Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [112]
“Yes, of course they do! But…” Tyndale tailed off. His face was blotched; a muscle ticked in his jaw.
“Assemble the staff in the servants’ hall, Mr. Tyndale. I shall speak to them in fifteen minutes. I want everyone there,” Pitt ordered.
Tyndale hesitated.
“Don’t oblige me to ask the Prince of Wales’s assistance in this,” Pitt warned.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with the murder!” Tyndale protested again. “It’s…it’s a domestic matter! This is absurd.”
“An ornament is smashed on the night of a murder,” Pitt said grimly. “Someone was in the room, and committed a violent and extraordinary act, perhaps of rage. I want to know which room it was, and who was there. Assemble the staff, Mr. Tyndale.”
Tyndale left obediently, walking like a man under condemnation of some fearful punishment.
Pitt waited, feeling guilty. Was he really pursuing a clue that would explain the anomalies in the case and enable him to be satisfied that Julius Sorokine had killed both Sadie and his own wife? Or was he merely determined to force his will on Tyndale because he had defied him, and Pitt wanted an answer for no reason except his own satisfaction? Did he resent the fact that Minnie Sorokine could assemble these facts and deduce the truth, and he could not? Had she known some extra fact that he had not?
In fifteen minutes exactly he walked to the servants’ hall and saw them all dutifully lined up, hot-faced and frightened. Gracie was at the front, probably so as not to be hidden behind taller, plumper girls. He avoided looking at her.
“A Limoges plate was broken on the night the prostitute was murdered,” he said gently. “It was probably a pedestal plate, mostly white with a painting in the middle with quite a lot of blue in it and a gold rim. I don’t think any of you broke it. I think it may have been one of the guests, either the one who actually killed the woman, or someone who saw what happened.” That was a stretch of the truth. “I want to know which room it was in.”
They all stood staring at him. No one spoke.
“Who does the dusting?” he asked.
“Me and Norah, mostly,” Ada said nervously. “An’ Gracie, since she come.”
“Which room was that dish in?” Pitt asked.
“I dunno.”
“Didn’t you dust it?”
“I never seen it.”
Pitt turned to Mrs. Newsome. “You are the housekeeper—aren’t you responsible for works of art? Especially valuable ones?”
“Yes, I am,” Mrs. Newsome said stiffly. She looked puzzled and unhappy. She was avoiding looking at Mr. Tyndale so clearly that it was obvious.
“Where was that dish kept, Mrs. Newsome?”
“I don’t recall a dish like that,” she said flatly.
“Did you send maids to clean up, wash and scrub a room on the morning of the murder?”
“Of course. The linen cupboard. But only after you told me to,” she said stiffly.
“Before that! At the end of this wing, or into the east wing?”
“No. And the east wing is not my responsibility. I would be exceeding my authority to do that.”
There was nothing else he could think of to say. They stood stiffly, shoulders back, faces carefully blank. No one was going to tell him. There was nothing for him to do but accept defeat with the little dignity left him.
He returned to his own room confused and angry. He paced the floor, trying to think of a way to force Tyndale’s hand. He was certain Tyndale knew where the plate had been, and had told Minnie. The more he refused to say, the more certain Pitt became that it mattered.
It had belonged somewhere. Why were they all lying? He had not seen a flicker in the faces of any of them, even Mrs. Newsome. Was there any point in asking Gracie to speak to them? Were there any tiny pieces embedded in a carpet, or into the wood of the floorboards, between the cracks? Might Gracie even have seen it already, without recognizing what it was?
He went to the bellpull and was about to ring it, when another thought occurred to him. His hand froze, fingers stiff, still clinging to the pull. Maybe they were not lying. Perhaps they had not seen