Buckingham Palace Gardens

by Anne Perry

  “Sadie was, yes. But the corpse beside you, and later in the linen cupboard, was not Sadie,” Pitt explained. “That is why her clothes had to be removed. The difference would have given it away. And there was probably no time. Dunkeld took care of it all for you, didn’t he? Ran a bath, told you to wash away all the blood, and he himself removed the body and the bloody sheets. Later, he had trusted servants clean up the mess, the blood on the floor, and replaced the broken Limoges dish, which you thought you had smashed in your rage with the poor woman.”

  The Prince simply nodded. He was still gray-faced, his eyes almost glazed. He was mortified with embarrassment at being exposed as such an incompetent libertine in front of Pitt, of all people.

  “He told you to say nothing, and it would all be all right. He would get in Special Branch, and they would keep the matter discreet,” Pitt continued.

  “What about Sorokine?” the Prince floundered. “If he wasn’t guilty, why did he kill his wife, poor woman?”

  “He didn’t,” Pitt said simply. “She worked out the truth, and must have faced Dunkeld with it. I don’t imagine he intended to kill her, he probably only tried to silence her, and they both lost their tempers. They were very alike. When he realized he had struck her too hard he had to make it look as if it were the same as the other crime, and the one in Africa too, of which he could not have been guilty. It must have been one of the hardest things in his life to have cut her like that, even though she was already dead.” He thought of Minnie’s body lying with that slit-open abdomen, but her bosom still decently covered. She had not been gutted as the other women were.

  The Prince was staring at him in undisguised horror.

  “He must have waited all night,” Pitt went on. “We can only guess how fearful that was for him, alone with her body. Then in the early morning he went in to accuse Sorokine, and fought with him, his purpose being to mark Sorokine as if from a fight with Mrs. Sorokine, and even more than that, to disguise the marks on himself where she had fought for her life.”

  “God in Heaven!” the Prince breathed out. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Arrest Dunkeld and release Sorokine,” Pitt replied. “And hope it is still possible to keep most of this quiet. But we will not be able to shut Dunkeld away and say he is mad. There will have to be a trial, at least for the murder of Mrs. Sorokine. I’m sorry, sir. If another way can be found, it will be.”

  The Prince swallowed with difficulty. “Please…please try…”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  PITT RETURNED TO his rooms and found Narraway waiting for him, pacing the floor. Gracie was still present as if she were standing guard.

  “Is she right?” Narraway demanded as soon as Pitt had closed the door. His face was drawn, his eyes haggard.

  Pitt did not ask what Gracie had said; he knew she had understood it all perfectly. “Yes,” he said to Narraway. “I just confirmed it with the Prince of Wales. Not surprisingly, when he woke and found the corpse of a naked woman, covered in gore, beside him in the Queen’s bed, he panicked. He certainly didn’t look at her face long enough to see it wasn’t the one he went to sleep with—if he looked at her face even then!”

  Narraway blasphemed thoroughly and with intense feeling. “What a diabolical shame. A cold nerve, though!” He glanced at Gracie, wondering whether he should apologize to her for his language. In this situation she was not exactly a servant. A certain better nature won. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “’S all right,” she told him graciously.

  He looked startled, then nodded his appreciation.

  Pitt concealed a smile. “We should arrest Dunkeld for the killing of his daughter,” he said to Narraway. “Accidental or intentional. And free Sorokine. I’m looking forward to that.”

  “Just a moment!” Narraway jerked up his hand as if to hold Pitt back. “Can we prove it?”

  “Minnie knew the whole plot!” Pitt said impatiently.

  “Yes, but can we prove that?” Narraway insisted. “And not only that she knew it, but that she would have betrayed him by telling everyone. If we can’t do both those things, he could still say it was Sorokine, either because he killed Sadie, or simply out of jealousy over her affair with Marquand.”

  Pitt took a deep breath, his mind racing. He was certain in his own mind, but was there proof, beyond any reasonable doubt?

  “He was the one who arranged for the three women to come. It was his box of books the corpse came in.”

  “We know it was his box,” Narraway agreed. “We have deduced that the corpse came in it, and Sadie went, but there’s no proof.”

