Buckingham Palace Gardens (24 page)

Pitt could almost have believed him. “I'm sorry, Mr. Sorokine, but your wife is dead.”

Julius looked as if Pitt had hit him again. “What?”

Was it possible he had some kind of mental aberration where he had no idea afterwards what he had done? It would explain why no one had realized his guilt before; he did not even know it himself.

“I'm sorry,” Pitt said clearly. “Mrs. Sorokine is dead.”

“How?” Julius demanded. “It wasn't Olga, was it? Poor woman.” He closed his eyes again, drew in his breath as if to say something further, then changed his mind and looked up at Pitt, waiting for the answer.

“No, sir. No woman did to her what Mr. Dunkeld described. I'm afraid I'm going to have to lock you in here until I can contact Mr. Narraway again and have more men brought. I'll have one of the Palace servants bring you something to eat, and possibly see if you need medical help.”

“Me?” Julius seemed not to grasp what Pitt had said.

“Yes. Mr. Dunkeld said you had those injuries on your face before he came in.”

“Injuries?” He put his hand up again to his lip as if he had forgotten the pain and the blood. “No, I didn't. I told you, he came in here and hit me!” Then the color fled from his face and he got to his feet so swiftly Pitt lurched backward away from him.

“God Almighty! You think I killed her!” Julius said, aghast. “I haven't even seen her since last night.” He swung round. “Is she…?”

Pitt moved rapidly past him to block his way to the dressing room and the connecting door. “No, sir. Not yet. Don't oblige me to handcuff you to the bed. That would be most unpleasant for you.”

“I didn't kill her,” Julius said quietly, letting his arms fall to his sides. “And I didn't touch the other woman either, poor creature.”

Pitt went back to the main door and turned the key in the lock, then he put it in his pocket and went through the connecting door, pushing the bolt home on the farther side. He did not know what to believe, but he had to follow the evidence.

In spite of what Cahoon had said, he was not prepared for the sight of Minnie Sorokine sprawled across the floor of her bedroom, her throat scarlet, her gorgeous flamingo-pink gown half torn off her, and the lower half of her torso ripped open and bright with blood.

He walked toward her, feeling sick, and kneeled down beside the billowing skirts. There could be no question as to whether she was dead or not, and not much as to what had caused it. No one could live with a throat wound like that. It was almost from ear to ear, and her head lay at a crooked angle, as if her neck itself were broken.

She was cold to the touch. He had expected her to be. She was still wearing her evening gown. Her lady's maid had not been in. He would have to inquire as to why not, but he assumed it was a matter of discretion. She would come if she were sent for, and, if not, maintain a tactful absence.

Pitt forced himself to look at the mutilations. The throat wound was worse than Sadie's, but the slashing of the lower abdomen was considerably less. In fact there was almost a hint of decency about it. The cut was higher up, less overtly sexual, and her bosom had not been exposed at all. Was that because some part of Julius's brain had remembered, even in his madness, that this woman was his wife? The thought was repulsive, and peculiarly painful. Not that Pitt had never before known killers that he had liked, even understood.

But there was nothing understandable about killing Sadie. None of the men had ever seen her before. And now this! No wonder Cahoon Dunkeld had been half out of his mind with horror and grief. Julius was fortunate Dunkeld had not killed him. Had he been a slighter man, less fit, perhaps he would be dead now also, not simply locked up.

Pitt sat back on the carpet and considered what he should do. He must get in touch with Narraway, obviously; send for him to come to the Palace at once. It seemed as if the case was at an end, although there must be a great deal of evidence to collect. For what? They could hardly have a public trial of two murders at the Palace! Could it qualify as a state secret, because of where it had happened? Or would they decide that Julius Sorokine was hopelessly insane, and lock him away without a trial at all? That would be the obvious thing to do.

Even so, the evidence must be conclusive. No doctor of any honor would pronounce him mad except as proved by the fact that he had killed two women. If it seemed just as reasonable that it was actually someone else responsible, then there was nothing against him at all. All his other behavior was above reproach, even morally, let alone legally.

