Buckingham Palace Gardens tp-25

by Anne Perry

  She must be insane herself, breaking into Julius’s bedroom in the middle of the night. If Cahoon found her, she would have given him the perfect excuse to have her shut away too.

  Still, she did it.

  Her hands were quite firm, though a little clammy. Her stomach churned. Then she was inside. She closed the door softly, locked it, and put the key in the tiny pocket in her gown. She listened and could hear nothing, except the pounding of her own heart and her breathing.

  Gradually it subsided, and she thought she could hear his breath as well.

  “Julius.”

  Nothing. She could neither see nor hear.

  “Julius!”

  Movement. A stirring in the bed. Now she felt ridiculous. How on earth could she explain being here? Nothing of love had ever been said by either one of them. Perhaps anything between them was entirely in her own imagination. Probably it was. He would be in his nightshirt, and she had come into his bedroom in the middle of the night, alone. If Cahoon walked in on them, it would ruin them both.

  It would be exactly what he wished. Had he even planned it? Then she had played into his hands perfectly. How unbelievably stupid!

  She moved to go back again, her hand feeling for the key.

  There was a rustling from the bed, movement in the dark.

  “Elsa?”

  Too late. She couldn’t go now. If she opened the door the faint light in the passage would show her face. Have the courage of her beliefs. If she felt anything, grasp for it, fight for it.

  “Julius, I have to talk to you.”

  “How did you get in? If they catch you, you will be ruined.” There was fear in his voice. “You can’t help me. Please go, before Cahoon finds out.”

  “They won’t try you,” she said, standing still because she did not know which way to step in the dark. “They’ll just say you are insane, and put you into an asylum, somewhere from which you’ll never escape, and no one will ever see you.”

  He was silent. Had he not realized that?

  “I’m sorry.” She tried to keep her voice from trembling, and failed. She ached to see his face, and yet perhaps not doing so was the only way she could keep control of herself. “Julius?”

  “Yes?” His voice was hoarse, uncertain. The darkness also gave him a degree of privacy. She was grateful for that. She remained standing where she was. She ached to hold him in her arms, give him at least the desperate shred of comfort that touch afforded. But there had never been anything between them to suggest he would welcome it. It would be intrusive, absurd. If his feelings for her were in any way different from hers for him, then it would be offensive, embarrassing, awful in every way.

  “You didn’t kill Minnie, did you?” she said.

  “No,” he responded immediately. “I don’t know who did. I assume it was whoever killed the prostitute. I can’t think of any other reason.

  Poor Minnie.” There was real hurt, and pity in his voice. “She was so sure she was learning the truth. I didn’t realize it until she kept saying so at dinner. Obviously someone believed her.”

  The thought held the kind of coldness that made her feel sick. It was one of the other three men. It could be no one else. She knew them all; in ways liked them, except Cahoon; but she had once thought she loved him. There had been moments that were tender.

  What was the difference between being in love and thinking you were? Was being in love about what survives after time and tempta-tion, misfortune, change, the need to forget and forgive have all been faced?

  “Do you know where Sadie was killed?” she asked him.

  “Wasn’t it in the cupboard where she was found?” Julius sounded puzzled.

  “Apparently not. Cahoon says it was in the Queen’s bedroom.

  That’s how the monogrammed sheets got bloodstained.”

  “What monogrammed sheets?” His voice was a little high. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The Queen’s sheets. They don’t belong in the guest linen cupboard.”

  “Where were they?”

  She realized she did not know. “He didn’t say. Do you know about a Limoges dish that was broken?”

  “No. I haven’t seen any Limoges. Mostly it’s Crown Derby, Wedg-wood, and a few pieces of Meissen. Who broke the Limoges?” His voice was steadier, but he still sounded totally confused.

  She was frightened by how little she understood. Even to herself she seemed to be speaking total nonsense.

