“Yes, I know that, Mrs. Dunkeld.” He took the seat opposite her, which was upright and less comfortable. “Are you aware of what happened here last night?”
She noticed that he looked concerned, as if he were obliged to tell her something she would find distressing. She wanted to put him at ease. “Yes, I am. One of the women who came to the party yesterday evening was murdered.”
He looked surprised that she could be so blunt about it. She wondered if he had been afraid she did not know what manner of women they were.
“You have been questioning the servants all day, to find out who is responsible,” she added. “I hope you have been successful. The reason we are His Royal Highness’s guests concerns a matter of the greatest possible importance. It would be far better if the gentlemen were all free to continue with their business without further distress.” She chose the words to be as tactful as possible, leaving open the suggestion that there was pity for the dead woman as well as inconvenience involved. She could not tell from his face if he understood that.
There was a flash of humor in his eyes that could have meant anything. It disconcerted her because she could not read him as swiftly as she had imagined she would.
He looked at her steadily, a very slight frown between his brows.
“The prostitute that the Prince had chosen for himself was found in the linen cupboard this morning,” he told her. “I’m afraid she was completely unclothed, and she had been slashed to death with a knife.”
Elsa was stunned. For a moment she found it hard to breathe. Cahoon had mentioned a carving knife, but she had thought he was being deliberately brutal. From this quiet man with his bulging pockets and his steady eyes, quite suddenly the woman’s death had a reality that was shocking. She started to speak, and then had no idea what she wanted to say.
“We have questioned all the servants,” Pitt continued, “and found that none of them could be responsible.”
For a moment she did not understand. “You mean someone broke in?” she said incredulously. “But we are in the Palace! That could not happen. Or are you saying it was one of the guards? I find that hard to believe. Are you certain?”
“No one broke in, Mrs. Dunkeld. The guards can account for one another. This is the sort of crime that a man commits alone.”
“You mean it was. .?” She did not wish to use the words necessary to explain herself. Why had she supposed the murder had been committed merely out of anger? Given the occupation of the woman, it could be assumed that she had earned her fee. “Poor creature,” she added, imagining what it must have been like. Involuntarily her mind flew to occasions of intimacy with Cahoon when she had been aware of her own helplessness, and frightened of him, even physically hurt.
He had taken pleasure in her pain, she was sure of that now. It had excited him.
“I’m sorry.” The policeman was apologizing to her. Had her face been so transparent? She felt the heat rise up on it. Please heaven this man mistook it for modesty. She was allowing him to unnerve her.
Cahoon would find that contemptible.
“I am quite capable of facing facts, Mr. Pitt,” she said sharply.
“Even if they are unpleasant. I have not lived my entire life in the withdrawing room.”
If he understood her, there was no reflection of it in his expression, except perhaps a flash of pity. “No one broke in, Mrs. Dunkeld.
I am afraid that leaves no possibility other than that it was one of the guests.”
She had thought herself already stunned. This was beyond belief.
“You mean one of us?” Her voice was high-pitched; she refused to accept the thought. “That’s absurd!” Even as the words spilled out, she knew it was not absurd. All kinds of people have passions that lie beneath the disciplined surface, until some fear or hunger makes them momentarily ungovernable. Usually it is violent words that break through, or something beautiful or precious is smashed to pieces in rage. What prevents it from being a human being? The conventions of society and the fear of punishment. All human life must be regarded as sacred, or one’s own may be endangered as well. But do women who sell their bodies for others to use count as human life in the same way? If they did, could one buy them in the first place?
He was watching her.
“I have no knowledge that could be helpful, Mr. Pitt,” she said as steadily as she could. “As you must already know, the gentlemen remained at the party, and we retired early. I did not see anyone again until my maid woke me this morning and told me there had been a tragedy, and we were requested to remain in our bedrooms.”
“Do you know at what time your husband retired?” he asked.
He must be aware that they had separate rooms. This was a perfectly usual thing for the wealthy, but not, she imagined, for the class to which he belonged.
“No, I don’t,” she answered. “Perhaps if you ask the other gentlemen, they will be able to tell you.” Not counting the Prince of Wales-and that he should be guilty was unthinkable-there were only four of them: Cahoon, Julius, Hamilton, and Simnel. What this policeman was saying seemed inescapable, and yet it was also ridiculous. He did not know them, or he would not even imagine it.
But how well did she know them? She had been married to Cahoon for over seven years, lived in his house, sometimes intimately, at other times as strangers, misreading each other, saying the same words and meaning different things. She knew his mind. He was lucidly clear. But she had never known his heart.
Hamilton Quase was charming when he wished to be, but Liliane was obviously afraid for him. She leaped to defend him as if he were uniquely vulnerable. Memories flashed into Elsa’s mind of looks between Liliane and Julius, a sudden pallor on Hamilton’s face, and a smile on Cahoon’s, then a thinning of the lips, an unnatural change of subject.
“I would help you if I could, Mr. Pitt,” she said, struggling to sound resolute and in control. “This is an appalling thing to have happened, for all of us, but of course mostly for the poor woman. I retired a little after nine. I have no knowledge of what happened after that. You will have to ask my husband, and the other gentlemen.”
“I have done, Mrs. Dunkeld,” Pitt replied. “Each says that after the. . entertainment. . was finished, he retired alone. Except Mr.
Sorokine. He says he left them early, and they all confirm that he did, as do the servants. Unfortunately, since he did not share a room with Mrs. Sorokine, or see her again until morning, that is of little value to us in excluding him.”
She felt her face burn. “I see. So you know nothing, except that it was one of us?”
“Yes. I am afraid that is exactly what I mean.”
She could think of no reply, not even any protest or question.
The silence lay in the room like a covering for the dead.
CHAPTER THREE
On the day the murder was discovered at the Palace, Gracie Phipps had been the all-purpose maid at the Pitts’ home for nearly eight years. She was twenty-one now and engaged to marry Police Sergeant Samuel Tellman. Gracie was intensely proud of working for such a remarkable man as Pitt. She had no doubt whatever that he was the best detective in England.
When she began in his service, she had been four feet ten inches tall and could neither read nor write. She had not considered the possibility of ever doing either. However, Charlotte Pitt had offered to teach her. Now Gracie could not only read newspapers but even books and, more than that, she enjoyed it. She had also grown a whole inch and a half.
She was reading in her bedroom with the attic windows open to the rustling of leaves and the distant sounds of traffic, when there was a knock on the door. She was startled. It was dark outside and must be late. She had lost count of time in the adventure on the pages.
She stood up quickly and went to answer the knock.
Charlotte was on the landing, still fully dressed but with her hair rather less than tidily pinned, as if she had
