Buckingham Palace Gardens (21 page)

“Snooping again, are you?”

Gracie swung round to see Ada standing no more than a yard away, a look of satisfaction in her face. Gracie felt the color rush up her cheeks because she had no answer to save herself.

“Eavesdropping on your betters,” Ada went on. “Well, if yer out ter learn 'ow ter flirt, yer couldn't do better than watch that one! I never seen as good. But she's out o' your class. Yer get caught watchin' 'Is 'Ighness an' you'll be out before night, I can assure yer.” She said that with obvious pleasure. “But yer in't goin' ter get me thrown out fer not watchin' you proper, so one more time yer cross me, miss, an' I'll tell Mrs. Newsome wot yer like. It's my turn ter carry out the slops. Yer'd like ter do them for me as a favor now, wouldn't yer?”

However much she might dislike it, Gracie had no choice but to agree. She was here to learn all she could that might help Pitt, not to carve herself a career at the Palace. She went obediently and worked at fetching all the slops and emptying them, washed out all the bowls and jugs, then had to change into another clean dress and damp down and re-press the first one.

She was late for supper and Mrs. Newsome told her off in front of all the others.

“You're going to have to learn to keep up, Phipps,” she said coldly. “You can't be coming to table late like this. It is discourteous and it inconveniences everyone. You must learn to fit in. It's not always easy, but if you cannot manage it, then you are not right for this position. Perhaps you are a little too old to accommodate yourself.”

Gracie felt the anger boil up inside her as everyone along both sides of the table turned to stare at her. She ached to be able to tell them she had no intention of staying here any longer than was necessary to help Mr. Pitt and Mr. Narraway. But of course she could say nothing. To defend herself would betray a confidence that would make her role unbelievable. She drew in breath to apologize, the words all but choking her under Ada's triumphant gaze. In that instant it became a rock-hard certainty that Ada was doing this precisely to get her dismissed. Ada saw Gracie as some kind of threat. She must have sensed a strength of will in her, because it was certainly not her looks. As even Samuel had said, she was the size of a rabbit.

In spite of the danger, Gracie felt a surge of elation.

“You are being too quick, Mrs. Newsome,” Mr. Tyndale said with an edge to his voice. “The circumstances are unusual at the moment. Everyone is frightened and shocked by what has happened—”

“Phipps was not here when it happened,” Mrs. Newsome interrupted him. “She cannot use that as an excuse.”

“It was not Phipps who raised the issue, Mrs. Newsome.” The color was high in Mr. Tyndale's face now also, and his hand on the table was clenched. “It was I. Before you spoke, I was about to say that none of the staff is behaving as usual. I have noticed several other irregularities. But with the police questioning people, and guests who are plainly under a great burden of anxiety, and even greater fear than ours, we cannot expect the same standard of conduct from anyone as we would at any other time.”

Mrs. Newsome opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Her lips were white, her eyes burning with anger and embarrassment. He had curbed her, quite sharply, in front of the junior servants. Judging from the silence all around the table, that was something that had not happened before. Gracie was surprised to feel so uncomfortable for her.

“Continue with your supper,” Mr. Tyndale ordered, and one by one they all picked up their knives and forks again and began to eat, conscious of every movement, every sound. No one spoke, not even to ask for the salt or the teapot.

Gracie's mind raced. She had seen Ada's look of anger and puzzlement, and she knew it would not be long before she worked out how to launch another attack. Next time it might even compromise Mr. Tyndale. He had been unwise, at the very least, to expose his position as Gracie's defender, and Ada had unquestionably noticed it.

Mrs. Newsome would not forget that either, and both Gracie and Mr. Tyndale would probably have to pay. This rivalry, anger, and manipulation was something she had not even thought about before. In comparison, Keppel Street seemed an island of peace, nothing to do but tasks she was used to and knew she did well. No one to answer to most of the time, and when there was, it was only Mrs. Pitt, who, in spite of being born into gentry, never gave herself airs.

Gracie wondered if she would be as happy as Mrs. Pitt when she married Samuel! It would be a totally new experience and she would lose all the little things she was familiar with. She was taken aback to realize that as well as excited, she was also a little afraid, even sad.

