Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [30]
She changed her mind about attempting to help with laundry and decided to do some detecting instead. She pulled out the other wicker laundry basket and opened it up. Her heart beat violently and her stomach lurched. It was full of sheets, white, with scarlet splashes fading into brown. They were soaked, spattered, and smeared with blood. At the edges it was dull and dried, but in the middle the stains were still red and when she touched her fingertip to them they were damp. Poor woman. There was so much of it! She must have bled and bled. Gracie was a little numb at the thought. What would make anybody do such a thing? And here, of all the places in England.
But then a lot of this was not really as she had thought it would be. It was the Queen’s house. It should be different from everywhere else in the world. And yet the dust and the ring marks on tables, the dropped ash, the scuffs on the floor, were exactly like anyone’s house. Except that Pitt would have picked up after himself, and since he could not afford to replace his carpets and tables—he had had to save up to buy them in the first place—he would have taken more care of them.
One of those men really had killed that woman. Why? What kind of rage made you do something like that? Did they think they could get away with it? She had already realized that the servants here protected people from having to pay for reality the way most people do. Would they hide even this? Was that part of the job description? Were they paying you not only for your time and your obedience but for your conscience as well? She could just imagine what Samuel would say about that!
But would it help you if the law came after you? That was a totally new thought. Did Pitt have any real power here? If not, why would they pretend with nice words that they wanted him to expose the culprit ready for prosecution, only then to cover it up and deal with it themselves? She knew the answer: because they couldn’t find out without him. Perhaps they needed his brains but not his honesty. How would they make him keep silent about what he knew? Did he face a danger he knew nothing of?
She was cold now, even though it was steaming hot down here, and the air was full of the smell of soap and washing soda. What could she do to help him? Should she warn him? Would that be good, or only make it worse?
She started to look through the sheets again, deeper into the basket. This might be her only chance to examine them before they were washed. They were of a quality she had never felt before: fine and soft, their threads so fine they could have been silk. And she could smell the sickly odor of the blood.
They were all stitched with tiny holes along the seam at the hem. She had seen people do drawn thread work like that. It took hours. It was beautiful. Some of them had other embroidery on as well. The two very best had what looked like a V and an R, in satin stitch, and a little crown. Victoria Regina. It could only mean one thing: The Queen’s sheets had been in the cupboard where the poor woman was killed! But they were drenched in blood, soaked in it! And they were crumpled. They had been lain on, in fact they had been slept in. The blood was smeared and marked more lightly, as if transferred from someone’s body who had rolled in it.
Gracie galvanized into movement. She must hide them where they could not be found, then go to fetch Pitt. She had no idea what this information meant, but someone was lying pretty badly, because this made no sense at all. Who had stolen the Queen’s sheets, and used them, and for what? To