Buckingham Palace Gardens (14 page)

Sorokine understood him instantly and blushed. “I have a certain regard for a woman who is not my wife,” he said a little huskily. It obviously embarrassed him. “I would prefer that she did not see me drinking and fornicating with prostitutes. I care for her opinion of me.” He lifted his eyes and stared at Pitt with surprising candor.

“I apologize,” Pitt said, then felt foolish. He was doing no more than his job, and the thought had been a brief idea discarded. But he would remember that about Julius Sorokine. It was another layer of the complicated emotions that lay between these people. Was he referring to the gorgeous Mrs. Quase, whose husband drank too much and spoke so disparagingly of himself?

It would be easy enough to understand. Or the unhappy Olga Marquand, elegant, stiff, and withdrawn, his brother's wife? Or was it Elsa Dunkeld, as remote as an undiscovered country, where everything there was still to be found? He would be a brave man who would abandon Cahoon Dunkeld's daughter and try to take his wife!

He looked carefully at Sorokine's face and did not see that kind of courage in it. The strength was there, but not the fire, nor the resolve.

Pitt asked him a few more questions, but learned nothing that seemed to be of value. Finally he excused him and sent for Dunkeld again.

“Well?” Dunkeld asked as he closed the door. “Have you achieved anything, apart from insulting the Prince of Wales and disturbing everyone else?” He did not sit down but remained standing, towering over Pitt, who had not had time to rise to his feet.

Pitt remained seated, deliberately trying to appear relaxed. “The large box that arrived for you shortly before Sadie was murdered,” he said calmly, crossing his legs comfortably. “What was in it, and where is it now?”

“What?” Dunkeld's voice rose angrily. “You called me away from my meeting to ask me that? Have you discussed anything at all as to who killed the wretched woman?” He leaned forward. “Have you completely lost your grasp, man? Have you any idea what has happened? Someone has murdered a prostitute in the Queen's residence! What does it require to spark you into some action? One of these men, God help us, is a maniac.”

Pitt leaned back slowly and looked up at him. “I assume you mean one of the other three: Marquand, Sorokine, or Quase?”

Dunkeld looked a little paler. “Yes, regrettably, of course I do. Do you know of any alternative?”

“What was in the box?” Pitt asked again. “You were apparently expecting it? Why did it come at that hour of night? Carters don't usually deliver at midnight.”

Dunkeld sat down at last, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Books,” he said gratingly. “Mostly maps of the regions of Africa with which we are concerned. Yes, I was expecting them. They are extremely important to the work we plan to do.”

“Then why did you not bring them with you?” Pitt asked.

“I sent for them from a dealer!” Dunkeld snapped back. “If I had had them in my possession when I came, then of course I would have brought them with me! Are you a complete fool?”

“And whoever sent them to you delivered them at midnight?”

“Obviously! I don't know why it took him so long. What the devil has that got to do with the woman's death?”

“I don't know what anything has to do with it yet. Do you?”

Dunkeld controlled his temper with clear difficulty. “No, of course I don't, or I would tell you. You obviously need every scrap of help you can find.”

“As I remember it, Mr. Dunkeld, it was you who called us,” Pitt replied.

Dunkeld's face darkened dangerously. “Why you arrogant, jumped-up oaf! You are a servant. You are here to clean up other people's detritus and keep the streets safe for your betters. You are the ferret that decent men send into holes in the ground to hunt out rabbits.”

“Then if you want your rabbit hunted and you are incapable of getting it out yourself,” Pitt said icily, “you had better employ the best ferret you can find, and give it its head. Otherwise the rabbit will escape and you will be left standing over an empty hole.”

Dunkeld stood up slowly. “I shall not forget you, Pitt.” It was blatantly a threat.

Pitt rose to his feet also. They were of equal height, and standing too close to each other for civility or comfort. But neither would move. “I shall probably forget you, sir,” he replied. “I meet many like you, in my field of work.” He smiled very slightly. “Thank you for answering my questions. I don't think I need to ask you about the…party…you organized for the Prince of Wales. I have several rather good accounts of it already.”

