Buckingham Palace Gardens

by Anne Perry

  He did not look at Julius at all. Elsa wondered if it were guilt because Minnie was his wife, or something older and deeper than that. Did he want Minnie for himself, or was it really because by taking her he was cuckolding his brother?

  They moved to discussing one of the most difficult legs of the journey diplomatically, which, as Olga had said, lay between German East Africa and Congo Free State. Julius touched briefly on how it was both a political and a logistic problem. It was his art to persuade, suggest compromise, know every nation’s ambitions and fears, strengths and weaknesses, so he could offer a solution that left all parties feeling as if they had had the best of the deal.

  Elsa listened to him intently, and only moved her gaze from his face when she noticed Cahoon watching her, and then Minnie’s smile. Julius had never once looked at her. Was he afraid in case his looks were too close, too soft? Or did he simply have no wish to? How much of what she remembered was really only imagination, her own wish, her burning hunger, and for him merely politeness, possibly even embarrassment?

  Minnie was so vivid, so alive. Cahoon was watching her now, his face brooding, but his eyes bright with pleasure. He was the organizer of men and labor. He had a farsighted vision in planning the movement of machines, timber, and steel. He knew where to buy and how to ship. He was passionate about the whole vision and the excitement of it rang in his voice. He seemed to radiate energy.

  Minnie turned quite deliberately to watch him.

  What he was describing would be the backbone of Africa from the Cape of Good Hope, which divided the South Atlantic from the Indian Ocean, almost seven thousand miles, up across the equator, to the delta where the Nile poured into the Mediterranean. In spite of herself, Elsa was fired up by the vision too.

  Lastly Hamilton spoke. He was the engineer. He could not only weigh and judge the more obvious issues, he could make leaps of the imagination laterally, create possibilities no one else had considered, solve problems, and devise new methods of doing things. He spoke well, with dry, self-deprecating humor. Was it a mannerism, as if he had been taught the vulgarity of self-praise? Or did he really have so little regard for his own abilities?

  Elsa looked at Liliane, to see if she perceived it also, and saw fear without knowing of what. Then she wished she had not understood so clearly. She was guilty of an intrusion.

  She was not really interested in the facts. Of course, she wished the project to succeed because it was what the men wanted. It would bring them both immense financial profit, and even more, it would inevitably bring fame and honor. She knew that was what Cahoon hungered for.

  She looked at him where he sat now, his broad shoulders hunched a little as if his jacket restricted him, his face intent.

  What he wanted was recognition, title. He had a compelling hunger to be ennobled, and to become part of the Prince of Wales’s circle. That was the highest in the land, since the Queen had no circle anymore. She had lived in a kind of seclusion ever since Prince Albert’s death more than three decades ago.

  Elsa looked across the table where Minnie was watching her father. There was a warmth in her face, an ease in her eyes and mouth, and yet she was still not entirely comfortable. Her concentration was too direct.

  They were all pretending to be absorbed in the intricacies of the great plan, but she wondered how many of them were actually more interested in their own hungers? Why did Minnie find Simnel attractive? Was it to test her power because she could not find in her own husband the passion she longed for?

  Suddenly Elsa was assailed by guilt. She imagined being in Minnie’s place, married to Julius. To the outside world she would possess a happiness any woman would desire. Elsa did! Yet in reality perhaps Minnie was also alone, close but never touching in the heart or mind, nearness without intimacy. How many people lived like that?

  Someone was speaking to Elsa, but she had not heard him. It was Cahoon, and he was angry that she was not listening. It showed a lack of respect. Did it hurt anything more than his vanity? He wanted her to love him, she knew that. But why? For the power it gave him? To feed his self-esteem? Or because he too ached for tenderness, someone to share his laughter and pain?

  “Elsa!” His voice was sharp.

  She must pay attention. “Yes, Cahoon?”

  “What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Are you ill?”

  “No.” She must think of a quick lie. “I was wondering if the policeman was having any success.”

