What do you usually do in cases like this?”
“Ask questions, look at facts, at evidence,” Pitt replied. “But not all murder cases are solved, especially where women of the street are concerned.” He clearly wanted to add “and their customers,” but knew he would never be forgiven for it. It was not worth the few moments’ satisfaction; worse, it would be highly unprofessional. He must rescue himself now, before anyone else spoke. “But people who are lying usually trip themselves up, sooner or later,” he went on a little too quickly. “Crimes like this do not happen without some event first that stirs the murderer beyond his ability to control his obsession.”
“And you’ll look for that?” the Prince said dubiously.
Pitt felt the color hot in his face. Put like that it sounded completely ineffectual. He forced himself to remember the number of cases he had solved that had at one time or another appeared impossible. “And other things, sir.” He forced himself to smile, and it felt like a baring of his teeth. “But I should be grateful for any assistance you could offer, any insight. I appreciate that speed is of the greatest importance, as well as discretion.”
Two spots of dark, angry color appeared on Dunkeld’s sunburned cheeks, but even he dared not contradict Pitt now. The air was electric in the room. One could believe that, beyond the tall windows, a summer storm was about to break.
“Yes,” the Prince agreed unhappily. “Quite. Of course, any help at all. What is it you wish to know?” He did not look to Dunkeld, but Pitt had the impression that he was preventing himself from doing so only with a conscious effort.
Pitt knew he might never have this chance again. “Were there any disagreements at all, either between the guests, or between guests and the women? Candor would be of the greatest service, sir.”
The Prince seemed quite relieved to answer. “Sorokine was in a poor temper,” he replied. “He wasn’t rude, of course, just discourteous in his unwillingness to join in. He seemed preoccupied.”
Pitt forbore from suggesting that possibly he did not enjoy such entertainment and was unable to disguise the fact.
As if reading his thoughts, Dunkeld interrupted. “Before you imagine any finer feelings on his part, Inspector, Sorokine is a man of the world, and quite capable of enjoying himself like a gentleman. I believe he had had some altercation with his wife, and with his brother, Simnel Marquand. He is my son-in-law, but I admit, his temper is uncertain.”
“And the other gentlemen participated more wholeheartedly?”
Pitt asked.
“Certainly,” the Prince answered without hesitation. He smiled for a moment before the memory clouded with the horror of the morning. “Yes,” he repeated.
“You all retired at what hour?” Pitt pressed.
The Prince’s face registered distaste. It was a tactless question, in-delicate. Pitt was aware of it and of the discomfort in the room. But he had no intention of catering to this sudden sensibility. Their delicate feelings were for themselves, as if they had been observed in some bodily function by a prurient stranger. Perhaps that was pretty close to the truth. He waited.
“I did not look at my pocket watch,” the Prince said coldly. “I imagine it must have been something after midnight. Sorokine went earlier.”
“I see. Each of you with a separate woman?”
“Naturally!” the Prince snapped. He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind. The color was still hot in his face.
“Which of you was with the woman who was killed, sir?” Pitt asked.
“I was,” Dunkeld answered quickly.
Pitt knew it was a lie, both from Dunkeld’s face and from the Prince’s. It was an absurd moment, and equally it was irretrievable.
He saw the Prince’s flash of gratitude and then his mortification in Pitt’s recognition of it, as if he had been caught in an act of cowardice.
“I see,” Pitt said quietly, forcing his expression into blandness, without the amusement and the contempt he felt, although it was difficult. “And how long did she remain with you, Mr. Dunkeld?”
“I didn’t time it!” Dunkeld said with a flare of temper. “And before you ask, I have no idea where she went. Presumably to one of the others, and her death.”
“We know from Edwards, one of the footmen, what time the other two women left,” Pitt pointed out, “and what time the third woman must have died, from the time she was last seen and the state of the body.”
“Then, as you implied before, it must have been Sorokine, Marquand, or Quase,” the Prince said with total despondency. “I suppose you had better find out which one. Thank you, Dunkeld. I appreciate your discretion and your loyalty. You may go. . er, Pitt.”
Pitt bowed his head and went out into the corridor, closely followed by Dunkeld.
As soon as they were beyond possible earshot Dunkeld caught him by the arm and swung him round, almost knocking him against the wall. “You incompetent fool!” he snarled. “That is the future King of England you were talking to as if you were some self-righteous maiden aunt. Who the hell do you think you are to patronize him with your working-class prudery? Do you have any idea what a fool you make of yourself? No one expects you to behave like a gentleman, but at least have the wit to keep your moral judgments to yourself.
Your manners belong in the gutter, where presumably most of your trade is.”
“Yes, it is,” Pitt replied between his teeth. Dunkeld’s face was less than a foot from his, and he could feel the heat of the man’s rage physically and smell his skin. “But I find gutters run in the most unexpected places.” His eyes did not leave Dunkeld’s.
Dunkeld swung his right shoulder back as if to strike him, then seeing Pitt’s unflinching gaze, he changed his mind. Suddenly he smiled, with an ugly curl of the lip. “If I were in your place, I should want to use this opportunity to better myself and earn the gratitude of my future sovereign, so my sons could find a more honorable occupation,” he said between his teeth. “Perhaps they could even escape such employment as the police, clearing up other people’s filth. And my daughters might marry tradesmen rather than their employees.
But obviously you have neither the wit nor the vision for that.”
He let go of Pitt’s arm at last. “You’re a fool. If you really are the best Narraway has, God help the country. Go and get on with your questions. I suppose it would be pointless telling you not to offend anyone?”
“It would be a waste of time giving me orders at all, Mr. Dunkeld,”
Pitt said a little hoarsely. “I answer to Mr. Narraway, not to you.” He walked away, refusing to straighten his jacket from the way that Dunkeld had left it.
But as he went down the corridor he could not stop Dunkeld’s words beating in his mind. Had his sense of disgust sounded self-righteous? Had he shown it where a better man would not have? He did not like Dunkeld, and he had been unsophisticated enough to allow the man to see it, and no doubt the Prince of Wales as well.
And obviously the Prince not only liked and trusted Dunkeld, he seemed to be relying on both his judgment and his loyalty.
Pitt could have shown loyalty as well, and some sympathy for a man who had unwittingly invited into his home-or more accurately his mother’s home-a man who had turned out to be a lunatic. If he had, he would have earned the Prince’s gratitude, and taken the next step up the ladder toward being a gentleman.
Never mind whether he owed that to his children. Every man wants his sons and daughters to have more than he had. Unquestionably he owed it to Charlotte. She had been born into a financially comfortable and socially respected family. Her sister, Emily, had married Lord Ashworth, and on his death inherited his fortune. Her son had all his father’s privileges to inherit. Charlotte had married Pitt, and her son would have the best education Pitt could afford for him, but nothing else.
Dunkeld was right; he could have given Charlotte more than that for her children, even for himself, and had allowed his pride and anger to stop him. He was startled by his own selfishness, and sick that it had taken Dunkeld, of all people, to show it to him.
He was in one of the main corridors now. It was vast compared with his own house. How could he possibly feel so shut in, almost imprisoned, in such a place? He should be proud to be here at all, not longing to escape.
He must learn all he could about the guests, including Dunkeld himself. Narraway was investigating the facts:
