Buckingham Palace Gardens tp-25

by Anne Perry

  Even so, the evidence must be conclusive. No doctor of any honor would pronounce him mad except as proved by the fact that he had killed two women. If it seemed just as reasonable that it was actually someone else responsible, then there was nothing against him at all. All his other behavior was above reproach, even morally, let alone legally.

  But considering the issues, no doubt a doctor would be found who would not be too squeamish in examining details, and who would be easily enough persuaded.

  Pitt could not allow that. His own conscience found it unacceptable. If Julius Sorokine were to spend the rest of his life locked away in an asylum for the criminally insane, then Pitt must be satisfied beyond any doubt that was even remotely reasonable that it was he who had killed the women.

  He could not leave Minnie’s body sprawled where it was without first making an accurate diagram of it, of the mutilations and the exact nature of them. He must also search and describe the rest of the room. There was probably nothing that would tell him anything beyond the obvious: She had come up in order to retire, and someone else had entered the room either after her or before. It was almost certainly her husband. They had quarreled and ended fighting, literally.

  He looked at her again and saw more clearly now that there were bruises on her face. They were little more than marks, since she had died very shortly afterward. But there were also scratches on her hands and lower arms, as if she had struggled to defend herself. That would account for the scratches on Julius’s face and hands, which Cahoon had said he had seen as soon as he had gone into Julius’s bedroom, and before he had attacked him himself.

  With shaking hands Pitt drew her as she lay. It was out of proportion and the lines were uncertain, because he could not stop his trembling. Then he sketched the room roughly. It was difficult to tell if anything was seriously out of place; perhaps the maid would know. He would have to ask her. Nothing was broken or torn, except a small crystal bowl whose pieces were in the wastebasket. There was no glass on the floor. The breakage could have happened at any time since the basket was last emptied-presumably yesterday morning.

  It seemed indecent to leave Minnie here, but there was nowhere else he could put her until Narraway came. It had been different with Sadie. Cahoon had had her moved to the ice house, almost as if she were a side of beef: an action that was distressing but highly practical.

  The police surgeon would be given both bodies later.

  He took the top sheet off the bed, which had not been slept in, and laid it over her. Then he went out into the corridor, taking the key with him, and locked the door from the outside.

  He went downstairs, found Tyndale, and asked permission to use the telephone. It was fifteen minutes before he made contact with Narraway. He was alone in the butler’s pantry with the door closed.

  “What is it?” Narraway said eagerly.

  “There’s been another murder,” Pitt replied. He heard Narraway’s breath drawn in sharply. “Mrs. Sorokine,” he went on. He was oddly out of breath. “In her own bedroom. Otherwise it is almost exactly the same. Done roughly the same time of night. Found by Dunkeld.

  So far it appears most likely that it was her husband.”

  Narraway was silent for several moments. “I’m surprised,” he said at last. “Although I shouldn’t be. It had to be one of them. Is that your judgment, Pitt, that it was Sorokine?”

  It was not his judgment, it was facts forced on him. “I’m not certain yet. I’ve locked him in his room. We’ll have to prove it.”

  “Of course we’ll have to prove it! Why, in God’s name? Why would he kill her where he’s bound to be found out? Is he raving?”

  “No. He seems perfectly sane, just stunned.”

  “Admit anything?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour, or less if I can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pitt hung up the instrument and left the pantry to where Tyndale was waiting for him, pale-faced.

  “There has been another death,” Pitt said bleakly. “Mrs. Sorokine. She is in her bedroom. Obviously you will tell the maids not to enter it, without giving them any reason. Similarly you will not enter Mr. Sorokine’s room. He is locked in it, for the time being.”

  Tyndale struggled for a moment to keep his composure. His hands were clenched together and shaking. “I’m very sorry, sir. This is dreadful. Have you informed His Royal Highness? He will be very relieved that you have solved the problem, even if it is a tragic resolution.”

  Pitt had not even thought of the Prince of Wales, but clearly he would have to be told. However, that task should not be left to Cahoon Dunkeld.

