by Anne Perry
“Well, I seen scores like you!” Gracie retorted. “Ten a penny, up an’ down any street, an’ on it too! Too much chest, an’ all. Everybody else can see yer got feet, they’re big enough, but I lay odds yer can’t see ’em yerself!”
“I’ll wash yer mouth out wi’ lye, yer cheeky bint!” Ada hissed under her breath. “No man in’t never gonna fancy you! Not unless ’e’s one o’ these wot likes little kids!”
“Then I’m safe from Edwards, in’t I?” Gracie retorted. “’Cos ’e likes ’em big an’ blowsy, fat enough ter be ’is ma!”
Ada reached her hand back as if to take a wide swing and hit Gracie on the side of her face, then realized that Biddie was looking at them, and changed her mind. “I’ll get yer, yer little bitch!” she said half under her breath.
“No yer won’t,” Gracie responded in the same tone. “Or I’ll tell wot I saw in the laundry the other day, when it all got fogged up. Weren’t only the copper as was steaming, were it!”
“I’ll say yer lying!” Ada spat back. “They’ll believe me, ’cos nobody likes you! I’ll say it were you ’oo was teasin’ Edwards, an’ then Mrs. Newsome’ll get rid o’ yer for sure! She’s only waitin’ fer the chance.”
“No they won’t believe yer,” Gracie hissed back at her. “’Cos like yer said, nobody’d fancy me. They all know Edwards is after you. An’ you’re after Cuttredge. An’ ’e’s gonna believe me. So you keep yer mouth shut an’ all, an’ leave me alone!”
They reached the dining room and Ada was obliged to hold her peace. She was fuming, but she was also beaten, at least until she thought of a way of retaliating.
The guests came in and took their seats. Footmen in livery held doors, Gracie and the other women servants stood in the anteroom and waited, but she could see through the gap in the doorway. The guests looked marvelous, all bright colors of silk, velvet, and lace and glittering with jewels. Gracie was dazzled by white necks and bosoms; she had never seen so much skin even when she had a bath.
Mrs. Sorokine was wearing yet another burning shade of pink, so hot you’d think you could cook dinner over it. She looked excited, her dark eyes glittering as she turned from one person to another, ignoring her husband. Her eyes went up and down Mrs. Marquand’s thin body in its dark blue gown, which made her look even more bony, then on to Mr. Marquand, who was looking back at her, smiling. He was a bit pink too, as if warming himself in the glow of her dress. Gracie wondered if the real quality went on like this a lot of the time, or if it was only these ones. Maybe she could work up the nerve to ask Mrs. Pitt one day.
Mrs. Quase was wearing a strange shade of brownish gold with a plunging neck at the front, though nobody seemed to be noticing it much. She was very beautiful.
Mrs. Dunkeld wore a soft, cold lavender gray, which oddly enough made her skin look warmer. She was beautiful too, in a ladylike sort of way. She looked unhappy, and her eyes met those of everyone except her husband’s, and Mr. Sorokine.
Gracie was directed to go back down to the cellar and ask Mr. Tyndale to fetch another two bottles of the white wine. When she returned it was almost time to take away the soup plates.
“Be careful!” Ada warned, her eyes bright with anticipation. “You drop any o’ that on someone’s dress an’ you’re finished!”
Gracie went into the dining room already shaking and afraid she would trip over her own feet—or worse, her too-long skirt—and send the dishes right across the floor.
She accomplished her duty with fierce concentration, aware that Ada would be only too delighted if she had a disaster. Then she assisted as the fish was served, and stood back watching while it was eaten. It smelled delicious. No one considered her to be eavesdropping, because they did not notice her at all.
First she watched Cahoon Dunkeld. There was a power in him that drew her eyes as if there were something in his mind, his strength of will, that dominated them all. He was talking about Africa, and the great railway they were going to build, and how it would be the backbone of the whole continent.
“And of course His Royal Highness will give you his support, won’t he, Papa?” Mrs. Sorokine said with conviction. She sounded so sure that it was not really a question.
“I expect so,” Mr. Dunkeld replied. “But we shouldn’t take it for granted. That would be foolish, and insulting.”
