Buckingham Palace Gardens (36 page)

“Is the Limoges china part of his…obsession?” Pitt asked.

“I've already told you, that was a favor to His Royal Highness, and has nothing to do with Sorokine,” Dunkeld said huskily. “Now you will have to deduce the rest for yourself, or remain in ignorance. I have a vast amount of arrangements to make. In spite of my daughter's death, the railway will still proceed, and now I must make up for Sorokine's loss, and find someone to take his place. I imagine I shall not see you again. Good day.” And without waiting for Pitt to reply, he turned and strode away.

         

N
ARRAWAY ARRIVED A
little before ten, looking tired and unhappy. His face was deeply lined, accentuating the immaculacy of his clothing. He told Pitt immediately what he had learned, summarizing the murder in Cape Town by likening it to the death of Sadie. There was no more information of significance about Julius Sorokine.

They were alone in Pitt's room. The sun was bright beyond the window, the air enclosed and stale. Narraway sat opposite Pitt, his legs crossed.

Pitt heard nothing that surprised him, but he realized he had been hoping there would be. It was unprofessional to dislike a man deeply enough to wish him guilty of such a crime. Likewise, he felt guilty that he liked Julius—or perhaps it was Elsa he liked, because she was vulnerable, and trying so hard to find her courage. There was something about her that reminded him of Charlotte. It was possibly no more than a way of turning her head, a certain squareness of her shoulders, but it was enough to waken a response in him and make him want to protect her. Disillusionment was one of the deepest of human wounds.

“The similarity is too close to be coincidence,” Narraway said finally. “Whoever killed the woman in Cape Town also killed Sadie, and Minnie Sorokine as well. Presumably in her case it was because she knew who he was, and threatened him. He will have mimicked his usual style either from compulsion, or to make it obvious it was the same hand who did it.”

“Compulsion,” Pitt replied. “It doesn't matter whether it was the same hand or not; in neither case would it protect him. And although she was a lady, there was apparently a good deal of the whore in her, at least outwardly.”

Narraway looked at him sharply. “Are you saying she worked out that the Limoges dish was broken, and that it mattered?”

“And that it was replaced.” Pitt told him about Elsa's visit to him, and her story of having seen an exact duplicate in Dunkeld's cases.

“And do you believe her?” Narraway asked with slight skepticism. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Don't you think, setting personalities and dislikes apart, that the shards were probably something else, and that the dish in the Queen's room was never broken in the first place? Elsa Dunkeld probably has far more grounds for hating her husband than you do.”

“If it was irrelevant, then why did the Prince of Wales lie about it?” Pitt retorted. “Tyndale refused to discuss it, and now Dunkeld says he brought one, but as a personal favor to the Prince, and his honor prevents him explaining to us why.”

Narraway pulled a very slight face of distaste. “Because it is something foolish and rather grubby, and they find it embarrassing,” he said regretfully.

Pitt was unsatisfied. “I want to go through it one more time, step by step.”

“If you wish,” Narraway conceded. “But only once. Then we must act.”

         

A
FTER
G
RACIE HAD
left Pitt with his tea, she returned temporarily to her regular duties. As soon as breakfast was finished, she and Ada began the tidying up and changing the linen. She wanted to investigate the one thing that continued to arouse her curiosity. She had cleaned Cahoon Dunkeld's bedroom and dressing room every morning since she had been here.

Where were the books that were supposed to have come in the box in the middle of the night? There were no more than half a dozen in Mr. Dunkeld's quarters, nor were there many more in the other rooms.

“Where'd they all go, then?” she said to Ada as they were dusting in the sitting room.

“'Ow do I know?” Ada said indignantly. “Mebbe these is them, for all it matters. Get on wi' yer job.”

Gracie looked at the titles. “But these are all poetry an' novels,” she said. “An' stories o' the lives o' real people. 'Ere's the Duke o' Wellington, an' there's Prime Minister 'Orace Walpole.”

“An' 'ow der yer know that, Miss Clever?”

“'Cos it says so on the cover, o' course,” Gracie replied. “Wot d'yer think, I looked at the pictures?”

“Since when did you learn ter read, then?”

“Since a long time ago. Why? Can't you?” She stared at Ada as if she were looking at a curiosity.

