Buckingham Palace Gardens by Anne Perry Page A

surprise.
    â€œWot ’appened?” she cried out as if aghast.
    â€œNever you mind!” Ada shouted at her. “Go and get on wi’ yer own job. I’m all right ’ere. Yer swept the stairs yet? Well, do it then! Don’t stand there gawpin’!”
    â€œYes, miss,” Gracie said obediently. She scampered upstairs before the steam cleared and she was obliged to see Ada’s open dress and general disarray.
    Gracie realized that once someone put those sheets into the boil, no one would be able to prove a thing. She nearly asked Mags, the other between-stairs maid, if she had seen the policeman, then realized she had no explanation for wanting to know, so instead she went immediately to her alternative plan and found Mr. Tyndale.
    He was alone in the butler’s pantry, inspecting the silver to see if it had been cleaned to perfection. He looked very serious, frowning a little.
    She knocked on the door.
    He looked round with irritation, then saw who it was. “Miss Phipps? Is something wrong?” he asked anxiously.
    She came in and closed the door behind her. “Yer’d better call me ‘Gracie,’ sir,” she corrected him, feeling awkward and yet savoring a flicker of very definite enjoyment. “I gotter speak ter Mr. Pitt, very urgent, but there in’t no way I can ask anyone where ’e is. I found summink as could be very important. Can yer ’elp me?”
    â€œYes, of course I can. What have you found?” He was clearly worried.
    She shook her head. “I gotter tell Mr. Pitt.”
    Tyndale was embarrassed. He obviously felt foolish for having asked, and then been rebuffed.
    Now she was sorry for him, and perhaps a trifle foolish also for making him uncomfortable. He might remember it and not be the ally she needed. She swallowed hard. This could be the wrong judgment, but regardless of that she had better be quick. “Can I ask you summink, sir?”
    He was still guarded, uncertain of the correct protocol with her. She was a servant, and yet she was not. “Certainly. What is it?”
    â€œThe sheets with
V R
stitched on ’em, an’ a little crown…does anybody get ter sleep on them ’ceptin’ ’Er Majesty, like?”
    â€œWhere did you see those?” he asked sharply.
    â€œIn the laundry.”
    â€œThat’s impossible! Her Majesty is at Osborne, and no one else uses them. Thank you for telling me. I shall find out what has happened and put a stop to it.”
    â€œYer mustn’t do that, sir!” She all but grasped hold of him, getting her hand as far as to touch his sleeve before she snatched it away.
    â€œIt’s a clue, or least it may be. Yer gotta keep it a deadly secret till Mr. Pitt says yer can tell. It’s a murder, Mr. Tyndale. Yer can’t tell nobody nuffin’.”
    He looked pale. “I see.”
    At that moment there was a sharp rap on the pantry door, and a moment later it flew open and Mrs. Newsome stood in the entrance. She was a good-looking woman in an agreeable, ordinary way, but now her face was flushed and her eyes were hot. “What are you doing in here, Gracie Phipps?” She looked from Gracie to an obviously uncomfortable Mr. Tyndale, now also coloring deeply with both anger and embarrassment.
    â€œShe came…” he started, and then floundered badly.
    Mrs. Newsome’s face tightened, her eyes hard.
    Ridiculously, Gracie thought of Ada and Edwards on the laundry stairs, and felt the heat in her own cheeks. She must rescue Mr. Tyndale. The idea was absurd, and revolting, but it was abundantly clear what Mrs. Newsome thought. And Mr. Tyndale was only in this situation because he was helping Gracie. He might care what Mrs. Newsome believed of him, but even if he didn’t, he would care bitterly about being thought to behave inappropriately with a brand-new serving girl less than half his age.
    Gracie lied with ease. “I came ter