Buckingham Palace Gardens (30 page)

“Her husband killed her,” Tyndale told him, his voice catching in his throat. “This…this breakage had nothing to do with it. It's another matter altogether, and private.”

“There is no privacy where there is murder, Mr. Tyndale. What was the ornament, and where was it? How did it get broken, and why did you hide it?”

Tyndale was wretched. He loathed lying and it was naked in his face.

“It was broken by accident. I didn't hide it, I simply disposed of the pieces. There is no point in keeping them. No one could mend it. For heaven's sake, Inspector, it's shattered! It's dust!”

“I can see that. I can also see that it was Limoges, and probably very beautiful. Where was it and who broke it?”

“One of the maids, but no one is taking responsibility. I can't punish anyone for clumsiness when I don't know who it is.” Tyndale looked eminently reasonable, his voice was steadying again.

Pitt had not the slightest doubt that he was lying. Minnie Sorokine had pursued this, and learned what it was. How? What questions had she asked that Pitt had not? Why had Tyndale answered her, and yet would not tell Pitt? What terrible thing had her questions made him realize?

“At what time?” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” Tyndale was putting off answering.

“When was it broken? At what time? That will tell you who did it, surely?”

“I…I don't know.” Tyndale was flustered. “Some time the…the day of the death of that woman. We were all upset. I dare say we didn't notice it immediately.”

“A Limoges plate was lying smashed on the floor, and the maid cleaning didn't notice it?” Pitt said with open disbelief. “I'm sorry, Mr. Tyndale, but that won't do. Where was the dish?”

“I don't know.” Tyndale's face was set in refusal.

“It was a pedestal dish,” Pitt said, guessing as he went. “Mostly white with a blue picture in the center, and a gold edge. I found pieces of those.”

“I don't know,” Tyndale repeated stubbornly.

“Then I shall ask the maids,” Pitt replied. “And the footmen. Someone will have seen it. Don't they dust regularly?”

“Yes, of course they do! But…” Tyndale tailed off. His face was blotched; a muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Assemble the staff in the servants' hall, Mr. Tyndale. I shall speak to them in fifteen minutes. I want everyone there,” Pitt ordered.

Tyndale hesitated.

“Don't oblige me to ask the Prince of Wales's assistance in this,” Pitt warned.

“It doesn't have anything to do with the murder!” Tyndale protested again. “It's…it's a domestic matter! This is absurd.”

“An ornament is smashed on the night of a murder,” Pitt said grimly. “Someone was in the room, and committed a violent and extraordinary act, perhaps of rage. I want to know which room it was, and who was there. Assemble the staff, Mr. Tyndale.”

Tyndale left obediently, walking like a man under condemnation of some fearful punishment.

Pitt waited, feeling guilty. Was he really pursuing a clue that would explain the anomalies in the case and enable him to be satisfied that Julius Sorokine had killed both Sadie and his own wife? Or was he merely determined to force his will on Tyndale because he had defied him, and Pitt wanted an answer for no reason except his own satisfaction? Did he resent the fact that Minnie Sorokine could assemble these facts and deduce the truth, and he could not? Had she known some extra fact that he had not?

In fifteen minutes exactly he walked to the servants' hall and saw them all dutifully lined up, hot-faced and frightened. Gracie was at the front, probably so as not to be hidden behind taller, plumper girls. He avoided looking at her.

“A Limoges plate was broken on the night the prostitute was murdered,” he said gently. “It was probably a pedestal plate, mostly white with a painting in the middle with quite a lot of blue in it and a gold rim. I don't think any of you broke it. I think it may have been one of the guests, either the one who actually killed the woman, or someone who saw what happened.” That was a stretch of the truth. “I want to know which room it was in.”

They all stood staring at him. No one spoke.

“Who does the dusting?” he asked.

“Me and Norah, mostly,” Ada said nervously. “An' Gracie, since she come.”

“Which room was that dish in?” Pitt asked.

“I dunno.”

“Didn't you dust it?”

“I never seen it.”

Pitt turned to Mrs. Newsome. “You are the housekeeper—aren't you responsible for works of art? Especially valuable ones?”

“Yes, I am,” Mrs. Newsome said stiffly. She looked puzzled and unhappy. She was avoiding looking at Mr. Tyndale so clearly that it was obvious.

“Where was that dish kept, Mrs. Newsome?”

“I don't recall a dish like that,” she said flatly.

“Did you send maids to clean up, wash and scrub a room on the morning of the murder?”

“Of course. The linen cupboard. But only after you told me to,” she said stiffly.

“Before that! At the end of this wing, or into the east wing?”

“No. And the east wing is not my responsibility. I would be exceeding my authority to do that.”

There was nothing else he could think of to say. They stood stiffly, shoulders back, faces carefully blank. No one was going to tell him. There was nothing for him to do but accept defeat with the little dignity left him.

He returned to his own room confused and angry. He paced the floor, trying to think of a way to force Tyndale's hand. He was certain Tyndale knew where the plate had been, and had told Minnie. The more he refused to say, the more certain Pitt became that it mattered.

It had belonged somewhere. Why were they all lying? He had not seen a flicker in the faces of any of them, even Mrs. Newsome. Was there any point in asking Gracie to speak to them? Were there any tiny pieces embedded in a carpet, or into the wood of the floorboards, between the cracks? Might Gracie even have seen it already, without recognizing what it was?

He went to the bellpull and was about to ring it, when another thought occurred to him. His hand froze, fingers stiff, still clinging to the pull. Maybe they were not lying. Perhaps they had not seen it because it was not in any of the rooms they cleaned. What if it had been in the Prince of Wales's own rooms?

A furious quarrel, a hysterical woman, china smashed. It would have to be concealed—at any price. Is that what had happened? Perhaps Sadie had refused to do something that was asked of her, or been unable to? The Prince was drunk. He had lost his temper and lashed out. And what? Killed her? Cut her throat with one of the dining room knives, and then gone on slashing at her?

Had he been so drunk he had then passed out, then woken up in the morning beside the bloody corpse, and sent for Cahoon Dunkeld to help him?

There was a knock on the door and Pitt whirled round as if it had been a shot. He steadied himself, breathing in and out slowly, his heart pounding. “Yes?”

Gracie came in and closed the door behind her. She stood still, leaning against the knob, staring at him. “'E din't tell yer, did 'e?” she said softly. “Wot does it mean, Mr. Pitt? They in't lyin'. Nobody knows, fer real. Wot's goin' on?”

“I think it means it was in a room they don't go into,” he replied, his mouth dry. “Mr. Tyndale knows where it was, and he'd rather be blamed for concealing murder than tell anyone.”

Her eyes grew wider and her face more tight and drawn. He knew she had thought the same thing. He was sorry she had had to know this. She would not have had to if he had not brought her here. It was unfair. She was civilian, not police, and certainly not Special Branch. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly.

“Wot are yer goin' ter do?” she whispered. “Mr. Tyndale in't never gonna tell yer. An' if it were smashed in a fight or summink, 'e would, ter save yer thinkin' wot yer is now. There weren't no blood on it, though.”

“I know that. But if it didn't mean anything, and had nothing to do with Sadie's death, then why is Mr. Tyndale lying about it? And he is lying.”

“I know.” The misery in her face was naked. “'E's protectin' 'Is Royal 'Ighness. I reckon as 'e does quite a lot o' that. It's 'is…'is kind o' loyalty. Mr. Pitt…”—she frowned, screwing up her face—“d' yer reckon as that's right? Is that wot we're supposed ter do? 'Ave yer gotta do it too? An' me?”

“And let Sorokine spend the rest of his life in a madhouse for something he didn't do?” he asked.

She shook her head minutely. “Wot are we gonna do, then?”

He sat against the edge of the table. “I'm not sure. That plate wasn't just knocked off something and broken into two or three pieces. It was smashed beyond recognition in an uncontrollable rage. Whether she laughed at him, belittled him, threatened to tell everyone and make a mockery of him, we'll never know. But he flew into an insane fury and cut her throat—”

“Wot with?” she interrupted.

“Maybe the table knife—there was blood on it. Or maybe a different knife altogether, a paper knife or fruit knife he had there. We wouldn't have found it because we haven't looked. The other knife was put into the linen cupboard after we took the body out anyway. The blood could have been from anywhere.”

“Then she weren't killed in the linen cupboard, were she?” Gracie said.

“No. She will have been killed in his room. That's why the footmen were up and down with buckets of water, cleaning up.”