“Yer don't 'alf ta give yerself airs,” Ada retorted. “Yer in't gonna last long. Tuppence worth o' nothin', you are.”

“So, where's the books, then?” Gracie went back to the original question. “Or is that yer way o' sayin' yer don't know?”

“'Course I don't know!” Ada spat back. “But I do know me place, an' that's more'n you do! Need someb'dy ter show it ter yer, an' I'll be 'appy ter take the job. I think termorrow yer'd better do all the slops, chamber pots an' all. An' not just your share, you can do Norah's an' Biddie's as well.”

Gracie was beginning to wonder if there had been books in the chest at all, but it was obvious Ada was not going to help.

“Yer know so much, Miss Ever So Clever,” Ada said, flicking her duster around the ornaments on the mantel. “You should be careful about all them questions yer keep askin'. Yer so sorry for Mrs. Sorokine, 'oo were actually a bit of a cow, if yer ask me. Lot o' grand ways with 'er nose in the air, but under it no better'n a tart 'erself, jus' less honest about it. Askin' jus' the same questions as she did, you are. Want ter end up wi' yer belly cut open, do yer? Not that yer've got anythin' as'd drive any man wild, 'ceptin' as 'e got cheated, thinkin' as yer was a woman, an' all! Put yer in a matchbox, we could—an' a good idea that'd be, an' all.”

Gracie felt the sting of insult. She was very aware that she was small, and too thin. There was nothing feminine or shapely about her. She had no idea why Samuel Tellman wanted her, except that to begin with she would have nothing to do with him. Now the whole idea of their marriage was frightening, in case she disappointed him terribly. But Ada would never know that.

What was important right now was that Ada had told her something she had not known: Minnie was also interested in the box, and what had been in it, or had not been.

“Yer reckon as that was wot got 'er killed?” she asked, forcing the rest out of her mind.

“Yeah! I do, an' all,” Ada responded. “Always askin' questions, she was, just like you. If yer don't want nobody ter cut yer throat, then keep yer mouth shut!”

“I'm gonna tidy the bedrooms,” Gracie said, picking her duster up and striding toward the door. Actually she was going to find Mr. Tyndale. She needed his help and there was no time at all to waste. She wished she had realized the possible importance of the box before, but the beginning of an idea had only just entered in her head.

As she crossed the landing she heard Ada shouting behind her. She was tempted for an instant to go back to tell her, extremely patronizingly, to keep her voice down. Good servants never shouted, absolutely never! But she could not afford the luxury of wasting the time it would take.

She found Mr. Tyndale in his pantry and went in without even thinking of leaving the door open.

“Mr. Tyndale, sir,” she began. “I know yer got Mr. Sorokine all locked up, but there's still things as we don't know, an' we gotta be right.” She drew in her breath and hurried on. “We gotta be able ter explain everythin'. Mr. Dunkeld 'ad a box come on the night Sadie was killed, right about the same time. 'E said as it were books, but there in't no books in 'is rooms, nor in any o' the other rooms neither, nor in the sittin' room.”

“The sitting room has at least fifty books, Miss Phipps,” he said gravely. “Possibly more.”

She kept her patience with great difficulty.

“Yeah, I know that, sir. But they in't books on Africa like Mr. Dunkeld said 'e sent for so urgent they 'ad ter come in the middle o' the night. All the ones 'e got were the same as 'e 'ad before.”

Tyndale frowned. “How do you know that, Miss Phipps?”

“'Cos I looked!” she said as politely as she could manage. Why was he so slow? “I can read, Mr. Tyndale. I think as 'e 'ad somethin' else come in that box, an' somebody's gotter know wot it were.”

Tyndale looked uncomfortable. “It may have been something for the party, which could be private,” he pointed out.

Gracie felt herself coloring with embarrassment. She had no idea what such a thing would be, and would very much rather not find out. But that was another luxury detection would cost her. “There in't nothin' private when there's murder, Mr. Tyndale. Somebody must 'a seen it, wotever it were. Edwards 'elped carry it in. 'Ow 'eavy were it? Books? Yer can feel if somethin' slides around inside a box yer carryin'. 'Ow 'eavy were it when they took it out again?”

Tyndale still looked just as uncomfortable. “I have no idea what was in it, Miss Phipps. I have no right, and no wish, to inquire into such things. It is better not to know too much of the business of our betters.”

