Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [106]
“You in’t sure as ’e did it, are yer?” she said in awe.
He had not realized she knew about Julius Sorokine, but he should have. Orders had been given to Tyndale for all the staff that they must leave Julius’s door locked, and food was to be delivered only by Tyndale himself, taking a manservant with him. That would go around the staff like wildfire. Suddenly they would all feel safe. The mystery was solved and the madman locked up. Gracie would have assumed the same thing. Now she was staring at him with a clarity sharper than his own.
“If we are to lock him up for the rest of his life, we have to be certain, beyond any question,” he answered, trying to convince himself. “At least I do.”
She nodded slowly. “Well, if it in’t ’im, then it’s someone else,” she said quietly. “I’ll see if Mrs. Sorokine found out about them bottles or not. But more’n anything else for meself, I’d like ter know wot that blood were for, an’ ’ow it got ’ere.”
“Gracie, be careful!”
“You be careful, Mr. Pitt,” she answered him fiercely. “If it weren’t Mr. Sorokine, it’s still one o’ ’em guests. It in’t one o’ the servants, so they won’t be after me. ’E may be mad as an ’atter, but ’e in’t daft. An’ it in’t the only thing goin’ on ’ere neither, sir. I don’t like to say it, but there’s summink ’orrid as Mr. Tyndale knows about an’ ’e don’t want nobody else knowin’ it.”
“Then don’t look for it!” he said sharply. “That’s an order. Do you hear me?”
She sat very stiffly. “Yes, sir, course I ’ear yer. Can I go now, then? If they in’t gonner work out ’oo I am, then I in’t better be ’ere longer’n I can explain, ’ad I?”
He watched her go with a sense of misgiving, as if the solution he had first grasped were already slipping out of his hands, and out of control.
He took another piece of toast and ate it without being aware of the taste.
Could Minnie have confided in anyone else, perhaps asked them questions that might have indicated her train of thought? Perhaps it did not matter to the case, but it mattered to him that he understood what had happened and saw all the pieces fit together. It was more than simple hurt pride that Minnie Sorokine had organized all the elements into a clear picture and made sense of them, and he had not. As long as he did not see the connections, he would fear that somewhere there was a mistake, and the conclusion might be wrong. It nagged at his mind that they were proving a crime of uncontrollable insanity, committed with careful and intricate forethought. Were there two minds at work here?
Who would Minnie confide in, apart from her father? The men had been busy with the project, unavailable to her most of the day. She would not have spoken to Elsa; relations between them were strained.
Olga Marquand was consumed in her own unhappiness, and must have hated Minnie enough to have destroyed her herself, if she could have. That meant it had to be Liliane. Was Liliane any less afraid now?
Pitt found her outside in the gardens alone, walking close to the flower beds. Their vividness and perfect order seemed a mockery of the agitated way she moved and the distracted look in her face under her broad-brimmed hat, which shaded her complexion from the glare of the sun.
He caught up with her, speaking when he was still two or three yards away, because he could see from her attitude that she was unaware of his approach.
“Good morning, Mrs. Quase.”
She froze, and then turned slowly. In the warmth and perfume of the silent garden she was even more beautiful than in the formal setting. Her eyes were golden brown, and what was visible of her hair shone like polished copper, but lighter and softer.
“Good morning, Inspector,” she replied. “Are you lost?”
“Not literally,” he replied. “I was hoping to speak to you for a few moments.” He was not asking permission, merely phrasing his intention courteously.
“Metaphorically?” she asked, then instantly wondered if she had used a word he did not know.