Buckingham Palace Gardens (34 page)

Then she remembered, with a feeling like ice in her stomach, where she had seen it. It was in Cahoon's cases that he had brought with him, here to the Palace. That was how he knew about it! He had not deduced anything at all.

Perhaps it had nothing to do with the woman's murder, but he had seized the opportunity to place the blame on Julius, somehow using that dish.

But how? It made no sense. The dish was in the Queen's room. Did Pitt know anything about it? Certainly he would not know that Cahoon had brought with him one exactly the same. Tomorrow Elsa would tell him. Of course Cahoon would never forgive her, but she had declared war on him anyway; there was no retreating now. If she did not win, she might be blamed for something unforgivable, put aside as an adulteress—or worse, somehow tied in with the murder of the street woman.

There was no one she could turn to for help. They were all fighting their own battles: Liliane to protect Hamilton from the destruction he seemed determined to find in the bottom of a bottle. Why? Was it because Liliane was still in love with Julius?

Olga wanted to win Simnel back from a dead woman whose fire and laughter she could never equal, and whose selfishness, appetite, and occasional streaks of cruelty she would never sink to.

And Simnel, Julius's brother, who should have been fighting to save him, protect him, was too eaten up by envy to allow himself that loyalty.

If only she could speak to Julius himself. If she could ask him, listen to his answer, surely she would know whether to believe him or not. No one had asked him, they all believed Cahoon's word. For that matter, had Pitt asked him?

He was locked in and only the servants had keys so they could take him food. Tomorrow the police would come; then she would never see him again. There was only one possible decision: She must wait until the household was asleep, then go downstairs and find the keys, even if she searched by candlelight and it took her half the night.

She waited until two o'clock in the morning. She was exhausted but unable to sleep, although she dared not lie down in case she did drift into unconsciousness and waken when it was already light, and so miss her only chance.

She tiptoed down the stairs, feeling ridiculous, as if she were committing some crime. Then she realized that actually she was. It was probably an offense against some law to unlock the door of an imprisoned man. It was certainly a gross abuse of hospitality. If anyone knew, then she would pay dearly for it. She would be disgraced, socially nonexistent from now on. She hesitated only for a moment in her step. What had she to lose? Physical comfort, that was about all.

But what if Julius really were everything Cahoon said of him? Then he might attack her, take the keys and escape. He must know they would never give him a trial, fair or otherwise. It would be his only chance not to spend the rest of his life locked away in an asylum.

Was she tempted to let him go, deliberately? Yes! The thought of him imprisoned forever was hideous. He would be there until he really was mad, and there could never be any escape. The weight of that thought was like a descending darkness, shutting everything out.

But how far would he get? Not even out of the Palace. There could hardly be a better-guarded place in England.

It took her over an hour to find the keys, she had to search almost every cupboard in the kitchens, scullery, still room, and pantries, using separate keys to unlock cupboards where more keys hung in rows. Then she had to put them back in exactly the same place. Even then she was not certain she had the right ones until she tried them. She must be insane herself, breaking into Julius's bedroom in the middle of the night. If Cahoon found her, she would have given him the perfect excuse to have her shut away too.

Still, she did it.

Her hands were quite firm, though a little clammy. Her stomach churned. Then she was inside. She closed the door softly, locked it, and put the key in the tiny pocket in her gown. She listened and could hear nothing, except the pounding of her own heart and her breathing.

Gradually it subsided, and she thought she could hear his breath as well.

“Julius.”

Nothing. She could neither see nor hear.

“Julius!”

Movement. A stirring in the bed. Now she felt ridiculous. How on earth could she explain being here? Nothing of love had ever been said by either one of them. Perhaps anything between them was entirely in her own imagination. Probably it was. He would be in his nightshirt, and she had come into his bedroom in the middle of the night, alone. If Cahoon walked in on them, it would ruin them both. It would be exactly what he wished. Had he even planned it? Then she had played into his hands perfectly. How unbelievably stupid! She moved to go back again, her hand feeling for the key.

