Buckingham Palace Gardens tp-25

by Anne Perry

  Was it Simnel, struggling to free himself from his uncontrollable fascination with Minnie who had finally killed her? It had led him to betray the wife he had once loved in a different way, not only privately but, because he could not conceal it, publicly as well. Olga must have seen it every day, during every mealtime at the table: the pity and the impatience in the eyes of her friends because she did not know how to fight back.

  Elsa was cold, in spite of the sun coming through the window.

  Had Olga fought back at last?

  No. That was ridiculous. If Minnie had been killed in the same way as the street woman, then it had to have been a man who had done it. Except that if Elsa could think of copying the original murder, then couldn’t Olga, or anyone? Could a woman be driven to that kind of fury by jealousy?

  It wasn’t simple jealousy, not a matter of hating someone for having what you did not, or even hatred for taking it from you. It wasn’t love that had robbed her, it was the heat of physical need, the raging appetite that destroyed both judgment and honor. It had consumed Simnel like a disease.

  Most of all it might have been the humiliation, the destruction of belief in herself, even in love, the ultimate betrayal. How far was that from madness?

  Surely Olga could not have killed the street woman too? No.

  That was utterly different. There was nothing personal in it-if it had even happened. The prostitutes had been brought in to entertain, not necessarily anything more, although the possibility and the assumption of more extensive services were there.

  The other thought, which was waiting on the edge of her mind, refused to be denied any longer. If Olga could kill out of jealousy and humiliation, then how could Elsa deny that Julius could too? And Julius would have the strength to kill Minnie, who was a big woman, tall and graceful with full bosom, rounded arms, and perfect poise.

  Olga would not have the strength, unless she had taken her totally by surprise. Julius would.

  But had he cared enough to do it? Elsa had no idea, not really. She knew the outer man: the courtesy, the dry humor, the seeming gentleness, the way he met her eyes when she spoke to him. She knew intimately, passionately, what she hoped he was, dreamed he was, but what had that to do with reality? How much was she in love with something that existed only in her own mind? How much was anyone?

  It is so easy to see what you need to see, perhaps it is even necessary.

  What had Julius seen in Minnie? What had he believed of her?

  He must once have thought she would be warm and loyal, gentle to his faults, strong to her own truths, that she had an inner core that could not be tarnished.

  Or perhaps being beautiful and willing was enough? Had he an integrity that could not be broken, stained, bought, if the price were high enough?

  For that matter, had she herself?

  There was a knock on the door. She assumed it was Bartle and told her to come in without bothering to turn away from the window.

  “I’m sorry to intrude on you, Mrs. Dunkeld, but it is necessary.”

  She whirled round and saw the policeman just inside the doorway.

  “Oh!” She drew in her breath sharply. “Yes. Of course it is. Do you wish me to come to your sitting room?”

  “Yes, please, if you are well enough. Otherwise perhaps your maid could wait with you?” he replied.

  “I’m quite well enough, thank you,” she accepted, following him out of the door again and down the stairs to the room he had been given. Bartle knew her too well; she did not want her here for the questions he would ask. She sat in the chair opposite him.

  He apologized for having to distress her. She dismissed it. “You have no choice,” she said. “We have to know who did this.”

  He nodded slightly. “Did Mrs. Sorokine confide in you at all yesterday, or the day before, Mrs. Dunkeld? It seems she had a strong suspicion as to who had killed the woman found in the cupboard, and was asking a great many questions.”

  Elsa was startled. She was about to deny it completely when she remembered how excited Minnie had been, and the way she had hinted at the dinner table that she had learned something no one else knew. She was showing off for her father. They had all heard her. Perhaps one of them had realized that she was on the brink of learning the whole truth, and exposing it.

  Pitt was watching her. She must face him and reply.

  “No. She made hints during dinner, but that’s all they were. I didn’t understand. It all sounded. .” She was searching for the right word. “It sounded obscure to me. I thought she was just trying to be the center of attention. I’m. . so sorry.” That was an admission of guilt. She was guilty of not listening, not judging more kindly, not even trying to love Minnie.

  She met Pitt’s eyes, and saw more understanding in them than she wished to. She turned away, and realized that in doing so she was still betraying herself.

  “Can you remember what she said?” he asked.

  “It sounded like nonsense.” She tried to recall Minnie’s words. “It was something about china, a lot of cleaning up, and how much her father had helped the Prince of Wales. Do you think she really knew who killed the woman?” She hoped that was it, prayed that it was!

  Then it would be nothing to do with Julius, or Olga. Please God!

  “Don’t you think so?” he asked softly.

  “Well. . yes. I suppose so. . unless it is just. . no, that seems to be it.” She was fumbling. She should be quiet. Why was she saying too much, like a fool?

  “Did someone have another reason, Mrs. Dunkeld?”

  She looked up at him quickly. There was compassion in his eyes.

  Chill struck her to the bone. Could he possibly know about Minnie and Simnel? Did he suspect Julius?

  “Did they?” he repeated.