Gracie thought he said that for the benefit of the Prince, in case someone should repeat it back to him.
“But aren’t you his friend?” Mrs. Sorokine pressed. “I would think, from the way you have helped him in this ghastly business, he would be forever grateful to you.” There was a funny, bright edge to her voice as she said that, and her eyes never left his face.
“This ghastly business, as you put it, would not have happened if we weren’t here,” Mr. Sorokine pointed out. “Apparently one of us killed her. No one is going to be grateful for that.”
“Oh, do be quiet!” his wife said impatiently. “He was the one who wanted the women here. Papa simply arranged it for him.” She turned back to her father. “Didn’t you?”
“Couldn’t we discuss something else?” Mrs. Quase interrupted with irritation. “At least over dinner.”
“Why?” Mrs. Marquand asked suddenly. “Whatever we talk about—the weather, fashion, gossip, politics, even Africa—we are all thinking about it! I look at the tablecloth, and I think of the sheets in the linen cupboard where she was killed. I look at the meal on my plate and think of the blood!”
“It’s fish,” her husband told her. “Stop indulging your imagination, or you’ll end up in hysterics. Have a glass of water.” He held up his hand. “Somebody, fetch her a glass of water!”
Gracie stepped forward, picked up the crystal water jug, and poured a wineglass full. She gave it to Mrs. Marquand, who took it with a startled gesture and drank a couple of sips before putting it down.
Gracie retreated to the wall again, hoping to resume her previous invisibility.
“He still relies on you, though, doesn’t he, Papa?” Mrs. Sorokine took up the previous conversation as if nothing had happened. “I think there will be no question of his complete support.”
“Let us hope so,” Mr. Dunkeld replied. He did not look as pleased with her as Gracie would have expected. After all, she was in a way complimenting him.
“There is no one else with better credentials,” Mrs. Quase said with forced cheerfulness. “In fact, I’m not sure there is really anyone else at all.”
“There will always be other offers,” Mr. Sorokine pointed out. “But I agree, they are not nearly as good.”
“I expect they’ll try, though, don’t you?” Again Mrs. Sorokine was looking at her father. “The Prince of Wales’s support will make all the difference, won’t it?”
“Obviously!” Dunkeld said with considerable sharpness. “That is what we are here for. You do not need to keep repeating what is already obvious.”
“We can hardly be complacent.” Mrs. Dunkeld spoke for the first time. “After all, however good we are at building railways, apparently one of us killed that poor woman.”
“She was a street whore, Elsa,” Dunkeld said brusquely. “Don’t speak of her as if she were some poor girl attacked on her way to church.”
Mrs. Dunkeld looked at him with a sudden flare of fury in her blue eyes. “So were the victims of the Whitechapel murderer. They’d have hanged him just the same, if they had caught him.”
Mrs. Quase gave a gasp. Mrs. Marquand was ashen.
Mrs. Sorokine raised both her hands in mock applause. “Oh, bravo, Stepmother! That’s the perfect remark to season the fish course! Now we shall feel so much more like choosing game. What is it, pheasant in aspic, jugged hare, or a little venison perhaps? Nothing like talk of a good hanging to improve the appetite.”
“Yours anyway, it would seem!” Mrs. Dunkeld shot back at her. “It is idiotic to sit here and talk of the plans for a railway the length of Africa when one of us is a lunatic who kills women, and the police are
here and not going to leave until they find out which one of us it is.”
“We are all powerfully aware of that,” Dunkeld said freezingly, his face set hard. “It appears to have escaped your intelligence that we are trying our best to have a civilized meal and behave with some dignity until such time as that is. Always assuming that idiot policeman is capable of doing anything more than sitting in his chair and asking endless, stupid questions. He doesn’t appear to be any further forward than he was the morning he arrived.”
Gracie was so furious she almost choked on her own breath, perhaps partly because she had a terrible fear that Mr. Dunkeld was right about Mr. Pitt’s lack of progress. They had as evidence the Queen’s sheets, the knife, the bottles, and knew about the broken dish that wasn’t supposed to exist, and buckets and buckets of water, but none of it made any sense. She ached to be able to snap back at him that they wouldn’t know anything about what progress Pitt was making anyway, until he was ready to arrest someone, but she could do nothing but stand there against the wall as if she were a bundle of clothes on a peg.