Of course, if Mr. Pitt did not solve this horrible crime, then everything might change, probably for all of them. And if it did, would Gracie be able to leave them at all, even to marry Samuel? It would seem like a desertion. She might even have to stay and work without any pay, just her food. Not that she would mind that; it would be fair.

Gracie finished her rice pudding and declined another slice of bread and jam. When they had all put down their knives or spoons, she rose and waited a few moments to see which way Mr. Tyndale was going, then followed after him. She hoped everyone else assumed she was going to apologize.

She caught up with him in the pantry. She wanted to close the door, but she remembered the speculation that had caused before and left it ajar. She spoke very quietly. This was desperately awkward, and she had to do it immediately, before she lost her nerve.

“Mr. Tyndale, sir,” she began, “I'm very grateful that you stood up for me, 'cos Ada's making things right awkward, which is why I were late. But you didn't ought ter, 'cos yer can't tell no one why I'm 'ere, an' being the way they are, they're gonna think summink else, wot in't fair.” She took a deep breath. “You gotter stay 'ere, sir, but I don't, so it don't matter wot they think o' me.”

He looked embarrassed. She was suddenly terribly sorry for him. This place and the people in it were his whole life, the reason he believed in himself. Perhaps he had found some way to come to terms with the things he disapproved of: the strange women who came at night, for what reason he must know; the guests he might not care for, either for their manners or their purposes in being here. Many of them would take advantage, and there would be nothing he could do.

And now there was murder, and he still had to try to keep it all quiet and everything working as usual. Would he even be thanked for it? Thanks could mean a lot, in fact it could mean almost everything.

“But I am grateful,” she added in the prickly silence. “Wouldn't 'a done for me to tell everyone as Ada made me do 'er job wi' the slops, which is wot made me late. An' please don't say nothin'! I'll sort 'er.”

He looked desperately uncomfortable. “Have you…have you learned anything?” His voice caught in his throat.

“Best you dunno, sir,” she replied.

“Would it be helpful if you were to serve at dinner tonight?” he asked.

“Serve? You mean like at the table?” she was horrified.

“Yes. They are not dining until late. You still have at least two hours. Would it help you to observe?”

“I…” She hated to admit it. “I dunno as I know 'ow ter do it, sir. Not…not wi' silver dishes an' all them glasses an' all.”

“You won't be asked to serve the wine,” he assured her. He looked better, and he had the upper hand again. “Just the vegetables, and clear away. The footman will serve the wine and the soup. Would it help?”

“If someone's as mad as all that, yer'd think yer could see it, wouldn't yer?” she said thoughtfully. “Mrs. Sorokine's bin goin' around all day askin' things. Mr. Tyndale, sir, do you know if someone broke a dish, all blue and white china, wi' a bit o' gold in it? One from upstairs, I mean? She were askin' like it mattered.”

He looked concerned. “Yes, I am aware of that. She asked me also. I tried to discourage her. It seems I did not succeed. Who was she asking?”

“Walton. 'As it got summink ter do with the murder, sir?”

“No. No, you have quite misunderstood. There isn't such a dish here. The matter has to do with some unfortunate behavior of a quite different nature,” he said firmly, watching to see if she believed him. “It is His Royal Highness. Leave it absolutely alone. Do you understand me, Miss Phipps? I am most desperately serious.”

She was astounded, and a little frightened as well. She realized for the first time the delicacy of the balance Mr. Tyndale needed to keep between his own beliefs and those of the man and the class he served. Did he even see the absurdity of it? How difficult was it for him to explain to himself, and justify, when it was late at night and he was alone in his room? Did he question, waver? Then count the cost?

He blinked under her gaze. “Do you understand me, Miss Phipps?” he said again.

“No, sir,” she replied. “But I'll do like you say.”

The door swung wide open and Mrs. Newsome was there again, her face white apart from two spots of color in her cheeks.

“Phipps—” she started.

