by Anne Perry
He must have drifted to sleep because he awoke with a jolt to hear a knock on the door. He sat up slowly, struggling to remember where he was, fully clothed on the big bed. The feeling of claustrophobia was tight in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Before he could answer coherently the door opened and Gracie came in, carrying a tray of tea. He could see the steam rising gently from the spout of the small pot.
“Yer bin up all night?” she said with intense concern.
“No,” he assured her, swinging his legs down and standing. He pushed his hair out of his eyes. The stubble was rough on his cheeks and his head ached with a dull, persistent throb. “No,” he added.
“Elsa Dunkeld woke me at about three, or four. She said Dunkeld brought a Limoges plate in his luggage, exactly like the one that was broken. I mean identical to it. I presume that was the one I saw in the Queen’s room. And also a crate of port as a gift for the Prince of Wales.”
Gracie poured the tea and handed him the cup. “It’s ’ot,” she warned him. “Why’d she tell yer that? ’Ow’d she know the port bottles mattered, if she don’t know about the blood?”
“She didn’t, I asked her,” he explained. “She knew about the Limoges dish because she saw it in Cahoon’s cases, and everyone knows we’ve been looking for one by now. Thank you.” He took the tea. She was right, it was very hot. He wished it were a little cooler; he was thirsty for it. The fragrance of it was soothing even as steam. Drinking it would make him feel human again.
“Then Dunkeld done it,” she said with satisfaction.
“He didn’t do the one in Africa,” he answered, wishing it were not so. “I think he provoked Sorokine into it. He knew he was mad, and what it was that made him lose control and kill. He deliberately created the circumstances, then altered the evidence so we…” He stopped. He could not think of a reason.
“Wot?” she asked. “Why din’t ’e just let us catch Mr. Sorokine?”
“Because he didn’t want a scandal in the Palace,” Pitt answered. “He still needs the Prince’s backing for the railway. He’s taking a hell of a chance.”
She squinted at him, thinking hard. “If ’e wanted ter get rid o’ Mr. Sorokine, why din’t ’e ’ave this murder ’appen somewhere else, anytime?”
“I suppose because somewhere else Sorokine might have got away with it.” He was thinking as he spoke. “The police would have assumed it was someone extremely violent or degraded. Here we know it could only have been one of three men. There was no possibility of anyone having broken in from the outside.”
She nodded. “Wot are we gonna do, then?”
He smiled at her automatic inclusion of herself. Her loyalty was absolute, it always had been.
“Find out what causes Sorokine to lose control,” he replied, taking the first sip of tea and swallowing it jerkily because it was still too hot. “And then prove that Dunkeld knew it, and deliberately created a situation in which Sorokine would snap.”
“Then you can ’ang ’im?” she said hopefully.
“Sorokine or Dunkeld?”
“Dunkeld, o’ course! ’E’s the wickeder!” She had no doubt whatever.
“Something like that,” he agreed, sipping the tea again, and smiling at her.
PITT WENT TO see Cahoon Dunkeld after breakfast. He had spent the intervening time shaving and making himself look as fresh and confident as he could. Then he remarshaled his evidence and the conclusions it had taken him to. When eventually he spoke to Dunkeld alone, it was in one of the beautiful galleries lined with pictures.
“What is it now?” Dunkeld said impatiently, facing Pitt squarely, his weight even on both feet.
Pitt put his hands in his pockets and stood casually, as if he intended to remain some time. “I believe you are an excellent judge of character, Mr. Dunkeld. You know a man’s strengths and weaknesses.”
Dunkeld smiled sourly. “If you have only just come to that conclusion, then you are slower than a man in your job should be. Is it a job, or profession, by the way?”
“It depends upon how well you do it,” Pitt replied. “At Mr. Narraway’s level, it is a profession.”
“I am not so far impressed with Mr. Narraway’s judgment of a man’s strengths and weaknesses,” Dunkeld said pointedly, his eyes looking Pitt up and down with distaste.
Pitt smiled. “How long have you known that Sorokine was insane? Since he killed the woman in Africa, for example?”
“I didn’t think he would do it again.” Dunkeld was clearly annoyed by the tone of the question.
“No, I assumed that, or you would hardly have allowed him to marry your daughter,” Pitt agreed.
