Buckingham Palace Gardens (20 page)

“And we change,” he added. “We find what we were looking for, and discover that we don't like it after all.” He touched her shoulder a moment with his hand, then dropped it away again.

She wanted to turn round, face him, look into his eyes. That was a lie. She wanted infinitely more than that, and it would be a disaster, something too wonderful to forget, or too empty, too revealing of disillusion ever to heal. She must change the subject, however violently.

“What was Cahoon talking about before? Was it like this poor woman here?” Her voice sounded too harsh.

“Yes, pretty much.” He did not step away.

“Is he…suggesting it was the same person who did it?”

“Yes, I think so. Particularly since he was in Europe at the time, so it couldn't have been him. And Eden Forbes is dead.”

“Liliane's brother? Why did you mention him? What happened to him anyway? She's never spoken of it.” Elsa had not meant to, but she sounded frightened and accusing.

“I don't know,” he answered. “I believe it was crocodiles. He was in a boat that capsized. Stories were a bit garbled, and everyone was very shocked. From what I heard, Hamilton did a lot to help. Watson Forbes was there, and Liliane, but they were devastated by it. I was actually a couple of hundred miles away up-country when it happened.”

She tried to imagine it, and deliberately stopped. “I'm not sure if I would like Africa. Not that I have to go. I don't think Cahoon will care whether I do or not, and I'm certainly not necessary.”

“We don't have the contract yet,” he pointed out.

She was surprised. “Don't you think we will?” Failure was not something she had seriously considered. Cahoon never failed, and he wanted this more passionately than anything else in his life. But that had been before the murder.

Julius answered slowly, concentrating on each word. “I suppose that depends on what the policeman finds.” There was irony in his voice, and pity, and fear. He would have been a fool to possess less. She was glad to hear it; at least he felt something.

“And I'm not as certain that the railway will be an unqualified asset as I used to be. There are other factors. I thought I knew as much as I needed to, now I'm not sure. What about a generation from now—or two? The internal boundaries in Africa are all very fluid. What if they change? If only one country opposes the British Empire, we become desperately vulnerable. And even if we can safeguard the project, militarily or through treaty, what will it do to Africa itself?”

“Give it a unity,” she replied immediately. She did not understand why he was concerned. “Isn't that good? We did the same in India.”

“India already had a degree of unity,” he pointed out. “Africa doesn't. It has far more changes in climate and terrain, in race, culture, and religion. Maybe it's all better tied together by a British railway, but I'm far from certain of that. I've been wondering if east to west, inland to the sea, might be far more practical, not only physically but morally.”

Elsa was amazed, and in spite of her resolution not to, she turned to face him. “Have you said so?”

“No. I'm not certain, and Cahoon isn't listening anyway. He considers anyone who questions him to be committing an act of betrayal.” A half-smile touched his lips. “But you know that.”

She did know it. She realized that it must be so plain that he had seen it even from outside. There was no answer to give.

“I think I should return,” she said. “I have been gone rather a long time. I would rather do it before I need to give explanations.”

“Of course. I'll follow in a few minutes. I'd like to look at this portrait a little longer.”

She moved away without looking at him again. He had not touched her again, and she felt alone, somehow incomplete because of it.

         

C
AHOON FOLLOWED HER
to her bedroom and closed the door hard behind him. He dismissed Bartle, who was waiting. “Your mistress will pull the bell if you're wanted,” he said brusquely.

Bartle went out, head high, shoulders stiff.

Elsa stood facing him.

“You didn't know about that, did you?” he demanded, a slight curl of amusement on his lip. “You thought this was the first time he'd done it.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” She played for time. She was afraid of his temper. He had struck her before, although never where anyone would see the marks. Always it had been because of her coldness, as he saw it, her lack of fire or passion, the ways in which she fell short of his wishes and her duty as his wife. Was it Minnie he was comparing her with, or Amelia Parr?

