Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [72]
“He seems to have succeeded,” she said, her voice like ice. “You have lost control of your temper—again.”
“No I haven’t,” he contradicted her. “If I had, you would be senseless on the floor.” He went out and closed the door hard.
She went to it and turned the key in the lock, then sank onto the bed and wept.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
GRACIE HAD TAKEN the bloodstained knife to Pitt, who had immediately seen the significance of it. Someone had placed it there after they had searched the cupboard on finding the body. That meant it could only be someone living right here in this guest wing of the Palace. Had they done it to get rid of it, in case Pitt caught them with it, or so he could find it and blame someone else? That was probably what Pitt was thinking of right now. Gracie scrubbed the laundry floor. Ada liked to give her the heaviest, wettest work to keep her aware of her position at the bottom of the hierarchy, just in case she forgot.
Gracie thought of the Queen’s bloodstained sheets as well. It didn’t seem to make any sense. Would Pitt manage to find out who did it, and, even more than that, prove it?
Her brush moved a little slower. What if he didn’t find out? That thought frightened her. She didn’t know what they would do to him, but she understood power, and anger, and fear. Surely even the people here would not be able to cover up a scandal like this. Or maybe they would think they had to. She could remember five years ago when the Whitechapel murderer had struck. There had been anger in the streets then. A lot of it in the East End had become very ugly. Anarchists and republicans had turned against the Queen. There had been talk of getting rid of her and setting up a new kind of government, without a monarchy any more. There had even been crazy talk that someone in the royal family had had a hand in it. That was really daft. One of the first things you did in detecting was to find out where people were. She had known that for years.
But she also knew how stupid people could be repeating things that a moment’s thought would have told them couldn’t be true. Anger doesn’t need much food to grow. Poor and hungry people have more feeling than sense. She had grown up in the East End and she knew her own beginnings, even if she had left them behind for Keppel Street and was now busy on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor of the Queen’s laundry.
She wiped the last yard and fetched fresh water to begin in the morning room, excusing herself to Biddie, who was busy ironing petticoats.
She started to scrub again.
Those three women the Prince had here were the same sort as the ones the Whitechapel murderer had attacked. So was this murder a similar attempt to try to destroy the Crown? Did Pitt know that? Or was he being used without realizing it, to break open another scandal? The thought made her so angry she bruised her fingers on the sides of the scrubbing brush and caught a bristle under her nail.
She was sitting on the floor in the corner out of sight, trying to pick the splinter out when she heard footsteps in the passage and then a rustle of fabric as skirts brushed the sides of the door. It sounded like silk. A maid’s plain cotton dress made no sound. She ignored the piece of bristle and moved a little forward to see across the passageway.
It was a deep, plum-pink silk, and very wide. That would be Mrs. Sorokine—she liked such hot colors.
The silk moved farther inside and a moment later the sound of Minnie’s voice proved her correct.
“I wonder if you could iron this for me?” Minnie asked. “I’ve gotten it rather crumpled, and I don’t want my maid to know how careless I was.”
Biddie was startled. She let the iron slip out of her hand and it struck the ironing table with a thud.
“I’m sorry,” Minnie apologized. “I didn’t mean to make