Buckingham Palace Gardens (2 page)

Why? Surely only a man bereft of reason would do such a thing anywhere, let alone here?

Narraway cleared his throat.

Pitt turned to him. He was white around the lips and there were beads of sweat on his skin. Pitt guessed he had never seen such grotesque violence and degradation before. He should say something that would soften the horror, but his mind was empty. Perhaps he did not want to. One should feel sick, stunned, torn apart by such things.

Instead, he turned away and moved into the cupboard, stepping carefully to avoid standing in the pooled blood. It seemed to be all over the place: thick, dark gouts of it, scarlet only where it was smeared and thin.

He touched the woman's arm. It was cold and the flesh was growing stiff. He guessed she had been dead for at least six hours. It was now half-past eight in the morning, which meant she had been killed by half-past two, at the latest.

“What is it?” Narraway gulped as if his throat were constricted.

Pitt told him.

“I think we know that,” Narraway said hoarsely. “She arrived here yesterday evening, and presumably was seen by several people up until one o'clock.” He turned to Dunkeld. “I'm sorry to ask you, but would you look at her face, please, and tell us if you recognize her?” Then he swiveled round to Pitt again and his voice was jerky, losing control. “For God's sake, man, put something over the rest of her! The cupboard's full of sheets. Use one!”

Pitt took one from the top shelf, far away from the body, and opened it up. With some relief he spread it over her, right up to her neck, deliberately covering the fearful gash in her throat.

Narraway stepped back to allow Dunkeld past.

“Yes,” Dunkeld said after a few moments. “Yes, that is one of the women from last night's party.”

“You are certain?”

“Of course I'm certain!” Dunkeld shouted. Then he gasped, put his hand over his brow and pushed his fingers back over his scalp as if he had hair. “For the love of God, who else could it be? I don't look at prostitutes' faces. She's ordinary enough. She was hired for her…her skills, not her looks. Brown hair, blue eyes, like a hundred thousand other women.”

Pitt looked at her again, this time just at her face. Dunkeld was right; she was ordinary: pleasant features, clear skin, slightly crooked teeth. He guessed she had been in her early thirties. She had been handsomely built, with full breasts, small waist. That was very probably more where Dunkeld's attention had been. He was right; who else could she be but one of last night's prostitutes? She was certainly not one of the guests, and a maid would have been reported missing and identified by one of the other staff.

“Thank you, sir,” he said aloud. He reached forward and closed her eyes.

“Can't we move her?” Dunkeld demanded. “This is…obscene. One of the women might find her, by accident. And we've got to have maids back here to change the linen, clean the rooms. Let's put her somewhere decent, and get this cleared up. It would be very nice to keep it secret, but the staff will have to know. You'll have to question them.”

“In a little while,” Pitt replied.

“I asked Narraway!” Dunkeld raised his voice again, temper flaring.

Narraway stared at him, eyes cold, his face almost expressionless. When he spoke, his voice was fully under control. “Mr. Dunkeld, Inspector Pitt is an expert in murder. I employ him because I trust his knowledge and his skill. You will do as he tells you, otherwise I regret that we will not be able to accept the case. You can call in the local police. In fact, now that we are aware of it, we will be obliged to do so ourselves.”

Dunkeld searched Narraway's face. His eyes were savage. He was hot with rage at being cornered. It was obviously a situation he had not been forced to endure in a long time. But he saw no wavering whatever, no fear in Narraway and no mercy. He yielded with sufficient grace to maintain his dignity, but Pitt had no doubt whatever that he would await his time for revenge.

“Look all you wish, Pitt,” he said grimly. “Then attend to it. Can you arrange for a mortuary van discreetly, disguised as a delivery of some sort?” His expression made it plain that the inquiry was as to his competence, not a request for his help.

“Once I have learned all I can,” Pitt answered him, “I will ask Mr. Tyndale to have the cupboard cleaned up.”

“See to it.” Dunkeld turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Narraway to follow him, and Pitt to do whatever he wished.