  “There are two of them, and they are from Special Branch,” he corrected her. “Apparently they are more discreet than the regular sort. I asked you if you would like to come with me to Cairo when we negotiate some of the details there.”

  Instantly she wondered if Julius would be involved. Did Cahoon mean diplomatic details, or engineering? She could not ask. And did she want to be near Julius or not? Did she want the heightened loneliness, the wondering? If she became certain that he did love her, it would fill her heart. It would be desperately sweet, overwhelming. But there was nothing that they could do about it, ever. He was married to her stepdaughter. There could never be happiness in a double betrayal.

  Or she would discover that he did not love her, only desired her, as Simnel had Minnie—and, it seemed, still did—with a hunger filled with resentment because it was a kind of bondage. This only triggered more emptiness within. Did she want to know if he was shallower than she thought, worth less? Or even worse, that she herself was?

  “Elsa, take command of yourself!” Cahoon snapped. “Do you want to come or not?”

  “Yes, of course,” she answered, because she could think of no excuse. Or perhaps it was because she could not let go of the chance to spend time with Julius, whatever the cost. All reason was against it, and yet she had chosen to do it unhesitatingly.

  She used to feel as if she and Minnie were a world apart from each other, so different there was no possibility of understanding between them. Perhaps she was wrong, and in reality she was just like Minnie, only with slightly less flair.

  THE AFTERNOON WAS miserable. The men resumed their discussions, joined at about three o’clock by the Prince of Wales, who looked formal and very serious. Elsa spoke to him only briefly, but she could see that he was still suffering from the effects of a night of self-indulgence and then the most appalling shock. He greeted her with his usual courtesy, but did not say anything more than to inquire after her well-being and wish her a good afternoon. She could not help noticing the relief in his face when he saw Cahoon walking over toward him, smiling and with a confidence in his stride and in the set of his shoulders that suggested he was master of events. There was nothing to fear after all.

  Of course there wasn’t, she told herself. It was tragic for the woman concerned, and it was most unpleasant, but no more than that.

  She filled in the afternoon walking in the gardens alone for a while, then played cards for an hour with Olga, who seemed to find as much difficulty as she did in concentrating. At afternoon tea she made conversation with Liliane, mostly gossip neither of them cared about. Who had said what to whom had never mattered much to either of them.

  At about quarter to six Bartle came to Elsa’s room to tell her that the policeman would like to speak with her.

  “With me?” Elsa was startled. “Whatever for? I have no idea what happened.”

  Bartle’s expression was grim. “I don’t know, Miss Elsa. But he an’ the other one’ve been talking to the regular servants here all afternoon. He just spoke to Mrs. Quase, an’ now he’d like to see you. I think there’s something badly wrong, ma’am.”

  Elsa opened the door to the small sitting room with more curiosity than trepidation. The man she found inside was taller than she had expected, but otherwise he appeared fairly ordinary, apart from an unusual intelligence in his eyes. He was clean-shaven. His hair was curly and too long, and she noticed immediately that his coat hung badly, possibly because the right pocket bulged with something large inside it. His shirt collar sat crookedly and
his tie was too loose. He looked tired.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, closing the door. “I believe you wished to speak with me?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dunkeld,” he replied, stepping back a little to make room for her to pass him easily and choose whatever chair she wished.

  “My name is Inspector Pitt.”

  She was surprised. His voice was excellent, deep, and with both the timbre and the enunciation of a man of education, which he could not be, or he would not be employed in such an occupation. Everyone knew that except in most serious command, police were from the lower social orders. Even the better servants frowned on them.

  She sat down in one of the smaller wing chairs and adjusted the skirts of her afternoon gown. “I cannot help you,” she said politely. “I know very little of the Palace. This is the only time I have been here, and it is only two days since I arrived.”

  “Yes, I know that, Mrs. Dunkeld.” He took the seat opposite her, which was upright and less comfortable. “Are you aware of what happened here last night?”

