Buckingham Palace Gardens (11 page)

“What is it?” he asked her with an edge of urgency in his voice. “Mr. Tyndale said you wanted to see me. Something about sheets.”

“I found 'em in the laundry,” she said breathlessly, no louder than a whisper. “I 'id 'em in the bran bin. They're 'Er Majesty's sheets. They got
V R
and a crown on 'em, an' they're all soaked in blood.”

“From the cupboard,” he said calmly. “They took all the sheets down to see which ones they could save.”

“But
V R
means they's 'ers!” She stared up at him, exasperated at his obtuseness. “'Er own, like! An' they weren't folded like the rest of 'em in the cupboard, sir. They bin slept in! They was all creased and rankled up.”

Pitt looked very grave. “Are you certain, Gracie?”

“'Course I am! It din't make no sense, but I'm certain sure for positive,” she was emphatic. “An' that in't all. There's a table knife missing, one o' the real sharp ones for cutting meat. Rob, the boot boy, says he saw an old man 'ere wot brought a big box, about midnight, an' then took it away again.”

“When?” Pitt asked. “The night of the murder? Where?”

“Downstairs, going past the butler's pantry and out into the yard,” she replied. “'E came wi' a big wooden box. Edwards 'elped him carry it.”

“How big was the box?” Pitt said immediately.

“Dunno. But I can ask.”

“No,” he said quickly, grasping her arm. “Don't ask. It doesn't matter. See if you can find out if anyone else saw him, and how long he was here. Just possibly the woman's death has nothing to do with the guests here after all.” He smiled suddenly, a glowing look, full of hope.

Gracie grinned back at him, satisfied she had helped him, really helped. Maybe even helped the Queen herself. Suddenly the scrubbing and the obedience were worth it. She heard footsteps below, and went on up the steps with light feet, leaving Pitt to go down.

CHAPTER
FOUR

P
ITT RECEIVED GRACIE'S
information with a surge of optimism. He paced the room he had been given, turning it over in his mind. If it could be proved that the old man the boot boy had seen entering the Palace with the box delivered to Cahoon Dunkeld was guilty, then the case could be closed with no worse scandal than a certain laxity on the part of the guards who had allowed him in. But even that was something for which they could hardly be blamed. He had come because he was a carter delivering a box belonging to one of His Royal Highness's guests. And if he had taken one of the dinner knives, the sudden opportunity presenting itself, then he had not arrived armed, or with the intent to commit murder.

So how on earth had he found the prostitute and persuaded her to go with him to the linen cupboard? What had happened to her clothes? No one had yet found them. And more than that, if he were a lunatic seeking a victim at random, why not one of the maids he met in a corridor?

He must have known the prostitute and deliberately sought her out. By the time he had gone upstairs he already had the knife, taken from downstairs because the dinner plates had long since been removed from the dining room.

It was imperative that they find out more about the woman: her nature, her background, even her other clientele. The crime could be personal after all. He must contact Narraway and tell him. Perhaps after all there was an escape from the appalling conclusion that the murderer had to be one of the guests.

He turned on his heel and went immediately to Tyndale to ask him for permission to use the telephone. Permission granted, he called Narraway and told him the latest development and the necessity of finding out as much as possible about the woman. Then he sent for the footman, Edwards, and questioned him again.

“This box that was delivered for Mr. Dunkeld between midnight and one o'clock on the morning of the murder,” he began.

Edwards looked uncomfortable but his gaze did not waver. “Yes?”

“Can you describe this carter?”

Edwards chewed his lip, moving his weight from one foot to the other. “Didn't really look at 'im. I was too busy carryin' that box up the stairs. 'E 'ad the back end of it.”

“How large was it?” Pitt asked.

“'Bout three feet long, maybe four, an'…” Edwards gestured with his rather large hands, describing the shape of an ordinary luggage chest, broader than it was deep. “Like that.”

“Heavy?”

“'Bout like yer'd expect with books an' papers.”

“Lot of books?”

“Dunno, forty or fifty maybe. Don't carry books very often.”

“Where did you put it, at what hour of the night?”

“In the sittin' room next door to 'ere. Can't 'ardly take it to 'im at midnight, can I? 'E could be doin' anythin'!” The shadow of a leer touched his mouth and then vanished again. “As it was, 'e was there anyway, like 'e was expectin' it. An' 'e told us to come back for it in ten minutes or so. Seems the carter wanted 'is box back.”

Pitt found himself disliking the young man intensely.

“Describe as much as you saw of the carter,” he ordered.

Edwards shrugged. “Din't really see 'is face. Oldish, stooped over. Had a hat on, jammed down 'ard, an' a coat with a collar. Half-mitts on 'is hands, probably for drivin' the horse. Weren't that cold.”

