by Anne Perry
Pitt gritted his teeth and felt his face burn. It was partly a result of being so dismissed that allowed him to stay on the spot.
“I am sure Mr. Narraway will appreciate that, sir, and inform you that we are always at your service. I believe he will arrange to take Mr. Sorokine tomorrow.”
“A very sad end. I liked him. But if that is how it has to be done,” the Prince said wearily. “It is of little importance now.”
“They will also remove Mrs. Sorokine’s body,” Pitt went on, still standing in the same spot, although the Prince had moved half a step closer, and he felt crowded. There was a battle of wills between them.
“I imagine Mr. Dunkeld will wish her to have a Christian burial at some church of his choice, perhaps a family crypt.”
The Prince looked taken aback. “Yes…yes, I imagine so. It will…” He stopped because what he had been going to say sounded callous and he changed his mind and bit back the words. So much was clear in his expression. “I would attend, but it would draw unwelcome attention. Poor man.” A flicker of anxiety crossed his face. “I hope you will be discreet with taking Sorokine away. It would displease me deeply if there were to be a fuss now, causing speculation. Perhaps you could have him carried out, as if he were ill? In a way he is.” He gave a slight shudder of distaste. “Under proper restraint, of course.”
Pitt’s temper flared up and he physically ached with the effort of controlling it. He had liked Sorokine too. The Prince would think him very ordinary, very unsophisticated for it, but Julius Sorokine was the only one who had declined to attend the party, even though he was not in love with his wife, and she very clearly had had an affair with his half-brother.
“There are one or two matters I still need to clear up,” he said quickly, speaking with his jaw tight, teeth almost clenched, slurring his words. “We must leave the matter beyond any question.”
“Surely it is beyond question now?” the Prince said, eyebrows arched. “Sorokine killed the woman, his wife deduced it and confronted him, and he killed her. What else is there to know? He is clearly insane. It is not only discreet, but merciful that we have him committed to private care for the rest of his life. Were he a lesser man he would be hanged.”
“He would also be tried first, and given the opportunity to defend himself,” Pitt retorted instantly, and just as instantly knew that he had made an unforgivable error as far as the Prince was concerned.
“How?” the Prince said coldly. “By claiming that he is a lunatic? We already know as much.”
Pitt was acutely aware that he was in the presence of the man who would one day, perhaps soon, be his sovereign, and to whom he would swear his oath of allegiance. In this man’s name all the law of the land would be administered. He felt a traitor even to allow such thoughts into his mind, but they were there.
“Sir, in the course of the killing of the woman, Sadie, a piece of Limoges china was broken into very small pieces indeed. From what is left of it, I can judge its approximate shape and coloring. It appears to have been a pedestal dish, white, with a picture with clear cobalt blue figuring quite prominently and a gold rim. In what room was that dish kept?”
The Prince stared at him, blinking several times. His skin looked curiously sweaty, although the room was cool.
“Sir?” Pitt repeated.
“I don’t recall such a dish,” the Prince said huskily. “There’s a great deal of porcelain…ornaments…things around. I haven’t noticed it.” He blinked again.
“Perhaps you might notice its absence?” Pitt suggested. “Since the servants of the guest wing cleared away the pieces, but none of them will admit to it, it has to have been in this wing, and to have been important.”
“I can’t imagine why.” The Prince was annoyed. “A domestic accident, and a servant trying to cover it, are hardly the concern of Special Branch.” There was finality in his tone and he seemed about to turn and walk away.
“Was it in your room, sir?” Pitt said abruptly. “That would explain why the servants don’t recognize it, except Mr. Tyndale, and he is afraid to tell anyone where it was. I shall have to work it out by a process of elimination.”
The Prince froze. “You exceed your duty, Inspector.” His voice was icy now, but it lacked the firmness Pitt would have expected. He stared, blinking, the sweat beaded on his forehead. “You know who killed both the prostitute and poor Mrs. Sorokine. Arrest and remove him. That is all that is required of you. I thought that was made clear. If it was not, then allow me to do so now.”
