Buckingham Palace Gardens (37 page)

Mrs. Newsome turned and stared at her. The color in her face was ebbing away, leaving only two blotches on her cheeks. She looked at Mr. Tyndale as if Gracie had not even been there. She drew in her breath sharply, then let it out in silence.

“We gotta find out,” Gracie urged. “We in't got much longer before they 'ave ter take Mr. Sorokine away!”

Mrs. Newsome reacted at last. “Then I suppose we had better speak to Edwards, and see what he tells us about the box,” she replied. “I will send for him, and return.”

The moment she was gone, Gracie pushed the door closed again and looked at Tyndale. He was still unhappy. Something had been lost that he had no idea how to replace.

“She's 'urt because she got left out,” she observed. “Yer did right ter tell 'er. We in't got no choice.”

“Indeed,” he replied, but she knew that was not what he was thinking. Mrs. Newsome had not trusted him, and nothing she could say or do now would heal that.

“She don't trust yer,” Gracie said aloud.

He did not meet her eyes. “I am aware of that, Miss Phipps.” He was angry and hurt that she should make a point of the obvious.

“An' she sees it like yer don't trust 'er,” she added.

“That is quite different! I was bound to secrecy by duty. I did not imagine for a moment that Mrs. Newsome had done anything wrong,” he protested.

Gracie gave a tiny shrug. “No, Mr. Tyndale, I don't s'pose yer ever done nothing wrong like she thinks neither, but yer works bleedin' 'ard ter protect them as does, an' turn a blind eye ter things wot curls yer stomach. 'Ow's she ter know?”

He looked startled, then deeply embarrassed. He could think of nothing to say, but she could see it in his eyes that quite suddenly he understood, and a wealth of conflict and realization opened up in front of him. Perhaps she had said far too much, but it was too late to take it back.

Mrs. Newsome returned with a very nervous Edwards, who answered Mr. Tyndale's questions without any of his usual insolence.

“Yes, sir, it was heavy.”

“Did they rattle around?” Tyndale asked. “Move at all when you changed the balance going upstairs?”

“No, sir, not much moving at all. If it wasn't books, what was it, Mr. Tyndale?”

“I don't know,” Tyndale replied. “How heavy was it when you took it down again?”

“Pretty much the same, sir.”

Gracie felt her heart pounding. Maybe she was right!

Tyndale looked at her, puzzled, then back at Edwards. “Are you certain of that?”

“Yes, sir. It was still heavy. I reckon as he sent some books back as well.”

“Did you look inside it?”

“No, sir! 'Course I didn't.”

“Thank you. You can go,” Tyndale told him.

As soon as he was gone, Gracie excused herself also and raced up the stairs to find Pitt. It was the last piece of the puzzle.

“'Ave they took 'im yet?” she said breathlessly.

“If you mean Sorokine, no.” He looked up from the paper he was writing for Narraway, a brief and unsatisfying account of the case. There would be no prosecution. Perhaps tonight Pitt would be in his own bed.

Gracie closed the door and came over to the table. “Mrs. Sorokine were askin' about the china pieces, the cleanin' up, an' the Queen's bed linen, weren't she? An' mebbe she saw the dish in Mr. Dunkeld's case too.”

“Yes.” He seemed too weary, and perhaps disappointed to ask her why she cared. “An' she knew about the bottles wi' blood in,” Gracie went on.

“An' mebbe she knew that that case Mr. Dunkeld 'ad on the night o' the murder, wi' urgent books on Africa, didn't 'ave no books on Africa in it.”

“How do you know that?” He put the pen down and discarded his writing. The tiredness slipped away from him. “Gracie?”

“'Cos they in't nowhere,” she answered. “Yer know wot I reckon, sir? I reckon as they brought summink else in in that box, ter do wi' the murder, an' it went out wi' summink in it too.”

“Something like what?” He frowned, leaning forward now. “What, Gracie?”

It was as mad an idea as anything going on in the mind of whoever was killing people. She hardly dared tell him. He would laugh at her, and never trust her with anything important again.

“Gracie?” His voice was urgent now, a sharp edge of hope in it.

She dreaded being a fool, perhaps making him look stupid in front of Mr. Narraway—and worse than that, in his own eyes. Should she stop now, before she said it?

