Buckingham Palace Gardens (23 page)

“I have finished all the fish I desire to eat.” Mrs. Quase laid her implements on the plate and turned toward Gracie. “Would you remove my plate, and begin to serve the next course? You have no need to fear interrupting the conversation. It is finished.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Gracie said obediently.

“And get me some more wine,” Mr. Quase added, holding up the almost empty bottle so she could see the label.

“No! Thank you,” Mrs. Quase cut across him. “We have sufficient. Just clear away the plates.”

“If my wife doesn't want the wine, she doesn't need to have it.” Quase swiveled in his chair unsteadily until he was facing Gracie. “I do. Fetch it. Take this, so you get the right one.” He thrust the bottle out toward her.

Mr. Sorokine stood up and took it from him. “Just clear the dishes,” he told Gracie. “The footman will bring whatever wine we are having with the next course. It may be red, or at least something different.”

Gracie took the bottle, relieved at being rescued. “Yes, sir.” She turned to give it to Ada just beyond the door, then began to collect the plates with Biddie's help.

By the time she had taken them to the kitchen and returned, the next course was served and they were all eating again, or pretending to.

Mrs. Sorokine seemed too excited to do more than take the occasional mouthful. She went on making oblique remarks to her father, as if deliberately baiting him. Sometimes he ignored her, once or twice he responded sharply, almost viciously.

Gracie saw Mrs. Dunkeld flinch, as if the barbs had been directed at her. There was an unhappiness in her face in repose, a kind of stillness as if she were concentrating on mastering pain. It made Gracie wonder how much she was afraid, and whether it was all for herself or for a tragedy that had yet to happen and could overtake them all. Did she actually have some idea which of the men sitting at the table around her had done this nightmarish thing?

When Mrs. Sorokine was not looking at her father, her eyes flashed to Simnel Marquand. Gracie did not see her once look at her husband. What did that mean? That she did not want to, or that she did not dare?

Olga Marquand remained almost silent.

The course was cleared and the roast beef served, then the puddings, and lastly the biscuits, cheese, and fruit. Gracie managed to fetch and carry without dropping anything or getting anything seriously wrong until the very end, when Ada bumped her elbow and she sent a pile of dirty plates crashing down the stairs. Nothing was broken, but Gracie spent the next half hour cleaning it up and washing the stains out of the carpet.

“Uppity little cow!” Ada observed with satisfaction as she walked around her, lifting her skirts aside with care.

With difficulty, Gracie refrained from reaching out and tripping her. At the moment her mind was busy trying to understand the chaotic emotions she had seen at the dinner table and attempting to decode what Mrs. Sorokine had really meant when she was talking to her father. Gracie was quite certain it had to do with the questions she had been asking all day. She had deduced something, and she was trying to tell them all, perhaps to frighten someone into an action that would betray him.

It was a dangerous thing to do, but there seemed to be something in Mrs. Sorokine that was starved for excitement, however dangerous, or even morally wrong.

Or else maybe it wasn't excitement, but fear, hidden as well as she was able to, because the man who had done this was someone she loved. Was that why she could not look at her husband?

Perhaps she was brave, and very honest, even at such a cost.

Gracie fetched, carried, and cleaned, still thinking of it. It all made Ada pretty unimportant: just irritating and rather grubby, like the flies that buzzed around the bottles once full of blood.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

P
ITT HAD A
restless night. He disliked being away from home. He missed Charlotte acutely. Since joining Special Branch, he could no longer tell her the details of his cases, which meant she was unable to help in the practical ways she used to when he dealt with simple murders. All the same, her presence, her belief in him, made him calmer and stronger.

The pieces of information Gracie had brought him were extraordinary. They must mean something, and yet he could make no sense of them. He had asked the cook about the port bottles, and she had confirmed that Mr. Dunkeld had brought them as a gift for the Prince. They had contained port of a quality far superior to any that would ever be used in cooking. They had been served at table for the gentlemen. He did not mention the blood. Whatever warnings he gave, she would be bound to tell someone—probably everyone.

