Buckingham Palace Gardens (4 page)

“That's usually the following morning!” Narraway said tartly.

The man pulled his mouth into a grimace. “I got me own remedies, sir. Duty of a gentleman's gentleman to know these things. I couldn't see the door to that cupboard 'cos it's round the corner from the pantry, but I could see the servants' stairs, an' I'd stake me oath no one came down that way. Not before 'alf-past two in the morning. An' just Mr. Edwards went up.”

“You said two!” Narraway said sharply.

“Yes, sir. I waited another 'alf hour, in case Mr. Dunkeld needed me again. 'Ad a cup o' tea meself. No point in just getting to sleep, an' 'aving to get up an' go back down again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.” He still stood straight as a ramrod. “An' in case you're thinking as it was me as killed that poor creature, Mr. Dunkeld'll swear for me, sir. Didn't 'ave time, nor any idea, to do summink like that.”

“Thank you,” Narraway said thoughtfully, his face bleak and pale. “That'll be all.”

“Yes, sir.” He withdrew gratefully.

Narraway looked at Pitt. “I am afraid it begins to look as if this party of His Royal Highness's will require a great deal more investigation. If what Edwards and Dunkeld's man say is true, then the conclusion cannot be avoided that one of the guests is a madman.”

CHAPTER
TWO

E
LSA DUNKELD AWOKE
to find Bartle, her lady's maid, standing at the foot of the bed with a tray in her hands. The curtains were already opened and the sun streamed in, lighting the unfamiliar room. It was a moment before she remembered where she was. She had slept poorly, troubled by dreams of empty corridors, through which she was looking for someone she never found. They were there in the distance, and then when she approached, they turned to face her and were someone else, strangers she fled from.

“Good morning, Bartie,” she said, sitting up slowly. She saw that the tray was set not for morning tea but for breakfast. She had not wished for breakfast in bed, but perhaps that would be pleasanter than facing the others again so soon.

“I'm afraid it isn't a very good day, Miss Elsa.” Bartle set the tray down on the table beside the bed to leave Elsa room to arrange herself comfortably. She had been with Elsa since before her marriage to Cahoon Dunkeld seven years ago, and never doubted with whom her loyalty lay. She was in her fifties, broad-hipped, sensible but with a startlingly fresh sense of humor. Mostly she kept her opinions to herself, which, considering what they were, was just as well.

“I don't suppose it will be any worse than yesterday,” Elsa replied with a slight smile, pushing her hair back off her brow. “We can manage it for a week.”

“I'm afraid today will be a lot worse,” Bartle said grimly. “You'd better take a sip or two o' that tea.” She placed the tray on Elsa's lap and poured from the pot without being asked to.

“Why? Is Mr. Dunkeld in an ill temper?” As soon as Elsa had said it she regretted being so frank. She should keep her fear to herself.

“Not as far as I know, ma'am,” Bartle answered, pulling her lips tight. “In fact, full of 'imself. Taking charge of everything.”

That was unusual candor, even for Bartle. For the first time it occurred to Elsa that there was something really wrong. “What is it?” she said nervously. “What's happened?” She imagined some romantic intrigue. The first and most obvious one that came to her mind concerned Cahoon's daughter by his first marriage, Minnie Sorokine. Minnie was in her late twenties, tall and slender, yet with a voluptuous grace. She was not conventionally beautiful; instead, she had an air of daring and glamour about her that was more exciting than mere regularity of features or flawlessness of complexion. It suggested passion and originality, a challenge to master. There was something unsatisfied in her that gave her a restlessness many men found attractive. Eight years ago she had married Julius Sorokine. This fact was so painful to Elsa that she couldn't bear to dwell on it, and yet neither could she fully leave it alone. Minnie and Julius's wedding had happened just before Elsa had married Cahoon, although Elsa was ten years Minnie's senior. Family obligations had delayed the point where Elsa was able to marry, which in fact had not been a hardship because there had been no one she truly loved. But then she met Julius, and of course that was far too late. By then he was her son-in-law, and there was no hope at all for any other relationship between them, just a dream that there could have been something infinitely, passionately better than this! Her life could have had laughter in it, kindness, the sharing of joy and pain, the trust and the inner gentleness that is love.

But Minnie had not found it in Julius, or she would never have indulged in that brief, white-hot affair with Julius's half-brother, Simnel Marquand.

“What is it, Bartie?” Elsa said more abruptly. “Stop fussing with the things on the dressing table and tell me.” She took a second sip of her tea, steadying herself.