  “No books came,” Pitt told him. “Edwards carried something up in it, and something of similar weight down again.”

  “Servant’s word against Dunkeld’s,” Narraway said.

  “No books,” Pitt argued. “All the African books, of which there are not many, were here already. All the other men will testify to that.”

  “Moderate,” Narraway granted. “Who saw the Limoges dish, apart from Dunkeld’s wife, who hates him, and is in love with Sorokine? I think it hangs on that.”

  “His valet,” Pitt replied.

  “And he’ll testify?” Narraway said with heavy disbelief. “Even if he did, it’s his word against Dunkeld’s again. From your account the Prince of Wales never saw the dish broken, and he can’t be called to testify anyway.”

  “Tyndale!” Pitt exclaimed. “He knew the dish was broken because he helped clear it away and hid the pieces. He lied to me about it, and to Gracie.”

  “And you think he’ll implicate the Prince in any wrongdoing?” Narraway’s eyebrows shot up.

  “No, sir, but he’ll testify against Dunkeld, who tried to implicate and then blackmail the Prince.”

  Narraway’s face was bleak, his mouth tight. “The newspapers will have a field day with that! It’ll never come to trial, Pitt. Dunkeld knows it, and so do I. Perhaps we could prove it, with the dish, the box; we can’t prove that he brought the port bottles in full of blood. Certainly someone did a lot of cleaning up in the Queen’s room, and Sorokine’s never been in the Palace before. But it’s all academic. Dunkeld has us. The best we can do is at least not charge Sorokine.”

  “No, sir,” Pitt said in a hard, quiet voice. “Dunkeld was going to blackmail the Prince of Wales, the heir to the throne. If he didn’t do it explicitly, it was always implicit, for the rest of his life.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be a royalist after all this, Pitt,” Narraway said with irony and confusion in his voice.

  “I don’t have much respect for the man, but I do for the office,” Pitt snapped. “But that isn’t the point.”

  Narraway opened his eyes wide. “Blackmail is a filthy crime.”

  “Not blackmail,” Pitt said tartly. “Treason.”

  “Treason?” Then in a flash of fire in the mind, Narraway understood. “Of course. We charge him and try him for treason. Secrets of the State—a closed court. Thank you, Pitt. I am profoundly obliged.”

  Pitt smiled, the blood warming his face again.

  Gracie gave a long sigh of relief.

  “Who killed the poor woman in the linen cupboard?” Narraway asked almost casually.

  “God knows,” Pitt admitted. “Maybe He is the only one who ever will. She might be just some murder victim of the night.”

  “Exactly like the one in Africa?” Narraway asked sarcastically. “Who the hell brought her?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Narraway raised his eyebrows. “I imagine you would like to find out?”

  “Yes, I would. First I would like to go and release Sorokine.” Pitt smiled. “I’d take help for Dunkeld, if I were you. He’s a big man with a very violent temper.”

  Narraway looked at him coldly. “I have no intention of going alone, Pitt! Do you take me for an idiot?”

  They reached the door together, then Pitt turned to Gracie. “Which one do you want to see?” he asked. “You deserve
to take your choice.”

  “Thanks,” she said primly. “I think as I’ll come with you and tell Mr. Sorokine ’e’s free. ’E were real nice ter me. Let me read in a book by Oscar Wilde, like I were a real sort o’ person as could understand it.”

  “You are,” Pitt told her. “How perceptive of him. When we get home, I shall buy you a copy for yourself.”

  “Thank you,” she accepted.

  They went downstairs together and found Mr. Tyndale, who gave them the key to Julius’s room.

  “I’m very glad, sir,” he said gravely. “Mr. Sorokine was always very civil.” He glanced only briefly at Gracie, confused now as to exactly what her status was.

  She avoided his eyes too, so as not to make it even harder for him.

  Up the stairs again Pitt knocked on Julius’s door, then opened it and went in.

  “Your courtesy is very pleasant, if a trifle absurd,” Julius said quietly. He was fully dressed but ashen-faced. His hands were clenched by his sides and he stood so stiffly he swayed very little, concentrating on keeping his composure.

