Anne Perry: Buckingham Palace Gardens

Narraway stopped. “Such as what?”

“I have no idea. That’s what I would like to find out. How was she dressed? Who did she oblige? The Prince, presumably. Who else?”

Narraway smiled, and then the amusement vanished like a light going out. “Pitt, I think you had better leave that part of your investigation until such time as it should become unavoidable.”

“Suddenly it’s my investigation?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. He started down again.

“I’ll make the political decisions, you gather the evidence and in-terpret it.” Narraway followed hard on his heels. “First we must find Tyndale, acquire a list of all the staff who were here last night and whichever guards were on duty for any entrance to this part of the building. And search for the dead woman’s clothes,” he added. “Or some signs as to how they were disposed of.”

Tyndale was very obliging, although his manner made it apparent that he deplored the suggestion that a member of his staff could be responsible for such a barbaric act. He could not fight against the conclusion because he could not afford to, but neither did he accede to it.

“Yes, sir. Of course I will make available every member of staff so you may interview them. But I insist upon being present myself.” He met Pitt’s eyes with acute misery.

Pitt admired him. He was a man caught in an impossible situation and trying to be loyal to all his obligations. Sooner or later he would have to choose, and Pitt knew it, even if he did not.

“I’m sorry. .” Narraway began.

“Of course,” Pitt agreed at the same moment.

Narraway turned his head sharply.

Tyndale waited, embarrassed.

“I shall welcome your assistance,” Pitt said, looking at neither of them. “But it is imperative that you do not interrupt. Do you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we will begin with whoever admitted the women when they arrived,” Pitt directed. “And go on through who waited on them through the evening until someone saw the other two leave. Did they ask after the third? What explanation was given?”

“It would be Cuttredge who let them in, sir, and Edwards who saw them out,” Tyndale answered. “I already asked Edwards, and he said he thought at the time that the last one must have been staying until morning. He’s. . not very experienced.”

“That never happens?” Pitt asked.

The muscles in Tyndale’s face tightened. “No, sir, not with a woman of that class.”

Pitt did not pursue it. “Then if we could see Cuttredge first, and after him, whoever took them to. . wherever they went. And any staff that waited on them later on. And I need to have her clothes, if they can be found.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Tyndale had gone Pitt considered apologizing to Narraway for countermanding his orders, then decided against it. It was a bad precedent to set. There was no room for protecting position or defer-ring to rank. The price of failure would descend on them all.

Tyndale returned with Cuttredge, who was a man of very average appearance but entered with a certain dignity; he answered all their questions without hesitation. He described letting the women in with only the very faintest distaste, and a military precision as to where he had taken them and at what time. He had not noticed their faces.

One street woman was much like another to him. It was obviously part of his duty that he disliked, but did not dare express that.

“And you did not see them leave?” Pitt asked.

“No, sir. That would be Edwards. I was off duty by that time.”

“Where were you?” Narraway asked, leaning forward a little in his chair.

Cuttredge’s eyes widened. He glanced at Tyndale, then back again. “In bed, sir! I have to get up before six in the morning.”

“Where do you sleep?” Narraway asked.

Cuttredge drew in his breath to answer, then quite suddenly realized the import of the question and the blood drained from his skin.

“Upstairs, where the rest of the staff do. I. . I never left my room.”

He drew in his breath to say something further, then gulped and remained silent.

“Thank you, Mr. Cuttredge,” Pitt excused him.

Cuttredge remained seated, his hands grasping each other. “What happened? They’re saying she’s dead. . one of the women. Is that true?”

Tyndale opened his mouth and then closed it again, remembering Pitt’s warning.

“Yes, it is,” Pitt answered Cuttredge. “Think carefully. Did you hear anything said, an altercation, a quarrel, perhaps an arrangement for her to see someone else after the party? Even a suggestion that she already knew someone here, or they knew her?”

“Certainly not,” Cuttredge said instantly.

Narraway hid a tight smile.

“Not necessarily professionally, Mr. Cuttredge,” Pitt pointed out.

“Had she been here before?”

Cuttredge glanced at Tyndale, who nodded permission to answer.

“No,” Cuttredge replied. “That I do know. The arrangement wasn’t made by any of us. It was. . it was Mr. Dunkeld.”

“Indeed. Thank you.” Pitt excused him again, and he left.

The next man to be seen was Edwards, who had let out the two other women. He was younger, slimmer, and, in spite of the circumstances, rather confident, as if his sudden importance excited him. He said he had noticed nothing unexpected, and he did not look to Tyndale for support. He reported that both women seemed cheerful, definitely a little drunk, but not in any way afraid or alarmed. Certainly neither of them had suffered any injury. He himself had gone to bed when most of the clearing-up had been done and the main reception room at least was ready for the morning.

“Close to two o’clock, sir, or as near as I can recall,” he finished.

“And you went to bed yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you pass anywhere near the linen cupboard on your way up to your quarters?” Narraway put in.

Edwards was deeply unhappy and now consciously avoiding Tyndale’s eyes. “Yes, sir, I did. I walked along that very passage. I shouldn’t ’ave. We’re supposed to go the long way round, but it was late and I was tired. It’s hard work making certain everything’s right.

Bottles, glasses, cigar ash on the good rugs an’ all. Stuff spoiled. It’s no five-minute job, I can tell you.”

“Don’t you have maids to help?” Narraway asked him.

Edwards looked aggrieved. “ ’Course we do, but not at that time o’ night. An’ it’s still my job to see it’s right. All the furniture back in its places, marks washed out, everything smelling like new again. So the ladies who are guests come down in the morning an’ can’t even smell there was a party, never mind see the dregs of it around.”

Pitt wondered if any of the women were fooled, or if it simply allowed them the dignity of pretending they were. There were occasions when blindness was wise.

“You passed the linen cupboard,” he prompted.

“I didn’t see or ’ear nothing,” Edwards told him quickly.

“Or smell anything?” Pitt asked.

Again Tyndale moved uncomfortably, and with an obvious effort forbore from interrupting.

Edwards drew in his breath and bit his lip. “Smell?” he said shakily. “What would I smell? You mean. .” He could not bring himself to say the word.

“Blood,” Pitt said for him. “It has a sweet, ironlike smell, when there is so much of it. But I imagine if the door was closed that would be sufficient to conceal it. The door was closed, wasn’t it? Or was it ajar? Think back, and be very careful to answer exactly.”

“It was closed,” Edwards said without thinking at all. “If it’d been open I’d ’ave seen it. It opens that way, the way I was going.” He took a deep breath. “Was she. . was she in there then?” He gave an invol-untary shudder, betraying more vulnerability than he had meant to.