But considering the issues, no doubt a doctor would be found who would not be too squeamish in examining details, and who would be easily enough persuaded.

Pitt could not allow that. His own conscience found it unacceptable. If Julius Sorokine were to spend the rest of his life locked away in an asylum for the criminally insane, then Pitt must be satisfied beyond any doubt that was even remotely reasonable that it was he who had killed the women.

He could not leave Minnie's body sprawled where it was without first making an accurate diagram of it, of the mutilations and the exact nature of them. He must also search and describe the rest of the room. There was probably nothing that would tell him anything beyond the obvious: She had come up in order to retire, and someone else had entered the room either after her or before. It was almost certainly her husband. They had quarreled and ended fighting, literally.

He looked at her again and saw more clearly now that there were bruises on her face. They were little more than marks, since she had died very shortly afterward. But there were also scratches on her hands and lower arms, as if she had struggled to defend herself. That would account for the scratches on Julius's face and hands, which Cahoon had said he had seen as soon as he had gone into Julius's bedroom, and before he had attacked him himself.

With shaking hands Pitt drew her as she lay. It was out of proportion and the lines were uncertain, because he could not stop his trembling. Then he sketched the room roughly. It was difficult to tell if anything was seriously out of place; perhaps the maid would know. He would have to ask her. Nothing was broken or torn, except a small crystal bowl whose pieces were in the wastebasket. There was no glass on the floor. The breakage could have happened at any time since the basket was last emptied—presumably yesterday morning.

It seemed indecent to leave Minnie here, but there was nowhere else he could put her until Narraway came. It had been different with Sadie. Cahoon had had her moved to the ice house, almost as if she were a side of beef: an action that was distressing but highly practical. The police surgeon would be given both bodies later.

He took the top sheet off the bed, which had not been slept in, and laid it over her. Then he went out into the corridor, taking the key with him, and locked the door from the outside.

He went downstairs, found Tyndale, and asked permission to use the telephone. It was fifteen minutes before he made contact with Narraway. He was alone in the butler's pantry with the door closed.

“What is it?” Narraway said eagerly.

“There's been another murder,” Pitt replied. He heard Narraway's breath drawn in sharply. “Mrs. Sorokine,” he went on. He was oddly out of breath. “In her own bedroom. Otherwise it is almost exactly the same. Done roughly the same time of night. Found by Dunkeld. So far it appears most likely that it was her husband.”

Narraway was silent for several moments. “I'm surprised,” he said at last. “Although I shouldn't be. It had to be one of them. Is that your judgment, Pitt, that it was Sorokine?”

It was not his judgment, it was facts forced on him. “I'm not certain yet. I've locked him in his room. We'll have to prove it.”

“Of course we'll have to prove it! Why, in God's name? Why would he kill her where he's bound to be found out? Is he raving?”

“No. He seems perfectly sane, just stunned.”

“Admit anything?”

“No.”

“I'll be there in an hour, or less if I can.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pitt hung up the instrument and left the pantry to where Tyndale was waiting for him, pale-faced.

“There has been another death,” Pitt said bleakly. “Mrs. Sorokine. She is in her bedroom. Obviously you will tell the maids not to enter it, without giving them any reason. Similarly you will not enter Mr. Sorokine's room. He is locked in it, for the time being.”

Tyndale struggled for a moment to keep his composure. His hands were clenched together and shaking. “I'm very sorry, sir. This is dreadful. Have you informed His Royal Highness? He will be very relieved that you have solved the problem, even if it is a tragic resolution.”

Pitt had not even thought of the Prince of Wales, but clearly he would have to be told. However, that task should not be left to Cahoon Dunkeld.

“No,” he said unhappily. “Will you arrange for me to do that, please? As soon as possible—in fact immediately. In the circumstances there cannot be anything of more urgency.”

“Yes, sir, certainly,” Tyndale agreed. He straightened his coat quite unnecessarily, and left. Fifteen minutes later he returned and conducted Pitt through the magnificent corridors and galleries to the same room where the Prince had received Pitt before.