There was a rustling from the bed, movement in the dark. “Elsa?”

Too late. She couldn't go now. If she opened the door the faint light in the passage would show her face. Have the courage of her beliefs. If she felt anything, grasp for it, fight for it.

“Julius, I have to talk to you.”

“How did you get in? If they catch you, you will be ruined.” There was fear in his voice. “You can't help me. Please go, before Cahoon finds out.”

“They won't try you,” she said, standing still because she did not know which way to step in the dark. “They'll just say you are insane, and put you into an asylum, somewhere from which you'll never escape, and no one will ever see you.”

He was silent. Had he not realized that?

“I'm sorry.” She tried to keep her voice from trembling, and failed. She ached to see his face, and yet perhaps not doing so was the only way she could keep control of herself. “Julius?”

“Yes?” His voice was hoarse, uncertain. The darkness also gave him a degree of privacy. She was grateful for that. She remained standing where she was. She ached to hold him in her arms, give him at least the desperate shred of comfort that touch afforded. But there had never been anything between them to suggest he would welcome it. It would be intrusive, absurd. If his feelings for her were in any way different from hers for him, then it would be offensive, embarrassing, awful in every way.

“You didn't kill Minnie, did you?” she said.

“No,” he responded immediately. “I don't know who did. I assume it was whoever killed the prostitute. I can't think of any other reason. Poor Minnie.” There was real hurt, and pity in his voice. “She was so sure she was learning the truth. I didn't realize it until she kept saying so at dinner. Obviously someone believed her.”

The thought held the kind of coldness that made her feel sick. It was one of the other three men. It could be no one else. She knew them all; in ways liked them, except Cahoon; but she had once thought she loved him. There had been moments that were tender. What was the difference between being in love and thinking you were? Was being in love about what survives after time and temptation, misfortune, change, the need to forget and forgive have all been faced?

“Do you know where Sadie was killed?” she asked him.

“Wasn't it in the cupboard where she was found?” Julius sounded puzzled.

“Apparently not. Cahoon says it was in the Queen's bedroom. That's how the monogrammed sheets got bloodstained.”

“What monogrammed sheets?” His voice was a little high. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The Queen's sheets. They don't belong in the guest linen cupboard.”

“Where were they?”

She realized she did not know. “He didn't say. Do you know about a Limoges dish that was broken?”

“No. I haven't seen any Limoges. Mostly it's Crown Derby, Wedgwood, and a few pieces of Meissen. Who broke the Limoges?” His voice was steadier, but he still sounded totally confused.

She was frightened by how little she understood. Even to herself she seemed to be speaking total nonsense.

“I don't know, but Minnie was asking about it. It seemed to matter to her a lot. Cahoon says it was in the Queen's bedroom. That's how they knew the woman was killed there.”

“How does Cahoon know it was there?” he asked quickly. She heard the bedsprings as he moved his weight. She could see nothing, but she was certain from the very slight sounds that he had stood up. Was he coming toward her in the dark? She was afraid. Or was it that she wanted him to? “I don't know,” she said. “Maybe…maybe the Prince of Wales told him.”

“If the Prince of Wales could have killed Minnie, I would wonder if he was guilty of the first one too,” he said with heavy irony. He was on the edge of laughter, and of grief beyond control.

“Julius!” The moment the word was out, she knew the tone of it would betray her: It was desperate with emotion. He had to hear in it all that she felt for him.

“I know. He couldn't.” His voice was tight now, choked with the effort to keep some dignity, some grip on the fear inside him. “It has to be Simnel or Hamilton.”

“I wish it could be Cahoon.” She meant it, and this was no time to pretend a loyalty they both knew she did not feel. “But he wouldn't kill Minnie. In his own way, he loved her. She was probably the only person he did love. But apart from that, he wasn't in Cape Town when the woman was killed there, and it seems the crimes were exactly the same.”