  Pitt held out the door key in his open hand, offering it.

  “I apologize, Mr. Sorokine. I am now perfectly certain that your account of events was a true one. I regret the extreme distress you have been caused.”

  Julius stared at him, then at the key in his hand. Then slowly he reached for it, took it and held it, smoothing his fingers over it as if to assure himself it was real. Then he looked up at Pitt again.

  “Cahoon?” he asked hoarsely. “Why? He’s the only one of us who couldn’t have killed the poor woman.”

  Very briefly Pitt explained the main outline of the case to him.

  Julius sat down on the bed. “God Almighty!” He breathed out the words so they sounded more like a prayer than a blasphemy.

  “If you will excuse me, sir, I need to go and help Mr. Narraway. Arresting Mr. Dunkeld may not be easy. If there is anything you need, Gracie will get it for you.”

  Gracie moved forward. “Yes, sir,” she said with great satisfaction. “’Ow about a nice fresh cup o’ tea, an’ a toasted tea cake with currants in it an’ butter?”

  Julius smiled, but there were tears in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said huskily. “I’ll admit, luncheon wasn’t much. I’d like that…before I…join the others.”

  She went to make it herself, choosing the tea cake with the most currants and sultanas, and being generous with the butter. When she took it up to him, he was delighted and ate the tea cake as if it was the first food he had tasted with any pleasure for days.

  She glanced over to the bedside table and saw Oscar Wilde’s book open on it.

  He saw her look. “Would you like it?” he offered.

  “I couldn’t!” she said intently, blushing that he had caught her looking at it.

  “Yes, you could,” he replied. “I can get another one. I would like you to have it. I have something to celebrate. Let me make a gift of it to you.” He reached out his hand, then saw the butter on his fingers and smiled ruefully. “Just take it. Please?”

  She picked it up, holding it tight. “Thank you, sir.”

  He was still smiling.

  PITT AND NARRAWAY found Cahoon Dunkeld with the Prince of Wales. They were obliged to wait until he had finished his discussion and was walking back alone along the corridor toward his own room. They caught up with him at the door and followed him in, to his intense annoyance.

  “What the devil’s the matter with you?” he demanded, spinning round to face them, his face twisted with fury.

  Narraway closed the door behind him. “Naturally, as Special Branch, we do not have the authority to arrest anyone, but in these unusual circumstances, I am obliged to make an exception.”

  “Good,” Cahoon snapped. “You do not need my permission. Get on with it!”

  “I know I do not need your permission,” Narraway replied tartly. “Cahoon Dunkeld, I am arresting you for the murder of Wilhelmina Sorokine. You will be—”

  Cahoon’s face turned scarlet. “Her husband killed her,” he said between clenched teeth. “If you seek to avoid your duty and blame this on me, I shall speak to the Prince and have you dismissed. And don’t doubt he can do it.”

  “Probably,” Narraway conceded with a tight smile. “But he won’t, not since he knows that you had a dead prostitute brought in and disemboweled in the Queen’s bed, in order to blackmail him for the rest of his life. He will resent that—I can assure you.”

  “Rubbish! You’re hysterical,” Cahoon said with disgust, but his voice was slurred and his hands were clenched till the knuckles shone.

  “No, Mr. Dunkeld, Minnie was hysterical when she put all the pieces together. She saw the Limoges dish in your luggage; she knew the one in the Queen’s room had been broken; but you must have known in advance that it would be, or why bring one identical? She knew the box came in and went out with the same weight in it, and there were very few new books on Africa, if any at all. And she knew you: your nature, your courage, and your arrogance. And you knew that she would want a price for her silence, possibly the clearing of her husband from blame. Profoundly as you loved her, you could not afford to let her ruin you—and she would have.”

  Cahoon stared at him. “You can’t prove that,” he said at last. “None of it.”

  “Yes,” Narraway said, glancing only for a second at Pitt, knowing he could not afford to take his eyes from Cahoon for any longer than that. “I can. A court might not compel your wife to testify, or believe her if she did. They might think your valet merely a distinguished servant, if a frightened one. But they will believe Tyndale, a Palace butler who owes you nothing. He saw the shards of the broken dish, and he saw the new one that replaced it.”