  She noticed that he looked concerned, as if he were obliged to tell her something she would find distressing. She wanted to put him at ease. “Yes, I am. One of the women who came to the party yesterday evening was murdered.”

  He looked surprised that she could be so blunt about it. She wondered if he had been afraid she did not know what manner of women they were.

  “You have been questioning the servants all day, to find out who is responsible,” she added. “I hope you have been successful. The reason we are His Royal Highness’s guests concerns a matter of the greatest possible importance. It would be far better if the gentlemen were all free to continue with their business without further distress.” She chose the words to be as tactful as possible, leaving open the suggestion that there was pity for the dead woman as well as inconvenience involved. She could not tell from his face if he understood that. There was a flash of humor in his eyes that could have meant anything. It disconcerted her because she could not read him as swiftly as she had imagined she would.

  He looked at her steadily, a very slight frown between his brows. “The prostitute that the Prince had chosen for himself was found in the linen cupboard this morning,” he told her. “I’m afraid she was completely unclothed, and she had been slashed to death with a knife.”

  Elsa was stunned. For a moment she found it hard to breathe. Cahoon had mentioned a carving knife, but she had thought he was being deliberately brutal. From this quiet man with his bulging pockets and his steady eyes, quite suddenly the woman’s death had a reality that was shocking. She started to speak, and then had no idea what she wanted to say.

  “We have questioned all the servants,” Pitt continued, “and found that none of them could be responsible.”

  For a moment she did not understand. “You mean someone broke in?” she said incredulously. “But we are in the Palace! That could not happen. Or are you saying it was one of the guards? I find that hard to believe. Are you certain?”

  “No one broke in, Mrs. Dunkeld. The guards can account for one another. This is the sort of crime that a man commits alone.”

  “You mean it was…?” She did not wish to use the words necessary to explain herself. Why had she supposed the murder had been committed merely out of anger? Given the occupation of the woman, it could be assumed that she had earned her fee. “Poor creature,” she added, imagining what it must have been like. Involuntarily her mind flew to occasions of intimacy with Cahoon when she had been aware of her own helplessness, and frightened of him, even physically hurt. He had taken pleasure in her pain, she was sure of that now. It had excited him.

  “I’m sorry.” The policeman was apologizing to her. Had her face been so transparent? She felt the heat rise up on it. Please heaven this man mistook it for modesty. She was allowing him to unnerve her. Cahoon would find that contemptible.

  “I am quite capable of facing facts, Mr. Pitt,” she said sharply. “Even if they are unpleasant. I have not lived my entire life in the withdrawing room.”

  If he understood her, there was no reflection of it in his expression, except perhaps a flash of pity. “No one broke in, Mrs. Dunkeld. I am afraid that leaves no possibility other than that it was one of the guests.”

  She had thought herself already stunned. This was beyond belief. “You mean one of us?” Her voice was high-pitched; she refused to accept the thought. “That’s absurd!” Even as the words spilled out, she knew it was not absurd. All kinds of people have passions that lie beneath the disciplined surface, until some fear or hunger makes them momentarily ungovernable. Usually it is violent words that break through, or something beautiful or precious is smashed to pieces in rage. What prevents it from being a human being? The conventions of society and the fear of punishment. All human life must be regarded as sacred, or one’s own may be endangered as well. But do women who sell their bodies for others to use count as human life in the same way? If they did, could one buy them in the first place?

  He was watching her.

  “I have no knowledge that could be helpful, Mr. Pitt,” she said as steadily as she could. “As you must already know, the gentlemen remained at the party, and we retired early. I did not see anyone again until my maid woke me this morning and told me there had been a tragedy, and we were requested to remain in our bedrooms.”

  “Do you know at what time your husband retired?” he asked.

  He must be aware that they had separate rooms. This was a perfectly usual thing for the wealthy, but not, she imagined, for the class to which he belonged.