Bartle put down the tortoiseshell-backed hairbrush. “The gentlemen had a…a party last night,” she said stiffly. “It seems one of the trollops they had in got herself killed…in the linen cupboard of all places.” She sniffed. In spite of her words, her face was crumpled with pity. “I can't imagine what the stupid creature was doing there. Although I suppose they have to do whatever they're paid for, poor things.”

“Killed?” Elsa was incredulous. The cup nearly slipped out of her hand. “What kind of an accident can you have in a linen cupboard, for goodness' sake? You must be mistaken.”

“It wasn't an accident, Miss Elsa,” Bartle explained miserably. “They've got the police in. That's why everyone's having breakfast in bed. The Prince has asked everyone to stay in their rooms until it's been seen to.”

“That's absurd.” Elsa struggled to grasp the meaning of what Bartle had said. “No one here would kill anybody, and surely the Palace, of all places, cannot be broken into?”

“No, miss. That's what's so bad about it,” Bartle agreed, waiting for Elsa to understand.

“It must have been an accident.” Elsa's mind raced to think what could have happened. She had gone to bed early, as had the other three women, to avoid the appearance of even knowing about the party. “That's the only thing possible. It's ridiculous to get the police in.”

“Shall I lay out the green and white muslin, Miss Elsa?” Bartle asked.

“If the woman is dead, I should wear something darker,” Elsa replied.

“She was a street woman, miss. And you're not supposed to even know about her,” Bartle pointed out.

“She's still dead,” Elsa retorted.

Bartle did not reply, but went on laying out the expensive morning gown of printed linen and muslin. It had a deep collar heavily frilled with lace and ribbons, and more lace down the front and at the sleeves. A wide, dark green ribbon tied around the waist and fell on the first tier of the skirt. The middle tier was plain green linen, the third heavily gathered muslin again. Cahoon was generous, and of course he expected his wife to look both beautiful and expensive. It was a reflection upon him. He had married Elsa because she knew how to conduct herself, to say the right things, and use the correct form of address for everyone. She was an excellent hostess. Her dinner parties never failed. She had a gift for knowing exactly who to invite with whom. And she never complained. That was part of the bargain between them.

“Bargain” was a terrible word to describe a marriage, and yet, tacitly, that is what it had been, in spite of the turbulent physical beginning. And that was past now. Emotionally she bored him, which both hurt, because it was humiliating, and was a kind of relief, because she no longer desired him either. He was intelligent, commanding to look at, and he certainly afforded her a life of luxury, travel, and conversation with most interesting people—men who invented, explored, dared, and governed all over the Empire.

Elsa knew she was envied. She had seen the quick fire of interest in other women's eyes, the flush to the skin, heard the altered pitch in their voices. She had enjoyed it. Who does not wish to have what others so clearly want?

But at the end of even the most vigorous or luxurious day, even if briefly physically intimate, at heart she was alone. She and Cahoon did not share laughter or dreams. She did not know what hurt him or moved him to tenderness, nor did he appear to know it of her. What twisted the knife in the wound was the fact that he did not wish to.

Would life with Julius have been any different? It was a sudden, bitter thought that if he did not love Minnie, maybe then perhaps he was not capable of loving anyone.

         

I
T WAS A
long, frustrating morning alone. She did not go to the withdrawing room for the guests' use until shortly before luncheon. The walls were lined in vivid yellow brocade exactly matching that of the sofas and the seats of the elegant, hard-backed chairs. The enormous windows, stretching almost to the height of the ornate blue-and-white ceiling, were curtained in the same shade. The mantel was also white, with tall blue lamps on either end of it, giving the whole room a delicate, sunny feeling. The carpet was pale blue and russet. The only darker tones were the surfaces of the tables in the center and against the wall, where one might rest a glass.

Elsa found only Olga Marquand there, wearing a plum gown that did not flatter her dark looks. It should have been warming to her sallow complexion, and yet somehow it failed. Nor did its severe line lend her any suggestion of softness. A gathering, a drape, an additional tier of skirt might have helped.

Olga was a little above average height and very slender. With more confidence she would have been elegant, but looking at her now, Elsa realized how little Olga had the spirit to fight. She did not brazen it out and make people believe that her square shoulders and angular grace were more interesting than the more traditional curves of someone like Minnie. She had high cheekbones and a slightly aquiline nose. Her brow was smooth and her black hair swept back from it with unusual classic severity. Her dark eyes were hooded. At their first meeting Elsa had thought Olga uniquely beautiful. Now she seemed beaky, and cold.