“If you have something to say, Mrs. Newsome, then you had better say it to me,” Tyndale cut across her abruptly. “Phipps was reporting a certain matter to me, which I shall relay to the police. The fewer people who know of it the better. It may turn out to mean nothing, but we must see. You will keep this entirely to yourself.” That was an order; there was no possibility of misunderstanding this time. Was he repaying her for showing him up in front of the other staff at the table?

“Indeed,” Mrs. Newsome said unhappily. She turned from Tyndale to Gracie. “Phipps, there is a considerable amount of rubbish in the still room after the party. No one got round to cleaning it up. Go and do so, and while you are there, you can scrub the floor.”

“I want her to help at table this evening,” Mr. Tyndale said.

“She's not fit to, but if that's what you want, then she can do so. After she's scrubbed the still-room floor,” Mrs. Newsome rejoined. “Don't stand there, girl! Go and do as you're told!”

         

I
T WAS A
messy and quite difficult job. The room was cluttered with all manner of rubbish, as Mrs. Newsome had said, and in the early-evening heat Gracie could hear the irritating buzzing of flies. She hated the big, lazy things circling round anything dirty or sticky, settling and laying eggs on the surfaces. She gave a little shudder of distaste, and went to fetch a bucket of water and some baking soda to help it get back a decent smell.

It took her half an hour of cleaning and scrubbing and washing down and repiling up again before she came to the bottles where the flies were. They were old wine bottles, by the look of them, and expensive too. The labels were ornate and in soft colors, like old parchment. She picked one up and looked at it. A fly buzzed out of the neck and zoomed away.

“Ugh!” she said disgustedly. “Must be very sweet.” She looked at the label. She could not read all of it, but she recognized the word
port.
That would be for the gentlemen to drink after dinner. She had heard about that. Could be terribly expensive. She put it to her nose experimentally and sniffed a little. It was sweet, like sugar and salt, and a bit like iron. Certainly not anything she would want to drink. It was revolting! Wonder if that one was bad. Could wine go bad?

She picked up another, and tried it very gingerly. That smelled entirely different, and very nice indeed, like real wine she had tasted before. She went back to the first one and tried again. It was just as horrible. There were eight empty bottles and she tried all of them. Five were lovely, three disgusting, all the same, with the sickly sweet, ironlike smell.

She tipped one up and poured out a few drops onto the back of her hand, then smeared it gently over her skin. A fly returned and settled on her. She shook it off violently. She put her finger to the red stain and spread it a little farther across her hand. Then she knew what it was—blood.

She tipped up the others that smelled the same, and got a little trickle of blood out of each one, mixed with the lees of the wine. Why would anyone put blood into a wine bottle? What kind of blood—animal or human?

She stood up so quickly she nearly overbalanced and had to reach out and grasp onto a broom handle to hold herself up. She was a little dizzy, but there was no question in her mind what she must do: hide the three bottles that had held the blood, and then go and tell Pitt. No one else must know. She would feel ridiculous if it were something to do with a special recipe of the cook's, but far more so if it had something to do with that poor dead woman someone had butchered, and she did nothing about it. Nobody deserved to end up that way, no matter who they were.

She went back to Mr. Tyndale and told him she had to speak to Pitt straightaway. Ten minutes later she was standing in front of Pitt.

He looked tired and worried. His hair was even more unruly than usual and his shirt collar was crumpled. It seemed no one was looking after him. She noticed it all, and it brought a stab of both sorrow and guilt to her, but it was not important compared with the bottles in the still room.

“Are you all right, Gracie?” he asked as soon as she had closed the door. “Tyndale said the other servants are making things difficult for you.”

“In't nothing as matters, sir,” she said, surprised that Tyndale should have told Pitt. “I came about summink I found wot could be…I dunno. Mebbe I'm bein' a bit daft meself, but it don't seem right, or make no sense.”

A flicker of hope lit his eyes. “What is it?”

“I were scrubbin' out the still room an' I found eight empty bottles wot 'ad 'ad port wine in 'em,” she replied. “Five of 'em smelled like wine, real nice, an' three of 'em 'ad flies all around, an' smelled different. I tipped 'em out, an' they 'ad blood in 'em.”