“Whoever killed the damn woman in the cupboard, Elsa!” he shouted. “For God's sake, stop pretending! Haven't you the courage to face the truth about anything at all?” His disgust was palpable. “You live in a world of insipid dreams, all the edges of passion or pain blunted. Well, you're going to have to face reality now.” He moved closer to her, six inches taller than she, and massively more powerful. She could smell the cigar smoke and the brandy on his breath.

“I don't know the truth,” she said with as much composure as she could muster, refusing to step backwards. “If you do, then you should tell the police.”

“I will, when I can prove it. Although I don't know what that local clod of a policeman will do about it, unless the Prince tells him. Incompetent ass!”

“The Prince or the policeman?” she asked with an edge of sarcasm. She was tired of being complacent, whatever the cost. She despised herself for it, although she would have to pay later.

His eyes widened. “You think perhaps the Prince of Wales is an incompetent ass?” he said quietly.

“How on earth would I know?” she retorted. “He drinks too much and he seems to do whatever you advise him to. Do you admire that?” It was a challenge.

“He's probably bored sick with his tedious wife,” he snapped back. “Only the poor devil can't escape—ever. Unless she dies.”

She felt cold, as if suddenly she had walked into icy rain and been wet to the skin by it. He was staring at her, amused, enjoying it.

“So he has parties, and hires women from the street to come and entertain him,” she said without the force she had wanted because she was shivering. “Poor man. No wonder you are sorry for him. I am sorry for her. She must be so ashamed for him.”

He knew exactly what she meant, and the rage flared in his eyes. He swung his arm back, and then changed his mind. “I suppose you'd just run to Julius, and tell him I beat you! I wasn't in Africa when that other woman was killed, Elsa. He was! Have you considered what he might do to women when he can get away with it? Not quite the dream you had, is it?”

“You have no idea what my dreams are, Cahoon. That's one place you can't reach. You never will.”

“Do you really imagine I want to?” His black eyebrows rose incredulously. “Insipid is a word that hardly does them justice. Like a blancmange, pale and tasteless. You bore me to death, Elsa.” He turned away, then, when he reached the door, swung around to face her again. “Julius may never win anything but toleration from Minnie, because the law doesn't allow a woman to leave a man for adultery, if he ever raises the courage or the manhood to commit it—a fact you would do well to remember. You owe me everything you have: the food in your mouth, the clothes you stand up in, and your loyalty—at least in public. If you forget that, I will destroy you. Julius can't save you, and he won't try. If he wanted you, he'd have done something about it before now, which if you had either courage or honesty you would have realized. He has plenty of excuse to put Minnie away, if that were his choice. It isn't. Face it. All he wants you for is to irritate me.”

“He seems to have succeeded,” she said, her voice like ice. “You have lost control of your temper—again.”

“No I haven't,” he contradicted her. “If I had, you would be senseless on the floor.” He went out and closed the door hard.

She went to it and turned the key in the lock, then sank onto the bed and wept.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

G
RACIE HAD TAKEN
the bloodstained knife to Pitt, who had immediately seen the significance of it. Someone had placed it there after they had searched the cupboard on finding the body. That meant it could only be someone living right here in this guest wing of the Palace. Had they done it to get rid of it, in case Pitt caught them with it, or so he could find it and blame someone else? That was probably what Pitt was thinking of right now. Gracie scrubbed the laundry floor. Ada liked to give her the heaviest, wettest work to keep her aware of her position at the bottom of the hierarchy, just in case she forgot.

Gracie thought of the Queen's bloodstained sheets as well. It didn't seem to make any sense. Would Pitt manage to find out who did it, and, even more than that, prove it?