“Obviously!” Dunkeld snapped, shifting the balance of his weight slightly. “Have you a purpose to this, Inspector?”
“Yes. I was wondering at exactly what juncture you thought he was mad.”
Suddenly Dunkeld was guarded. He sensed danger, although he could not place it. “Does it matter? Sorokine is guilty. The details will probably always be obscure. Your job is to tidy it up in the best, most just, and most discreet way that you can.”
“How did you know it was Sorokine?” Pitt pursued. “Given that you are a good judge of character, what did you see that I missed?”
Dunkeld smiled. “Are you trying to flatter me, Inspector? Clumsy, and you have based it upon a wrong assumption. I do not care what you think.”
“I am trying to learn,” Pitt said as innocently as he could. Dunkeld angered him more than anyone else he could remember. Even understanding his weaknesses, his driving need to belong to a class in which he was not born, his general need for admiration, even the bitter loss of his daughter, Pitt still could not like him. “People who kill compulsively,” Pitt went on, “insanely, are triggered into the act by some event, or accumulation of events, which breaks their normal control, so most of the time they appear as sane as anyone else. But I imagine you have realized that.”
“I have,” Dunkeld agreed. He could hardly deny it. “You seem to be stating the obvious—again.”
“What was it that triggered Sorokine?”
Dunkeld blinked.
“Don’t you know?” Pitt invested his voice with surprise. “What was the woman like, the one he killed in Africa?”
Dunkeld thought for a moment. “Another whore, I believe,” he said casually. “Not young, into her late twenties, not particularly handsome, but with a fine figure. A certain degree of intelligence, I heard, and a quick tongue. A woman who could entertain as well as merely…” He did not bother to finish.
“Like Sadie,” Pitt concluded.
Dunkeld’s contempt was too great for him to conceal. “You seem to have arrived at an understanding at last,” he observed sarcastically.
Pitt gave a very slight shrug. “Did you realize this before, or after, you hired Sadie to come here and entertain the gentlemen of the party?”
Dunkeld’s temper flared, his eyes bright and hot. “Are you suggesting I knew, and allowed it to happen?”
“Why on earth would you do that?” Pitt inquired, meeting Dunkeld’s glare. “Unless it was deliberately to get rid of a son-in-law you dislike, and allow your daughter her freedom.”
Dunkeld drew in a deep breath, shifting his weight again. “And you think I would allow a woman to be killed for that?”
Pitt remained motionless. “Do you believe he would have gone on killing, every time the same set of circumstances arose?” he inquired with no edge to his voice.
Dunkeld considered his answer before he gave it. “Do such men usually stop, if no one prevents them?” he countered.
“Not in my experience,” Pitt replied.
“Then to ensure he was caught, it is desperate perhaps, but better than allowing him to continue,” Dunkeld reasoned. “You did not catch him.”
“I was not in Africa.”
“Your arrogance is amazing!” Dunkeld almost laughed. “And do you suppose if you had been, that you would have done any better? For God’s sake, m
an, enclosed in the Palace, with only three of us to choose from, you still couldn’t do it!”
“Is the Limoges china part of his…obsession?” Pitt asked.
“I’ve already told you, that was a favor to His Royal Highness, and has nothing to do with Sorokine,” Dunkeld said huskily. “Now you will have to deduce the rest for yourself, or remain in ignorance. I have a vast amount of arrangements to make. In spite of my daughter’s death, the railway will still proceed, and now I must make up for Sorokine’s loss, and find someone to take his place. I imagine I shall not see you again. Good day.” And without waiting for Pitt to reply, he turned and strode away.
NARRAWAY ARRIVED A little before ten, looking tired and unhappy. His face was deeply lined, accentuating the immaculacy of his clothing. He told Pitt immediately what he had learned, summarizing the murder in Cape Town by likening it to the death of Sadie. There was no more information of significance about Julius Sorokine.
They were alone in Pitt’s room. The sun was bright beyond the window, the air enclosed and stale. Narraway sat opposite Pitt, his legs crossed.