“What was explained to me, sir, is that a prostitute had been found hacked to death here in the Palace, and it was my duty toward Her Majesty to find out what had happened, who was responsible, and to deal with it with both speed and discretion. I cannot believe that Her Majesty would not also require that it be dealt with justly. That was not said because I assume it was not considered necessary to say it. And justice is also very practical. Injustice does not lie down quietly.”
They stared at each other, the Prince’s face mottled with ugly color, and loathing bright in his eyes. “What was this dish like?”
“I think it was probably a pedestal dish, sir, Limoges,” Pitt repeated. “There was a lot of white and blue on it, and some gold lattice.”
“I had one something like that in my own rooms. Perhaps it did come from there.” The Prince hesitated, as Pitt made no response. “I dare say the woman took it. Later, when she quarreled with Sorokine, it got broken.”
“Is anything else missing, or broken, sir?”
“No.” There was total finality in the single word.
“Obviously you did not see her leave, sir,” Pitt pointed out. “She could hardly have taken a pedestal dish and hidden it on her person without your noticing.”
The Prince said nothing. He could not argue with such a conclusion without appearing ridiculous.
“Could Mr. Sorokine have come for her?” Pitt went on relentlessly. “How was the arrangement made for them to meet? Why would she take the dish? Surely there are other things of beauty and value in your rooms, sir? Possibly easier to carry or conceal.”
“Of course I didn’t see her take it!” the Prince snapped. “And I have no idea how she managed to meet Sorokine, or even if she did. I can’t see that it matters. It happened. She’s dead.”
“Where are her clothes, sir?”
“What?”
“She was found in the cupboard completely naked.”
The Prince’s face was ashen, his eyes blazing. “For God’s sake, man! I have no idea! Ask Sorokine. Search his rooms. Although he’s had plenty of time to get rid of them by now. Who knows what a madman does?”
“Is it possible, sir, that you were deeply asleep, and he could have fought with her in your room, broken the dish there, and even torn her clothes there?”
“I…” He thought about it for a moment or two, and realized that Pitt was using a polite term for asking if he could have been so drunk that he had been insensible. But it was still an escape. “I suppose so,” he said grudgingly.
“Then may I look and see if he left any trace, sir, any evidence that would prove it?”
“I can’t see why it matters. I’ve told you, it could have happened,” the Prince said crossly.
“It is a matter of justice, sir.”
They stood facing each other, staring. Perhaps it was the reference to justice that broke the stalemate.
“Very well, if you insist,” the Prince snapped.
“Thank you, sir,” Pitt accepted.
But he found nothing of any interest whatever in the Prince of Wales’s rooms. There was not even any obvious gap where the Limoges dish might have been. His bedroom and dressing room were gracious, comfortable, but not unlike the rooms of any middle-aged gentleman of his privilege and enormous wealth. Certainly there were no shards of porcelain or crystal embedded in the carpet, and no stains of any sort, blood or wine. Nothing was torn, scraped, or otherwise damaged. If any crime had been committed
here, it had been done entirely without leaving a trace.
Pitt left feeling confused and as if somehow he had also been beaten in a game of wits. It felt like a hollow pain inside him. He had escaped a danger, faced a man who had the power to damage him seriously, if not ruin him, and he had found nothing at all. In fact he had made a fool of himself.
He walked slowly along the corridor back toward the guest wing, trying to scramble his thoughts together and make sense out of a miasma of facts that seemed to be without meaning.
He became aware of a calm and very discreet woman standing where the corner turned.
“Mr. Pitt,” she said quietly.
He focused his attention. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales, would like to speak with you, if you can spare a few moments,” she said. It was a gracious way of phrasing what amounted to a command.