Her brush moved a little slower. What if he didn't find out? That thought frightened her. She didn't know what they would do to him, but she understood power, and anger, and fear. Surely even the people here would not be able to cover up a scandal like this. Or maybe they would think they had to. She could remember five years ago when the Whitechapel murderer had struck. There had been anger in the streets then. A lot of it in the East End had become very ugly. Anarchists and republicans had turned against the Queen. There had been talk of getting rid of her and setting up a new kind of government, without a monarchy any more. There had even been crazy talk that someone in the royal family had had a hand in it. That was really daft. One of the first things you did in detecting was to find out where people were. She had known that for years.

But she also knew how stupid people could be repeating things that a moment's thought would have told them couldn't be true. Anger doesn't need much food to grow. Poor and hungry people have more feeling than sense. She had grown up in the East End and she knew her own beginnings, even if she had left them behind for Keppel Street and was now busy on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor of the Queen's laundry.

She wiped the last yard and fetched fresh water to begin in the morning room, excusing herself to Biddie, who was busy ironing petticoats.

She started to scrub again.

Those three women the Prince had here were the same sort as the ones the Whitechapel murderer had attacked. So was this murder a similar attempt to try to destroy the Crown? Did Pitt know that? Or was he being used without realizing it, to break open another scandal? The thought made her so angry she bruised her fingers on the sides of the scrubbing brush and caught a bristle under her nail.

She was sitting on the floor in the corner out of sight, trying to pick the splinter out when she heard footsteps in the passage and then a rustle of fabric as skirts brushed the sides of the door. It sounded like silk. A maid's plain cotton dress made no sound. She ignored the piece of bristle and moved a little forward to see across the passageway.

It was a deep, plum-pink silk, and very wide. That would be Mrs. Sorokine—she liked such hot colors.

The silk moved farther inside and a moment later the sound of Minnie's voice proved her correct.

“I wonder if you could iron this for me?” Minnie asked. “I've gotten it rather crumpled, and I don't want my maid to know how careless I was.”

Biddie was startled. She let the iron slip out of her hand and it struck the ironing table with a thud.

“I'm sorry,” Minnie apologized. “I didn't mean to make you jump. I think we are all very frightened at the moment.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Biddie said automatically. “'Course I'll do it. You just leave it 'ere an' I'll bring it up ter you.”

“I don't mind waiting a few moments,” Minnie replied. “I don't want you to have to come all the way upstairs again.”

Biddie started to say it was no trouble, then bit the words back.

Gracie was curious. Such consideration did not seem in character for Mrs. Sorokine. She remained where she was, listening. The floor could wait.

“I don't blame you for being frightened,” Minnie went on conversationally. “I am too. I know the culprit has to be someone that probably we both saw, and on the night it happened. Maybe we even spoke to them.”

“Oh, ma'am! It doesn't bear thinking of!” Biddie said softly.

“But you can see why I'm concerned, I'm sure,” Minnie said warmly. “My own husband is one of the people they suspect.”

“I'm really sorry, ma'am,” Biddie said in a hushed tone, as if she had just realized the enormity of the crime. “I'm sure you'll find it in't 'im.”

“Are you?” From Minnie's tone it was a question, not in any way a challenge. “How can you be? Do you know where he was? I suppose you must have seen a lot, maybe more than the police thought to ask you.” Her skirts rustled a bit as she leaned forward. “You were up and down the stairs most of the evening, weren't you?”

“Yeah, I s'pose we were.” There was awe in Biddie's voice and there was no movement of the iron. It must be quite cool by now, and she had not changed it for the hot one on the stove.

“What were they like, the three women?” Minnie asked. “I didn't even see them.”

Still sitting motionlessly, Gracie saw Biddie's skirt give a twitch as she shrugged her shoulders. “Ordinary enough, ma'am. You shouldn't 'ave ter know about them things.”

“Oh, please!” Minnie begged. “I won't tell anyone you said so. I just need to know. There are only three men suspected, one of them is my husband. Please!”

Biddie must have looked at Minnie's face, because she relented. “Well, they was women from one o' the bawdy 'ouses, not off the street, like. Clean an' all. At least far as yer can know. An' dressed quite decent when they come.”