Pitt took the sheet off the body again and dropped it in the corridor, then looked once more at the scene in the linen cupboard, trying to visualize what had happened. Why had they been here at all, this woman and whoever had killed her? With what? A knife of some sort; the slashes were clean-edged as far as he could see through the blood.

He looked around, felt between all the stacked and folded sheets, on the floor, under her body, then he did it again even more carefully. There was no weapon, and no evidence that someone had wiped it here before removing it: there were no smear marks on any of the sheets he could see, only spatters and deep-soaked stains.

And where were her clothes? She would hardly have come here naked, no matter how wild the party. Prostitutes gave only what they were paid for; it did not normally include even kissing, let alone running around without clothing. But then he had never dealt with those who catered to such an elevated clientele as this. Still, the question remained: Where were her clothes? She had certainly arrived at the Palace in them.

He studied the body again, looking for marks, scratches or bruises, pinches, anything to indicate whether she had taken her garments off herself or they had been torn from her while alive, or stripped off after she was dead.

The wound in her stomach was more jagged than the one in her throat, as if it had been made through something resistant, like cloth. It would be difficult to strip a lifeless body that was heavy, limp, and covered in blood. Why on earth do it? What could it be about her clothes that mattered so much? Something that would identify her killer?

Once the heart stops beating, blood gradually stops flowing, even with wounds like these. From the amount of blood on the sheets and the floor, she had to have died here. What was she doing in a linen cupboard? She was an invited guest, sanctioned by the Prince himself. She had no need to hide.

Unless she had left the Prince, already asleep or in a drunken stupor, and gone to earn a little extra money? Or possibly simply to enjoy herself with someone else, someone without a better place in which to be private? The obvious answer was one of the servants.

Still, Pitt could see no sense to it. Why had he then killed her? Had she threatened him with exposure? Would anyone care? Not a servant, unless his job were at risk. Would the Prince dismiss a servant for using the same prostitute he had used himself? What about one of the guests? Hardly, since their wives had gone to bed knowing the nature of the party they left. They might be hurt, angry, revolted, but no woman in such a position would expose herself to ridicule and, worse than that, public pity by drawing attention to her husband's habits.

Pitt considered the possibility of a servant again. Perhaps one had been pressured into the theft of some small, valuable object, but killed his tormentor rather than fall into such a trap? No, that would not do. It did not answer the violence of the crime, the slashes across both throat and stomach. And who went to an assignation carrying the kind of knife that had done this damage?

There was nothing more to learn from this scene. He could sketch it quickly into his notebook to prompt his memory, then call a mortuary van and give them Narraway's instructions to come and collect the body for the police surgeon.

He was on his way back down the stairs to find Narraway when he met Cahoon Dunkeld on the landing.

“Where have you been?” Dunkeld demanded, his face dark. “For heaven's sake, man, don't you realize this is urgent? What's the matter with you?”

Pitt's temper rose. Was it guilt, embarrassment, or fear that made Dunkeld so ill-mannered? Or was he simply an arrogant man who saw no need to be civil to those he considered inferior?

“Come on!” Dunkeld said abruptly. “His Royal Highness is waiting to see you.” He started up the stairs. “I assume you have made arrangements to have the body removed so the staff can clean up the cupboard and we can begin to get back to normal? With all your staring, did you find anything to indicate who this maniac is?”

Pitt ignored the question and kept up with Dunkeld, pace for pace. They were of equal height, although very differently built. Dunkeld was muscular, heavy-shouldered. Pitt was gangly, inelegant in any fashionable sense, and yet he had a certain grace. He took more care of his clothes now than he had done in the past, but he still put too much into his pockets, with the result that they bulged and poked, very often weighing down one side of his coat. He was clean-shaven, but most of the time his hair was unruly and too long.

It took several minutes to reach Narraway waiting outside the door of the room where presumably the Prince of Wales would receive them.

Pitt's anger evaporated and he found himself suddenly intensely nervous. He had met the Prince before, at the end of the Whitechapel matter, but he did not expect to be remembered. At that time all attention had been on Charles Voisey, the man who had apparently saved the Throne at such great personal risk. But Voisey was dead now, and the whole issue was history.

