Buckingham Palace Gardens tp-25

by Anne Perry

  Dunkeld was to blame for much. He was an arrogant and callous man, but he had not killed the prostitute, whoever she was. Whether the man who had was a willing colleague, Pitt did not yet know, but he was guilty of a brutal murder, purely for the convenience of having a body with which to blackmail the Prince of Wales. He, at least, would be someone they could charge, try, and, in the end, hang.

  There would be no secret incarceration in an asylum for him. Not that death, even on the end of a rope, might not be better than the rest of one’s life in a place like Bedlam.

  Pitt alighted a street away from Narraway’s office-a precaution of habit-and ten minutes later was upstairs in his usual chair at the far side of Narraway’s desk.

  “Forbes accepted,” Pitt said briefly. “Complete control.”

  Narraway nodded. “I think the carter was a colleague, not an employee. Dunkeld would never be fool enough to trust anyone with that sort of power over him.”

  “I’m not sure what I think,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “I’m not certain if the plan originally was Dunkeld’s or the other man’s, or even if it changed halfway through, when Minnie died. Perhaps each of them thought the plan was theirs, and in fact there were two?” He saw the wry look in Narraway’s face. “But I am absolutely certain that I want to find the man who killed that girl, whoever she was. If we don’t care about justice for her as much as for Minnie, or Julius Sorokine, or the Prince of Wales, then we are the wrong people for this job.”

  Narraway’s face was wry, and for a minute uncharacteristically gentle. “There are plenty of wrong people in jobs, Pitt, but I admire the sentiment, even if we may not be able to live up to it. I’ve sent orders to every police station in the city within an hour’s travel of the Palace to see if they know of a prostitute missing from her usual patch, if any brothel’s lost a girl, or any street woman known as missing, whatever the reason.”

  “We can’t sit here and wait!” Pitt protested. “How long is it going to take before someone reports her, or any police station cares? It could be-”

  “Hours,” Narraway cut across him. “Or less.”

  “Days,” Pitt contradicted him. “Or not at all.”

  “I don’t think you understand the importance, Pitt,” Narraway observed drily. “One has only to mention bombers or anarchists and even the busiest and least sympathetic policeman will take notice. If there is any report at all, we will have it before dark.”

  Pitt had to be content. Narraway forbade him to leave, and it was as dusk was beginning to close in that the report came. It was still barely dark when they alighted at the police station on the Vauxhall Bridge Road, less than three miles from the Palace.

  Narraway did not waste time or energy on niceties. He introduced himself and came immediately to the point. “You reported a prostitute missing, possibly dead,” he said to the constable on duty. “I need to see your superintendent.”

  “He’s busy with-”

  “Now,” Narraway said grimly.

  “But-”

  “Don’t argue with me, Constable, unless you wish to be charged with treason,” Narraway snapped.

  In less than five minutes a local dignitary had been hurried out, and they were in Superintendent Bayliss’s office where he stood uncomfortably, a pile of papers on his desk, and a mug of gently steaming tea.

  “Who is missing?” Narraway asked quietly. “When, and from where? Describe her.”

  “I don’t know what she looks like,” Bayliss began, then changed his mind. “Charming enough, I’m told. Brown hair, nicely built.”

  “When was she last seen, and where?”

  “About a week ago, Bessborough Street, just short of the Vauxhall Bridge, sir. There’s a house there that looks perfectly respectable, but it’s a rather good brothel. Caters to the carriage trade.”

  “Who brought in the report?”

  “Constable Upfield.”

  “Get him. I need him to take us there, in an hour. They’ll be open for business, and I want a local man who knows them to be with us.”

  “Can you tell me what it’s about, sir?” Bayliss asked reasonably.

  “No, I can’t, and you would prefer not to know.”

  “If it’s on my watch, sir, I need to know, whether I like it or not.”

  “It’s not on your watch. This is Special Branch business. Get me Constable Upfield.”