He had made inquiries about the broken china, but received no reply. They all disclaimed any knowledge. Similarly, everyone said the Queen's sheets must have been put in the linen cupboard by mistake, and no one seemed to understand that they had been slept on. They simply denied the possibility.

When he finally drifted off to sleep, it was into a tangle of dreams. The glory of Buckingham Palace was mixed with the stink and terror of the back alleys of Whitechapel, where those other fearful corpses of women had been found.

He woke with a start, his heart pounding, and sat upright in bed, for a moment at a loss as to where he was. There was a wild banging on his door. Before he could answer, it swung open and Cahoon Dunkeld staggered in, his face ashen gray in the light from the corridor.

Pitt scrambled out of bed and instinctively went to him. The man looked as if he were about to collapse. Pitt grasped him by the shoulders and eased him into the single chair.

Cahoon drooped his shoulders forward and buried his head in his hands. Whatever had happened, he seemed shattered by it.

Pitt lit the gaslamp and turned it up, and then waited until Cahoon regained control of himself.

When at last he sat up, his face was blotched where his fingers had pressed against it and his eyes had a fevered look. He was so fraught with emotion his body was rigid and he could not keep his arms still, as though he were desperate to do something physical but had no idea what or how.

He rubbed his hand over his brow and up over his head. His knuckles were bruised; one was torn open.

“It's Minnie,” he said hoarsely. “She was behaving erratically all day, but I thought she was just seeking attention, as she does. She…she needs to be admired, to draw people's eyes, occupy their thoughts. Her husband is…” His jaw clenched and for several moments he was unable to continue.

Pitt thought of completing the sentence for him, to prompt him to go on, but decided the issue was too grave to misdirect. He waited, motionless.

Cahoon took a shuddering breath. “At dinner she kept raising the subject of the dead woman in the cupboard. I told her fairly sharply to be quiet about it. I thought she was afraid, and losing control of herself. Oh God!” His chest heaved and he seemed to clench all the muscles of his upper body.

Pitt began to be afraid. “What has happened, Mr. Dunkeld?” he demanded.

Slowly Cahoon raised his head again and stared at him. “During the night I thought about what she'd said. I was awake. I've no idea what time it was. I went over and over it, and I began to wonder if she knew something. She told me quite openly that she had been asking a lot of questions of the servants, and discovered what she wanted to know. I…I didn't believe her.” He seemed desperate that Pitt should understand him. “I thought she was showing off.”

“What has happened, Mr. Dunkeld?” Pitt said more urgently, leaning forward a little. The man in front of him was obviously laboring on the borders of hysteria. He was an adventurer, an explorer used to commanding other men. When the body in the linen cupboard had been found it was he who had taken charge, deciding what to do, supporting and comforting the Prince of Wales. Whatever it was that had driven him to this point must have shaken him to the core. Had he discovered that the murderer was close to him, in his own family? Then it must be Julius Sorokine. Minnie, as his wife, knowing his nature, even his intimate tastes and habits, had suspected him. Pitt had always found it hard to believe that a woman of any intelligence at all—and honesty—could be married to such a man, and have not even a shadow of doubt, of fear.

The tears were running silently down Cahoon's cheeks.

Pitt touched his shoulder gently. He did not like the man—he could not afford to forget the threats he had made, or his pleasure in the power to do so—but at this moment he was aware only of pity for him.

“I became afraid for her,” Cahoon said, his voice half choked. He rubbed his hand over his face again, spreading a fine smear of blood across it from the cut on his knuckle. His cheeks were swollen. “I…I went to warn her. I wanted her to be careful. I don't know what I thought she would do!” He stopped abruptly.

“Did you warn her?” Pitt demanded. “Did she tell you what she knew? You can't protect him, whoever he is! Don't you…?” Pitt's words died on his lips. Cahoon's eyes held such horror it froze him. “What happened?” he shouted.