  “No, I don’t,” she answered. “Perhaps if you ask the other gentlemen, they will be able to tell you.” Not counting the Prince of Wales—and that he should be guilty was unthinkable—there were only four of them: Cahoon, Julius, Hamilton, and Simnel. What this policeman was saying seemed inescapable, and yet it was also ridiculous. He did not know them, or he would not even imagine it.

  But how well did she know them? She had been married to Cahoon for over seven years, lived in his house, sometimes intimately, at other times as strangers, misreading each other, saying the same words and meaning different things. She knew his mind. He was lucidly clear. But she had never known his heart.

  Hamilton Quase was charming when he wished to be, but Liliane was obviously afraid for him. She leaped to defend him as if he were uniquely vulnerable. Memories flashed into Elsa’s mind of looks between Liliane and Julius, a sudden pallor on Hamilton’s face, and a smile on Cahoon’s, then a thinning of the lips, an unnatural change of subject.

  “I would help you if I could, Mr. Pitt,” she said, struggling to sound resolute and in control. “This is an appalling thing to have happened, for all of us, but of course mostly for the poor woman. I retired a little after nine. I have no knowledge of what happened after that. You will have to ask my husband, and the other gentlemen.”

  “I have done, Mrs. Dunkeld,” Pitt replied. “Each says that after the…entertainment…was finished, he retired alone. Except Mr. Sorokine. He says he left them early, and they all confirm that he did, as do the servants. Unfortunately, since he did not share a room with Mrs. Sorokine, or see her again until morning, that is of little value to us in excluding him.”

  She felt her face burn. “I see. So you know nothing, except that it was one of us?”

  “Yes. I am afraid that is exactly what I mean.”

  She could think of no reply, not even any protest or question. The silence lay in the room like a covering for the dead.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  ON THE DAY the murder was discovered at the Palace, Gracie Phipps had been the all-purpose maid at the Pitts’ home for nearly eight years. She was twenty-one now and engaged to marry Police Sergeant Samuel Tellman. Gracie was intensely proud of working for such a remarkable man as Pitt. She had no doubt whatever that he was the best detective in England.

  When she began in his service, she had been four feet ten inches tall and could nei
ther read nor write. She had not considered the possibility of ever doing either. However, Charlotte Pitt had offered to teach her. Now Gracie could not only read newspapers but even books and, more than that, she enjoyed it. She had also grown a whole inch and a half.

  She was reading in her bedroom with the attic windows open to the rustling of leaves and the distant sounds of traffic, when there was a knock on the door. She was startled. It was dark outside and must be late. She had lost count of time in the adventure on the pages.

  She stood up quickly and went to answer the knock.

  Charlotte was on the landing, still fully dressed but with her hair rather less than tidily pinned, as if she had put it back up again in haste.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Gracie said with a flutter of alarm. “Is something wrong?” Her mind went instantly to Pitt, having been called out in an emergency early that morning. There had been no message from him since. “Is Mr. Pitt all right?”

  “Yes, perfectly, I believe,” Charlotte said with an oddly rueful smile. “Mr. Narraway, from Special Branch, would like to see you. He has something to ask you.” Her expression softened. “Please feel perfectly at liberty to answer him as you wish to. Whatever you say will be acceptable to me, and I shall see that your decision is respected.”

  “Wot…wot’s ’e gonna say?” Gracie asked with panic rising inside her. She knew Narraway was Pitt’s superior. He was a strange man, quietly spoken and elegant in a lean, very dark sort of way. But Gracie had seen hard men in the East End of London where she had grown up, men who carried knives and knew how to use them, whom she would not have backed in a fight against Mr. Narraway. There was something in him only a fool would challenge. Except when he looked at Mrs. Pitt. Then he was just as human and easily hurt as anyone else. Gracie thought she might be the only one who could see that. It was odd what people missed sometimes. “Wot does ’e want wi’ me?” she said again.