  “No,” he said unhappily. “Will you arrange for me to do that, please? As soon as possible-in fact immediately. In the circumstances there cannot be anything of more urgency.”

  “Yes, sir, certainly,” Tyndale agreed. He straightened his coat quite unnecessarily, and left. Fifteen minutes later he returned and conducted Pitt through the magnificent corridors and galleries to the same room where the Prince had received Pitt before.

  This time he looked quite different, almost comfortable: a benign middle-aged gentleman with unusually courteous manners. He was dressed in a pale linen suit and his face had a healthy glow.

  “Good morning, Pitt,” he said warmly. “Tyndale tells me that this wretched problem is solved. Terrible tragedy. But I am delighted, my dear fellow, that you have got to the bottom of it so quickly, and with what has to be regarded as the utmost discretion. Dunkeld was quite right to call in Special Branch.” Then his face filled with con-sternation. “Oh my God! Of course Mrs. Sorokine was his daughter. I had quite forgotten. How perfectly terrible! He must be quite ill with grief. I shall send him my own physician, in case there is anything he can do. Is there anything else? What can I offer?”

  “That is most compassionate of you, sir,” Pitt replied. It was impossible to mistake the pity in the Prince’s face, or in the entire attitude of his body. “But I think for the moment there is nothing. I have sent for Mr. Narraway, and we will deal with the matter as quickly as possible. Once we have established beyond doubt that it is Mr.

  Sorokine who is responsible, I imagine the best thing to do will be to have him declared insane, and incarcerated where he can do no further harm.”

  “The man’s a. . a. .” The Prince was lost for words savage enough to say what he felt.

  “Madman, sir,” Pitt finished for him.

  “Monster!” the Prince corrected Pitt.

  “Yes, sir, it would seem so. But I think we do not wish the world to know that. It would be better for all if we agree it is insanity, an illness of the mind, and treat him accordingly. A trial would benefit no one.”

  “A trial.” The Prince was clearly alarmed. “Good heavens, no!

  You are quite right, of course. Put him away. Best thing altogether.”

  “As soon as we are certain.”

  “Certain?” The Prince’s eyebrows rose. “My dear fellow, there can hardly be any doubt. Cahoon himself suspected him, you know? But of course he was loath to believe it. His own son-in-law. What a fearful thing.”

  Pitt was surprised. “He didn’t tell me he suspected Sorokine.

  Why? Did he know something he kept from us?”

  The Prince looked embarrassed. “I am afraid you will have to ask him, if you feel that it still matters. But surely now he has been proved hideously right, and paid such a price for it, there can be no purpose served by pointing that out to him?”

  “No, sir. I would much rather that you told me,” Pitt urged.

  “I can’t. A matter of honor,” the Prince said blandly. “I gave my word, you see, and that is the end of it. I’m sorry. But surely in the circumstances it doesn’t matter anymore? Sorokine left the party early on the night the other poor creature was killed. He must have stabbed her also. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to have the matter ended, and so completely, before Her Majesty returns. I am obliged to you, Mr. Pitt.
I shall not forget it. Thank you for coming to tell me personally.”

  It was a dismissal, and there was nothing for Pitt to say further that would not be argumentative and, in the circumstances, inexcusable. He thanked the Prince and withdrew.

  Half an hour later he met Narraway, and took him immediately to see the body of Minnie Sorokine.

  Narraway stood on the carpet and stared down at her, his dark face crumpled with unhappiness. “It looks the same,” he said miserably. “But it’s not! One was a professional whore, the other was his wife.”

  Pitt frowned. “She flirted very openly with Simnel Marquand, Sorokine’s half-brother.”

  Narraway stared at him incredulously. “Enough to provoke this?

  Are you saying it is some kind of moral judgment on whoring?”

  “No, I’m not. Mrs. Sorokine spent a great deal of yesterday going around asking various questions of the servants,” Pitt told him. “Gracie followed her and heard most of it. It seemed to be about people’s comings and goings on the night of the first murder, including in particular a broken dish of blue, white, and gold that nobody knows about, and Tyndale says doesn’t exist.”