Pitt heard nothing that surprised him, but he realized he had been hoping there would be. It was unprofessional to dislike a man deeply enough to wish him guilty of such a crime. Likewise, he felt guilty that he liked Julius—or perhaps it was Elsa he liked, because she was vulnerable, and trying so hard to find her courage. There was something about her that reminded him of Charlotte. It was possibly no more than a way of turning her head, a certain squareness of her shoulders, but it was enough to waken a response in him and make him want to protect her. Disillusionment was one of the deepest of human wounds.
“The similarity is too close to be coincidence,” Narraway said finally. “Whoever killed the woman in Cape Town also killed Sadie, and Minnie Sorokine as well. Presumably in her case it was because she knew who he was, and threatened him. He will have mimicked his usual style either from compulsion, or to make it obvious it was the same hand who did it.”
“Compulsion,” Pitt replied. “It doesn’t matter whether it was the same hand or not; in neither case would it protect him. And although she was a lady, there was apparently a good deal of the whore in her, at least outwardly.”
Narraway looked at him sharply. “Are you saying she worked out that the Limoges dish was broken, and that it mattered?”
“And that it was replaced.” Pitt told him about Elsa’s visit to him, and her story of having seen an exact duplicate in Dunkeld’s cases.
“And do you believe her?” Narraway asked with slight skepticism. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Don’t you think, setting personalities and dislikes apart, that the shards were probably something else, and that the dish in the Queen’s room was never broken in the first place? Elsa Dunkeld probably has far more grounds for hating her husband than you do.”
“If it was irrelevant, then why did the Prince of Wales lie about it?” Pitt retorted. “Tyndale refused to discuss it, and now Dunkeld says he brought one, but as a personal favor to the Prince, and his honor prevents him explaining to us why.”
Narraway pulled a very slight face of distaste. “Because it is something foolish and rather grubby, and they find it embarrassing,” he said regretfully.
Pitt was unsatisfied. “I want to go through it one more time, step by step.”
“If you wish,” Narraway conceded. “But only once. Then we must act.”
AFTER GRACIE HAD left Pitt with his tea, she returned temporarily to her regular duties. As soon as breakfast was finished, she and Ada began the tidying up and changing the linen. She wanted to investigate the one thing that continued to arouse her curiosity. She had cleaned Cahoon Dunkeld’s bedroom and dressing room every morning since she had been here.
Where were the books that were supposed to have come in the box in the middle of the night? There were no more than half a dozen in Mr. Dunkeld’s quarters, nor were there many more in the other rooms.
“Where’d they all go, then?” she said to Ada as they were dusting in the sitting room.
“’Ow do I know?” Ada said indignantly. “Mebbe these is them, for all it matters. Get on wi’ yer job.”
Gracie looked at the titles. “But these are all poetry an’ novels,” she said. “An’ stories o’ the lives o’ real people. ’Ere’s the Duke o’ Wellington, an’ there’s Prime Minister ’Orace Walpole.”
“An’ ’ow der yer know that, Miss Clever?”
“’Cos it says so on the cover, o’ course,” Gracie replied. “Wot d’yer think, I looked at the pictures?”
“Since when did you learn ter read, then?”
“Since a long time ago. Why? Can’t you?” She stared at Ada as if she were looking at a curiosity.
“Yer don’t ’alf ta give yerself airs,” Ada retorted. “Yer in’t gonna last long. Tuppence worth o’ nothin’, you are.”
“So, where’s the books, then?” Gracie went back to the original question. “Or is that yer way o’ sayin’ yer don’t know?”
“’Course I don’t know!” Ada spat back. “But I do know me place, an’ that’s more’n you do! Need someb’dy ter show it ter yer, an’ I’ll be ’appy ter take the job. I think termorrow yer’d better do all the slops, chamber pots an’ all. An’ not just your share, you can do Norah’s an’ Biddie’s as well.”
Gracie was beginning to wonder if there had been books in the chest at all, but it was obvious Ada was not going to help.
“Yer know so much, Miss Ever So Clever,” Ada said, flicking her duster around the ornaments on the mantel. “You should be careful about all them questions yer keep askin’. Yer so sorry for Mrs. Sorokine, ’oo were actually a bit of a cow, if yer ask me. Lot o’ grand ways with ’er nose in the air, but under it no better’n a tart ’erself, jus’ less honest about it. Askin’ jus’ the same questions as she did, you are. Want ter end up wi’ yer belly cut open, do yer? Not that yer’ve got anythin’ as’d drive any man wild, ’ceptin’ as ’e got cheated, thinkin’ as yer was a woman, an’ all! Put yer in a matchbox, we could—an’ a good idea that’d be, an’ all.”