Dunkeld spun round on his heel and slammed the door on his way out.

         

I
T WAS AFTER
six o'clock and Pitt was sitting in the same room again, mulling over the impressions he had gained from the four men. He was wondering if he should ring the bell and ask whoever answered it if he could have a cup of tea, when there was a tap on the door.

“Come in,” he said with surprise. Gracie was not supposed to contact him so openly, and he could think of no one else who would approach him.

But when the door opened it was not Gracie who stood there, but an elegant woman in her middle years. She was beautifully dressed in the height of fashion in very dark silk, tiered from the waist down and with a slight train. There was expensive lace at her bosom and a cameo at her throat, which Pitt estimated would have cost as much as a good carriage.

He rose to his feet, certain she must have mistaken the room.

“Good afternoon,” she said courteously. “Are you Inspector Pitt?”

“Yes, ma'am.” It seemed ridiculous to offer to help her. She was obviously very much more composed than he.

She smiled slightly. “I am lady-in-waiting to the Princess of Wales. Her Royal Highness would be greatly obliged if you would attend her. I can accompany you now.” It was phrased as if it were a request, but quite clearly he could not refuse.

“Of…of course.” His mouth was dry. His mind raced as to why she would want to see him, and what he could say to her. The first thought was that Dunkeld had reported him for rudeness. But why would the Princess of Wales summon him rather than the Prince? What kind of lie could he possibly think of to avoid telling her of the situation he was investigating? How much did she know anyway? He had heard that she was severely deaf. Perhaps she knew nothing and wanted to ask why he was here. What should he say?

He followed the lady-in-waiting obediently. She led him a considerable distance through wide, high-ceilinged corridors until they came to what was apparently their destination. She knocked and then went in without waiting for an answer, signaling Pitt to follow her.

The room in which he found himself was richly overfurnished like the others he had seen, high-ceilinged and crusted with plasterwork gilded and painted, but he did not even glance at it. His total attention was focused on the woman who sat in the tall chair by the window, a tea tray on the carved table in front of her. It was set for three. There were tiny sandwiches on a plate and very small cakes cut to look as if they had wings poised above the whipped cream. There were also fresh scones he could actually smell, a dish of butter, one of jam, and one of clotted cream. He swallowed as if tasting them. He had not realized before how hungry he was.

“How kind of you to come, Mr. Pitt,” the woman at the window said graciously. Pitt had heard that Princess Alexandra was beautiful, but he was still unprepared for the perfect skin, the flawless features in spite of her being now well into her middle years.

What did one say to a deaf princess who would one day be queen? Did it matter? Would the lady-in-waiting help him? Should he raise his voice, or was that inexcusable, regardless of her hearing?

He gulped. “It is my honor, Your Royal Highness.” Was that too loud?

She was watching him closely. What was she going to ask?

“Please sit down,” she invited, indicating the chair opposite her. “Would you care for tea?”

Should he accept, or was the invitation merely a form of politeness? He had no idea. Did she know how rude he had been to the Prince?

“Please accept,” the lady-in-waiting said quietly, from a step or two behind him. “Her Royal Highness wishes to speak with you. The tea will be very agreeable.”

“Thank you,” Pitt said more gently. “Thank you, ma'am.” He sat down, aware of being clumsy, as if he were all arms and legs, as uncoordinated as if he were still an adolescent.

The lady-in-waiting poured the tea. It was very hot, obviously only just brought in, and the fragrance of it was delicate but unmistakable.

“You have a very difficult task, Mr. Pitt,” the Princess observed, taking a small cucumber sandwich and indicating that he should do the same.

“Yes, ma'am,” he agreed. He took a sandwich carefully, wondering if he could possibly stretch it to three mouthfuls.

“Have you met all His Royal Highness's guests?” she inquired. She had fine eyes, intelligent and very direct.

“Yes, ma'am.” He must add something more. He was sounding stupid. “I have spoken more to the gentlemen this afternoon. I am not sure if the ladies can tell me much.” How much did she know? He must be desperately careful not to tell her anything she had not already heard. That would be appalling.

