“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 was 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
