Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [5]
The wound in her stomach was more jagged than the one in her throat, as if it had been made through something resistant, like cloth. It would be difficult to strip a lifeless body that was heavy, limp, and covered in blood. Why on earth do it? What could it be about her clothes that mattered so much? Something that would identify her killer?
Once the heart stops beating, blood gradually stops flowing, even with wounds like these. From the amount of blood on the sheets and the floor, she had to have died here. What was she doing in a linen cupboard? She was an invited guest, sanctioned by the Prince himself. She had no need to hide.
Unless she had left the Prince, already asleep or in a drunken stupor, and gone to earn a little extra money? Or possibly simply to enjoy herself with someone else, someone without a better place in which to be private? The obvious answer was one of the servants.
Still, Pitt could see no sense to it. Why had he then killed her? Had she threatened him with exposure? Would anyone care? Not a servant, unless his job were at risk. Would the Prince dismiss a servant for using the same prostitute he had used himself? What about one of the guests? Hardly, since their wives had gone to bed knowing the nature of the party they left. They might be hurt, angry, revolted, but no woman in such a position would expose herself to ridicule and, worse than that, public pity by drawing attention to her husband’s habits.
Pitt considered the possibility of a servant again. Perhaps one had been pressured into the theft of some small, valuable object, but killed his tormentor rather than fall into such a trap? No, that would not do. It did not answer the violence of the crime, the slashes across both throat and stomach. And who went to an assignation carrying the kind of knife that had done this damage?
There was nothing more to learn from this scene. He could sketch it quickly into his notebook to prompt his memory, then call a mortuary van and give them Narraway’s instructions to come and collect the body for the police surgeon.
He was on his way back down the stairs to find Narraway when he met Cahoon Dunkeld on the landing.
“Where have you been?” Dunkeld demanded, his face dark. “For heaven’s sake, man, don’t you realize this is urgent? What’s the matter with you?”
Pitt’s temper rose. Was it guilt, embarrassment, or fear that made Dunkeld so ill-mannered? Or was he simply an arrogant man who saw no need to be civil to those he considered inferior?
“Come on!” Dunkeld said abruptly. “His Royal Highness is waiting to see you.” He started up the stairs. “I assume you have made arrangements to have the body removed so the staff can clean up the cupboard and we can begin to get back to normal? With all your staring, did you find anything to indicate who this maniac is?”
Pitt ignored the question and kept up with Dunkeld, pace for pace. They were of equal height, although very differently built. Dunkeld was muscular, heavy-shouldered. Pitt was gangly, inelegant in any fashionable sense, and yet he had a certain grace. He took more care of his clothes now than he had done in the past, but he still put too much into his pockets, with the result that they bulged and poked, very often weighing down one side of his coat. He was clean-shaven, but most of the time his hair was unruly and too long.
It took several minutes to reach Narraway waiting outside the door of the room where presumably the Prince of Wales would receive them.
Pitt’s anger evaporated and he found himself suddenly intensely nervous. He had met the Prince before, at the end of the Whitechapel matter, but he did not expect to be remembered. At that time all attention had been on Charles Voisey, the man who had apparently saved the Throne at such great personal risk. But Voisey was dead now, and the whole issue was history.
Narraway turned as they arrived, his face bleak, his mouth a thin line. He met Pitt’s eyes questioningly, but Dunkeld allowed