  “He’s off duty. . sir.”

  “Then get him back on,” Narraway snapped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was a long night of questioning, arguing, threatening. It was after midnight by the time they elicited the information that Kate, the missing girl, had gone out to see a client in the mews. He had wanted to look at what he was buying and she was willing to oblige.

  This particular man had had very precise tastes. Apparently he had already tried one or two other houses, and found nothing to his liking.

  However, Kate suited him, according to the boot boy, and she had gone with him.

  “Gone?” Pitt said quickly. “Not into the house?”

  “No, poor stupid cow.” The boot boy shook his head. “ ’E spoke nice, but that don’t mean nothin’. Don’t even mean ’e got money, let alone sense. Some o’ them up-market toffs is the worst.”

  “When did she go?”

  “Gawd knows.”

  “Didn’t you go after her?” Narraway snapped. “Later, if not then.”

  The boot boy gave him a dirty look. “I’m ’ere ter ’elp business, not drive it away!”

  Pitt knew that whether the boot boy had followed her or not-

  and he probably had-he was not about to admit it. He would have known roughly what had happened, and been very willing to keep it secret rather than help the police investigate the establishment. The quality trade they aspired to would take their patronage somewhere else rather than risk visiting a house that was the subject of any kind of police interest. In the service of survival he would have concealed the crime, had there been one. If they could find who had killed her themselves-and they would try-then they would execute their own justice. Pitt realized he should have told Narraway that before they came.

  “Of course,” Pitt agreed aloud. “No one wants a Peeping Tom when they’ve taken a girl along the street a little. Who found her?

  You? Or should we ask someone else?”

  “I. . er. . I dunno.”

  Narraway glanced at Pitt, and was silent.

  “It would be better,” Pitt began judiciously, “if we didn’t have to discuss this with anyone else. Let us just suppose you were unlucky enough to have been the one who found her. The wisest thing would be to move her somewhere else, wouldn’t it.” He said it as an observation of fact, not a question. “It all comes down to the same thing in the end. She’ll be found by police, if it makes any difference, which it doesn’t really. If it was a toff, they’re never going to find him. She’ll get a decent burial, and your business is safe. Isn’t that right?”

  Narraway’s eyes widened very slightly in the lamplight. In the distance a cart rumbled by them, the horses’ hoofs louder on the cobbles in the comparative stillness of the night.

  “Yeah,” the boot boy agreed reluctantly.

  “So who did you find to take her away for you? I don’t suppose you have any idea what they did with her?”

  “I don’t wanter know!” The boot boy’s voice rose indignantly.

  “Of course you don’t. Well, she will get a decent burial, I can promise you that.”

  The boot boy looked relieved, his sallow face easing a little.

  “In return I would like to know exactly what the man looked like who took her away, and how he took her, cart, carriage, wagon, dray?”

  “Cart,” the boot boy said immediately.

  “What color horse?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me! What color was the horse?”

  The boot boy swore under his breath. “Gawd! I dunno! There was Kate lyin’ in the street wif �
�er neck broke. An’ yer think I’m carin’ wot color the bleedin’ carter’s ’orse is? Light color-gray, summink like that. ’Oo cares?”

  “And the carter?” Pitt persisted.

  “Scruffy old devil. I gave ’im a guinea ter put ’er somewhere else, at least a mile away. Best the other side o’ the river.”

  “Can you remember his face?”

  “No, I bleedin’ can’t!” He swore again under his breath.

  “Try. It’s worth your guinea back.”

  “Sharp face, wi’ eyes like coals,” the boy said instantly. “An’ ’e ’ad mittens on ’is ’ands, I remember that.”

  “Thank you.” Pitt turned to Narraway. “Have you got a guinea?”

  Narraway also swore, rather more fluently, but he produced the guinea.

  They returned to the police station and mustered all the men they could, from that station and the two on either side. They spent all night asking, probing, questioning to trace the passage of the cart from Bessborough Street to Buckingham Palace. By dawn they were certain of it.

