Buckingham Palace Gardens (12 page)

His Royal Highness appeared resigned. He would not abide being thwarted by people, but circumstances, he knew, he could not fight. The rituals of death had to be observed. He had survived his mother's mourning for three decades and never even penetrated the shell of it.

He looked back at Pitt as if he had suddenly remembered his presence. “This is a very unhappy situation,” he said, as though Pitt might not have understood what they had said. “I would be obliged if you could be as tactful as possible, but we have to know who is responsible. It cannot be left.”

Pitt had no intention whatever either of abandoning it or of conceding defeat. The Prince's manner was patronizing, and it pained Pitt like a blister, but there was nothing he could do to retaliate. He thought of the night's indulgence and the appetites that had precipitated it. Both men here had been perfectly happy to buy the use of the woman's body for the evening, under the same roof as their sleeping wives. The callousness of it revolted him. And now it was the fear of scandal and the inconvenience that moved them to concern. The Prince at least had possibly even been intimate with the woman, caressed her body, used her, and the next morning she had been found hacked to death. They were annoyed because a man bereaved of his only son had withdrawn from business in Africa and did not wish to assist in building their railway.

The magnitude of it, the power of those mere individuals, the sheer arrogance stunned him. And it frightened him that men so childlike should have such power.

“It will not be left, sir,” he said stiffly. “It was a hideous crime. The woman's throat was cut, her abdomen torn open, and her entrails left hanging.” He saw the Prince shudder, and he felt some satisfaction as the color drained from his skin, leaving him pasty and with a film of sweat on his brow.

Dunkeld sighed to indicate he found Pitt crude and more than a little tedious, but that he had not expected better.

“Really!” he said wearily, turning to the Prince. “I apologize, sir. Pitt is…doing his best.” Quite obviously he had been thinking that he was of an inferior social class, roughly the same as the dead woman. Only the implication was that while she had quite openly been a whore, and fun in her own way, Pitt was a prude and utterly boring.

Pitt's temper soared. It was only the look of slight amusement on Dunkeld's face when it was toward Pitt and averted from the Prince that held him in check from lashing back.

“Mr. Dunkeld is quite right, sir,” he said instead. “But it is an extremely delicate matter. Naturally all the gentlemen say they were in bed, but considering the manner of the evening's entertainment, their wives cannot corroborate that.”

“Menservants?” the Prince asked with a moment of hope.

“All the gentlemen dismissed them, sir, except Mr. Dunkeld.”

“Oh. Yes, I forgot. Well, there must be something you can do! What do you usually do in cases like this?”

“Ask questions, look at facts, at evidence,” Pitt replied. “But not all murder cases are solved, especially where women of the street are concerned.” He clearly wanted to add “and their customers,” but knew he would never be forgiven for it. It was not worth the few moments' satisfaction; worse, it would be highly unprofessional. He must rescue himself now, before anyone else spoke. “But people who are lying usually trip themselves up, sooner or later,” he went on a little too quickly. “Crimes like this do not happen without some event first that stirs the murderer beyond his ability to control his obsession.”

“And you'll look for that?” the Prince said dubiously.

Pitt felt the color hot in his face. Put like that it sounded completely ineffectual. He forced himself to remember the number of cases he had solved that had at one time or another appeared impossible. “And other things, sir.” He forced himself to smile, and it felt like a baring of his teeth. “But I should be grateful for any assistance you could offer, any insight. I appreciate that speed is of the greatest importance, as well as discretion.”

Two spots of dark, angry color appeared on Dunkeld's sunburned cheeks, but even he dared not contradict Pitt now. The air was electric in the room. One could believe that, beyond the tall windows, a summer storm was about to break.

“Yes,” the Prince agreed unhappily. “Quite. Of course, any help at all. What is it you wish to know?” He did not look to Dunkeld, but Pitt had the impression that he was preventing himself from doing so only with a conscious effort.

Pitt knew he might never have this chance again. “Were there any disagreements at all, either between the guests, or between guests and the women? Candor would be of the greatest service, sir.”