  Could he already know about the affair? If she lied to conceal it, then he would know she was trying to protect Julius. It would seem extraordinary to him, suspicious. Minnie was her stepdaughter; that is where her loyalties should lie. At least she must pretend they did.

  And yet everyone knew of the affair. Someone would tell him, probably they already had. Pitt would know she was lying if she pretended not to know.

  “From anger perhaps,” she suggested. “Mr. Marquand was. .

  attracted to her. How far it went I can only surmise, but it was intense, at least for a while.” She made it sound so prosaic, reducing passion to a commonplace thing. “Regrettably, such things happen all the time,” she added. “People do not kill over it. They may weep, or even lash out in some way or other. It’s best to maintain all the dignity one can, and trust that it will pass. Regardless of that, Mr. Pitt, it was no reason to kill the prostitute who had nothing to do with our private affairs. None of us had ever seen or heard of her before. And you said that Minnie had been asking questions that led you to believe that she had some idea who killed the poor woman. Surely that is why she was also killed?”

  “It does seem to be the case,” he agreed. “My own inquiries tell me that she spent most of yesterday asking questions of the servants, and she appeared to have discovered something that made her very excited, as if she had found the answer.”

  “And. .” Elsa gulped. “You think she confronted someone?”

  “I think someone realized that she knew,” he amended.

  “I don’t know who it was.” The moment she had said it she knew she had spoken too quickly. He had not asked her. She had already said she had no idea. She felt her face burn.

  He was looking at her steadily. “Mr. Dunkeld has no doubt that it was Mr. Sorokine. He confronted him and they fought. They both have injuries to face and hands.”

  She did not understand. All she wanted to do was stop Pitt from believing it. What could she say? If she defended Julius and blamed Cahoon, then Pitt would see her emotions quite nakedly. Was that what he was trying to do, see if Julius had killed his wife and was trying to blame Cahoon?

  “If they fought. .” she started, then realized the remark wa
s pointless, and stopped.

  “Neither of them denied that,” he said. “And Cahoon says that Julius had his injuries before their fight.”

  She did not understand.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was very gentle now, as if he pitied her.

  “Mrs. Sorokine fought for her life. Whoever killed her would have scratches and perhaps bruises as well.”

  She had to say it. The words were like a nightmare, but if she did not say them, it would be even worse. How could she outthink him?

  “My husband would never have killed his daughter, Mr. Pitt. He loved her deeply, far more than he loved anyone else.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Sorokine also love his wife?” he asked.

  She could not read the expression on his face now. He had gray eyes, very clear, as if he could see into the horror and confusion inside her.

  “I imagine so,” she said hesitantly. “One always assumes. And when it is family, even more so. I. . I can’t believe that Julius killed her.”

  He waited.

  It was a stupid thing to have said, and yet it was true. Whatever Cahoon had seen, or said he had seen, she did not believe Julius had murdered either the woman in the cupboard or Minnie. She would not believe it; the burden of loss it would bring was more than she could carry.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dunkeld. I don’t think I have anything else to ask you at the moment,” Pitt said.

  She had betrayed herself. He knew what she felt. She saw it in his face. She was embarrassed, as if she were emotionally naked. She rose to her feet, tried to think of something to say so she could leave with a shred of grace, but there was nothing. She went to the door and opened it without speaking again.

  Changing her morning gown for one suitable for luncheon, she found herself alone with Cahoon. It was the one thing she had wished to avoid. Bartle had already left when he came into her dressing room. She swiveled around to face him. She always felt uncomfortable when he was behind her.

  He looked haggard. He had aged ten years since yesterday. She felt a moment’s stab of pity for him again. It would have been instinctive to have touched him, to have gone over and put her arms around him and held him, but the barrier of estrangement was too high. They had touched in the heat of physical hunger, but never in tenderness, the need of the heart or the mind.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.

  He was watching her, his eyes so dark she could see no expression in them. “You didn’t think Julius would do that, did you!” It was a challenge, not a question.

  A shiver of alarm went through her. “Of course I didn’t,” she said abruptly.

  “You didn’t know him as well as you thought!” A flash of pleasure lit his eyes, almost of triumph.

  She was cold inside, frightened that he could hate her enough to savor hurting her, even in the depth of his own loss.

  She tried to look surprised. “Why? Did you imagine it then?” She must be desperate to be fighting back. She had thought of doing it before, but never had the courage.

  Rage flared in his face. “For God’s sake, you stupid creature, do you think I would have let him into the same house as my daughter if I had?” His voice was hoarse, almost cracking with grief.

  Again the pity for him drowned out her own anger. “None of us saw it, Cahoon, or we would have done something and prevented this,” she told him gently. Was he blaming himself for not having had Julius arrested before this happened? How could she tell him that it was not his fault without sounding both insincere and patronizing?

  He was looking at her with that strange kind of triumph again, as if snatching some shred of victory out of the disaster. “They won’t hang him, which is a pity,” he went on. “They’ll keep it all secret, to protect the Prince of Wales. They’ll just take him to some madhouse and lock him up there for the rest of his life.” There was something almost like a smile on his face, and he was watching her intently.