  “What in hell are you talking about, Pitt? You’re rambling, man!

  Pitt kept his temper with some difficulty. He was tired, his head ached, and suddenly he was very cold. The walls of the Palace, with all their ornately framed works of art, closed in on him. He was trapped here.

  “I don’t know,” he said stiffly. “Mrs. Sorokine spent all day asking questions, and seemed to be very satisfied with the answers. And when Gracie asked Tyndale about it, she was told pretty abruptly that she should leave the matter alone. It concerned private misbehavior of the Prince of Wales, and was irrelevant to the murder of the prostitute.”

  Narraway stared at him. “On the same night?” he said dubiously.

  “Having a busy time, wasn’t he!”

  “I rather gathered he went to bed with one of the women, and fell into something of a drunken sleep,” Pitt said. “Perhaps he didn’t. Do you think we need to know?” He was hoping profoundly that Narraway would say they did not. “Surely it’s the same piece of unfortunate behavior-unfortunate in Tyndale’s eyes. He’s a bit stiff.”

  “Where does the broken plate come into it?” Narraway asked. “So the Prince broke a plate! What of it?”

  “Tyndale says there is no such plate. He is adamant.”

  “Perhaps it was a vase, or an ornament of some other kind?” Narraway suggested.

  “And Tyndale really imagines Gracie doesn’t know what kind of assignation it was with those women?” Pitt said incredulously. “He knows she is with us.”

  Narraway ignored him and looked down at Minnie’s body again.

  “That’s a fearful blow across the neck. Very violent. Looks as if he’s almost severed her spine. Did you find the knife?”

  “No. We need to search his room.”

  Narraway stiffened with a jerky tightening of muscles, then relaxed again. “Well, if he kills himself that may be just as well. We can’t ever let him go free. But you should have looked, all the same.

  Now we’ll have to be extremely careful going in to see him.”

  Pitt cursed his stupidity for not having searched Sorokine’s room.

  Yet it was not a thing he had wished to do alone, with Sorokine in there with him. He would be far too vulnerable. He produced the key, and he and Narraway went out and along the corridor.

  Julius was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, but he could not conceal the tension in him, or the fear. The blood had dried on his face and the scratches were sharp, the bruises darkening painfully. He sat up, staring at them.

  Pitt allowed Narraway to speak.

  “Where are your clothes from last night, Mr. Sorokine?”

  Julius blinked. “My suit is in the wardrobe and my shirt’s in the clothes basket, along with my personal linen. There’s no blood on them, if that’s what you are looking for.”

  “And the knife?” Narraway asked. He sounded completely unper-turbed, but there was a flicker of anxiety in the muscles of his neck and jaw.

  “I have no idea,” Julius told him. “I did not kill my wife.” He looked at Pitt. “Do you think she knew. . what happened to her? Did she suffer?”

  Narraway drew in his breath, then let it out again.

  “No,” Pitt answered. “She fought, but it looks as if there was only one blow to the neck, and that killed her.”

  Julius winced.

  “She was asking questions of the servants yesterday,” Narraway continued. “What did she tell you she had found out?”

  Julius looked puzzled. “I don’t know. At dinner she made a lot of oblique remarks to Cahoon, as if she expected him to understand.”

  His voice rose a little as though it were an effort to force it through his throat. “Are you saying that is why she was killed? She worked out who had murdered the woman in the cupboard?” He sat up straighter.

  “Can you think of another reason?” Narraway asked.

  Julius hesitated only a moment. “No.” His face was filled with grief-not agony, but a kind of deep, quiet pain.

  Pitt looked at him and was brushed with a fear that if he were truly mad, then it was an invisible insanity, a rage that refused to show through the veneer of what seemed to be a reasonable, even decent man. How could one know? How could one judge or guard against it? Anyone could have the madness to kill just behind the smile. One’s best friend!

  “Pitt, search the dressing room for the knife,” Narraway ordered.