The Prince seemed quite relieved to answer. “Sorokine was in a poor temper,” he replied. “He wasn't rude, of course, just discourteous in his unwillingness to join in. He seemed preoccupied.”

Pitt forbore from suggesting that possibly he did not enjoy such entertainment and was unable to disguise the fact.

As if reading his thoughts, Dunkeld interrupted. “Before you imagine any finer feelings on his part, Inspector, Sorokine is a man of the world, and quite capable of enjoying himself like a gentleman. I believe he had had some altercation with his wife, and with his brother, Simnel Marquand. He is my son-in-law, but I admit, his temper is uncertain.”

“And the other gentlemen participated more wholeheartedly?” Pitt asked.

“Certainly,” the Prince answered without hesitation. He smiled for a moment before the memory clouded with the horror of the morning. “Yes,” he repeated.

“You all retired at what hour?” Pitt pressed.

The Prince's face registered distaste. It was a tactless question, indelicate. Pitt was aware of it and of the discomfort in the room. But he had no intention of catering to this sudden sensibility. Their delicate feelings were for themselves, as if they had been observed in some bodily function by a prurient stranger. Perhaps that was pretty close to the truth. He waited.

“I did not look at my pocket watch,” the Prince said coldly. “I imagine it must have been something after midnight. Sorokine went earlier.”

“I see. Each of you with a separate woman?”

“Naturally!” the Prince snapped. He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind. The color was still hot in his face.

“Which of you was with the woman who was killed, sir?” Pitt asked.

“I was,” Dunkeld answered quickly.

Pitt knew it was a lie, both from Dunkeld's face and from the Prince's. It was an absurd moment, and equally it was irretrievable. He saw the Prince's flash of gratitude and then his mortification in Pitt's recognition of it, as if he had been caught in an act of cowardice.

“I see,” Pitt said quietly, forcing his expression into blandness, without the amusement and the contempt he felt, although it was difficult. “And how long did she remain with you, Mr. Dunkeld?”

“I didn't time it!” Dunkeld said with a flare of temper. “And before you ask, I have no idea where she went. Presumably to one of the others, and her death.”

“We know from Edwards, one of the footmen, what time the other two women left,” Pitt pointed out, “and what time the third woman must have died, from the time she was last seen and the state of the body.”

“Then, as you implied before, it must have been Sorokine, Marquand, or Quase,” the Prince said with total despondency. “I suppose you had better find out which one. Thank you, Dunkeld. I appreciate your discretion and your loyalty. You may go…er, Pitt.”

Pitt bowed his head and went out into the corridor, closely followed by Dunkeld.

As soon as they were beyond possible earshot Dunkeld caught him by the arm and swung him round, almost knocking him against the wall. “You incompetent fool!” he snarled. “That is the future King of England you were talking to as if you were some self-righteous maiden aunt. Who the hell do you think you are to patronize him with your working-class prudery? Do you have any idea what a fool you make of yourself? No one expects you to behave like a gentleman, but at least have the wit to keep your moral judgments to yourself. Your manners belong in the gutter, where presumably most of your trade is.”

“Yes, it is,” Pitt replied between his teeth. Dunkeld's face was less than a foot from his, and he could feel the heat of the man's rage physically and smell his skin. “But I find gutters run in the most unexpected places.” His eyes did not leave Dunkeld's.

Dunkeld swung his right shoulder back as if to strike him, then seeing Pitt's unflinching gaze, he changed his mind. Suddenly he smiled, with an ugly curl of the lip. “If I were in your place, I should want to use this opportunity to better myself and earn the gratitude of my future sovereign, so my sons could find a more honorable occupation,” he said between his teeth. “Perhaps they could even escape such employment as the police, clearing up other people's filth. And my daughters might marry tradesmen rather than their employees. But obviously you have neither the wit nor the vision for that.”

He let go of Pitt's arm at last. “You're a fool. If you really are the best Narraway has, God help the country. Go and get on with your questions. I suppose it would be pointless telling you not to offend anyone?”

“It would be a waste of time giving me orders at all, Mr. Dunkeld,” Pitt said a little hoarsely. “I answer to Mr. Narraway, not to you.” He walked away, refusing to straighten his jacket from the way that Dunkeld had left it.

