She snatched the pot and a clean cup and poured it for Gracie impatiently. She pushed it across at her, and one of the plates. “Look like a twopenny rabbit, you do. Put a bit o’ meat on your bones, girl. Next thing they’ll accuse us o’ starvin’ you.” She turned back to Rob. “What other one? What are you talking about?”

He blanched, so that his freckles stood out like blotches on his skin. “I mean the old feller what come wi’ the big box, Mrs. Oliphant.”

“What old feller?” she said with disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

Gracie stopped with her cup halfway to her lips.

“The man wot came ’ere a bit after midnight wi’ that box o’ books come for Mr. Dunkle, or wot’s ’is name,” Rob answered her.

Mrs. Oliphant’s wispy-fine eyebrows shot up. “You sayin’ as that old man what delivered the books pinched one of our knives and took it with ’im?” she said with disbelief. “Whatever for?”

“I dunno, do I!” Rob said indignantly. “’Cos it come from the Palace, I s’pose. You should ’ear some o’ the things I get asked ter nick fer people.”

“You take a pinch o’ dust, my boy, an’ your feet won’t touch the ground!” Mrs. Oliphant said furiously. “I catch you, an’ I swear you’ll eat off the mantelpiece fer a week, an’ glad of it.”

Rob rubbed his behind as if it were already aching. “I said I were asked, I din’t say as I took nothing!” Now he was really offended. “Was me as told yer the knife were gone. You’re ungrateful, that’s what you are.”

“Don’t you speak to me like that, you cheeky lump!” she said hotly. “You forget yourself, Rob Tompkins. You let Mr. Tyndale catch you talking nonsense an’ he’ll wash your mouth out with soap, he will, lye soap an’ all!”

“Then you tell ’im the old fellow took the knife!” he charged her.

“’Ow do I know?” she demanded. “You stop crying an’ drink your tea before I throw it away!”

He snatched the cake before she could remove the plate.

“You better have the last one too,” she said. “Go on! Take it! Another twopenny rabbit if ever I seen one.”

He grinned at her, showing gappy teeth.

“Where’d yer see ’im?” Gracie asked as casually as she could, her mouth dry. At last she was learning something.

“Don’t encourage ’im!” Mrs. Oliphant warned.

Gracie shrugged. “Sorry. ’E’s probably nobody.”

“Yeah ’e is so!” Rob insisted. “Bit taller’n me, ’e were, wi’ scruffy white ’air an’ dirty face. Edwards knows—’e ’elped the fella carry it. ’E were down ’ere while they was unpackin’ the box, before ’e takes it back out again. Cup o’ tea, I s’pose. ’E come past Mr. Tyndale’s pantry an’ out o’ the kitchen through the side door inter the yard. S’pose ’e went back ter the cart ’e come in. But ’e went past the pantry, I swear!” He looked at Gracie, hopeful of support.

“An’ how do you know?” Mrs. Oliphant asked. “What were yer doin’ out o’ yer bed at that time of night? Stealin’ cake, I’ll wager!”

“I come fer a drink o’ water!” Rob said with self-conscious righteousness.

“Down them stairs?” Gracie asked doubtfully.

“’E sleeps in the scullery,” Mrs. Oliphant explained.

Rob nodded, smiling. “Nice an’ warm in there.”

Gracie refrained from pointing out that there was also a tap in there—but not cake.

“Stupid,” she said, sipping her tea. “Fancy stealin’ a table knife! In’t even any good. Why don’t ’e take a kitchen knife, if ’e wanted one?”

“Them table knives is special for meat,” Mrs. Oliphant told her. “Shave your face with them, yer could. Believe me!”

Gracie finished her tea with difficulty, heart pounding, then thanked Mrs. Oliphant and excused herself as swiftly as she dared. She was going so hastily she almost ran into Pitt on the stairs.

“What is it?” he asked her with an edge of urgency in his voice. “Mr. Tyndale said you wanted to see me. Something about sheets.”

“I found ’em in the laundry,” she said breathlessly, no louder than a whisper. “I ’id ’em in the bran bin. They’re ’Er Majesty’s sheets. They got V R and a crown on ’em, an’ they’re all soaked in blood.”

“From the cupboard,” he said calmly. “They took all the sheets down to see which ones they could save.”

“But V R means they’s ’ers!” She stared up at him, exasperated at his obtuseness. “’Er own, like! An’ they weren’t folded like the rest of ’em in the cupboard, sir. They bin slept in! They was all creased and rankled up.”

Pitt looked very grave. “Are you certain, Gracie?”

“’Course I am! It din’t make no sense, but I’m certain sure for positive,” she was emphatic. “An’ that in’t all. There’s a table knife missing, one o’ the real sharp ones for cutting meat. Rob, the boot boy, says he saw an old man ’ere wot brought a big box, about midnight, an’ then took it away again.”

“When?” Pitt asked. “The night of the murder? Where?”

“Downstairs, going past the butler’s pantry and out into the yard,” she replied. “’E came wi’ a big wooden box. Edwards ’elped him carry it.”

“How big was the box?” Pitt said immediately.

“Dunno. But I can ask.”

“No,” he said quickly, grasping her arm. “Don’t ask. It doesn’t matter. See if you can find out if anyone else saw him, and how long he was here. Just possibly the woman’s death has nothing to do with the guests here after all.” He smiled suddenly, a glowing look, full of hope.

Gracie grinned back at him, satisfied she had helped him, really helped. Maybe even helped the Queen herself. Suddenly the scrubbing and the obedience were worth it. She heard footsteps below, and went on up the steps with light feet, leaving Pitt to go down.