Almost unbelievably, it was Mrs. Sorokine who said what Gracie wanted to say. “He might know all kinds of things, Papa. He would hardly be likely to tell us. After all, we are the suspects.”
“Only if he’s a fool!” Dunkeld snapped at her. “I wasn’t even in Africa when the first woman was killed, which I shall remind him, if he is idiotic enough to suspect me. And no woman could have done such a thing.”
Hamilton Quase put his wineglass down with a shaking hand, slopping some of it over, even though it was half empty. “You seem to be assuming it was the same person. I don’t know why! It doesn’t have to be. Unfortunately slashing prostitutes to death is not a unique propensity.”
“Straining coincidence a little far, don’t you think?” Dunkeld’s face was twisted with sarcasm. “Exactly the same way, with the same three men present? Even Pitt could get far enough to see the unlikelihood of that. But if he can’t, then I shall have to give him a little assistance.”
“Perhaps you should tell him who the Whitechapel murderer is at the same time?” Quase suggested bitingly. “The whole country would be glad to know. Except whoever it is, of course.”
“That’s irrelevant,” Mr. Marquand observed contemptuously. “None of us were in London in the autumn of 1888.”
“Except Papa,” Mrs. Sorokine said. “You were here, because I was too, and I saw you. We all knew what happened to those women, everybody did.” She smiled dazzlingly, her eyes too bright. “And in case you think that is irrelevant, my point is that when something hideous happens, people get to know about it, and could copy it closely enough, if they were sufficiently insane, or sufficiently evil.”
“I have finished all the fish I desire to eat.” Mrs. Quase laid her implements on the plate and turned toward Gracie. “Would you remove my plate, and begin to serve the next course? You have no need to fear interrupting the conversation. It is finished.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gracie said obediently.
“And get me some more wine,” Mr. Quase added, holding up the almost empty bottle so she could see the label.
“No! Thank you,” Mrs. Quase cut across him. “We have sufficient. Just clear away the plates.”
“If my wife doesn’t want the wine, she doesn’t need to have it.” Quase swiveled in his chair unsteadily until he was facing Gracie. “I do. Fetch it. Take this, so you get the right one.” He thrust the bottle out toward her.
Mr. Sorokine stood up and took it from him. “Just clear the dishes,” he told Gracie. “The footman will bring whatever wine we are having with the next course. It may be red, or at least something different.”
Gracie took the bottle, relieved at being rescued. “Yes, sir.” She turned to give it to Ada just beyond the door, then began to collect the plates with Biddie’s help.
By the time she had taken them to the kitchen and returned, the next course was served and they were all eating again, or pretending to.
Mrs. Sorokine seemed too excited to do more than take the occasional mouthful. She went on making oblique remarks to her father, as if deliberately baiting him. Sometimes he ignored her, once or twice he responded sharply, almost viciously.
Gracie saw Mrs. Dunkeld flinch, as if the barbs had been directed at her. There was an unhappiness in her face in repose, a kind of stillness as if she were concentrating on mastering pain. It made Gracie wonder how much she was afraid, and whether it was all for herself or for a tragedy that had yet to happen and could overtake them all. Did she actually have some idea which of the men sitting at the table around her had done this nightmarish thing?
When Mrs. Sorokine was not looking at her father, her eyes flashed to Simnel Marquand. Gracie did not see her once look at her husband. What did that mean? That she did not want to, or that she did not dare?
Olga Marquand remained almost silent.
The course was cleared and the roast beef served, then the puddings, and lastly the biscuits, cheese, and fruit. Gracie managed to fetch and carry without dropping anything or getting anything seriously wrong until the very end, when Ada bumped her elbow and she sent a pile of dirty plates crashing down the stairs. Nothing was broken, but Gracie spent the next half hour cleaning it up and washing the stains out of the carpet.