“I found her,” Cahoon whispered. “She was lying on her bedroom floor, her throat cut, her…” He shuddered violently. “Her gown was ripped and her…her stomach torn open and bleeding. Just like…oh God! Just like the whore in the cupboard. I was too late!”

There was nothing to say. Pity was so inadequate a response that even to attempt it was an insult. Pitt was drenched with guilt. If he had done his job sooner, more intelligently, more accurately, this would not have happened! Minnie Sorokine would still be alive. He expected Cahoon to tell him that, even to lash out at him physically from his own pain. The blows to his body could scarcely hurt more than the self-condemnation in his mind. Minnie had been so burningly alive, and Gracie had followed her around, asking the servants about the broken china, and the buckets of water. From the answers she had deduced what had happened—and Pitt was still fumbling without an idea in his head! He was stupid, criminally incompetent. He could see no end to the darkness of his guilt.

Cahoon was talking again. “I went to tell Julius…her husband. It seemed the natural thing to do.”

“Yes?” Pitt could only imagine the man's grief.

Cahoon was staring at him. “I found him in his bedroom. He was up, half dressed, even so early. He just stared at me.” Cahoon began to tremble. “His eyes were wild, like a lunatic's, and there was blood on his hands and face, scratches, tears in his skin. I…I knew in that moment that it was he who had done that to her. I couldn't bear it. I…I lost all control and I beat him…God knows why I didn't kill him. I only came to my senses when he was lying on the floor and I realized I was beating an unconscious man. Somehow the fact that he no longer even knew what I was doing to him robbed me of the rage long enough for me to regain mastery of myself.”

Pitt imagined it. They were both big men, physically powerful. Julius was younger, but taken by surprise he could have lost the advantage. Nevertheless, Pitt understood now what the torn knuckles and the bruises still swelling and darkening on Cahoon's face meant. It had been a hard fight, even assuming it was brief.

“Where's Sorokine now?” he asked softly. He felt no blame for Cahoon. If it had been Pitt's own daughter, Jemima, he would have torn the man apart.

“Still senseless on the floor, I imagine. But I didn't kill him, if that's what you're afraid of.” Cahoon smiled bitterly, and winced at the pain in his jaw. He put his hand up tentatively. “I think he loosened a tooth.”

“Go back to your own room, Mr. Dunkeld,” Pitt told him. “I'll go with you. You had better awaken your wife and I'm afraid you will have to tell her what has happened. Shall I send for her maid? Get tea, or brandy? Would you like one of the other women to be with her? Mrs. Marquand, or Mrs. Quase? To whom was she closer?”

Cahoon stared at him. “What?” His eyes seemed unfocused.

“Someone must inform Mrs. Dunkeld,” Pitt said again. “If you don't feel well enough, then somebody else can. I will, if you wish, but I am sure in those circumstances, Mrs. Dunkeld would prefer to be up and dressed.”

“She was not Minnie's mother,” Cahoon said flatly. “Call who you want. What about Sorokine?”

“I'll call Mrs. Quase to be with your wife, then I'll go and see Mr. Sorokine. Go back to your own room. Would you like someone to be with you?”

“No. No, I'd rather be alone.” Cahoon rose to his feet very slowly, swaying a little, and Pitt cursed the fact that he had no sergeant with him to whom he could delegate other tasks.

He walked along the silent corridor beside Cahoon as far as his own bedroom, and left him there. Then he retraced his steps quickly to Hamilton Quase's room and knocked abruptly on the door.

There was no answer. Perhaps he had drunk too much the night before to come to his senses easily. Pitt had no recourse but to go directly to Mrs. Quase. It was not something he wished to do.

She answered after only a few moments. She was wrapped in a silk robe and her glorious hair was loose around her shoulders.

“Yes?” she said anxiously.

“Mrs. Quase, I am sorry to disturb you. I tried to waken Mr. Quase, but—”

“What is it?” she cut across him. “Tell me.”