“What was the cart like?”

“Don't know.”

“Four wheels, or two?” Pitt insisted.

“Four.”

“And the horse?”

“Dunno. Pale. A gray, I suppose.”

“And did you go back in ten minutes?”

“'Course I did!”

“Where did you go in the meantime?”

Edward's eyes widened. “You think he could 'ave done it?”

“Could he?”

Edwards looked reluctant. “Don't see how. 'E were only in the place a few minutes. An' 'e went downstairs an' out the back, then in again. Was the murder real gory, like?”

Pitt winced with distaste, remembering the woman's torn entrails, pale in all the blood. “Yes.”

“Then I don't see as 'e could. 'E was clean as a whistle,” Edwards replied unblinkingly. “Not even any dirt on 'im, let alone blood.”

“You're certain?” Pitt's hopes sank.

“Yes, sir. Ask Rob, the boot boy, 'e'll say the same thing.”

“What was the boot boy doing up at that time of the morning?”

“Lookin' for a piece of cake, most likely. Always eatin', 'e is.”

“But Mr. Dunkeld was waiting for you, you said? Where?”

“On the stairs. Told us not ter take it any further up, we might waken the ladies. Said it was books 'e needed in a hurry, an' we was ter put it in the room there off the passage, an' 'e'd take 'em out, an' we was ter come back and take the box away. Carter never went up to where the linen cupboard is,” he added.

“And you went back for the box and the carter took it again?”

“Yes. Bleedin' heavy box it was too. Must've been teak, or somethin' like that. Couldn't see at that time o' night in what light there was.”

“And it was midnight, no later?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. For now you can go.”

Reluctantly, Pitt was forced to abandon the idea that the carter could have killed the woman. He was back again to the inevitability that it had to have been one of the guests of the Prince of Wales.

He was on the next landing, weighed down with a sense of disappointment he knew was unreasonable, when he met Cahoon Dunkeld coming up.

“Ah, afternoon, Pitt,” Dunkeld said briskly. “His Royal Highness would like to see you.” He frowned. “For heaven's sake take that rubbish out of your pocket, man. And straighten up your cravat. You look as if you've slept in your shirt! Doesn't your housekeeper have an iron, or a needle and thread?”

Pitt knew he was untidy, and had never cared until now, but the insult to Charlotte stung him like a hot needle. He ached to be just as rude in return, but he did not dare to. Only for short stretches of time, an hour or two at most, did he forget that he was in Queen Victoria's palace: he, the son of a gamekeeper who had been deported to Australia for stealing from his master's estate. He was never certain who knew that, and who did not. If he were to retaliate, he always half expected the stinging contempt of the rejoinder.

Shaking with anger he took the handful of objects out of his coat pocket and redistributed them as evenly among his other pockets as possible, then straightened his cravat.

Dunkeld made no comment but his expression was eloquent. With a shrug of exasperation, he led the way to the room where the Prince of Wales was waiting. To Pitt's deep annoyance, he followed him in.

Pitt stood to attention. He knew better than to speak first or to stare around at the ornate ceiling and the magnificent pictures that almost covered the walls.

The Prince was dressed in a linen suit of a nondescript color. He was neatly barbered and looked considerably better than the last time they had met. His eyes were less bloodshot, and though his skin was a trifle mottled, it was more likely from a lifetime of indulgence than a single drunken night and the devastating shock of murder.

First he thanked Dunkeld, then looked appraisingly at Pitt.

Pitt felt uncomfortable, like livestock at a market, but he remained motionless.

“Oh, hello…Pitt, isn't it?” the Prince said at last. “Is everybody giving you the assistance you need?”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” Pitt replied.

“It's not an inquiry for your health, man,” Dunkeld growled. “What progress have you made?”

Pitt was not an equal, and he was acutely aware that he could only lose by behaving as if he were, no matter how Dunkeld provoked him. He smiled. He could be utterly charming, when he wished. “It was an inquiry for my professional needs,” he said calmly. “His Royal Highness's help is necessary for our success, and I am grateful for it.”

The Prince glanced at Dunkeld, a cold, puzzled look, then back at Pitt. “Well taken, sir,” he said quietly. It was a reminder to Dunkeld not to assume too many liberties. Pitt glanced at Dunkeld's face and saw the burning humiliation in it, for an instant, and wished that he had not. Worse, he knew Dunkeld had understood it.

“I am quite satisfied, sir, that none of your domestic staff could be guilty.” Pitt forced himself to speak gravely, addressing the Prince. “Two people were where they could observe the servants' staircase at the relevant time. No one came or went.”

