agree it is insanity, an illness of the mind, and treat him accordingly. A trial would benefit no one.”
“A trial.” The Prince was clearly alarmed. “Good heavens, no!
You are quite right, of course. Put him away. Best thing altogether.”
“As soon as we are certain.”
“Certain?” The Prince’s eyebrows rose. “My dear fellow, there can hardly be any doubt. Cahoon himself suspected him, you know? But of course he was loath to believe it. His own son-in-law. What a fearful thing.”
Pitt was surprised. “He didn’t tell me he suspected Sorokine.
Why? Did he know something he kept from us?”
The Prince looked embarrassed. “I am afraid you will have to ask him, if you feel that it still matters. But surely now he has been proved hideously right, and paid such a price for it, there can be no purpose served by pointing that out to him?”
“No, sir. I would much rather that you told me,” Pitt urged.
“I can’t. A matter of honor,” the Prince said blandly. “I gave my word, you see, and that is the end of it. I’m sorry. But surely in the circumstances it doesn’t matter anymore? Sorokine left the party early on the night the other poor creature was killed. He must have stabbed her also. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to have the matter ended, and so completely, before Her Majesty returns. I am obliged to you, Mr. Pitt. I shall not forget it. Thank you for coming to tell me personally.”
It was a dismissal, and there was nothing for Pitt to say further that would not be argumentative and, in the circumstances, inexcusable. He thanked the Prince and withdrew.
Half an hour later he met Narraway, and took him immediately to see the body of Minnie Sorokine.
Narraway stood on the carpet and stared down at her, his dark face crumpled with unhappiness. “It looks the same,” he said miserably. “But it’s not! One was a professional whore, the other was his wife.”
Pitt frowned. “She flirted very openly with Simnel Marquand, Sorokine’s half-brother.”
Narraway stared at him incredulously. “Enough to provoke this?
Are you saying it is some kind of moral judgment on whoring?”
“No, I’m not. Mrs. Sorokine spent a great deal of yesterday going around asking various questions of the servants,” Pitt told him. “Gracie followed her and heard most of it. It seemed to be about people’s comings and goings on the night of the first murder, including in particular a broken dish of blue, white, and gold that nobody knows about, and Tyndale says doesn’t exist.”
“What in hell are you talking about, Pitt? You’re rambling, man!
Pitt kept his temper with some difficulty. He was tired, his head ached, and suddenly he was very cold. The walls of the Palace, with all their ornately framed works of art, closed in on him. He was trapped here.
“I don’t know,” he said stiffly. “Mrs. Sorokine spent all day asking questions, and seemed to be very satisfied with the answers. And when Gracie asked Tyndale about it, she was told pretty abruptly that she should leave the matter alone. It concerned private misbehavior of the Prince of Wales, and was irrelevant to the murder of the prostitute.”
Narraway stared at him. “On the same night?” he said dubiously.
“Having a busy time, wasn’t he!”
“I rather gathered he went to bed with one of the women, and fell into something of a drunken sleep,” Pitt said. “Perhaps he didn’t. Do you think we need to know?” He was hoping profoundly that Narraway would say they did not. “Surely it’s the same piece of unfortunate behavior-unfortunate in Tyndale’s eyes. He’s a bit stiff.”
“Where does the broken plate come into it?” Narraway asked. “So the Prince broke a plate! What of it?”
“Tyndale says there is no such plate. He is adamant.”
“Perhaps it was a vase, or an ornament of some other kind?” Narraway suggested.
“And Tyndale really imagines Gracie doesn’t know what kind of assignation it was with those women?” Pitt said incredulously. “He knows she is with us.”
Narraway ignored him and looked down at Minnie’s body again.
“That’s a fearful blow across the neck. Very violent. Looks as if he’s almost severed her spine. Did you find the knife?”
“No. We need to search his room.”
Narraway stiffened with a jerky tightening of muscles, then relaxed again. “Well, if he kills himself that may be just as well. We can’t ever let him go free. But you should have looked, all the same.
Now we’ll have to be extremely careful going in to see him.”
Pitt cursed his stupidity for not having searched Sorokine’s room.
Yet it was not a thing he had wished to do alone, with Sorokine in there with him. He would be far too vulnerable. He produced the key, and he and Narraway went out and along the corridor.
Julius was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, but he could not conceal the tension in him, or the fear. The blood had dried on his face and the scratches were sharp, the bruises darkening painfully. He sat up, staring at them.
Pitt allowed Narraway to speak.
“Where are your clothes from last night, Mr. Sorokine?”
Julius blinked. “My suit is in the wardrobe and my shirt’s in the clothes basket, along with my personal linen. There’s no blood on them, if that’s what you are looking for.”
“And the knife?” Narraway asked. He sounded completely unper-turbed, but there was a flicker of anxiety in the muscles of his neck and jaw.
“I have no idea,” Julius told him. “I did not kill my wife.” He looked at Pitt. “Do you think she knew. . what happened to her? Did she suffer?”
Narraway drew in his breath, then let it out again.
“No,” Pitt answered. “She fought, but it looks as if there was only one blow to the neck, and that killed her.”
Julius winced.
“She was asking questions of the servants yesterday,” Narraway continued. “What did she tell you she had found out?”
Julius looked puzzled. “I don’t know. At dinner she made a lot of oblique remarks to Cahoon, as if she expected him to understand.”
His voice rose a little as though it were an effort to force it through his throat. “Are you saying that is why she was killed? She worked out who had murdered the woman in the cupboard?” He sat up straighter.
“Can you think of another reason?” Narraway asked.
Julius hesitated only a moment. “No.” His face was filled with grief-not agony, but a kind of deep, quiet pain.
Pitt looked at him and was brushed with a fear that if he were truly mad, then it was an invisible insanity, a rage that refused to show through the veneer of what seemed to be a reasonable, even decent man. How could one know? How could one judge or guard against it? Anyone could have the madness to kill just behind the smile. One’s best friend!
“Pitt, search the dressing room for the knife,” Narraway ordered.
“Or any clothes with blood on them, or tears.” He remained standing, facing Julius, who still sat on the bed. He could not afford to turn his back on him, however calm he seemed.
But an hour later they had found nothing suggesting violence of any kind. He had apparently fought with Minnie, and cut her throat and her abdomen, without getting even a spot of blood on his shirt-sleeves. There was no ash in the fireplace to indicate anything destroyed.
“He must have stripped before he went into her room,” Narraway said when they were alone in the corridor again, tired and defeated.
“Which seems singularly premeditated-and sane.”
“Or it isn’t him,” Pitt argued.
Narraway chewed his lip. “This is still very ugly,” he said almost under his breath. “Whatever the result, we’re going to have to treat it as madness, and have whoever it is put away quietly.” His voice was suddenly passionate and afraid. “But so help me God, Pitt, we have to have the right man. Apart from the injustice of it, we can’t afford to leave the real one free.”