  Pitt and Narraway stood by the magnificent wrought-iron railings, the first light tipping the gold on them, the wind rustling in the leaves across the park. Pitt was so tired his limbs ached, and his eyes felt full of hot grit.

  A troop of Horse Guards came out of the Palace yard, uniforms magnificent, harness and spurs gleaming in the broadening light, horses’ hoofs crisp on the road. They looked like a cavalry from some heroic dream.

  Was that what the Cape-to-Cairo railway was: a heroic dream? Or just single-minded, oppressive empire-building at the expense of a more primitive people? Who was right, Cahoon Dunkeld or Julius Sorokine?

  “Where did the carter go from here?” he said aloud.

  Narraway dragged his attention back to the present. He was so tired his face was seamed with lines, dragging down his features and hollowing his eyes. It was clear it cost him an intense effort to control his mind and focus it. “It must have been about this time of day, possibly a little earlier,” he replied. “But some of the same people will be about. I suppose we’d better begin asking.”

  Pitt nodded and led the way across the street toward the nearest sentry. He asked the man if he had been on duty a week ago.

  The man ignored him. Only then did Pitt remember that they were not allowed to speak. They were trained to ignore all comments or actions unless they constituted a threat. He turned and saw Narraway smiling behind him. It gave his face life again.

  “All right,” Pitt said, shaking his head. “You ask him.”

  Narraway produced his identification as the head of Special Branch. After a moment’s doubt, the sentry replied that he had been on duty.

  Narraway asked him about the carter, and if he had seen him, which way he had gone.

  “To the right, up the Buckingham Palace Road, sir,” was the unhesitating reply.

  Narraway thanked him, and he and Pitt set out, footsore and hungry. A sandwich from a peddler, a cup of hot tea from a group of cabbies around a brazier, and sixpence worth of bootlaces from a one-armed soldier on the corner of Buckingham Palace Road traced the carter at least that far.

  They asked around Wilton Place, Chester Street, and Belgrave Square, then into Lowndes Street and beyond. No one had seen him.

  “Probably all still in bed,” Narraway said miserably, shivering with exhaustion. “He could have gone anywhere.”

  “Servants wouldn’t be in bed at this hour,” Pitt replied, moving his weight from one foot to the other to ease the ache. “There was somebody putting out rubbish, beating a carpet, or carrying coals.

  Look around you.”

  Narraway turned obediently. There were sounds of movement everywhere. A sleepy scullery maid fetched a scuttle of coal, her hands dirty, apron crumpled. A message boy strode along the pavement, whistling cheerfully. Somebody opened an upstairs window.

  They tried again, knocking on areaway doors, kitchens, stopping the few people in the street. No one had seen the carter they described.

  “He must live here!” Narraway said in disgust an hour and a half later. “We haven’t got time for this, Pitt. We’ll never find him this way.”

  “I need breakfast,” Pitt replied. “I’m so thirsty I feel as if my tongue is as trodden on as the soles of my boots.”

  “There’s nowhere around here to get anything.” Narraway looked miserably at the elegant fac?ade of Eaton Place. “I know people in this damn street! But I can’t go and ask them for breakfast.”

  “Who do you know?” Pitt inquired. “Which houses?”

  “No!” Narraway was aghast. “Absolutely not!”

  “To avoid them,” Pitt explained patiently.

  “What are you going to do?” Narraway was too tired to hide his apprehension.

  “Go and question someone’s servants inside,” Pitt replied with a faint smile. “Preferably in the kitchen. I’m not above asking the cook for a cup of tea and a piece of toast. I’ll even ask for one for you, if you like?”

  “I like,” Narraway said grudgingly.

  “Then I can think,” Pitt added. “We’re going about this the wrong way.”

  “Couldn’t you have told me this ten miles ago?” Narraway asked sarcastically.