Olga turned as Elsa entered the room. “Have you heard anything more?” she asked quietly. Her voice was good, even rich. “Who is it who died? Why is everyone being so secretive?”

“My maid said it was one of the…the women from last night's party,” Elsa replied, keeping her own voice low as well.

Olga raised her arched eyebrows. “What did she do, fall downstairs blind drunk?” Her voice was raw with disgust, though perhaps it was pain. Elsa could only guess how she felt about her husband associating with such women, even if it was only to please the Prince of Wales. Perhaps he thought he had no choice, if they were to ensure the Prince's support in their bid to gain the contract for a railway right from Cape Town to Cairo, like a spine to all Africa. Did Olga understand that, or did it hurt too much for her to care?

Elsa looked at her and thought how different they were. She realized with surprise that she was not repulsed by the thought that Cahoon should have indulged himself with either the brandy or the women. She would have, in the beginning, but not now. Olga cared to the point where she could not keep from betraying the pain of it, even in front of others. It was more than self-possession or dignity, or a trespass on her pride. She still loved Simnel, in spite of everything.

Olga was staring at her, waiting for a reply. She was angry, perhaps because Elsa was not hurt as she was, or maybe because it was Cahoon who had arranged the evening.

“In the linen cupboard, I believe,” Elsa said aloud.

“You must be mistaken.” Olga was derisive. “How can you kill yourself in a linen cupboard? Did she suffocate in a pile of sheets?”

“I gather it was worse than that, but I don't know how.”

Olga tried to hide her shock. “You mean somebody did it deliberately? That's absurd. Why would anyone bother?” There was an infinity of contempt in the final word.

You are wearing your unhappiness too openly, Elsa thought. It does not make you more attractive. Aloud she said, “I don't know. But men do a lot of things for reasons I don't understand.”

“Including having women like that to a party!” Olga added bitterly.

Liliane Quase entered in a swirl of pale golden-green skirts, light, airy, and feminine. She was beautiful in an abundant way. She had creamy skin, dark auburn hair, and eyes of golden brown. She was just a little too short to have real grace, but most of the time she disguised it with cleverly cut gowns that suggested more height than she had. Today the line of the gathered second tier was lower than usual, sweeping outward and making her legs seem far longer. Another woman would notice the artifice, but a man would not.

Elsa found herself smiling very slightly. She also knew that Liliane wore a higher heel to her shoes and had learned to walk in them very gracefully. She must have practiced a long time.

“For goodness' sake, it's necessary to humor the Prince of Wales, Olga!” Liliane said impatiently. “It's probably largely harmless, a bit of showing off. It's all very silly, but it's even sillier of you to allow yourself to be offended by it. You give it more importance than it deserves.” She looked around for some form of aperitif, and saw nothing. “Women who keep taking offense are very tiresome, my dear. Nothing bores a man faster. Take my advice and pretend you don't care a fig. In fact, better than that, don't allow yourself to care.”

Olga drew in her breath to make a stinging retort, then apparently could not think of one. “Elsa is hinting that she was murdered,” she observed instead.

Liliane swung around to regard Elsa with surprise. “Who is saying such an idiotic thing?” Her voice was perfectly steady, but her eyes were bright and her gaze unnaturally firm. “Murdered how?”

“I don't know,” Elsa admitted. “But she was found in the linen cupboard.”

“The linen cupboard!” Liliane exclaimed. “By whom, for heaven's sake? Probably some stupid maid in hysterics. I dare say the wretched girl was with child and tried to abort herself. I expect they'll get it cleared up, and we can all get back to what matters. There is a great deal to discuss yet to ensure that His Royal Highness is fully aware of all the facts.”

“I'm sure he knows the map of Africa as well as we do,” Olga told her. “It's really quite simple. Cape Town is on the coast of South Africa, which is British anyway. After that the railway would go up through Bechuanaland, then the British South Africa Company territory. There is only the stretch between German East Africa and Congo Free State that is foreign, then we are into British East Africa. Sudan might be tricky, but then there's Egypt, which is British, and we are in Cairo. It isn't largely the diplomatic issues that are the problem.” She dismissed them with a jerk of her hand. “It is the engineering. Let the police clear up whatever happened to this woman in the cupboard. It's totally absurd for such a thing to hold up discussion of a railway that will change the face of the Empire. There must be prostitutes dying every day, somewhere or other.”