Gracie felt the sting of insult. She was very aware that she was small, and too thin. There was nothing feminine or shapely about her. She had no idea why Samuel Tellman wanted her, except that to begin with she would have nothing to do with him. Now the whole idea of their marriage was frightening, in case she disappointed him terribly. But Ada would never know that.
What was important right now was that Ada had told her something she had not known: Minnie was also interested in the box, and what had been in it, or had not been.
“Yer reckon as that was wot got ’er killed?” she asked, forcing the rest out of her mind.
“Yeah! I do, an’ all,” Ada responded. “Always askin’ questions, she was, just like you. If yer don’t want nobody ter cut yer throat, then keep yer mouth shut!”
“I’m gonna tidy the bedrooms,” Gracie said, picking her duster up and striding toward the door. Actually she was going to find Mr. Tyndale. She needed his help and there was no time at all to waste. She wished she had realized the possible importance of the box before, but the beginning of an idea had only just entered in her head.
As she crossed the landing she heard Ada shouting behind her. She was tempted for an instant to go back to tell her, extremely patronizingly, to keep her voice down. Good servants never shouted, absolutely never! But she could not afford the luxury of wasting the time it would take.
She found Mr. Tyndale in his pantry and went in without even thinking of leaving the door open.
“Mr. Tyndale, sir,” she began. “I know yer got Mr. Sorokine all locked up, but there’s still things as we don’t know, an’ we gotta be right.” She drew in her breath and hurried on. “We gotta be able ter explain everythin’. Mr. Dunkeld ’ad a box come on the night Sadie was killed, right about the same time. ’E said as it were books, but there in’t no books in ’is rooms, nor in any o’ the other rooms neither, nor in the si
ttin’ room.”
“The sitting room has at least fifty books, Miss Phipps,” he said gravely. “Possibly more.”
She kept her patience with great difficulty.
“Yeah, I know that, sir. But they in’t books on Africa like Mr. Dunkeld said ’e sent for so urgent they ’ad ter come in the middle o’ the night. All the ones ’e got were the same as ’e ’ad before.”
Tyndale frowned. “How do you know that, Miss Phipps?”
“’Cos I looked!” she said as politely as she could manage. Why was he so slow? “I can read, Mr. Tyndale. I think as ’e ’ad somethin’ else come in that box, an’ somebody’s gotter know wot it were.”
Tyndale looked uncomfortable. “It may have been something for the party, which could be private,” he pointed out.
Gracie felt herself coloring with embarrassment. She had no idea what such a thing would be, and would very much rather not find out. But that was another luxury detection would cost her. “There in’t nothin’ private when there’s murder, Mr. Tyndale. Somebody must ’a seen it, wotever it were. Edwards ’elped carry it in. ’Ow ’eavy were it? Books? Yer can feel if somethin’ slides around inside a box yer carryin’. ’Ow ’eavy were it when they took it out again?”
Tyndale still looked just as uncomfortable. “I have no idea what was in it, Miss Phipps. I have no right, and no wish, to inquire into such things. It is better not to know too much of the business of our betters.”
She was touched with pity for him, and impatience.
“Mr. Dunkeld in’t your better, Mr. Tyndale,” she said gently. “An’ I don’t think anybody ’oo pimps around wi’ tarts is either!”
“Miss Phipps!” He was aghast and his voice was probably louder than he had intended it to be.
The pantry door swung open and hit the wall. Mrs. Newsome stood in the opening, her face bright pink, her eyes blazing. “Miss Phipps, I have warned you as much as I intend to about your behavior. Mr. Tyndale may be too kindhearted, or too embarrassed, to discipline you. I am not. You are dismissed. You are not suitable to have a position here at the Palace. Ada has complained about you. Both your work and your attitude are unsatisfactory. And now I find that you have deliberately disobeyed my orders that you were not to come here alone with any gentleman member of staff, and close the doors. You place Mr. Tyndale in an impossible situation. Pack your boxes and you will leave tomorrow morning. I shall give you a character, but it will not be a good one. The best I can say for you is that, as far as I know, you are honest and clean.”