  “Sorokine brought it!” Cahoon’s lips curved in the tiniest smile.

  “How did he know about it?” Narraway asked. “He had never been to the Palace before, still less to the Queen’s bedroom. You did. He did not arrange the prostitutes to come that evening, nor did he send for the box of books that don’t exist. Small pieces of evidence, Cahoon, but many of them, and the Limoges dish was a touch of reality too far. The blood was necessary, but that smashed dish was what caught you.”

  Cahoon took a deep breath. “Pity,” he said, in control of himself again. “But you won’t charge me with it. If you think you can ever bring this to the public, then you are an even bigger fool than I supposed, and having seen you and your oaf there,” he glanced at Pitt, “even the last few days, believe me, I thought you fool enough!”

  Narraway’s cheeks paled with anger and his eyes glittered. “Of course we won’t!” he said with bitter relish. “I mentioned the murder to disconcert you. I believe in your own way, you loved her. After all, she was a female reflection of yourself, perhaps morally a little better, but then she was younger.” His smile widened a fraction. “All of it needs to be proved, of course, but the charge is for attempting to blackmail the heir to the throne.”

  Cahoon was incredulous. “Blackmail? He’ll never bring a charge, you imbecile!”

  Narraway stood perfectly still. “I’m bringing the charge, Mr. Dunkeld, of treason. Naturally, to protect the security of the nation, it will not be a public trial.”

  At last Dunkeld understood. The blood drained from his skin. He swayed very slightly, then, as if catching his balance, he turned and lunged at Pitt, fists flailing.

  Pitt raised his foot hard and caught him in the groin. Dunkeld screamed—a high-pitched, tearing sound—and doubled over, pitching violently into the doorpost with a crack that must have knocked him almost senseless.

  Narraway gaped at Pitt in amazement.

  Pitt shrugged very slightly, a warmth of satisfaction seeping through him. He might be ashamed of it later, but right now it felt good. “No point fighting his fists,” he observed. “I’d lose.”

  Narraway shook his head. “He couldn’t have escaped.”

  “No, of course not. But he would have half killed me, with
nothing to lose, and I think that’s what he wanted.”

  Narraway sighed. “Fool,” he said sadly. “You’d better tie him up. Can’t afford to leave him with his hands free, not that one. Then lock the door.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pitt agreed.

  Narraway turned at the door. “Thank you,” he added.

  THE GUESTS MET in the sitting room with the Prince of Wales present. He was deeply distressed that the project had collapsed, but with the arrest of Cahoon Dunkeld it no longer had the driving force necessary to succeed. His displeasure was profound, overtaking his earlier embarrassment. But then, as Pitt observed to Narraway in a whisper, anger is always less uncomfortable than shame.

  Liliane looked immensely relieved that the ordeal was over. Her eyes shone, her skin glowed, all her old beauty animated her face again. Hamilton seemed sober, the weight of immediate fear lifted from him too.

  Simnel was quiet, the death of Minnie wrapping him in a pall of grief. Whether it had been her husband or her father who had killed her made no difference to him. He was still imprisoned by his need, leaving Olga as alone as before.

  Julius was subdued. He had been too near a lifelong incarceration with the insane to recover in an hour or two. He had looked into an abyss and he could not dismiss or forget it.

  Elsa also sat alone. Her husband had been arrested for killing his daughter. She faced a social nightmare of proportions she could not even guess at, but the man she loved was free, and that joy could not be taken from her. It burned in her eyes with a quiet, beautiful heat.

  “Tragic!” the Prince of Wales said fervently. “A great talent, a great driving energy, lost to…to…”

  “The lust for power,” Simnel filled in for him.

  “Quite.” The Prince was irritated by the assistance. He would have found the phrase if he had been given the time. “Now we shall have to struggle to find a man to replace him. Someone who knows the project, understands it, and has the strength of will to guide it through. And the good name and reputation among the people whose investment and support we will need.”

  Several people murmured their agreement.