Pitt found the Princess in her sitting room as before. She was dressed in a high-necked tea gown with a froth of lace at the throat. She sat with her back ramrod straight and her head high. She was a beautiful woman, but more than by her coloring or regularity of feature, he was impressed by her dignity. She was what he expected and wished royalty to be. He stood to attention automatically.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” she said with a very slight smile. “I hear that poor Mrs. Sorokine has also become a victim of tragedy. I am so sorry. She was an unfortunate young woman.” She did not explain the remark, but regarded him as if she assumed he would understand the subtleness of her implication.
“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “I am afraid so.” He inclined his head to make his agreement clearer.
“Is it true that Mr. Sorokine is responsible?” she asked.
He gestured confusion by spreading his hands outward an inch or two. “It appears so.”
She understood. “But you are not certain?”
“Not yet, ma’am.”
“Do you expect to be?”
“I wish to be. I wish very much to be.”
She nodded slowly. Apparently she had understood. There was a flash of what could have been gratitude in her eyes, including a shred of the faintest, self-mocking humor. “I am sure. Is there any way in which I might assist you? I see that you have just been speaking with His Royal Highness.”
“Yes, ma’am. There was a piece of Limoges porcelain broken and I was inquiring whether he knew where it was normally kept. None of the servants appears to recognize it.”
“And it has to do with the death of one of these poor women?” she asked. “What was it like?”
“It is hard to tell from what is left, ma’am, but it seems to have been a pedestal plate.” He outlined it with his hands. “With a lot of gold lattice, I think around the rim, and a picture in the middle with bright cobalt blue.” He spoke slowly, but he was still not sure, from the look of total bewilderment in her eyes, if she had understood him at all. “Blue, like the sky.” He looked upwards. “And gold around the edge.” He made a circle in the air with his finger.
“I hear you, Mr. Pitt,” she said softly. “Your diction is excellent. But I am puzzled. There is exactly such a dish in Her Majesty’s own bedroom. She is very fond of it, not for itself particularly, but because it was a gift from one of the princesses, when she was quite young.”
She must have misunderstood him after all. And yet meeting his steady gaze she appeared to be perfectly certain not only of what she had said, but also the enormity of its meaning. He struggled to think of something to say that was not absurd.
The Princess rose to her feet. “I think, Mr. Pitt, that we had better go and see if Her Majesty’s plate has indeed been broken. When she returns, we should have some explanation, and apology for her, if it has. Will you come with me, please?”
“Yes…ma’am.” He obeyed, walking quickly around her to reach the door before she did and open it for her. He did not know whether he was exultant that she had told him where the dish belonged, or if it terrified him even more. If it was the Queen’s dish, how had it come to be smashed? Had the Prince taken it? Why, for heaven’s sake? Was he completely mad? If the Princess of Wales realized what it meant, what would she do? Had Pitt, in his blindness, fallen into the middle of a Palace plot? Was the Prince of Wales insane? Did the Princess know it and intend to use Pitt somehow to expose it?
No. That was all delirious thinking. There was a perfectly rational explanation. Probably it was some thieving servant after all. That made infinitely more sense.
He followed a pace behind her along the wide corridors into another wing altogether. She spoke briefly to a servant and then to another. Finally he followed her, with two liveried footmen and a lady-in-waiting, into Queen Victoria’s rooms.
They were oddly as Pitt had expected: too much furniture, all large and beautifully carved, pictures, ornaments, and photographs everywhere. The sunlight slanted in through high heavily curtained windows and made colored patterns on the carpets.
“There,” the Princess said, pointing to an ornate mantel. On it stood a beautiful Limoges pedestal dish, with gold leaf around the edges, trellises woven of gold, and in the center a painting of a romantic couple on a garden seat. It was not the sky that was deep blue, but his coat, and a robe around her shoulders and down to the ground at the back.
The Princess turned and looked at Pitt, her eyes wide, questioning.
“Was there a matching pair?” he asked, feeling foolish.
“No,” the lady-in-waiting answered for the Princess, perhaps fearing she had not heard.