Narraway turned as they arrived, his face bleak, his mouth a thin line. He met Pitt's eyes questioningly, but Dunkeld allowed them no time to speak to each other. He walked straight up to the door and knocked. It was answered immediately and he opened it and went in, closing it behind him just as Narraway stepped forward.

Narraway swiveled on his heel. “Anything?” he demanded of Pitt.

“Observations that make no apparent sense,” Pitt replied. “Why—”

He got no further. The door opened again and Dunkeld ordered them in.

Narraway went first, Pitt on his heels. They both stopped a couple of yards inside. It was a high-ceilinged room like the others, ornately furnished with much gold and dark red, and highly polished wood. The Prince of Wales was standing in the center of the floor, a portly, middle-aged man with a full beard. He had unremarkable features except for pale eyes a trifle down-turned at the outer corners. This morning his skin was blotchy, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, and his hands very definitely shaky.

“Ah!” he said with evident relief.

“Your Royal Highness,” Dunkeld said immediately. “May I present Mr. Narraway of Special Branch, and his man, Pitt. They are here to attend to the unfortunate matter of last night, and to get it cleared up as soon as possible. The…evidence…is already being removed. Mr. Tyndale seems to be keeping the servants calm. They know only that there was an incident during the night and someone was hurt. I'm not sure how much more they need to know.” He looked at Narraway, his eyebrows raised slightly.

Narraway bowed his head for a moment then looked across at the Prince.

The Prince cleared his throat and had difficulty finding his voice. “Thank you. I am obliged you came so quickly. This whole thing is unutterably dreadful. Someone is quite clearly insane. I have no idea—”

“It is their job to find out, sir,” Dunkeld said so smoothly it was barely noticeable that he had interrupted. “If it cannot be completed today, one of them may need to remain overnight. If I—”

“By all means.” The Prince waved one hand, his face flooded with relief. “Anything. Deal with it, Dunkeld. You have my permission to take whatever steps are necessary.” He looked at Narraway. “What do you require?”

“I don't know, yet, Your Royal Highness,” Narraway answered.

“We need to learn more about exactly what happened. May I take it for granted that no outsider could possibly have come or gone without the staff and the guards being aware of it?”

Dunkeld answered, but addressing the Prince rather than Narraway. “I have already taken the liberty of inquiring, sir. No one entered or left, other than those we already know of, and who had permission.”

There was a moment's silence in the room as the implication of that became perfectly clear.

“It appears it must be one of the servants, sir,” Dunkeld said to the Prince. “Mr. Narraway will find out which one, and do all that is necessary. I strongly believe we should continue as close to normally as possible. If we are fortunate, the ladies may never need to know the details.”

“I should be very grateful if the Princess of Wales did not need to know,” the Prince said quickly. “She is bound to speak to Her Majesty. It would be…” He swallowed and a fine beading of sweat broke out on his skin.

Dunkeld looked at Narraway. “His Royal Highness has made his wishes clear: You are not to distress the Princess with this tragedy. Perhaps if you begin immediately with the servants, you may solve it all quite quickly. Someone may even confess.”

“Yes,” the Prince of Wales agreed eagerly, looking from Dunkeld to Narraway. “Or others may know who it was, and the whole thing can be dealt with today. And we shall get back to the matter at hand. You appreciate it is of the utmost importance to the Empire. Thank you, Mr. Narraway. I am most obliged.” He turned to Dunkeld, his voice warming. “And thank you, my dear fellow. You have been a true friend. I shall not forget your loyalty or your steadfastness.” He seemed to consider the matter finished. His air was one of dismissal.

Pitt's mind was teeming with questions. Who had arranged for the dead woman to come, how, and from where? When were the arrangements made? Had these particular women been here before, or to any other place to meet with the Prince, or his friends? But how could he ask these things now when clearly Dunkeld was all but ushering them out the door? He looked at Narraway.