  “I don’t know, but Minnie was asking about it. It seemed to matter to her a lot. Cahoon says it was in the Queen’s bedroom. That’s how they knew the woman was killed there.”

  “How does Cahoon know it was there?” he asked quickly. She heard the bedsprings as he moved his weight. She could see nothing, but she was certain from the very slight sounds that he had stood up.

  Was he coming toward her in the dark? She was afraid. Or was it that she wanted him to? “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe. . maybe the Prince of Wales told him.”

  “If the Prince of Wales could have killed Minnie, I would wonder if he was guilty of the first one too,” he said with heavy irony. He was on the edge of laughter, and of grief beyond control.

  “Julius!” The moment the word was out, she knew the tone of it would betray her: It was desperate with emotion. He had to hear in it all that she felt for him.

  “I know. He couldn’t.” His voice was tight now, choked with the effort to keep some dignity, some grip on the fear inside him. “It has to be Simnel or Hamilton.”

  “I wish it could be Cahoon.” She meant it, and this was no time to pretend a loyalty they both knew she did not feel. “But he wouldn’t kill Minnie. In his own way, he loved her. She was probably the only person he did love. But apart from that, he wasn’t in Cap Town when the woman was killed there, and it seems the crimes were exactly the same.”

  “Elsa. .” he stopped.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know who did it, and I can’t prove I didn’t. I know she was sleeping with Simnel a year ago, and if not now, then only from lack of opportunity. I didn’t care. I long since realized I didn’t love her. I’m guilty of that. . of not making her happy. If I had, perhaps she wouldn’t have turned to anyone else.”

  “You don’t have to make love with someone else because your husband doesn’t want you,” she said quietly. “That doesn’t make it right. Especially if the other person is married also. Even if they aren’t, it’s a betrayal. How could that other person then trust you?”

  The silence pounded like a heartbeat. There were not even any creaks of settling wood to disturb the night.

  “They can’t,” he answered. “But you are speaking of love, and I wasn’t. She doesn’t love Simnel, nor he her. It’s a hunger of a different kind, selfish. It makes you a lesser person, not a greater one.”

  “And what does a greater one do?” Did she want to know what he thought? Was it not better to keep the dream whole? There would be no tomorrow in which to mend it. This would be all she had, forever.

  “It makes you want to be the person they could love,” he answered her very softly. “At least honest and generous, and attempt to be brave as well.”

  The tears filled her eyes and her throat ached almost unbearably.

  “I’m trying for honest,” he went on. “I didn’t kill Minnie, but I am guilty of not wanting to build the Cape-to-Cairo railway. I wish I had had the courage to tell Cahoon outright, and withdraw. We should build railways from inland to the ports, in each region if they want them, but keep the Empire on the sea. That’s enough power for any nation. We should leave the heart of Africa alone. It’s not ours. The fact that we might be able to take it is irrelevant. But they will be able to build it without me. I can’t do any more, but I hope I would have had the integrity to pull out, and tell them why.” He hesitated.

  “Please believe in me, Elsa, that I would have. I can’t ever prove it now.”

  “I believe you,” she said immed
iately. “I. . I do.” She had almost said “I love you,” then stopped. He needed trust more than emotion.

  “Don’t give up. I’m going to find Pitt. I have something to tell him.”

  “Now? What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. About three, I expect. Something like that.”

  “You can’t wake him up at this hour!”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Elsa!”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For believing you? That’s not necessary. I do.”

  He had no idea how little she had believed him before this moment, but this was not the time for the self-indulgence of telling him.

  Nor was it the time to say she loved him. He knew that. And she did not want to make him feel as if he had to respond. It would betray this gossamer-thin honesty.

  She found the key in her pocket and opened the door. She hesitated, almost said something, then changed her mind and went out, locking the door again behind her so no one would know she had been there.

  She returned the key to where she had found it, and then went to waken Pitt. Of course it was appalling to disturb him at this hour, but later might be too late. She had no idea when the police would come to take Julius away. Cahoon would have it done as soon as possible.