“Yes, sir,” she gulped. “We bin' thinkin' all along that someone went ravin' barmy, off 'is 'ead, an' found poor Sadie, wherever she were, an' took 'er ter the Queen's bedroom and lay with 'er, then killed 'er…”

“I know it isn't good.” He pursed his lips. “Even lunatics usually have a pattern that makes sense to them. I'm not happy about it, but the evidence shows that's where she was killed, and quite early in the evening. She must only just have left the Prince of Wales.”

“It looks like she were killed there,” Gracie agreed, her throat so tight she could hardly breathe. “But it in't all that easy ter get inter that 'e could go there in the middle o' the night an' take a tart there. There'd be servants around. 'E'd take an awful risk. An' why do it?”

“Someone did,” Pitt reasoned. “I saw the room, and the blood. And someone broke the dish, even though it was replaced—” He stopped suddenly.

“Wot is it?” she asked.

“By Cahoon Dunkeld,” he finished very slowly. “And he hated Sorokine. He wouldn't cover anything for him.” His eyes grew bright.

“He was covering for someone else, Gracie! Someone whose gratitude would be worth a fortune to him!”

“'Is 'Ighness?” she barely breathed the words. It was terrible! The worst nightmare she could imagine. What would Pitt do now? He wouldn't cover it up—he couldn't, not and live with himself. And if he said anything, no one would believe him, and they'd all cover it up so he would look like a liar—worse, a traitor to the throne. Perhaps that was what they all did anyway!

Pitt's would be one voice alone, against all of them. He would be ruined. They would see to it. They would have to, to cover for themselves because of all the other things they'd hidden and lied about over the years.

It hurt, all the dreams broken, but there was no time to think of that now. She must look out for Pitt.

“Yes, why not?” Pitt was saying. “He would go along to the Queen's bedroom, and no one would take any notice. In fact he could have arranged to have no servants about. He lies with Sadie, falls into a drunken sleep, and wakes up with her dead beside him, and blood all over the place. He's terrified. He calls Dunkeld to help him. Dunkeld moves the body and…” He stopped.

“Wot?” she demanded. She was so frightened every muscle in her was clenched.

He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “No, it makes no sense,” he admitted wearily. “I was going to say he put the body in the linen cupboard and used the port bottles full of blood to make it look as if she had been killed there. And replaced the broken Limoges dish. But that would mean it was planned very carefully in advance.”

He looked at her, horror deepening in his face. “Gracie, he knew someone was going to be killed, and where! And come to that, how! The only way he could do that would be if he killed her or had someone else do it. And however sure he was of Sorokine's madness, he couldn't guarantee he would do it in the Queen's bed, beside the Prince of Wales! Or that it would be Sadie, and not one of the other women, or with any of the other men.” He bit his lip. “He brought the blood with him, and more important he brought the Limoges dish!”

“So 'e knew wot room it would 'appen in,” she followed his reasoning, although it frightened her so she was cold in the depth of her stomach. “Wot if the Prince jus' woke up an' all the blood were over 'im, but not 'er? Then it wouldn't matter where she were killed.” She gulped. “Mr. Pitt, I got an idea as she weren't killed 'ere at all. That box wot were brought in 'ad another body in it, not 'er. An' Sadie packed 'erself inter the box again an' were taken out without no one knowin' 'cept Mr. Dunkeld.”

Pitt stared at her, a dawning understanding of the entire plan on his face. “Dunkeld was the one who hired the women!” he exclaimed. “They were allies in it. To blackmail the Prince of Wales into helping them with the African railway. Then he couldn't afford not to be entirely on Dunkeld's side, no matter what he actually believed. Dunkeld simply used the opportunity to get rid of Sorokine at the same time!”

Gracie blinked. “Then 'oo killed Mrs. Sorokine? 'Oo did she accuse? It 'ad ter be 'er pa, because 'e were the one wot 'ad the dish.”

His face creased in pity. “Poor Minnie. She was far too clever for her own survival. I dare say he didn't mean to kill her, just lost his temper and—”

“Yer don' slit someone's throat 'cos yer lost yer temper,” Gracie pointed out. “An' yer certainly don't slice their guts open.”

“He had to make it look like the first crime,” Pitt reminded her. “And he had to make the first crime look like the one in Cape Town.”

