Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [88]
He looked at her again and saw more clearly now that there were bruises on her face. They were little more than marks, since she had died very shortly afterward. But there were also scratches on her hands and lower arms, as if she had struggled to defend herself. That would account for the scratches on Julius’s face and hands, which Cahoon had said he had seen as soon as he had gone into Julius’s bedroom, and before he had attacked him himself.
With shaking hands Pitt drew her as she lay. It was out of proportion and the lines were uncertain, because he could not stop his trembling. Then he sketched the room roughly. It was difficult to tell if anything was seriously out of place; perhaps the maid would know. He would have to ask her. Nothing was broken or torn, except a small crystal bowl whose pieces were in the wastebasket. There was no glass on the floor. The breakage could have happened at any time since the basket was last emptied—presumably yesterday morning.
It seemed indecent to leave Minnie here, but there was nowhere else he could put her until Narraway came. It had been different with Sadie. Cahoon had had her moved to the ice house, almost as if she were a side of beef: an action that was distressing but highly practical. The police surgeon would be given both bodies later.
He took the top sheet off the bed, which had not been slept in, and laid it over her. Then he went out into the corridor, taking the key with him, and locked the door from the outside.
He went downstairs, found Tyndale, and asked permission to use the telephone. It was fifteen minutes before he made contact with Narraway. He was alone in the butler’s pantry with the door closed.
“What is it?” Narraway said eagerly.
“There’s been another murder,” Pitt replied. He heard Narraway’s breath drawn in sharply. “Mrs. Sorokine,” he went on. He was oddly out of breath. “In her own bedroom. Otherwise it is almost exactly the same. Done roughly the same time of night. Found by Dunkeld. So far it appears most likely that it was her husband.”
Narraway was silent for several moments. “I’m surprised,” he said at last. “Although I shouldn’t be. It had to be one of them. Is that your judgment, Pitt, that it was Sorokine?”
It was not his judgment, it was facts forced on him. “I’m not certain yet. I’ve locked him in his room. We’ll have to prove it.”
“Of course we’ll have to prove it! Why, in God’s name? Why would he kill her where he’s bound to be found out? Is he raving?”
“No. He seems perfectly sane, just stunned.”
“Admit anything?”
“No.”
“I’ll be there in an hour, or less if I can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pitt hung up the instrument and left the pantry to where Tyndale was waiting for him, pale-faced.
“There has been another death,” Pitt said bleakly. “Mrs. Sorokine. She is in her bedroom. Obviously you will tell the maids not to enter it, without giving them any reason. Similarly you will not enter Mr. Sorokine’s room. He is locked in it, for the time being.”
Tyndale struggled for a moment to keep his composure. His hands were clenched together and shaking. “I’m very sorry, sir. This is dreadful. Have you informed His Royal Highness? He will be very relieved that you have solved the problem, even if it is a tragic resolution.”
Pitt had not even thought of the Prince of Wales, but clearly he would have to be told. However, that task should not be left to Cahoon Dunkeld.
“No,” he said unhappily. “Will you arrange for me to do that, please? As soon as possible—in fact immediately. In the circumstances there cannot be anything of more urgency.”
“Yes, sir, certainly,” Tyndale agreed. He straightened his coat quite unnecessarily, and left. Fifteen minutes later he returned and conducted Pitt through the magnificent corridors and galleries to the same room where the Prince had received Pitt before.
This time he looked quite