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were no shards of porcelain or crystal embedded in the carpet, and no
stains of any sort, blood or wine. Nothing was torn, scraped, or other-
wise damaged. If any crime had been committed here, it had been
done entirely without leaving a trace.
Pitt left feeling confused and as if somehow he had also been
beaten in a game of wits. It felt like a hollow pain inside him. He had
escaped a danger, faced a man who had the power to damage him se-
riously, if not ruin him, and he had found nothing at all. In fact he
had made a fool of himself.
He walked slowly along the corridor back toward the guest wing,
trying to scramble his thoughts together and make sense out of a mi-
asma of facts that seemed to be without meaning.
He became aware of a calm and very discreet woman standing
where the corner turned.
Mr. Pitt, she said quietly.
He focused his attention. Yes, ma am?
Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales, would like to speak
with you, if you can spare a few moments, she said. It was a gracious
way of phrasing what amounted to a command.
Pitt found the Princess in her sitting room as before. She was
dressed in a high-necked tea gown with a froth of lace at the throat.
She sat with her back ramrod straight and her head high. She was a
beautiful woman, but more than by her coloring or regularity of fea-
ture, he was impressed by her dignity. She was what he expected and
wished royalty to be. He stood to attention automatically.
B U C K I N G H A M P A L A C E G A R D E N S 235
Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt, she said with a very slight smile. I
hear that poor Mrs. Sorokine has also become a victim of tragedy. I
am so sorry. She was an unfortunate young woman. She did not ex-
plain the remark, but regarded him as if she assumed he would under-
stand the subtleness of her implication.
Yes, ma am, he agreed. I am afraid so. He inclined his head to
make his agreement clearer.
Is it true that Mr. Sorokine is responsible? she asked.
He gestured confusion by spreading his hands outward an inch or
two. It appears so.
She understood. But you are not certain?
Not yet, ma am.
Do you expect to be?
I wish to be. I wish very much to be.
She nodded slowly. Apparently she had understood. There was a
flash of what could have been gratitude in her eyes, including a shred
of the faintest, self-mocking humor. I am sure. Is there any way in
which I might assist you? I see that you have just been speaking with
His Royal Highness.
Yes, ma am. There was a piece of Limoges porcelain broken and
I was inquiring whether he knew where it was normally kept. None of
the servants appears to recognize it.
And it has to do with the death of one of these poor women?
she asked. What was it like?
It is hard to tell from what is left, ma am, but it seems to have
been a pedestal plate. He outlined it with his hands. With a lot of
gold lattice, I think around the rim, and a picture in the middle with
bright cobalt blue. He spoke slowly, but he was still not sure, from
the look of total bewilderment in her eyes, if she had understood him
at all. Blue, like the sky. He looked upwards. And gold around the
edge. He made a circle in the air with his finger.
I hear you, Mr. Pitt, she said softly. Your diction is excellent.
But I am puzzled. There is exactly such a dish in Her Majesty s own
bedroom. She is very fond of it, not for itself particularly, but because
it was a gift from one of the princesses, when she was quite young.
She must have misunderstood him after all. And yet meeting his
steady gaze she appeared to be perfectly certain not only of what she
236 A N N E P E R R Y
had said, but also the enormity of its meaning. He struggled to think
of something to say that was not absurd.
The Princess rose to her feet. I think, Mr. Pitt, that we had bet-
ter go and see if Her Majesty s plate has indeed been broken. When
she returns, we should have some explanation, and apology for her, if
it has. Will you come with me, please?
Yes . . . ma am. He obeyed, walking quickly around her to reach
the door before she did and open it for her. He did not know whether
he was exultant that she had told him where the dish belonged, or if
it terrified him even more. If it was the Queen s dish, how had it come
to be smashed? Had the Prince taken it? Why, for heaven s sake? Was
he completely mad? If the Princess of Wales realized what it meant,
what would she do? Had Pitt, in his blindness, fallen into the middle
of a Palace plot? Was the Prince of Wales insane? Did the Princess
know it and intend to use Pitt somehow to expose it?
No. That was all delirious thinking. There was a perfectly ratio-
nal explanation. Probably it was some thieving servant after all. That
made infinitely more sense.
He followed a pace behind her along the wide corridors into
another wing altogether. She spoke briefly to a servant and then
to another. Finally he followed her, with two liveried footmen and a
lady-in-waiting, into Queen Victoria s rooms.
They were oddly as Pitt had expected: too much furniture, all
large and beautifully carved, pictures, ornaments, and photographs
everywhere. The sunlight slanted in through high heavily curtained
windows and made colored patterns on the carpets.
There, the Princess said, pointing to an ornate mantel. On it
stood a beautiful Limoges pedestal dish, with gold leaf around the
edges, trellises woven of gold, and in the center a painting of a roman-
tic couple on a garden seat. It was not the sky that was deep blue, but
his coat, and a robe around her shoulders and down to the ground at
the back.
The Princess turned and looked at Pitt, her eyes wide, questioning.
Was there a matching pair? he asked, feeling foolish.
No, the lady-in-waiting answered for the Princess, perhaps fear-
ing she had not heard.
B U C K I N G H A M P A L A C E G A R D E N S 237
Pitt walked around, making a pretense of looking for a space from
which another dish could have been taken, but not expecting to find
it. He was puzzled, beaten a second time. He looked at the bed. Did it
have the beautifully monogrammed sheets on, like the stained and
crumpled ones Gracie had found in the laundry? He dared not look.
There was no possible excuse for it, and what did it matter?
He bent and touched the heavy tapestry curtains, feeling the tex-
ture of the cloth. It moved very slightly, and he saw a darker patch on
the carpet below. It looked like a stain. He bent and put his finger to
it. It was dry. He licked his finger and touched it again. His finger
came away smeared with brownish-red.
A charge rippled through him like electricity. It was blood. He
looked at the skirt to the bed, exploring it with his fingers. He found
a seam where there appeared to be no reason for one. He straightened
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