“I am afraid Mrs. Sorokine is dead. Mr. Dunkeld is profoundly disturbed, too much so to inform Mrs. Dunkeld, or to be with her. I must see Mr. Sorokine, and it may take me some time. I regret having to ask, but will you please tell Mrs. Dunkeld, and be with her?”

All the blood left her face, her hand flew to her mouth. “You…you mean Minnie…was killed?”

“Yes. I'm afraid so.” As soon as he had said it he realized he should not have done so when she was standing. She swayed and grasped hold of the handle of the door, leaning against it, trying to support herself.

“Have I asked too much of you?” he said apologetically. “Should I call Mrs. Marquand?”

“No! No,” she protested. “I shall go to Elsa immediately. But that's foolish. I'll call my maid to bring tea for both of us. Then I'll go. I shall be perfectly all right. How absolutely dreadful. One of us is raving mad. This is worse than any nightmare.”

He apologized again, thanked her, and went to Julius Sorokine's room. He wondered for a moment if he should at least look at the body first, then realized that the rooms would connect, and if Julius were returning to his senses, there was no way of preventing him from changing such evidence as there was, or even further desecrating the body. Pitt needed help, but there was no one he could trust, or who had seen death with such violence and tragedy before.

He did not knock, but opened the door and went straight inside.

The scene that met his eyes was exactly what he expected from Dunkeld's description. A slender bedroom chair was splintered and lying sideways on the floor. A robe, which might have been on the back of it, was stretched across the carpet. Even the large, four-poster bed had been knocked a trifle off the straight, as if someone heavy had collided hard against it. A tall dresser of drawers was also crooked, and the silver-backed brush set, box of cuff links and collar studs, which had presumably been on top of it, lay scattered on the carpet. Julius Sorokine himself lay on the floor on his face. He was wearing trousers and a shirt and no jacket. He was motionless.

Pitt closed the door behind him and walked over. He bent down and touched Julius's neck above the collar. The pulse was strong and steady, and even before Pitt straightened up, Julius began to stir.

“Sit up slowly, Mr. Sorokine,” Pitt told him.

Julius rolled over, opening his eyes. He stared up at Pitt with obvious confusion. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice gravelly. He coughed and sat up, wincing with pain. His face was bruised and there was a heavy gash across his cheek, blood smeared on his lip and chin. His hair was tousled. However, unlike Cahoon, he had already shaved, possibly in cold water, since there was no sign of his manservant having been here.

“What happened, Mr. Sorokine?” Pitt asked him. “Please stay sitting on the floor.” He made it sound like an order. He was afraid that if Sorokine got to his feet, he could easily start another fight. He was at least as tall as Pitt, and judging by the grace with which he had moved previously, very fit.

Julius blinked. Then memory rushed back. “God! Minnie!” He started to get up.

Pitt put out a hand and pushed him back again, so that he rolled a little, off-balance. “What happened, Mr. Sorokine?”

Julius shivered. “Cahoon came storming in here, eyes blazing like a madman, snarling something about Minnie, and took a swing at me.” He touched his face and drew his fingers away, covered in blood. “Knocked me over against the bed. When I got up again, I asked him what the devil was the matter. He just shouted something else indistinguishable and hit me again. This time I saw it coming and hit him back. I knocked him against the dresser and everything went flying.” He shook his head, then winced. “I thought that might bring him to his senses, but it didn't. He seemed to be completely off his head.” He looked totally bewildered.

“He came back and hit me,” he went on. “First with his left hand, which I ducked, then he caught me with his right. We struggled a bit more. It was ridiculous, like two drunks in an alley. He must have got the better of me, because the next thing I remember was a hell of a blow, then you talking to me.” He blinked. “What's happened to Minnie? We made the devil of a row. She must have heard us! Did she call you? That's stupid. I'm not going to lay charges. He's my father-in-law, God damn it!”