She was touched with pity for him, and impatience.

“Mr. Dunkeld in't your better, Mr. Tyndale,” she said gently. “An' I don't think anybody 'oo pimps around wi' tarts is either!”

“Miss Phipps!” He was aghast and his voice was probably louder than he had intended it to be.

The pantry door swung open and hit the wall. Mrs. Newsome stood in the opening, her face bright pink, her eyes blazing. “Miss Phipps, I have warned you as much as I intend to about your behavior. Mr. Tyndale may be too kindhearted, or too embarrassed, to discipline you. I am not. You are dismissed. You are not suitable to have a position here at the Palace. Ada has complained about you. Both your work and your attitude are unsatisfactory. And now I find that you have deliberately disobeyed my orders that you were not to come here alone with any gentleman member of staff, and close the doors. You place Mr. Tyndale in an impossible situation. Pack your boxes and you will leave tomorrow morning. I shall give you a character, but it will not be a good one. The best I can say for you is that, as far as I know, you are honest and clean.”

Tyndale's face was scarlet. He was mortified with shame, both for what Mrs. Newsome apparently thought and because he had failed to protect Gracie from her wrath. He knew no way to extricate himself now without letting her down. Perhaps also he was disappointed that Mrs. Newsome should think so little of him as to have leaped to such a conclusion.

It was up to Gracie to protect him. He was in this position because of his duty toward her, which he had promised to observe. The case was nearly over. Mrs. Newsome was going to be either a friend or an enemy. Neutrality was no longer an option. Gracie made her decision.

“Mr. Tyndale, I got ter tell 'er,” she said earnestly. “It in't that I'm not grateful, I am. But we need 'er 'elp, an' we in't got time ter mess around 'opin'.”

He nodded very slowly. “I understand.” He looked over Gracie's head. “Mrs. Newsome, would you be so good as to close the door? I find myself in a position where I am obliged to break a trust, or face an even worse situation. I would like to do it as discreetly as possible.”

Mrs. Newsome blinked. The color had not ebbed from her face, but she was no longer so certain of herself. She closed the door in obedience, but she still stood as far away from him as possible. The air in the small room was charged with emotion.

“Mrs. Newsome,” Tyndale began. He glanced at Gracie, then continued. “Miss Phipps is working here for Special Branch. Mr. Narraway asked me to take her on, and keep her position here completely secret, so she might have as much freedom, and safety, as possible in helping Inspector Pitt to learn the truth of what happened to the two unfortunate women who have been murdered.” He was speaking too quickly, gasping for breath. “If she has appeared to take liberties, they have been necessary in order to carry out her primary duty. There was no one she could confide in except me, therefore she was obliged to speak to me alone. Ada is a busybody with a jealous and cruel tongue. If anyone should be dismissed, it is she.”

Mrs. Newsome stared at Gracie as if she had crawled out of an apple on the dessert plate. Then she looked past her at Mr. Tyndale again. “I see. I understand why she has behaved so…indiscreetly. What I do not understand, Mr. Tyndale, is why you did not feel as if you could have trusted me with the truth. I would have thought after all the years we have worked together, you might have thought better of me, indeed would have known it.” She turned round and put her hand on the doorknob to leave.

“I was asked not to, Mrs. Newsome,” Tyndale said miserably. “It was not my choice.”

She kept her back to him. Her voice trembled. “And did you complain? Did you say that it was necessary to take me into your confidence, and that I am to be trusted as much as you are?”

He did not answer. He had been distracted with anxiety, even fear, and he had not.

Gracie sighed. This was all so terribly painful, and it did not have to be. “Mrs. Newsome, ma'am,” she said softly, “if yer 'adn't 'ated me, if yer'd bin nice ter me, like it were all all right, then someone like Ada'd 'ave known there were summink different, an' she'd 'ave worked it out. It weren't until Mrs. Sorokine got killed as we knew 'oo it were as done it. An' ter be honest, even now we in't fer certain sure. Not completely. There's still things we don't know—like wot were in that box wot Edwards 'elped ter carry up the stairs ter Mr. Dunkeld the same night as poor Sadie were gettin' killed. An' wot were in it when 'e took it back down again.”