“But they were…professional?”

“Oh, yeah. Yer can tell that by the way they talked.”

“You've seen them before?” Minnie pressed.

Gracie was getting a crick in her back, but she dared not draw attention to herself by moving.

“Not them in particular,” Biddie answered after apparently having thought for a moment. “But ones like 'em.”

“Does Mr. Tyndale know them?” Minnie was not yet satisfied.

Biddie giggled. “Not Mr. Tyndale, ma'am. 'E don't approve of it something terrible, but it'd be more'n 'is job's worth ter say so. It don't do ter let anyone think as yer've got opinions.”

“No,” Minnie agreed. “Of course it doesn't. Who finds these women, then?”

“Oh, ma'am…I…”

“Are you telling me you don't know?” Minnie was incredulous.

“Somebody must have taken them in and upstairs, and then told somebody they were here. Otherwise they could have been anyone.”

“Oh, they was 'oo they said, ma'am!” Biddie responded instantly.

“Who said so?”

“Mr. Dunkeld, ma'am.”

“I see.” There was profound emotion in Minnie's voice. It was husky, almost choked. Was that what she had wanted to prove, or to disprove? “And when the two of them left, who took them out? And what about the old man who helped carry the box up?”

“When the two o' them went they looked much the same,” Biddie told her. “Bit used, like, wot yer'd expect. A good few drinks the worse for wear, but not 'urt or nothing.”

“And the old man,” Minnie urged. “What did he look like? Was he strong? Might he have attacked her, do you think? Was he rough-looking?”

Biddie's voice was gentle. “I'm real sorry, ma'am, but 'e looked like 'e were too old ter be up ter such things. An' the way I 'eard it, 'e took the box up an' came down again to his 'orse, then straight back up to fetch the box when it were empty. I'm real sorry, but that won't 'elp yer, ma'am, much as I wish it would.”

“That's all right. Thank you,” Minnie said, moving again, from the rustle of her skirts. “I'm very obliged for your help. Please don't repeat our conversation to anyone.”

“No, ma' am,” Biddie promised. There was a swish of silk and a moment later Biddie swore. “Stupid article!” she said in exasperation.

“She din't even taken 'er linen with 'er after all!”

Gracie stood up, relieved to move at last. “I'll take it up to 'er as soon as I've finished this. I'm nearly done.”

“Ta,” Biddie said sincerely.

         

Q
UARTER OF AN
hour later Gracie was on the guest landing with Minnie Sorokine's chemise neatly folded, but there was no answer at her bedroom door, which was locked. Norah, in the pantry, had no idea where she was, but thought she had gone back downstairs.

“Again?” Gracie asked her. “Are yer sure?”

“'Course I'm sure,” Norah said indignantly. “Ever such an odd one, she is.” She was putting away the tea canisters after filling them: Darjeeling, Earl Grey, China. “Not a beauty like Mrs. Quase, but yer can't miss that Mr. Marquand prefers 'er. Can't keep 'is eyes off 'er, Ada says. An' Mrs. Sorokine don't seem ter care. Askin' me about buckets an' mops and carryin' things around in the middle o' the night. As if I'd know! An' now she's gone downstairs ter ask Timmons about it.”

“About wot?”

“About 'oo was cleanin' up, fetchin' an' carryin' bits o' broken china an' buckets o' water an' cloths an' brushes an' things! In't you listening?”

Gracie stiffened. “When?”

“The night that poor creature were killed in the cupboard, o' course!”

“Then they was cleanin' out the cupboard,” Gracie concluded. “Isn't that clear enough?” She thought of the knife. “'Oo was it, anyway?”