  “Or any clothes with blood on them, or tears.” He remained standing, facing Julius, who still sat on the bed. He could not afford to turn his back on him, however calm he seemed.

  But an hour later they had found nothing suggesting violence of any kind. He had apparently fought with Minnie, and cut her throat and her abdomen, without getting even a spot of blood on his shirt-sleeves. There was no ash in the fireplace to indicate anything destroyed.

  “He must have stripped before he went into her room,” Narraway said when they were alone in the corridor again, tired and defeated.

  “Which seems singularly premeditated-and sane.”

  “Or it isn’t him,” Pitt argued.

  Narraway chewed his lip. “This is still very ugly,” he said almost under his breath. “Whatever the result, we’re going to have to treat it as madness, and have whoever it is put away quietly.” His voice was suddenly passionate and afraid. “But so help me God, Pitt, we have to have the right man. Apart from the injustice of it, we can’t afford to leave the real one free.”

  Elsa’s first reaction had been one of horror and pity at the waste of life. She sat on her bed, rigid with misery. She knew she had not ever truly liked Minnie. The relationship had been uneasy from the outset. Elsa had replaced Minnie’s dead mother, at least socially, if not in Cahoon’s affections. Not that he ever mentioned his first wife, and certainly he never made comparisons, or spoke of her with grief.

  She should have found that strange, but at the time she had been so fascinated by his power and the weight of his emotion, she had been flattered that he wanted her at all. And he had, then. But how quickly he had grown tired!

  Minnie had seen that, and understood it. The coldness between Elsa and Minnie had become one of mutual contempt on one level, a degree of tolerance on another. It was a situation from which neither could escape. For survival, it was best to make as little trouble as possible.

  And then there was Julius. Elsa was no longer sure about anyone else’s emotions. This ghastly week had shaken every certainty she had. Looking at them all around the dinner table yesterday evening she had realized she had very little idea what any of them truly cared about, loved or hated, longed for, wept over. Olga’s isolation and self-disgust were simple, at least on the surface. But why did she not fight back? Had victory become pointless to attempt? Was her pallor and weariness disillusion rather than defeat?

  Sim
nel’s infatuation with Minnie was not hard to understand.

  She had had fire and passion, laughter compared with Olga’s misery.

  But were any of these attributes anything more than patterns on the surface? Was Minnie’s fire only appetite? And Olga’s chill only a result of the pain of rejection freezing her? She had barely even mentioned her children, as if she had no more heart to fight with the weapons she had.

  Liliane was obviously terrified that Hamilton would drink too much and let slip some awful secret, either his own or someone else’s.

  Was it about the murder of the other woman in Africa, so much like the ones here? She protected him as if he had been one of her children rather than her husband.

  And Julius. That was the blow that left her numb. She could not accept that he had murdered Minnie, destroyed all that fierce will, that hunger and greed for life, whatever the cost. Minnie had been selfish, even cruel, but she had been as bright as a fire. To have snuffed her out seemed almost a crime against nature.

  Elsa felt a searing pity for Cahoon. He had looked bruised to the heart when he had told her how Minnie had died, as if he had lost part of himself. She wanted to reach out to his agony but it was closed hard and tight inside him, and he turned away from her. Moments later he had actually left the room and she had stood alone, bewildered, bruised by rejection, and desperately sad.

  She did not want to speak to anyone else, and yet to remain sitting in her room alone seemed even worse. She stood up and walked over to the window. She stared out at the heavy, summer trees, barely seeing them. Who had done this? It could not be Cahoon. Minnie was the one person he loved. She could remember a score of times she had seen them together sharing a joke, an idea, the kind of instant understanding from half a sentence that people have when they are truly close. She had never known it herself. Her father had been a distant man who did not see women as friends, only as beings of comfort, dependency, warmth, obedience, and virtue.

  Minnie had been nothing like that. She was hungry, selfish, brave, and strong, like her father. Cahoon fought with her, but he admired her. If he could have found a woman like that to marry, he would have been happy.