This time he looked quite different, almost comfortable: a benign middle-aged gentleman with unusually courteous manners. He was dressed in a pale linen suit and his face had a healthy glow.

“Good morning, Pitt,” he said warmly. “Tyndale tells me that this wretched problem is solved. Terrible tragedy. But I am delighted, my dear fellow, that you have got to the bottom of it so quickly, and with what has to be regarded as the utmost discretion. Dunkeld was quite right to call in Special Branch.” Then his face filled with consternation. “Oh my God! Of course Mrs. Sorokine was his daughter. I had quite forgotten. How perfectly terrible! He must be quite ill with grief. I shall send him my own physician, in case there is anything he can do. Is there anything else? What can I offer?”

“That is most compassionate of you, sir,” Pitt replied. It was impossible to mistake the pity in the Prince's face, or in the entire attitude of his body. “But I think for the moment there is nothing. I have sent for Mr. Narraway, and we will deal with the matter as quickly as possible. Once we have established beyond doubt that it is Mr. Sorokine who is responsible, I imagine the best thing to do will be to have him declared insane, and incarcerated where he can do no further harm.”

“The man's a…a…” The Prince was lost for words savage enough to say what he felt.

“Madman, sir,” Pitt finished for him.

“Monster!” the Prince corrected Pitt.

“Yes, sir, it would seem so. But I think we do not wish the world to know that. It would be better for all if we agree it is insanity, an illness of the mind, and treat him accordingly. A trial would benefit no one.”

“A trial.” The Prince was clearly alarmed. “Good heavens, no! You are quite right, of course. Put him away. Best thing altogether.”

“As soon as we are certain.”

“Certain?” The Prince's eyebrows rose. “My dear fellow, there can hardly be any doubt. Cahoon himself suspected him, you know? But of course he was loath to believe it. His own son-in-law. What a fearful thing.”

Pitt was surprised. “He didn't tell me he suspected Sorokine. Why? Did he know something he kept from us?”

The Prince looked embarrassed. “I am afraid you will have to ask him, if you feel that it still matters. But surely now he has been proved hideously right, and paid such a price for it, there can be no purpose served by pointing that out to him?”

“No, sir. I would much rather that you told me,” Pitt urged.

“I can't. A matter of honor,” the Prince said blandly. “I gave my word, you see, and that is the end of it. I'm sorry. But surely in the circumstances it doesn't matter anymore? Sorokine left the party early on the night the other poor creature was killed. He must have stabbed her also. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to have the matter ended, and so completely, before Her Majesty returns. I am obliged to you, Mr. Pitt. I shall not forget it. Thank you for coming to tell me personally.”

It was a dismissal, and there was nothing for Pitt to say further that would not be argumentative and, in the circumstances, inexcusable. He thanked the Prince and withdrew.

Half an hour later he met Narraway, and took him immediately to see the body of Minnie Sorokine.

Narraway stood on the carpet and stared down at her, his dark face crumpled with unhappiness. “It looks the same,” he said miserably. “But it's not! One was a professional whore, the other was his wife.”

Pitt frowned. “She flirted very openly with Simnel Marquand, Sorokine's half-brother.”

Narraway stared at him incredulously. “Enough to provoke this? Are you saying it is some kind of moral judgment on whoring?”

“No, I'm not. Mrs. Sorokine spent a great deal of yesterday going around asking various questions of the servants,” Pitt told him. “Gracie followed her and heard most of it. It seemed to be about people's comings and goings on the night of the first murder, including in particular a broken dish of blue, white, and gold that nobody knows about, and Tyndale says doesn't exist.”

“What in hell are you talking about, Pitt? You're rambling, man!

Pitt kept his temper with some difficulty. He was tired, his head ached, and suddenly he was very cold. The walls of the Palace, with all their ornately framed works of art, closed in on him. He was trapped here.

“I don't know,” he said stiffly. “Mrs. Sorokine spent all day asking questions, and seemed to be very satisfied with the answers. And when Gracie asked Tyndale about it, she was told pretty abruptly that she should leave the matter alone. It concerned private misbehavior of the Prince of Wales, and was irrelevant to the murder of the prostitute.”