extreme distress you have been caused.”
Julius stared at him, then at the key in his hand. Then slowly he reached for it, took it and held it, smoothing his fingers over it as if to assure himself it was real. Then he looked up at Pitt again.
“Cahoon?” he asked hoarsely. “Why? He’s the only one of us who couldn’t have killed the poor woman.”
Very briefly Pitt explained the main outline of the case to him.
Julius sat down on the bed. “God Almighty!” He breathed out the words so they sounded more like a prayer than a blasphemy.
“If you will excuse me, sir, I need to go and help Mr. Narraway.
Arresting Mr. Dunkeld may not be easy. If there is anything you need, Gracie will get it for you.”
Gracie moved forward. “Yes, sir,” she said with great satisfaction.
“ ’Ow about a nice fresh cup o’ tea, an’ a toasted tea cake with currants in it an’ butter?”
Julius smiled, but there were tears in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said huskily. “I’ll admit, luncheon wasn’t much. I’d like that. . before I. . join the others.”
She went to make it herself, choosing the tea cake with the most currants and sultanas, and being generous with the butter. When she took it up to him, he was delighted and ate the tea cake as if it was the first food he had tasted with any pleasure for days.
She glanced over to the bedside table and saw Oscar Wilde’s book open on it.
He saw her look. “Would you like it?” he offered.
“I couldn’t!” she said intently, blushing that he had caught her looking at it.
“Yes, you could,” he replied. “I can get another one. I would like you to have it. I have something to celebrate. Let me make a gift of it to you.” He reached out his hand, then saw the butter on his fingers and smiled ruefully. “Just take it. Please?”
She picked it up, holding it tight. “Thank you, sir.”
He was still smiling.
Pitt and Narraway found Cahoon Dunkeld with the Prince of Wales. They were obliged to wait until he had finished his discussion and was walking back alone along the corridor toward his own room. They caught up with him at the door and followed him in, to his intense annoyance.
“What the devil’s the matter with you?” he demanded, spinning round to face them, his face twisted with fury.
Narraway closed the door behind him. “Naturally, as Special Branch, we do not have the authority to arrest anyone, but in these unusual circumstances, I am obliged to make an exception.”
“Good,” Cahoon snapped. “You do not need my permission. Get on with it!”
“I know I do not need your permission,” Narraway replied tartly.
“Cahoon Dunkeld, I am arresting you for the murder of Wilhelmina Sorokine. You will be-”
Cahoon’s face turned scarlet. “Her husband killed her,” he said between clenched teeth. “If you seek to avoid your duty and blame this on me, I shall speak to the Prince and have you dismissed. And don’t doubt he can do it.”
“Probably,” Narraway conceded with a tight smile. “But he won’t, not since he knows that you had a dead prostitute brought in and disemboweled in the Queen’s bed, in order to blackmail him for the rest of his life. He will resent that-I can assure you.”
“Rubbish! You’re hysterical,” Cahoon said with disgust, but his voice was slurred and his hands were clenched till the knuckles shone.
“No, Mr. Dunkeld, Minnie was hysterical when she put all the pieces together. She saw the Limoges dish in your luggage; she knew the one in the Queen’s room had been broken; but you must have known in advance that it would be, or why bring one identical? She knew the box came in and went out with the same weight in it, and there were very few new books on Africa, if any at all. And she knew you: your nature, your courage, and your arrogance. And you knew that she would want a price for her silence, possibly the clearing of her husband from blame. Profoundly as you loved her, you could not afford to let her ruin you-and she would have.”
Cahoon stared at him. “You can’t prove that,” he said at last.
“None of it.”
“Yes,” Narraway said, glancing only for a second at Pitt, knowing he could not afford to take his eyes from Cahoon for any longer than that. “I can. A court might not compel your wife to testify, or believe her if she did. They might think your valet merely a distinguished servant, if a frightened one. But they will believe Tyndale, a Palace butler who owes you nothing. He saw the shards of the broken dish, and he saw the new one that replaced it.”
“Sorokine brought it!” Cahoon’s lips curved in the tiniest smile.
“How did he know about it?” Narraway asked. “He had never been to the Palace before, still less to the Queen’s bedroom. You did.
He did not arrange the prostitutes to come that evening, nor did he send for the box of books that don’t exist. Small pieces of evidence, Cahoon, but many of them, and the Limoges dish was a touch of reality too far. The blood was necessary, but that smashed dish was what caught you.”
Cahoon took a deep breath. “Pity,” he said, in control of himself again. “But you won’t charge me with it. If you think you can ever bring this to the public, then you are an even bigger fool than I supposed, and having seen you and your oaf there,” he glanced at Pitt,
“even the last few days, believe me, I thought you fool enough!”
Narraway’s cheeks paled with anger and his eyes glittered. “Of course we won’t!” he said with bitter relish. “I mentioned the murder to disconcert you. I believe in your own way, you loved her. After all, she was a female reflection of yourself, perhaps morally a little better, but then she was younger.” His smile widened a fraction. “All of it needs to be proved, of course, but the charge is for attempting to blackmail the heir to the throne.”
Cahoon was incredulous. “Blackmail? He’ll never bring a charge, you imbecile!”
Narraway stood perfectly still. “I’m bringing the charge, Mr.
Dunkeld, of treason. Naturally, to protect the security of the nation, it will not be a public trial.”
At last Dunkeld understood. The blood drained from his skin. He swayed very slightly, then, as if catching his balance, he turned and lunged at Pitt, fists flailing.
Pitt raised his foot hard and caught him in the groin. Dunkeld screamed-a high-pitched, tearing sound-and doubled over, pitch-ing violently into the doorpost with a crack that must have knocked him almost senseless.
Narraway gaped at Pitt in amazement.
Pitt shrugged very slightly, a warmth of satisfaction seeping through him. He might be ashamed of it later, but right now it felt good. “No point fighting his fists,” he observed. “I’d lose.”
Narraway shook his head. “He couldn’t have escaped.”
“No, of course not. But he would have half killed me, with nothing to lose, and I think that’s what he wanted.”
Narraway sighed. “Fool,” he said sadly. “You’d better tie him up.
Can’t afford to leave him with his hands free, not that one. Then lock the door.”
“Yes, sir,” Pitt agreed.
Narraway turned at the door. “Thank you,” he added.
The guests met in the sitting room with the Prince of Wales present. He was deeply distressed that the project had collapsed, but with the arrest of Cahoon Dunkeld it no longer had the driving force necessary to succeed. His displeasure was profound, overtaking his earlier embarrassment. But then, as Pitt observed to Narraway in a whisper, anger is always less uncomfortable than shame.
Liliane looked immensely relieved that the ordeal was over. Her eyes shone, her skin glowed, all her old beauty animated her face again. Hamilton seemed sober, the weight of immediate fear lifted from him too.
Simnel was quiet, the death of Minnie wrapping him in a pall of grief. Whether it had been her husband or her father who had killed her made no difference to him. He was still imprisoned by his need, leaving Olga as alone as before.
Julius was subdued. He had been too near a lifelong incarceration with the insane to recover in an hour or two. He had looked into an abyss and he could not dismiss or forget it.
Elsa also sat alone. Her husband had been arrested for killing his daughter. She faced a social nightmare of