“Elsa…” he stopped.

“What?”

“I don't know who did it, and I can't prove I didn't. I know she was sleeping with Simnel a year ago, and if not now, then only from lack of opportunity. I didn't care. I long since realized I didn't love her. I'm guilty of that…of not making her happy. If I had, perhaps she wouldn't have turned to anyone else.”

“You don't have to make love with someone else because your husband doesn't want you,” she said quietly. “That doesn't make it right. Especially if the other person is married also. Even if they aren't, it's a betrayal. How could that other person then trust you?”

The silence pounded like a heartbeat. There were not even any creaks of settling wood to disturb the night.

“They can't,” he answered. “But you are speaking of love, and I wasn't. She doesn't love Simnel, nor he her. It's a hunger of a different kind, selfish. It makes you a lesser person, not a greater one.”

“And what does a greater one do?” Did she want to know what he thought? Was it not better to keep the dream whole? There would be no tomorrow in which to mend it. This would be all she had, forever.

“It makes you want to be the person they could love,” he answered her very softly. “At least honest and generous, and attempt to be brave as well.”

The tears filled her eyes and her throat ached almost unbearably.

“I'm trying for honest,” he went on. “I didn't kill Minnie, but I am guilty of not wanting to build the Cape-to-Cairo railway. I wish I had had the courage to tell Cahoon outright, and withdraw. We should build railways from inland to the ports, in each region if they want them, but keep the Empire on the sea. That's enough power for any nation. We should leave the heart of Africa alone. It's not ours. The fact that we might be able to take it is irrelevant. But they will be able to build it without me. I can't do any more, but I hope I would have had the integrity to pull out, and tell them why.” He hesitated. “Please believe in me, Elsa, that I would have. I can't ever prove it now.”

“I believe you,” she said immediately. “I…I do.” She had almost said “I love you,” then stopped. He needed trust more than emotion.

“Don't give up. I'm going to find Pitt. I have something to tell him.”

“Now? What time is it?”

“I don't know. About three, I expect. Something like that.”

“You can't wake him up at this hour!”

“Yes, I can.”

“Elsa!”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For believing you? That's not necessary. I do.”

He had no idea how little she had believed him before this moment, but this was not the time for the self-indulgence of telling him. Nor was it the time to say she loved him. He knew that. And she did not want to make him feel as if he had to respond. It would betray this gossamer-thin honesty.

She found the key in her pocket and opened the door. She hesitated, almost said something, then changed her mind and went out, locking the door again behind her so no one would know she had been there.

She returned the key to where she had found it, and then went to waken Pitt. Of course it was appalling to disturb him at this hour, but later might be too late. She had no idea when the police would come to take Julius away. Cahoon would have it done as soon as possible.

She was still wearing her dinner gown, which was crumpled now, and her hair was coming loose from its pins. There were probably dried tears on her face. None of this mattered. Another hour or so and it would be light. There was no time to waste in mending her appearance.

It took her a few minutes to find Pitt's room, and then several more to steel her nerve to knock. It was necessary for her to gather her courage again before the door opened. Pitt stood there blinking, the gaslamps turned up behind him. He was wearing a nightshirt and robe, and his thick hair was tousled, but he seemed quite definitely awake.

“Mrs. Dunkeld? Are you all right? Has something happened?” he said with alarm.

“I need to speak to you,” she replied as levelly as she could. “Urgently, or I would not have disturbed you this way.”

“I'll be out in five minutes.” He did not argue but went back into the room. Five minutes later he emerged again, this time fully dressed and his hair in some semblance of order. However, he looked haggard with exhaustion and there was a dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. He led the way to the room where he worked, and opened the door for her.

“What is it, Mrs. Dunkeld?” he asked when they were inside and the lamps lit.

“You found the shards of a Limoges plate in the rubbish, didn't you?” she stated.