Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [41]
But as he went down the corridor he could not stop Dunkeld’s words beating in his mind. Had his sense of disgust sounded self-righteous? Had he shown it where a better man would not have? He did not like Dunkeld, and he had been unsophisticated enough to allow the man to see it, and no doubt the Prince of Wales as well. And obviously the Prince not only liked and trusted Dunkeld, he seemed to be relying on both his judgment and his loyalty.
Pitt could have shown loyalty as well, and some sympathy for a man who had unwittingly invited into his home—or more accurately his mother’s home—a man who had turned out to be a lunatic. If he had, he would have earned the Prince’s gratitude, and taken the next step up the ladder toward being a gentleman.
Never mind whether he owed that to his children. Every man wants his sons and daughters to have more than he had. Unquestionably he owed it to Charlotte. She had been born into a financially comfortable and socially respected family. Her sister, Emily, had married Lord Ashworth, and on his death inherited his fortune. Her son had all his father’s privileges to inherit. Charlotte had married Pitt, and her son would have the best education Pitt could afford for him, but nothing else.
Dunkeld was right; he could have given Charlotte more than that for her children, even for himself, and had allowed his pride and anger to stop him. He was startled by his own selfishness, and sick that it had taken Dunkeld, of all people, to show it to him.
He was in one of the main corridors now. It was vast compared with his own house. How could he possibly feel so shut in, almost imprisoned, in such a place? He should be proud to be here at all, not longing to escape.
He must learn all he could about the guests, including Dunkeld himself. Narraway was investigating the facts: reputation, financial standing, ambitions, friends, and enemies. Pitt must explore their natures, their angers and fears, their knowledge of one another. One of them had slashed a woman to death. Underneath the courteous, intelligent exterior there had to be a madman driven by a hatred so bestial he could not control it even within the Palace walls.
Pitt spoke to Hamilton Quase first. He was obliged to draw him from a conversation with Marquand, but he could not find Julius Sorokine, and he was not going to address Dunkeld again so soon.
He had something of a plan. It was not enough to give him confidence, merely a place to begin. He sat in a large armchair in the room Tyndale had given him. He was facing Hamilton Quase in one of the other chairs. Quase crossed his legs elegantly and waited. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot and his skin, beneath the darkening of sun and wind, was mottled by too much drink. He kept his hands still in his lap, but Pitt thought that were he to hold them more loosely, they might tremble.
“Will you describe the party to me, Mr. Quase?” Pitt began bluntly. “From the beginning. Who arranged it? Whose idea was it?”
Quase looked slightly surprised. “You don’t think the murder of that unfortunate woman was planned, surely? Why on earth would anyone do something so…so stupid? And dangerous.” He had a good voice, stronger than one might have expected from his slightly unsteady air.
“What do you think?” Pitt returned.
Quase’s eyebrows rose even higher. “I’ve no idea who did it, if that’s what you are asking.”
Pitt smiled very slightly. “If you did know, why would you not have told me?”
Quase smiled back with a sudden flash of humor. “Is there some kind of penalty for the first one of us to answer a question? Do we lose?”
“Lose what?”
“The struggle, the battle of wits,” Quase replied.
“Then I have won,” Pitt told him.
“Oh…yes.” Quase smiled back. “I answered you. Does it feel like a victory?”
“Not at all. Why would we be battling? Are we not on the same side?”
“That depends upon how far we go,” Quase answered. “I don’t know who killed