“You reckon as 'e called 'em?” she said with disbelief.

“No. I think he called Cahoon Dunkeld. I expect the footmen only brought the water. I should think Dunkeld, and possibly even the Prince himself, did the principal cleaning. They wouldn't trust anyone else with a secret like that.”

“Wot are we gonna do?” Fear was sharp and bright in Gracie's eyes. “We can't never say as 'e done it! They'll 'ave us 'anged fer treason!”

“I don't know,” Pitt admitted. “But if he killed Mrs. Sorokine as well, he has to be stopped. He'll do it again. Dunkeld can't protect him, and I doubt he would want to—not when his own daughter was the victim.”

“Then why in't 'e said summink?” she asked. “Why'd 'e let yer blame Mr. Sorokine?”

“He didn't ‘let' me, he told me himself that it was Sorokine.” He realized as he said it that it made no sense. Did Dunkeld really believe it was Julius who had killed Minnie? Maybe he thought the Prince was innocent, and somehow Julius had done it, or maybe all three of them were involved? “I don't know,” he went on. “I don't understand. If the Prince killed her in a drunken rage, then fell into a stupor and woke in the morning and panicked, he could have sent for Dunkeld to help him. Dunkeld moved the body, with the bloodstained sheets, into the linen cupboard, so at least it wouldn't be found in the Royal quarters.”

Gracie's eyes never moved from his face.

“The Prince had a bath to clean himself up,” he went on. “And maybe sober himself as well. That would explain why the Princess found the bathtub still warm, when she did not expect him to have used it. In the meantime Dunkeld cleaned up the room and had the remains of the broken ornament removed, and everything else tidied up. Then he made a pretense of finding the body himself, to ensure we were called and the evidence kept under some control.”

“Only Mrs. Sorokine got too clever, an' worked it out?” she finished. “Did 'e kill 'is own daughter then, to 'ide it? That's 'orrible! 'E don't owe that kind o' loyalty ter the Queen even, nor nobody! An' din't yer say as the way she were cut open were jus' the same as the other poor cow…I mean woman?”

“Yes.”

“Then stands ter reason it were the Prince as done that too, don't it?”

He felt helpless to deny it, and yet he could not bring himself to say so. “I don't know.”

“D'yer still think Mr. Sorokine done it?” she asked.

“I suppose it's possible,” Pitt said reluctantly. “I can't see Dunkeld killing his own daughter. Killing a wife is different. Tragically, that happens often.”

“Ter protect 'Is Royal 'Ighness?” Gracie's expression was one of disbelief mixed with a crowding, terrible fear. “I think ever so much o' the Queen, but I couldn't kill none o' me own ter protect 'er, even if she never done a thing wrong in 'er life. An' I wouldn't put down a dog ter save 'Is Royal 'Ighness, if he done that ter Sadie. I don't care wot 'appens ter the Crown, nor nothin'. I don't want a Crown wot's red wi' blood.”

“No, Gracie, neither do I,” Pitt admitted. “I don't know what I'm going to do, but I'll do something, I promise you.”

Her face brightened.

“Yer'll tell Mr. Narraway, when 'e comes back, won't yer? Mebbe 'e'll know wot ter do?”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “He's looking to see if he can find anything in Sorokine's past to show he's done it before.”

Gracie gave a little sigh, puzzled and unhappy. “Yer gonna be all right?” she asked anxiously. “Yer in't goin' ter let anyone know wot yer think, are yer?”

He smiled. “No, of course not. And don't you either! As far as we are concerned, the guilty man is Julius Sorokine. We are just tidying up the proof. That's an order, Gracie.”

“Yer don't 'ave ter order me.” She gave a shudder and pulled her apron straight so sharply that she undid one of the ties. She made a bow of it again, crookedly, then excused herself, closing the door with a snap behind her.

Pitt had not lied, yet he had not told Gracie the exact truth. He felt he had no choice but to speak to the Prince of Wales directly. It was an interview he was not looking forward to. The only thing worse would be to see Julius Sorokine condemned and still be uncertain if he were guilty.

This time he did not ask for Dunkeld's assistance in obtaining an audience, or Mr. Tyndale's either. He had no intention of allowing himself to be denied. He was obliged to wait for nearly forty-five minutes.