“No, it weren't the cupboard!” Norah replied smartly. “Too clever by 'alf, you are, missy! The policeman done that 'isself. This were way along the other wing, near the Prince and Princess's own rooms, an' the Queen 'erself, o' course. But 'ers is further off again. Maybe they was tryin' ter get rid of anyone knowin' that tart 'ad bin along in the Prince's room. Dunno why! That policeman may not be as sharp as they are, but 'e in't stupid! 'E knows fine where she were. An' don't ask me wot the china were, 'cos I dunno.”

“That's what Mrs. Sorokine was trying to find out?” Gracie's mind raced. What on earth was she imagining?

“That's wot she said. Now do you want me to give that to 'er when she comes back, or not?” She gestured to the chemise.

“Yes…please. I'll go and find her to tell her it's 'ere.” And Gracie passed it to her, then turned on her heel and went to see if she could learn what Minnie Sorokine was looking for, her mind racing with ideas. Why was she asking? What did she suspect? It made no sense.

She had to ask three people before she nearly ran into Minnie herself, talking quietly to one of the footmen. Gracie stopped only just before either of them saw her, and hid behind a curtain to listen. She felt foolish, but she dared not miss the opportunity.

“What kind of china?” Minnie was saying, her voice sharp with excitement.

Walton, the footman, obviously thought she was so unnerved by the murder that she had taken leave of her judgment. “Just china, ma'am, like a dish or a bowl. No harm, we've got plenty. 'Course, it's a bad thing when something gets broken, but it happens now an' again.”

“Did one of the maids break something?” she asked.

“Must have,” he reasoned.

“A bucketful?”

“Got to carry broken pieces in something, ma'am.”

“You could get a whole tea service in a bucket!” she pointed out.

“Who broke it? Don't they have to own up?”

“It wasn't a tea service, ma'am, it was just about as much as a good-sized dish. An' I don't know who broke it.”

“Which dish was it?”

Gracie could see Walton's face. He looked totally bemused. “I don't know, Mrs. Sorokine. Sort of blue, with some gold on it, and white, I think.”

“Do you have a service like that?” There was something like excitement in Minnie's voice now.

“Not that I can think of. But we must, or it wouldn't be broken, would it?”

“Thank you very much.” Minnie's voice sounded frightened, full of raw-edged emotion.

As Gracie saw her swing round she scrambled ridiculously behind the curtain, only just in time to avoid being seen if Minnie had turned. Only she did not turn, she swept back along the corridor at a pace Gracie could not have kept up with unless she had run, and that would have drawn so much attention to her that it would end all her usefulness here.

She lost Minnie and came face-to-face with Mrs. Newsome.

“If you have nothing to do, girl, go and help in the kitchen,” Mrs. Newsome said tartly. “There are plenty of dishes to wash. No wages for daydreaming.”

“Yes, Mrs. Newsome.” Gracie had no choice. And there was nothing more to learn in the laundry anyway. She went to the kitchen and did as she was told.

By lunchtime she was exhausted, and knew she was wet and crumpled. What would Samuel think of her now? And she wasn't even learning anything useful! She could not work out what Minnie thought she had found.

Gracie ate her cold mutton, pickle, and mashed potatoes, keeping her eyes on her plate. Her mind raced: broken china that didn't fit any of the tea services, buckets of water carried up and down stairs; descriptions of the street women—why had Minnie Sorokine asked about these things? They were ordinary enough. Did she really think she had discovered something?

Yes, of course she did. It was in her voice, in her eyes, in the way she raced along the corridor. But was it something to do with the murder, or just whatever romance she was planning? Was it something to prove her husband's innocence?

Later, when Gracie was tidied up and her dress changed, with a clean apron on to carry up extra sandwiches for afternoon tea, she saw Minnie Sorokine again. This time she was standing in the gallery in a beautiful muslin afternoon dress with frills on it like foam and cerise pink ribbons. She was quite obviously flirting with the Prince of Wales, who stood in the sunlight flooding in through the bay windows. He was looking at her and smiling. She was asking him something and he was happy to answer, except once when Gracie saw a swift frown and then a moment's awkwardness.