But as he went down the corridor he could not stop Dunkeld's words beating in his mind. Had his sense of disgust sounded self-righteous? Had he shown it where a better man would not have? He did not like Dunkeld, and he had been unsophisticated enough to allow the man to see it, and no doubt the Prince of Wales as well. And obviously the Prince not only liked and trusted Dunkeld, he seemed to be relying on both his judgment and his loyalty.

Pitt could have shown loyalty as well, and some sympathy for a man who had unwittingly invited into his home—or more accurately his mother's home—a man who had turned out to be a lunatic. If he had, he would have earned the Prince's gratitude, and taken the next step up the ladder toward being a gentleman.

Never mind whether he owed that to his children. Every man wants his sons and daughters to have more than he had. Unquestionably he owed it to Charlotte. She had been born into a financially comfortable and socially respected family. Her sister, Emily, had married Lord Ashworth, and on his death inherited his fortune. Her son had all his father's privileges to inherit. Charlotte had married Pitt, and her son would have the best education Pitt could afford for him, but nothing else.

Dunkeld was right; he could have given Charlotte more than that for her children, even for himself, and had allowed his pride and anger to stop him. He was startled by his own selfishness, and sick that it had taken Dunkeld, of all people, to show it to him.

He was in one of the main corridors now. It was vast compared with his own house. How could he possibly feel so shut in, almost imprisoned, in such a place? He should be proud to be here at all, not longing to escape.

He must learn all he could about the guests, including Dunkeld himself. Narraway was investigating the facts: reputation, financial standing, ambitions, friends, and enemies. Pitt must explore their natures, their angers and fears, their knowledge of one another. One of them had slashed a woman to death. Underneath the courteous, intelligent exterior there had to be a madman driven by a hatred so bestial he could not control it even within the Palace walls.

Pitt spoke to Hamilton Quase first. He was obliged to draw him from a conversation with Marquand, but he could not find Julius Sorokine, and he was not going to address Dunkeld again so soon.

He had something of a plan. It was not enough to give him confidence, merely a place to begin. He sat in a large armchair in the room Tyndale had given him. He was facing Hamilton Quase in one of the other chairs. Quase crossed his legs elegantly and waited. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot and his skin, beneath the darkening of sun and wind, was mottled by too much drink. He kept his hands still in his lap, but Pitt thought that were he to hold them more loosely, they might tremble.

“Will you describe the party to me, Mr. Quase?” Pitt began bluntly. “From the beginning. Who arranged it? Whose idea was it?”

Quase looked slightly surprised. “You don't think the murder of that unfortunate woman was planned, surely? Why on earth would anyone do something so…so stupid? And dangerous.” He had a good voice, stronger than one might have expected from his slightly unsteady air.

“What do you think?” Pitt returned.

Quase's eyebrows rose even higher. “I've no idea who did it, if that's what you are asking.”

Pitt smiled very slightly. “If you did know, why would you not have told me?”

Quase smiled back with a sudden flash of humor. “Is there some kind of penalty for the first one of us to answer a question? Do we lose?”

“Lose what?”

“The struggle, the battle of wits,” Quase replied.

“Then I have won,” Pitt told him.

“Oh…yes.” Quase smiled back. “I answered you. Does it feel like a victory?”

“Not at all. Why would we be battling? Are we not on the same side?”

“That depends upon how far we go,” Quase answered. “I don't know who killed the woman, or why. I suppose I wish you to find out, but there are answers that I would not like.”

“There will probably be answers that no one likes,” Pitt agreed.

“Murder affects far more than the murderer and the victim.” He leaned back a little, as if relaxing in his chair. “We all have loves and hates, and secrets. That doesn't affect the questions I have to ask, and go on asking until I know who killed her, and can prove it.”

Quase looked at him with mild amusement. There was something else in his eyes, which Pitt found too complicated to read, but it was a kind of unhappiness, as if an old wound were aching again. “Then you had better begin,” he said quietly. “I warn you, I have absolutely no idea who killed her, and still less why. She seemed a perfectly harmless sort of tart.”