  Fifteen minutes later, sitting at the table in a large and very well appreciated kitchen, they were sipping tea and inquiring about strangers in the neighborhood, possible break-ins, theft of harness or other stable supplies. They gained no information of any value what-soever, but at least they had done it sitting down with tea, toast, and rather good marmalade.

  The scullery maid returned to her chores and the cook resumed the preparation of breakfast for the household. They had both answered the brief police questions and satisfied their charitable consciences.

  “I didn’t see it until now,” Pitt replied to Narraway’s original question.

  “What? You are trying my patience, Pitt.” Narraway took another slice of toast from the rack and buttered it.

  Pitt passed him the marmalade. “We lost the carter because he changed appearance. Which says he was in some form of disguise, even if only different clothes, attitude, and manner, and a good deal of dirt on his face.”

  “Because he was not a carter by occupation,” Narraway agreed.

  “We know that too. It doesn’t tell us who he was, or more importantly, where he is now.”

  “It tells us he might be known without the disguise.”

  “Ah. .” Narraway took the point this time.

  “What do we know about him?” Pitt went on. “Dunkeld must trust him, not only not to betray him, but his competence, his nerve, his ability to find the right sort of woman who would be taken for Sadie at a very rough glance. .”

  “Very rough?” Narraway questioned. “She was identified as Sadie.”

  “By Dunkeld himself,” Pitt reminded him. “She only had to answer a verbal description: brown hair, blue eyes, average height, handsome build.”

  “But he had to be there at the Palace doors with her in a box, not long after midnight,” Narraway agreed. “So he was someone Dunkeld trusted. We’ve no idea who that is. Could be dozens of people.”

  Pitt leaned further forward over the table. “But who told Dunkeld how the woman in Cape Town was slashed? He wasn’t there. He made a point of saying that, and you confirmed it. The murder wasn’t common knowledge; in fact the whole episode was pretty well covered up.”

  Narraway frowned. “Are you saying he was there?”

  “No! I’m saying that someone who was there told him about it.

  And he trusted them enough in this for them to conspire together. He put his career, even his life, in their hands. Why did they do this for him?”

  “Someone equally interested in the project,” Narraway answered.

  “Which comes back to Sorokine, Marquand, or Quase. But none of them left the Palace! They could have told him about the woman, if one of them killed her, but why in God’s name would they trust him with
information like that? It could get them hanged! And if they’d trust Dunkeld never to use it against them, either they truly are insane, or else they had a hold on him so great he wouldn’t dare betray them? Is that what you are saying? It doesn’t tell me who the carter is.

  A three-way conspiracy?”

  “No, just two,” Pitt shook his head. “Dunkeld wanted to get rid of Sorokine.”

  “Sorokine could still be the madman from Cape Town,” Narraway cut across him. “Perhaps he’s done it again, since then, and Dunkeld knew, and that’s how he found out the method.”

  “Too complicated, and still doesn’t tell us who the carter is,” Pitt told him, at last taking another bite of his toast and drinking half his tea before it was cold. He filled the cup again from the pot.

  “Then what does?” Narraway ignored his own tea.

  “We are assuming the plan is not working.” Pitt’s mind was racing from one improbability to another. “What if it is?”

  “Dunkeld will hang for treason,” Narraway replied. “His daughter is dead and his wife despises him and is in love with Sorokine, whom he hates. I would say that is about as much failure as it’s possible to have.”

  “Not Dunkeld’s plan, his co-conspirator’s,” Pitt corrected. “The carter, whoever he is.” At last it was beginning to clear in his mind, threads were emerging. “Who has won?”

  “No one, unless getting rid of Dunkeld was what they wanted,”

  Narraway replied. “But Sorokine turned down the leadership, and neither Marquand nor Quase were offered it. They have even less au-tonomy under Forbes than they had before.”

  “But Forbes had no part before, and now he has complete control, and the Prince’s profound gratitude,” Pitt said.