Anne Perry: Buckingham Palace Gardens

“Probably not,” Pitt replied, although the moment after he had said it, he thought perhaps he was wrong. She had almost certainly been killed before that, and from the amount of blood, she had obviously been killed in the cupboard. But if Edwards were right and the door had been closed, then someone else had opened it between two o’clock when Edwards passed, and six or so when Dunkeld found the body.

Edwards also could prove neither that he had gone to bed nor that he had stayed there.

“He must be lying about the door being closed,” Narraway said as soon as Edwards was gone.

“Or the latch is faulty,” Pitt answered. “We’ll look at it, Mr. Tyndale.”

“No, sir, it’s perfectly good,” Tyndale replied. “I closed it myself. .

after. . after they took the body away.”

They spoke to the rest of the male staff as well and learned nothing of use. No one had found the dead woman’s clothes. Tyndale ordered tea for them, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Newsome, herself brought it up on a tray with oatmeal biscuits.

They stopped long enough to drink the tea and eat all the biscuits. Then they interviewed the menservants of the four visitors, this time without Tyndale present, because they were not his responsibility. They gave the same unhelpful result.

Mrs. Newsome brought more tea, and this time sandwiches as well.

“One of them must be guilty,” Narraway said unhappily, taking the last of the roast beef sandwiches and eating it absentmindedly.

“She didn’t do that to herself. And no woman would do that to another, even if she could.”

“We’d better speak to all the female staff,” Pitt said resignedly.

“Somebody is lying. Even the smallest slip might help.” He would have liked another sandwich, but there was only ham left now, and he didn’t fancy it. “I’ll get Tyndale to fetch them.”

It took a great deal of patience to draw from them very little indeed. No one knew anything, had heard anything, or seen anything.

There were tears, protests of innocence, and a very real danger of fainting or hysterics.

“Nothing!” Narraway said in exasperation after they were all gone. “We haven’t learned a damn thing! It could still have been anyone.”

“We’ll start again,” Pitt replied wearily. “Somebody did it.

There’ll be an inconsistency, a character flaw somebody knows about.” He was repeating it to comfort himself as much as Narraway.

Impatience was a fault in investigation, sometimes a fatal one.

He turned to Tyndale. “Where do the guests’ servants sleep?”

“Upstairs in the servants’ quarters,” Tyndale replied. He looked exhausted, his skin blotched on his cheeks, the freckles standing out on the backs of his hands resting on the tabletop. “We’ve plenty of room for them. All guests bring their own personal servants.”

“Maybe they’ll remember seeing or hearing something. Do they eat with the Palace servants?”

“Not usually,” Tyndale responded. “They’re not really part of Palace discipline. We have no control over them.” He said it wearily, as if with long memory of unfortunate incidents.

“Please get them back here, one at a time.”

They began with Quase’s man, who said only what he had said before. The second to come was Cahoon Dunkeld’s man, florid-faced and sunburned like his master. He stood to attention.

“Came down the servants’ stairs, sir?” he said to Pitt’s question.

“No, sir. Not possible, sir, unless it were after two in the morning. I was up an’ about myself, sir. Pantry at the end o’ that corridor, right opposite the bottom o’ the stairs. Was up there getting Mr. Dunkeld an ’ot drink, sir. Bit of an upset stomach, ’e had. In an’ out, an’ along that corridor, I was, right from the time ’e came up to bed.”

“An upset stomach?” Narraway’s eyes opened very wide.

The man looked uncomfortable. “Yes, sir. If you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, His Royal Highness can ’old ’is drink rather better than most. Mr. Dunkeld doesn’t like to let ’im down, so ’e keeps pace, like, but times are ’e pays for it. Best prevent that, if you can. Spot o’ the hair o’ the dog as bit you, if you get my meaning?”

“That’s usually the following morning!” Narraway said tartly.

The man pulled his mouth into a grimace. “I got me own remedies, sir. Duty of a gentleman’s gentleman to know these things. I couldn’t see the door to that cupboard ’cos it’s round the corner from the pantry, but I could see the servants’ stairs, an’ I’d stake me oath no one came down that way. Not before ’alf-past two in the morning.

An’ just Mr. Edwards went up.”

“You said two!” Narraway said sharply.

“Yes, sir. I waited another ’alf hour, in case Mr. Dunkeld needed me again. ’Ad a cup o’ tea meself. No point in just getting to sleep, an’

’aving to get up an’ go back down again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.” He still stood straight as a ramrod. “An’ in case you’re thinking as it was me as killed that poor creature, Mr. Dunkeld’ll swear for me, sir. Didn’t ’ave time, nor any idea, to do summink like that.”

“Thank you,” Narraway said thoughtfully, his face bleak and pale.

“That’ll be all.”

“Yes, sir.” He withdrew gratefully.

Narraway looked at Pitt. “I am afraid it begins to look as if this party of His Royal Highness’s will require a great deal more investigation. If what Edwards and Dunkeld’s man say is true, then the conclusion cannot be avoided that one of the guests is a madman.”

Elsa dunkeld awoke to find Bartle, her lady’s maid, standing at the foot of the bed with a tray in her hands. The curtains were already opened and the sun streamed in, lighting the unfamiliar room. It was a moment before she remembered where she was. She had slept poorly, troubled by dreams of empty corridors, through which she was looking for someone she never found. They were there in the distance, and then when she approached, they turned to face her and were someone else, strangers she fled from.

“Good morning, Bartie,” she said, sitting up slowly. She saw that the tray was set not for morning tea but for breakfast. She had not wished for breakfast in bed, but perhaps that would be pleasanter than facing the others again so soon.

“I’m afraid it isn’t a very good day, Miss Elsa.” Bartle set the tray down on the table beside the bed to leave Elsa room to arrange herself comfortably. She had been with Elsa since before her marriage to Cahoon Dunkeld seven years ago, and never doubted with whom her loyalty lay. She was in her fifties, broad-hipped, sensible but with a startlingly fresh sense of humor. Mostly she kept her opinions to herself, which, considering what they were, was just as well.

“I don’t suppose it will be any worse than yesterday,” Elsa replied with a slight smile, pushing her hair back off her brow. “We can manage it for a week.”

“I’m afraid today will be a lot worse,” Bartle said grimly. “You’d better take a sip or two o’ that tea.” She placed the tray on Elsa’s lap and poured from the pot without being asked to.

“Why? Is Mr. Dunkeld in an ill temper?” As soon as Elsa had said it she regretted being so frank. She should keep her fear to herself.

“Not as far as I know, ma’am,” Bartle answered, pulling her lips tight. “In fact, full of ’imself. Taking charge of everything.”

That was unusual candor, even for Bartle. For the first time it occurred to Elsa that there was something really wrong. “What is it?”

she said nervously. “What’s happened?” She imagined some romantic intrigue. The first and most obvious one that came to her mind concerned Cahoon’s daughter by his first marriage, Minnie Sorokine.