“'Ow'd 'e know wot that one were like?” she asked.

“From someone who saw it, I don't know who. But it fits, Gracie.” His voice took on a vibrancy again. “Dunkeld planned it for long before he came. He brought blood, and a replacement dish. He knew it was there. Someone must have shown it to him. He's been the Prince's guest here before.”

Gracie shivered.

“He had a dead woman brought in,” Pitt went on. “And you're right, Sadie was part of the plot. It could be she who insisted on sleeping in the Queen's bed!” He was speaking more rapidly, his voice eager now. “When the Prince was in a drunken stupor, perhaps aided by a powder of some sort, she slipped out and went to Cahoon.

“Perhaps she even helped Cahoon take the dead woman out of the box, before getting into it herself. After the box was removed, Cahoon carried the dead woman, probably in a blanket or something, and put her beside the Prince, and splashed some of the blood around. He kept the rest to put in the linen cupboard, then went to bed. That's why we could never find Sadie's clothes—she was still wearing them. Cahoon had already arranged for a message to come, and went to waken the Prince himself, and make absolutely certain he was in the spot to see the mess, and offer to help!”

“The bleedin' bastard!” she said with profound feeling. “Wot yer gonna do? Yer can't let Mr. Sorokine be put away for it!”

“Of course not. I'm going to see His Royal Highness.” He rose.

“Be careful!” she cried out. “Mr. Pitt, 'e in't goin' ter—”

“When Mr. Narraway comes back, tell him what has happened,” he cut across her. “And ask him to wait until I return.” He left without even looking back to see if she would obey.

She stood still, hands clenched, her body shaking.

She was terrified for what would happen to him. Suddenly everything that mattered was falling apart. The people she had regarded with admiration were no wiser or braver than she was. The Palace itself was just like anywhere else, full of pettiness, ambition, and shifts of truth. And now Pitt was walking straight into disaster like a child going to feed lions, and she hadn't stopped him, and there was nobody to ask for help.

Hot tears scalded her eyes.

         

A
GAIN
P
ITT HAD
to wait until the Prince was willing to see him. Time was slipping through his fingers. Any minute Narraway would return with police to take Julius away. Of course he could be released afterward, but it would be far better not to make the error in the first place. People were loath to admit fault; the more important it was, the more reluctant.

He wrote a short letter on a page from his notebook and handed it to the footman. All it said was, “I realize what Dunkeld has done to help. But now more help than that is needed. Pitt.”

He was conducted into the Prince's presence five minutes later, and the footman withdrew, leaving them alone. The Prince was white-faced, sweat shining on his brow.

“What do you mean by this, sir?” he demanded, holding up the scrap of paper. “It looks like an attempt at…at blackmail!”

“No, sir,” Pitt said with as much respect as he could pretend. “It is an attempt to avoid blackmail. I believe Mr. Dunkeld went to considerable trouble, and ingenuity, to make you seem acutely vulnerable, sir, and I intend to see that he does not profit from it.”

“I don't know what you mean. You are on dangerous ground, Inspector. Cahoon Dunkeld is a friend of mine, a gentleman of skill and honor, and very great loyalty. Far more than you, I may say, who are paid to be a servant to the Crown!” he accused him.

“Yes, sir.” Pitt breathed in slowly, knowing the risk he was taking. If he was wrong, he would be ruined. He would not even walk a beat as a common policeman after this. “You entertained a prostitute of particular intelligence and skill, who insisted she would give her favors only if she could do it in the Queen's own bed.”

“How…how dare you, sir?” the Prince sputtered.

“You saw no harm in it,” Pitt continued. “You took her there, and after she kept her word, you fell asleep, probably assisted by a little laudanum in your drink. When you awoke there was a dead woman beside you, or possibly only a great deal of blood.” He stopped, afraid the Prince was going to have a heart attack or apoplexy. He seemed to be choking, grasping at his collar, and he had gone ashen gray. Pitt had no idea how to help. He had not foreseen this.

He turned and strode to the door to call for assistance.

“Wait!” the Prince cried out. “Wait!”

Pitt stopped.

“I didn't kill her!” the Prince said desperately. “I swear on the Crown of England, I never hurt her at all!”