Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [82]
Hamilton Quase put his wineglass down with a shaking hand, slopping some of it over, even though it was half empty. “You seem to be assuming it was the same person. I don’t know why! It doesn’t have to be. Unfortunately slashing prostitutes to death is not a unique propensity.”
“Straining coincidence a little far, don’t you think?” Dunkeld’s face was twisted with sarcasm. “Exactly the same way, with the same three men present? Even Pitt could get far enough to see the unlikelihood of that. But if he can’t, then I shall have to give him a little assistance.”
“Perhaps you should tell him who the Whitechapel murderer is at the same time?” Quase suggested bitingly. “The whole country would be glad to know. Except whoever it is, of course.”
“That’s irrelevant,” Mr. Marquand observed contemptuously. “None of us were in London in the autumn of 1888.”
“Except Papa,” Mrs. Sorokine said. “You were here, because I was too, and I saw you. We all knew what happened to those women, everybody did.” She smiled dazzlingly, her eyes too bright. “And in case you think that is irrelevant, my point is that when something hideous happens, people get to know about it, and could copy it closely enough, if they were sufficiently insane, or sufficiently evil.”
“I have finished all the fish I desire to eat.” Mrs. Quase laid her implements on the plate and turned toward Gracie. “Would you remove my plate, and begin to serve the next course? You have no need to fear interrupting the conversation. It is finished.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gracie said obediently.
“And get me some more wine,” Mr. Quase added, holding up the almost empty bottle so she could see the label.
“No! Thank you,” Mrs. Quase cut across him. “We have sufficient. Just clear away the plates.”
“If my wife doesn’t want the wine, she doesn’t need to have it.” Quase swiveled in his chair unsteadily until he was facing Gracie. “I do. Fetch it. Take this, so you get the right one.” He thrust the bottle out toward her.
Mr. Sorokine stood up and took it from him. “Just clear the dishes,” he told Gracie. “The footman will bring whatever wine we are having with the next course. It may be red, or at least something different.”
Gracie took the bottle, relieved at being rescued. “Yes, sir.” She turned to give it to Ada just beyond the door, then began to collect the plates with Biddie’s help.
By the time she had taken them to the kitchen and returned, the next course was served and they were all eating again, or pretending to.
Mrs. Sorokine seemed too excited to do more than take the occasional mouthful. She went on making oblique remarks to her father, as if deliberately baiting him. Sometimes he ignored her, once or twice he responded sharply, almost viciously.
Gracie saw Mrs. Dunkeld flinch, as if the barbs had been directed at her. There was an unhappiness in her face in repose, a kind of stillness as if she were concentrating on mastering pain. It made Gracie wonder how much she was afraid, and whether it was all for herself or for a tragedy that had yet to happen and could overtake them all. Did she actually have some idea which of the men sitting at the table around her had done this nightmarish thing?
When Mrs. Sorokine was not looking at her father, her eyes flashed to Simnel Marquand. Gracie did not see her once look at her husband. What did that mean? That she did not want to, or that she did not dare?
Olga Marquand remained almost silent.
The course was cleared and the roast beef served, then the puddings, and lastly the biscuits, cheese, and fruit. Gracie managed to fetch and carry without dropping anything or getting anything seriously wrong until the very end, when Ada bumped her elbow and she sent a pile of dirty plates crashing down the stairs. Nothing was broken, but Gracie spent the next half hour cleaning it up and washing the stains out of the carpet.
“Uppity little cow!” Ada observed with satisfaction as she walked around her, lifting her skirts