Pitt walked around, making a pretense of looking for a space from which another dish could have been taken, but not expecting to find it. He was puzzled, beaten a second time. He looked at the bed. Did it have the beautifully monogrammed sheets on, like the stained and crumpled ones Gracie had found in the laundry? He dared not look. There was no possible excuse for it, and what did it matter?
He bent and touched the heavy tapestry curtains, feeling the texture of the cloth. It moved very slightly, and he saw a darker patch on the carpet below. It looked like a stain. He bent and put his finger to it. It was dry. He licked his finger and touched it again. His finger came away smeared with brownish-red.
A charge rippled through him like electricity. It was blood. He looked at the skirt to the bed, exploring it with his fingers. He found a seam where there appeared to be no reason for one. He straightened up and moved quickly to the same place on the other side. Here the skirt was even, and there was no seam. A piece had been removed and its absence disguised. More blood? An accident? An illness?
But it was not yet completely caked in. It could not be more than a few days old—in other words, it occurred since the Queen had left and been at Osborne on the Isle of Wight.
He walked back to the Limoges plate again and bent down to the floor below the mantel. It was old, beautiful, weathered by time and years of polishing. But in between the boards there was a fine white dust, as of broken porcelain. Something had been smashed here.
He turned very slowly and stared around the room. They were all watching him, the Princess, the lady-in-waiting, and both footmen. With the horror of certainty, he knew what had happened: For whatever reason, whoever had done it, this was where Sadie had been murdered.
She had been moved from here to the linen cupboard for the most obvious of reasons. But why the extra blood in the port bottles? To make it look as if she had been killed in the cupboard, so no one would look any further? Was it animal blood from the kitchen? Had someone used the port bottles simply to carry it upstairs?
Three bottles seemed excessive. There had not been that much blood in the cupboard. Had they poured the rest away?
His mind was racing—on fire.
Who had? Certainly not the Prince. He had still been slow-moving with the remnants of a drunken hangover when Pitt had seen him the morning after. The answer was obvious: Cahoon Dunkeld. The Prince had woken to a horror almost beyond belief: Not only was there a dead woman beside
him, but he was in his mother’s bed. He must have been hysterical. He had sent for Dunkeld, who had come instantly and done all he could to contain the situation, disguise it, and even find someone to blame—his son-in-law, Julius Sorokine, whom he hated anyway: for not loving Minnie, and perhaps for taking Elsa’s love, real or imagined.
And of course the Prince’s debt to Dunkeld could never be paid. Even all the support he could give for the Cape-to-Cairo railway would be a small thing in comparison with what Dunkeld had done for him. It was the most brilliant piece of opportunism Pitt had ever seen. He despised Dunkeld’s morality, and at the same time admired his nerve and his invention.
Did Minnie Sorokine have any idea how her father had used the crime?
And if the Prince of Wales was guilty, what could be done about it? Even as the question formed in Pitt’s mind, he knew the answer. The Prince would be put away quietly. They would claim some illness for him—perhaps typhoid, like his father! There would be no scandal. As with Julius Sorokine, he would simply disappear. There would be a tragic notice of his death. No one would ever know the full truth.
He thanked the Princess and walked out of the room, his mouth dry, his legs trembling, hands slick with sweat and yet cold.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
SIMNEL MARQUAND LOOKED exhausted, as if there were nothing of life or passion left inside him. He was in the yellow sitting room with Elsa. They stood side by side, staring through the high windows at the formal gardens in their bright, rigid beauty.
“God knows!” he said bitterly. “Personally I think the man is totally incompetent. If he were worth anything, Minnie would still be alive.” The pain in his voice was lacerating.
Elsa avoided looking at him. To do so would be intrusive, like watching someone whose bodily functions were out of control. And yet she was angry with him for blaming Pitt. “What would you have done?” she asked him, her voice almost level in spite of the pitch of her own emotions.