  As if she should have seen it from the beginning, she suddenly understood with blinding clarity that he had always hated Julius. In spite of Minnie’s death, he was still able to rejoice in his destruction.

  Elsa couldn’t help but wonder if her husband had planned all this.

  Was the prostitute’s death supposed to implicate and ruin Julius?

  Why? Because Elsa loved him? Cahoon did not love her; he never had. But she belonged to him. This was not jealousy, it was hatred for having been insulted. His vanity was wounded, his right of possession injured.

  Would she let him trample over her like this? Did she think Julius had butchered that woman, then when Minnie worked it out and faced him, he had killed her in the same way? If she said nothing, then she was admitting that she did, and that would always be part of her. Better to deny it, whatever it cost, than surrender the dream now.

  “They will have to prove him guilty first,” she said aloud.

  “They will do,” he replied, eyes shining again. “Cling on as long as you can, Elsa! Imagine all you like. You don’t know men, and you don’t know love. You never did! Julius is a madman. Minnie had the courage to face that. But then she was always braver, stronger, and better than you!”

  She looked at him and saw the hate in his face, for Julius, and for her too. In all his agony over Minnie-and she believed that-he had a joy that Julius would be destroyed as well. Perhaps it was all he had left now.

  Except to destroy her too.

  How would he do it? If Julius was locked in his room, he could not cut her throat and her stomach and blame him for it. But he could implicate her somehow, in something, and then put her aside, divorce her. Then perhaps he could marry Amelia Parr!

  She looked at him, searched his face, and believed with ice-cold certainty that it was true. There was nothing to protect her, except her own nerve and intelligence, and a will not to be beaten.

  “We’ll see,” she said softly. “It isn’t the end yet.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Victor narraway sat in the hansom oblivious of the sunlit streets through which he passed. He was more concerned with the murders in the Palace than he had allowed Pitt to know. Five years ago, at the time of the Whitechapel atrocities by the man who had come to be known as Jack the Ripper, the Queen had almost retired from public duties. The Prince of Wales’s extravagance had been out of control and he was deeply in debt. The reputation of the Crown was so low that the cry for a republic was finding many to answer it.

  There had been ugly riots in the streets, especially in the East End, and around the Whitechapel area in particular.

  Three years later, Pitt had encountered the same emotions still high with Charles Voisey’s attempt at a republican coup. It had come far too close to success, and far too recently for a scandal like this not to be profoundly dangerous. There was a current of political unrest that was more serious than Pitt was aware.

  The other matter that disturbed Narraway was the whole issue of the Cape-to-Cairo railway. On the surface it was a brilliant idea: daring, farsighted, and patriotic. It would unite Africa physically, accomplish new marvels in engineering and exploration, and bring culture, civilization, and possibly Christianity to new regions never before fully explored. And of course it would also be the greatest boost for trade in the Empire since the beginnings of the East India Company over a century before.

  However, such a vast undertaking had negative aspects as well, and there was a gnawing doubt in his mind. It had been his habit all his life to listen to both sides of any argument, to give at least as much weight to the opinion against as to the praise. It was a practice that had proved painful, and often unpopular, but it had saved both money and life, not to mention political embarrassment.

  In this case he had heard only murmurings against the scheme.

  These could quite easily be seen as envy or timidity for such a huge venture. He was on his way to keep an appointment to dine with Watson Forbes at his house, where there would be time to extend the conversation as far as it needed to go. He had not ca
nceled it because of Minnie Sorokine’s death, which might prove that the whole issue was Julius Sorokine’s personal madness, some sexual deviation with no real relevance to the Cape-to-Cairo project at all. Some of the other possibilities were too fearful to think of. The ghost of the Ripper still haunted his mind.

  Regardless of that, there were questions about the railway that troubled him, doubts that, if well founded, could damage the Empire for generations to come.

  He arrived at Forbes’s house and was received by the butler, who conducted him into the same pleasant room as before, with its African paintings and curios.

  Forbes offered him sherry, then stood by the mantel, although the fire was not lit. The late-summer sun streamed in through the long windows, making jeweled patterns on the colors of the Turkish rug.

  He seemed mildly amused, his eyes bright.

  “What is it I can tell you at such length, Mr. Narraway? I am not involved in this railway project. Did I not make that clear?”

  “Quite clear,” Narraway replied. “Therefore your views on it may be less driven by the desire for it to succeed.”

  Forbes smiled. “You think Dunkeld is too partisan to entertain a rational judgment?”

  “Wouldn’t you be, if your future and your honor depended on it?”

  Narraway asked.

  Forbes sipped his sherry, rolling it over his tongue before swallowing. “Of course I would. It is the greatest adventure of a lifetime, and more than most men ever dream of. Have you some specific fear in mind?”

  “Cost?” Narraway suggested.

  “Every building venture costs more than one calculated,” Forbes replied with a rueful smile. “Whether it is a garden shed or a transcon-tinental railway. One expects it and plans accordingly. Or are you afraid it will cost more than it is worth?”

  “Could it?” Narraway asked. Cost was not what he had feared at all, but he wanted to test Forbes on everything. He needed to know why, with all his African experience, he was not involved-in consultation at least.