“You may be surprised,” she said with a very slight smile, amusement fleeting and then gone. “We observe more than you think.”

He had no idea how to answer her, and he did not think it polite to take another bite of the sandwich.

She sipped her tea. “You may find that they also have been quite aware of tensions, likes and dislikes, and of rivalries.”

“I will ask them, ma'am,” he promised, although he thought it a useless exercise.

“You are thinking that they will be too loyal to their husbands to tell you anything that could be of use in this unpleasant matter,” she went on.

The last piece of the sandwich went down his throat the wrong way, probably because he drew in his breath at the same time. He found himself coughing and the tears coming to his eyes. He was making a complete fool of himself. It was a kind of nightmare.

“Take a sip of tea, Mr. Pitt,” she suggested gently. “It will no doubt be better in a moment. Do not try to speak and make it worse, please. I quite understand. I have noticed a few small nuances of character myself, which you may find of help.”

He thought that so unlikely as to be impossible. What could she conceivably know of the ways of prostitutes, or the more violent elements in men's nature? He could not say so because courtesy forbade it, and he was still afraid of choking if he tried to speak.

She smiled a little absentmindedly, as if her attention was already engaged in marshaling her thoughts. “I have noticed that Mrs. Sorokine has a certain air of wanton glamour about her that does not seem to hold her husband's eye at all,” she said with devastating candor. “I do not think he is affecting indifference. I saw no signs of it in him. If he looked at anyone unobtrusively, it was at his stepmother-in-law, Mrs. Dunkeld.”

Pitt cleared his throat. “You are very observant, ma'am.”

“I have plenty of time,” she said ruefully, but the calm expression in her face barely changed. “When you are deaf, people do not talk to you a great deal. It is too much trouble to make themselves understood. Few realize how much of understanding comes from seeing a person's face, and watching them while they speak. You might be surprised how often the eyes and the lips give different messages.”

He knew she was right. That was very often how he sensed that someone was lying, even before he knew the facts. “And what did you observe in the others, ma'am?” he asked.

She frowned slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

He repeated the question more slowly and a little more loudly. He could feel his face color with the awkwardness of it. He felt as if he came across as faintly condescending, although he did not intend to be.

“Oh.” This time she understood. “Mrs. Marquand is very unhappy. Watch her face in repose. She alternates between anger and misery. And Mrs. Quase is frightened. Her hands are always fiddling with something.”

“And Mrs. Dunkeld?” he asked.

Obviously she had not heard him. “And Mrs. Dunkeld,” she went on, “is afraid of her husband, which is quite different. Mrs. Quase is, I think, afraid for Mr. Quase. Although what she believes may happen to him I do not know. Mrs. Dunkeld never looks at Mrs. Sorokine. I think perhaps she does not dare to, in case her eyes betray her.”

“You are extremely observant, ma'am,” he said sincerely.

“Please drink your tea.” She gestured toward the tray. “It is far less pleasant cold. And try a scone or two. It is not impolite. I requested them for you and shall be disappointed if you do not enjoy them.”

He dared to smile at her. “Thank you, ma'am.”

She smiled back in a suddenly charming gesture. “You see, I would make a better detective than you think. Mr. Dunkeld does not like Mr. Sorokine. I do not hear what he says, but I see his eyes. Even though he laughs, it is not a laugh of warmth or of pleasure. He is an angry man.”

“Do you know why, ma'am?” Pitt asked.

She did not hear. “My husband likes him, but I do not. I think he is using His Royal Highness in order to obtain something he wishes for. Not that that is unusual, of course. One must expect it. However, the Prince sometimes thinks better of people than I believe is justified. He imagines that those with whom he enjoys his leisure time are more of a like mind with him than they really are.”

Pitt had a glimpse of loneliness that was terrible, a world where no one was equal and no one dared speak the truth if it would not please you. You would always be floundering in a sea of lies. “I'm sorry,” he said with intense feeling.

She must have understood from the movement of his lips. “You have a gentleness in you, Mr. Pitt. Please remember how that poor woman died, and that whoever it is you are looking for has no pity at all, for her or for you.”