“And one of those two couldn't have done it?” the Prince said hopefully.

“No, sir. One of them was Mr. Dunkeld, and the other was his manservant.”

The Prince swiveled to stare balefully at Dunkeld. “You didn't say so!” he accused him.

Dunkeld stood his ground, the anger momentarily vanished. “I did not realize it was the relevant time, sir. I assume Mr. Pitt has worked that out somehow?”

The Prince turned to Pitt, his eyes cold.

“Yes, sir,” Pitt answered. “The woman was last seen alive sometime between midnight and one o'clock, and from the rigidity of the body when we found it, she must have died before half-past two in the morning, when Mr. Dunkeld's manservant left the landing and could no longer observe the bottom of the staircase up to the servants' sleeping quarters.”

Dunkeld shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tense and impatient.

Pitt ignored him. “I learned of an old man who came into the Palace with the delivery of a box for Mr. Dunkeld,” he went on. “But he was observed for all except a few minutes, which would not have been long enough to commit this crime.”

The Prince's rather protruding eyes widened. “Wouldn't it? Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir. Also his hands and clothes were clean of any blood.”

The Prince paled visibly. Perhaps Dunkeld had given him some idea of how much blood there had been. Now he turned to Dunkeld again. Pitt would like to have asked to leave, but he did not dare to. He was ashamed of himself for yielding to the pressure. This was his profession, and Dunkeld was no one of importance to Special Branch. He held no office in the Palace, only the power of his personality and the need the Prince seemed to feel for his presence. What was the Prince afraid of? Scandal? Another crime? Or that something hideous would be exposed? Did he know who it was, and dared not say?

Pitt felt a loathing for his own helplessness.

“Sir,” he said firmly. “We are left with the only conclusion possible, which is that one of the gentleman guests here killed this unfortunate woman.”

“Oh, no!” the Prince said immediately, shaking his head several times. “You must be mistaken. There is some alternative you have not investigated. Dunkeld, explain it to him!” He shrugged, as if Pitt were a problem Dunkeld should deal with.

Pitt clenched his fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. This time he must not allow Dunkeld to dominate him. He drew in his breath to speak, but Dunkeld cut in before him.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Dunkeld said very softly to the Prince. “But he is right. It pains me very deeply to say so, but it can only have been one of us. That is what is so very terrible about this situation.” His face was tense. His eyes seemed almost black in the shadows of the room in spite of the fact that the sky was vivid blue beyond the velvet-curtained window.

The Prince stood frozen, his eyes wide, his hands half raised helplessly. “But we trusted these men!” he said with dismay. “They are outstanding, all of them! We need them for the railway!” He turned again to Dunkeld, as if he might offer some explanation that would make the situation different.

“I don't know, sir,” Dunkeld said unhappily. “I could have sworn for all of them myself.”

“You did!” the Prince said with sudden petulance.

Dunkeld's face tightened. “I did for their intelligence and their skills, sir. And for their reputations.”

The Prince's expression tightened in irritation. “Yes. Yes. I'm sorry. Of course you did. I wish we could have had Watson Forbes. He would have been the perfect man. Do you think we could still persuade him? If…if the worst happens and we find”—he took an awkward, suddenly indrawn breath—“if we lose someone?”

Dunkeld bit his lower lip. “I doubt it, sir. But of course I will try. Forbes told me unequivocally that he has retired from his African interests.”

“If I asked him personally?” the Prince asked, staring at Dunkeld.

“Of course I am sure he would do anything within his power to please you, sir. We all would,” Dunkeld replied, but there was no warmth in his voice. He made the remark merely to placate, and Pitt could see that, even if the Prince could not. He looked temporarily mollified. “But I fear the reason he has forsaken all his African interests stems back to the death of his son,” Dunkeld went on as though an explanation was necessary.

The Prince was puzzled. “Death of his son? What happened? Surely that is not sufficient to make a man of his skill and resource abandon the work of his life?”

“It was his only son,” Dunkeld's voice dropped even further, “and he died in dreadful circumstances nine years ago. Poor Forbes was very shaken by it. I heard tell that it was he who found the young man, or what was left of him.” There was a look of distaste on his face and his mouth turned down at the corners. “It was crocodiles, or something equally nightmarish. I wasn't in Africa myself at the time. My son-in-law, Julius Sorokine, was there. And I believe Quase and Marquand were too. And Forbes's daughter, Liliane. It was before she was married.” His mouth tightened. “You can hardly blame Forbes if he has settled his affairs there and does not wish to return, particularly with the very people he must associate with the bitterest tragedy in his life.” His voice quite gently insisted that the Prince observe the decencies of such a loss.