else, and put there afterward. That makes some sense. Why would she have gone willingly to the cupboard anyway? Whoever killed her put her in a place he thought would not incriminate him. We should have realized that before.”
“Bodies don’t bleed a lot after they’re dead,” Pitt pointed out.
“Heart stops.”
“But it doesn’t stop instantly. There could still be blood,” Narraway argued.
“Nothing like as much as we found in the cupboard. She must have been alive when she was put in there.” Pitt’s face was twisted with pity and an anger Narraway had rarely seen in him, and was the more moving for that.
“Ripped her belly open in the bed, then carried her naked along the corridor and slashed her across the throat, then left her to bleed to death in the cupboard,” Narraway said very quietly. “By the way, have we found her clothes yet?”
“No,” Pitt replied.
Narraway shivered. “What in God’s name are we dealing with, Pitt?”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Narraway said savagely.
The door opened and Gracie’s diminutive figure stood on the threshold. She looked different and even smaller in Palace uniform.
“Come in,” Narraway repeated, more civilly this time. “Can you get me a supper like Pitt’s, roast beef sandwich and a glass of cider?”
“I’ll ask Cook, sir,” Gracie said, closing the door behind her. “But I come because one o’ the maids found the missing knife.” She spoke to Pitt, not Narraway. “An’ it’s got blood on it, sir. Even a couple of
’airs, little ones.” She colored faintly. She could not bring herself to be more exact than that.
“Where?” Pitt stared at her. “Where did they find it? Who did?”
“Ada found it. In the linen cupboard, sir.”
“But we searched it!” Pitt protested. “There was no knife there!”
“I know that, sir,” she agreed. “Someone gone an’ put it there, jus’
terday. We got someone ’ere in this palace ’oo’s very wicked. Mr. Tyndale’s got the knife, sir. I’ll go an’ get yer some sandwiches, an’ a glass o’ cider.” She turned round and went out, whisking her skirt, which was at least two inches too long for her, leaving Pitt and Narraway staring at each other.
CHAPTER SIX
Elsa sat in front of her bedroom mirror, stiff and unhappy.
Everyone was afraid. On the day the body was discovered they had been so shocked they had taken a little while to absorb the horror of what had happened, but with the second day the reality of it was far more powerful. The gangling policeman with his overstuffed pockets was asking questions. They were always courteous; questions that only afterward did you realize how intrusive they had been.
It seemed absurd, like something senseless out of a nightmare where none of the pieces fit, but at last they were realizing that it had to have been one of them who had killed the woman. No one dared say it. They had talked about all kinds of things, making remarks no one listened to, and gossip in which, for once, no one was interested.
She stared at her reflection in the glass. It was pale and familiar, horribly ordinary.
It was impossible to sleep properly, but even the little rest they had had meant they had woken with a far more painful clarity. They were trapped here until the policeman found a solution, and one of them was destroyed forever. Or perhaps they would all be. How did you survive the fact that someone you knew, perhaps loved, could kill like that? Was that who they had always been underneath? You had just been too stupid, too insensitive to have seen it?
She was in love with Julius. Or she was in love with the idea of love, the hunger for it that was a gnawing ache inside her, as if she were being eaten from within. She didn’t know Julius, not really.
She shuddered as Bartle laid out her gown for the evening. It was exquisite: the sort of smoky blue that most flattered her cool coloring, and was trimmed with black lace. Minnie could get away with the hot scarlets and appear wild and brave. Elsa would only look like a failed imitation. Cahoon had told her as much. He had often compared her to Minnie-never to her advantage. This was in the shades of dusk, or the twilight sea that she had once felt to be romantic. Now she simply found it drab.
She obeyed patiently as Bartle assisted her into first the chemise, then the petticoats, and finally the gown itself, then she stood still while it was laced up as tightly as she could accommodate without actual discomfort. It was wide at the shoulder with the usual exaggera-tions of fashion, and low at the bosom. It had a sweeping fall of silk down the front, and pale ruches at the hem. The bustle behind was very slight but extraordinarily flattering. The color made her skin look flawless, like alabaster, and her eyes a darker blue than they really were.
Then she sat again, motionless while Bartle dressed her hair. It was long and thick, dark brown with warmer lights in it. The jewels that Cahoon was so proud of would come last.
It was preposterous to be preparing for dinner when that woman had been hacked to death, and they could not escape the fact that one of the men at the table with them had done it. But neither could they put off the occasion without arousing a suspicion they could not afford. The Prince was dining with them, and of course the Princess.
Lord Taunton was the guest. He was a financier Simnel had been courting, who had specific interests in Africa. His support would be of great importance, possibly even necessity. He had never married, so he would bring as his companion his younger sister, Lady Parr, who was recently widowed. Her husband had left her with a fortune of her own, and she was handsome in a rather obvious way. She certainly had admirers-Cahoon among them. Elsa had seen the flash of hunger in his eyes, the way he had once looked at her.
The evening would require great fortitude and the sort of self-mastery that even the strongest woman would find taxing. They would all have to hide their fears. There must be no frayed tempers, no hint of anxiety. Taunton must believe that all was well, that they were full of optimism and faith in the success of the new and marvelous venture.
“There you are, Miss Elsa,” Bartle said, clasping the sapphire necklace around her throat. “You look lovely.”
Elsa regarded her reflection. She was tired and too pale, but there was nothing she could do about it. Pinching her cheeks would bring a little color, but only for a very short time. It seemed a pretense not worth making.
She thanked Bartle and sent her to inform Cahoon that she was ready.
A moment later she heard the door close and saw his reflection in the glass. He examined her critically, but seemed satisfied. He said nothing, and they went down the stairs together in silence.
Olga and Simnel were already waiting, standing in the yellow sitting room with its illusion of sunlight, two or three yards apart from each other. She wore a gown of dark green, darker than the emeralds at her ears and throat. It was hard and too cold for her. It leached from her skin what little color there was, and its lightless depth made her look even more angular. Her lady’s maid should have told her so. Perhaps she had, and been ignored. There was not the warmth or the softness about her that one would wish to see in a woman.
She turned as Elsa and Cahoon came in and acknowledged them with nervous politeness. “Do you know Lady Parr?” she asked Elsa.
“I have met her on several occasions,” Elsa replied, realizing as she spoke how much she did not like Amelia Parr. She had no idea why. It was unfair and unreasonable. “She is very pleasant,” she lied.
She felt Cahoon glance at her and knew that her face betrayed her.
“She is said to be very interesting,” Olga continued. “I hope, I must admit. I would find it hard to think of anything to say this evening.”
No one needed to ask her to clarify what she meant.
Hamilton and Liliane came in. He appeared to have already drunk a considerable amount of whisky. There