  She was still wearing her dinner gown, which was crumpled now, and her hair was coming loose from its pins. There were probably dried tears on her face. None of this mattered. Another hour or so and it would be light. There was no time to waste in mending her appearance.

  It took her a few minutes to find Pitt’s room, and then several more to steel her nerve to knock. It was necessary for her to gather her courage again before the door opened. Pitt stood there blinking, the gaslamps turned up behind him. He was wearing a nightshirt and robe, and his thick hair was tousled, but he seemed quite definitely awake.

  “Mrs. Dunkeld? Are you all right? Has something happened?” he said with alarm.

  “I need to speak to you,” she replied as levelly as she could. “Urgently, or I would not have disturbed you this way.”

  “I’ll be out in five minutes.” He did not argue but went back into the room. Five minutes later he emerged again, this time fully dressed and his hair in some semblance of order. However, he looked haggard with exhaustion and there was a dark stubble on his cheeks and chin.

  He led the way to the room where he worked, and opened the door for her.

  “What is it, Mrs. Dunkeld?” he asked when they were inside and the lamps lit.

  “You found the shards of a Limoges plate in the rubbish, didn’t you?” she stated.

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a pedestal dish, mostly white with a gold trellis border around the edges, and in the center a man and woman sitting on a stone garden seat? They both have blue on, a vivid shade of cobalt. I think it is his coat, and a sort of cloak for her.”

  In spite of his weariness his attention was suddenly total. “Yes.

  Have you seen it? Where?”

  “In a box my husband brought with us.”

  He looked stunned, as if what she had said were incomprehensi-ble. “Brought with you?” he repeated. “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely. It cannot have been the one which my husband said was broken, in Her Majesty’s own bedroom. It must be one exactly like it.”

  “You are certain, Mrs. Dunkeld?” he insisted.

  “Yes.” She felt the heat creep up her face. Did he imagine she was inventing it to protect Julius? He knew how she felt, she had seen it in his eyes before, a certain pity. Damn him for understanding! “He couldn’t have given it to the Queen,” she said aloud. “It would have been in a box, and left for her to open.” She was talking too much.

  She stopped abruptly.

  “I know. This one was apparently given to her by one of her daughters, some considerable time ago,” he said, and the gentleness was in his eyes again. “But did he bring a gift for the Prince of Wales, do you know?”

  She was puzzled. He seemed to have missed the point. “Yes, but i was not particularly personal, just a dozen or so bottles of a very good port. I think they have already been drinking it. Why? How can that matter? It’s a fairly usual thing to do.”

  “Port?” he repeated.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Do you know from what vineyard?”

  “No, but Cahoon said it was extremely good. But then he would hardly give the Prince inferior wine.” She forced herself to ask, whatever he thought of her. “Does the dish not matter?”

  “It matters very much, Mrs. Dunkeld. And so does the port-or at least the bottles do. Please don’t mention them to him, or to anyone.”

  He was very serious, staring at her intently. “It may put you in danger.

  Three of them were found with traces of blood in them. Now you understand why you must mention it to no one?”

  “Blood?” She was startled, and filled with a sudden hope so erratic and so sweet for a moment she found it difficult to breathe.

  “Yes. Now please go back to your room, to sleep if you can. Thank you for coming to me. It must have taken great courage.” He stood up, a little stiffly, as if he were so tired that to straighten up was too much effort.

  She realized he must be afraid too. He not only had to solve these murders quickly, and discreetly, but he had to find the answer that the Prince of Wales wanted and that his superior at Special Branch could accept. He was a man pressured from all sides. And his own compassion, and his sense of justice, would be compelling him also, probably in a different direction.

  There was a sharp bang on the door, and then it flew open and Cahoon strode in. He too was fully dressed, although unshaven, and obviously in a towering rage.

  “I assume you have some explanation for interrogating my wife at three in the morning?” he said savagely to Pitt. “Who the devil do you think you are? If my poor daughter hadn’t solved the case for you, at the cost of her own life, I would have you removed, and someone competent sent in. However, there is nothing left to do, except have Sorokine taken away and then get out yourself.” He turned to Elsa.

  “Go back to bed,” he ordered.

  She stood still. “Mr. Pitt did not send for me, I came to see him.”

  She would not have Pitt blamed; it would be both shabby and dishonest. She was fighting for everything that mattered to her, win or lose.

  “Do as you are told!” Cahoon said between his teeth.

  She did not move.

  Pitt also seemed perfectly composed. “Mr. Dunkeld, did you bring a gift of a case of port wine to the Prince of Wales?”

  “What?”

  “I think you heard me, sir. Did you?”

  Cahoon was incredulous. “Three o’clock in the morning, and you want to know if I brought wine for the Prince of Wales?”

  “Yes, I do. Did you?”

  “Yes. Best port I could find. It’s the sort of thing gentlemen do.”

  His tone was acutely condescending.

  “And the Limoges dish, was that a gift also?” Pitt asked.

  This time Cahoon was definitely taken by surprise. “What. .

  Limoges dish?” His hesitation was palpable.

  “The one in your case, sir. Is there more than one?” Pitt’s voice was polite, but the cutting edge was unmistakable.

  For an instant Cahoon obviously debated denial.

  “A white and gold pedestal dish,” Elsa supplied for him. She was fighting to save Julius, grasping at straws, but all decisions were made and it was too late to go back. “With a garden scene in the middle, a man and woman sitting on a stone seat. Their clothes have a lot of blue in them.”

  “You have been searching through my cases!” Cahoon accused her.

  “I have no interest in your cases,” she replied, feigning slight surprise. “Your valet was unpacking and did not know what to do with it.

  You were with the Prince of Wales, so he asked me. I told him to leave it where it was.
If you don’t recall it, I’m sure he does.”

  “Sarcasm is most unbecoming in a woman, Elsa,” he said icily. “It makes you seem cold, and mannish.” He turned to Pitt. “I am afraid it is a matter I cannot discuss with you, Inspector. It was a favor for His Royal Highness, to whom I gave my word. I am not sure if you can understand that, but if you cannot, and you wish to challenge him o the matter, then you had better do so, at your own risk. I have nothing to say. I have no idea whether you have duties to perform at this hour, but I am returning to bed, and my wife is doing the same. I assume you will be removing Sorokine before I see you again. I suggest that you do so as discreetly as possible.”

  Elsa’s heart tightened and she found it difficult to draw air into her lungs. All her fighting, all the hope, and it was ending like this.

  Pitt stared at Cahoon. “If he is taken, it will simply be to a place of safety. There is much yet to learn before the case is over,” he answered.

  “You don’t seem to have grasped the obvious.” Cahoon’s voice was exaggeratedly weary. “Sorokine is mad. He suffers some form of insanity that drives him to murder a certain type of woman. He killed one in Africa several years ago. We thought then that it was a single aberration and would never happen again. So far as I knew, it hadn’t.

  Then this week he killed the whore. Minnie realized what had happened, and I presume was rash enough to face him and accuse him, so he killed her too. No one else is involved, except possibly my wife in her reluctance to accept the facts. She is not used to the violence and tragedy that can occur in life. She was not with us in Africa, and she tends to be something of an idealist, fonder of dreams than of reality.”

  Pitt’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that Mr. Marquand at least was aware that his brother killed this woman in Africa?”

  Cahoon was caught slightly off-balance, but he recovered quickly.

  “No, but I think he feared it. Watson Forbes was aware. That is why he would not permit his daughter to marry him, even though she wished to. Hamilton Quase was a far better choice. Ask Forbes, if you doubt me. Now I am going to bed. Elsa!”