Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [117]
Pitt left feeling confused and as if somehow he had also been beaten in a game of wits. It felt like a hollow pain inside him. He had escaped a danger, faced a man who had the power to damage him seriously, if not ruin him, and he had found nothing at all. In fact he had made a fool of himself.
He walked slowly along the corridor back toward the guest wing, trying to scramble his thoughts together and make sense out of a miasma of facts that seemed to be without meaning.
He became aware of a calm and very discreet woman standing where the corner turned.
“Mr. Pitt,” she said quietly.
He focused his attention. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales, would like to speak with you, if you can spare a few moments,” she said. It was a gracious way of phrasing what amounted to a command.
Pitt found the Princess in her sitting room as before. She was dressed in a high-necked tea gown with a froth of lace at the throat. She sat with her back ramrod straight and her head high. She was a beautiful woman, but more than by her coloring or regularity of feature, he was impressed by her dignity. She was what he expected and wished royalty to be. He stood to attention automatically.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” she said with a very slight smile. “I hear that poor Mrs. Sorokine has also become a victim of tragedy. I am so sorry. She was an unfortunate young woman.” She did not explain the remark, but regarded him as if she assumed he would understand the subtleness of her implication.
“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “I am afraid so.” He inclined his head to make his agreement clearer.
“Is it true that Mr. Sorokine is responsible?” she asked.
He gestured confusion by spreading his hands outward an inch or two. “It appears so.”
She understood. “But you are not certain?”
“Not yet, ma’am.”
“Do you expect to be?”
“I wish to be. I wish very much to be.”
She nodded slowly. Apparently she had understood. There was a flash of what could have been gratitude in her eyes, including a shred of the faintest, self-mocking humor. “I am sure. Is there any way in which I might assist you? I see that you have just been speaking with His Royal Highness.”
“Yes, ma’am. There was a piece of Limoges porcelain broken and I was inquiring whether he knew where it was normally kept. None of the servants appears to recognize it.”
“And it has to do with the death of one of these poor women?” she asked. “What was it like?”
“It is hard to tell from what is left, ma’am, but it seems to have been a pedestal plate.” He outlined it with his hands. “With a lot of gold lattice, I think around the rim, and a picture in the middle with bright cobalt blue.” He spoke slowly, but he was still not sure, from the look of total bewilderment in her eyes, if she had understood him at all. “Blue, like the sky.” He looked upwards. “And gold around the edge.” He made a circle in the air with his finger.
“I hear you, Mr. Pitt,” she said softly. “Your diction is excellent. But I am puzzled. There is exactly such a dish in Her Majesty’s own bedroom. She is very fond of it, not for itself particularly, but because it was a gift from one of the princesses, when she was quite young.”
She must have misunderstood him after all. And yet meeting his steady gaze she appeared to be perfectly certain not only of what she had said, but also the enormity of its meaning. He struggled to think of something to say that was not absurd.
The Princess rose to her feet. “I think, Mr. Pitt, that we had better go and see if Her Majesty’s plate has indeed been broken. When she returns, we should have some explanation, and apology