Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [111]
“Exactly,” he agreed. “And why would Mr. Tyndale wish to protect a prostitute who was also a thief? I think the fact that it is broken is what matters.”
“Yer gonna ask Mr. Tyndale?” She was looking at him now in intense concentration.
“Yes, I am.”
Pitt spent a little more time searching for other pieces large enough to give a better idea of the shape and diameter of the plate, and formed the opinion that it was possibly a pedestal dish rather than a flat one. Some of the pieces were too thick to be part of an ordinary plate.
He put them in the box again and carried them down to the butler’s pantry, where he found Tyndale with ledgers open and a pen in his hand. Apparently he was working on the cellar records. He looked up. Pitt came in and closed the door.
“What may I do for you, Mr. Pitt?” Tyndale said coolly.
Pitt leaned against the wall. “Tell me where the Limoges pedestal dish was, and how it came to be broken,” he replied.
The color bleached from Tyndale’s face and his voice came only with an effort. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no idea what you are talking about. Her Majesty has literally thousands of pieces of porcelain. If one has been broken, I know nothing of it. I don’t believe it was in this wing. If it were, one of the maids would have told me.”
“Mrs. Sorokine knew where it came from,” Pitt told him.
Tyndale looked even whiter. Pitt was afraid he was on the verge of some kind of attack, possibly his heart. “I’m sorry.” He meant it, but he could not afford the mercy he would have liked. “Julius Sorokine faces a lifetime in an asylum, without trial. Before I let that happen to anyone, I am going to be certain beyond any sane or reasonable doubt that he is responsible for the deaths of these women. I am going to find out who smashed a Limoges plate the night Sadie was killed. I can do it quietly, with your help, Mr. Tyndale, or I can question every manservant in the place, and find out whatever it was Mrs. Sorokine found out, and which very likely cost her her life!”
“Her husband killed her,” Tyndale told him, his voice catching in his throat. “This…this breakage had nothing to do with it. It’s another matter altogether, and private.”
“There is no privacy where there is murder, Mr. Tyndale. What was the ornament, and where was it? How did it get broken, and why did you hide it?”
Tyndale was wretched. He loathed lying and it was naked in his face.
“It was broken by accident. I didn’t hide it, I simply disposed of the pieces. There is no point in keeping them. No one could mend it. For heaven’s sake, Inspector, it’s shattered! It’s dust!”
“I can see that. I can also see that it was Limoges, and probably very beautiful. Where was it and who broke it?”
“One of the maids, but no one is taking responsibility. I can’t punish anyone for clumsiness when I don’t know who it is.” Tyndale looked eminently reasonable, his voice was steadying again.
Pitt had not the slightest doubt that he was lying. Minnie Sorokine had pursued this, and learned what it was. How? What questions had she asked that Pitt had not? Why had Tyndale answered her, and yet would not tell Pitt? What terrible thing had her questions made him realize?
“At what time?” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” Tyndale was putting off answering.
“When was it broken? At what time? That will tell you who did it, surely?”
“I…I don’t know.” Tyndale was flustered. “Some time the…the day of the death of that woman. We were all upset. I dare say we didn’t notice it immediately.”
“A Limoges plate was lying smashed on the floor, and the maid cleaning didn’t notice it?” Pitt said with open disbelief. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tyndale, but that won’t do. Where was the dish?”
“I don’t know.” Tyndale’s face was set in refusal.
“It was a pedestal dish,” Pitt said, guessing as he went. “Mostly white with a blue picture in the center, and a gold edge. I found pieces of those.”
“I don’t know,” Tyndale repeated stubbornly.
“Then I shall