“Uppity little cow!” Ada observed with satisfaction as she walked around her, lifting her skirts aside with care.
With difficulty, Gracie refrained from reaching out and tripping her. At the moment her mind was busy trying to understand the chaotic emotions she had seen at the dinner table and attempting to decode what Mrs. Sorokine had really meant when she was talking to her father. Gracie was quite certain it had to do with the questions she had been asking all day. She had deduced something, and she was trying to tell them all, perhaps to frighten someone into an action that would betray him.
It was a dangerous thing to do, but there seemed to be something in Mrs. Sorokine that was starved for excitement, however dangerous, or even morally wrong.
Or else maybe it wasn’t excitement, but fear, hidden as well as she was able to, because the man who had done this was someone she loved. Was that why she could not look at her husband?
Perhaps she was brave, and very honest, even at such a cost.
Gracie fetched, carried, and cleaned, still thinking of it. It all made Ada pretty unimportant: just irritating and rather grubby, like the flies that buzzed around the bottles once full of blood.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
PITT HAD A restless night. He disliked being away from home. He missed Charlotte acutely. Since joining Special Branch, he could no longer tell her the details of his cases, which meant she was unable to help in the practical ways she used to when he dealt with simple murders. All the same, her presence, her belief in him, made him calmer and stronger.
The pieces of information Gracie had brought him were extraordinary. They must mean something, and yet he could make no sense of them. He had asked the cook about the port bottles, and she had confirmed that Mr. Dunkeld had brought them as a gift for the Prince. They had contained port of a quality far superior to any that would ever be used in cooking. They had been served at table for the gentlemen. He did not mention the blood. Whatever warnings he gave, she would be bound to tell someone—probably everyone.
He had made inquiries about the broken china, but received no reply. They all disclaimed any knowledge. Similarly, everyone said the Queen’s sheets must have been put in the linen cupboard by mistake, and no one seemed to understand that they had been slept on. They simply denied the possibility.
When he finally drifted off to sleep, it was into a tangle of dreams. The glory of Buckingham Palace was mixed with the stink and terror of the back alleys of Whitechapel, where those other fearful corpses of women had been found.
He woke with a start, his heart pounding, and sat upright in bed, for a moment at a loss as to where he was. There was a wild banging on his door. Before he
could answer, it swung open and Cahoon Dunkeld staggered in, his face ashen gray in the light from the corridor.
Pitt scrambled out of bed and instinctively went to him. The man looked as if he were about to collapse. Pitt grasped him by the shoulders and eased him into the single chair.
Cahoon drooped his shoulders forward and buried his head in his hands. Whatever had happened, he seemed shattered by it.
Pitt lit the gaslamp and turned it up, and then waited until Cahoon regained control of himself.
When at last he sat up, his face was blotched where his fingers had pressed against it and his eyes had a fevered look. He was so fraught with emotion his body was rigid and he could not keep his arms still, as though he were desperate to do something physical but had no idea what or how.
He rubbed his hand over his brow and up over his head. His knuckles were bruised; one was torn open.
“It’s Minnie,” he said hoarsely. “She was behaving erratically all day, but I thought she was just seeking attention, as she does. She…she needs to be admired, to draw people’s eyes, occupy their thoughts. Her husband is…” His jaw clenched and for several moments he was unable to continue.
Pitt thought of completing the sentence for him, to prompt him to go on, but decided the issue was too grave to misdirect. He waited, motionless.
Cahoon took a shuddering breath. “At dinner she kept raising the subject of the dead woman in the cupboard. I told her fairly sharply to be quiet about it. I thought she was afraid, and losing control of herself. Oh God!” His chest heaved and he seemed to clench all the muscles of his upper body.
Pitt began to be afraid. “What has happened, Mr. Dunkeld?” he demanded.
Slowly Cahoon raised his head again and stared at him. “During the night I thought about what she’d said. I was awake. I’ve no idea what time it was. I went over and over it, and I began to wonder if she knew something. She told me quite openly that she had been asking a lot of questions of the servants, and discovered what she wanted to know. I…I didn’t believe her.” He seemed desperate that Pitt should understand him. “I thought she was showing off.”