by Anne Perry
“Please drink your tea.” She gestured toward the tray. “It is far less pleasant cold. And try a scone or two. It is not impolite. I requested them for you and shall be disappointed if you do not enjoy them.”
He dared to smile at her. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She smiled back in a suddenly charming gesture. “You see, I would make a better detective than you think. Mr. Dunkeld does not like Mr. Sorokine. I do not hear what he says, but I see his eyes. Even though he laughs, it is not a laugh of warmth or of pleasure. He is an angry man.”
“Do you know why, ma’am?” Pitt asked.
She did not hear. “My husband likes him, but I do not. I think he is using His Royal Highness in order to obtain something he wishes for. Not that that is unusual, of course. One must expect it. However, the Prince sometimes thinks better of people than I believe is justified. He imagines that those with whom he enjoys his leisure time are more of a like mind with him than they really are.”
Pitt had a glimpse of loneliness that was terrible, a world where no one was equal and no one dared speak the truth if it would not please you. You would always be floundering in a sea of lies. “I’m sorry,” he said with intense feeling.
She must have understood from the movement of his lips. “You have a gentleness in you, Mr. Pitt. Please remember how that poor woman died, and that whoever it is you are looking for has no pity at all, for her or for you.”
He was stunned into silence.
“Do have some cream with your scone,” she offered. “It adds greatly to the pleasure.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he accepted. He felt obliged to take it, with considerable gratitude. It was delicious.
“We are all naturally very disturbed,” she went on, as if answering some comment he had made, although in fact he had his mouth full. He wondered if she had even the faintest idea what had really happened, of the violence, the hostility involved. “No one can be expected to carry on as usual,” she continued. “But we must make an effort. It is part of our duty, do you not think?”
“Yes, ma’am, if at all possible.” He swallowed and made the only reply he could. He could hardly disagree with her.
“All sorts of little things have to change, of course. Do you care for some more tea? Eleanor, my dear…”
The lady-in-waiting poured it before Pitt could answer.
“Thank you,” he said quickly.
“It is gracious of you to spare me the time,” the Princess went on. “I am sure you are much occupied. Of course, it could be something to do with the railway, but I confess I do not see how. They all seem very keen on it, except perhaps Mr. Sorokine. He made some remark, but I am afraid I did not hear all of it. But there was doubt in his face, I remember that, and the others were all annoyed with him. So much was clear.”
She took a scone herself and covered it with jam and cream. “What time was the poor creature killed, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt froze. So she knew!
“In the early hours of the morning, ma’am. Before half-past two.”
Beside him the lady-in-waiting stiffened.
Alexandra saw it. “Oh, do be realistic, Eleanor,” she said briskly. “I am deaf, certainly, but I am not blind. I know perfectly well what the party was all about. What I don’t know is why the bath was still warm.”
“I beg your pardon?” Pitt said before he realized the impropriety of it.
“The bath was warm,” she repeated, offering him another scone.
“The cast iron holds the heat from the water for a while afterward, you know. Otherwise it is quite cold to the touch. It was still noticeably warm at eight o’clock. I touched it myself.”
“Which bath, ma’am?”
“His Royal Highness’s, of course. But his valet did not bring water up. Do have more cream over that. It makes all the difference.”
Pitt took it from her quite automatically, his brain racing, his fingers almost numb.
CHAPTER
FIVE
WHILE PITT HAD begun his investigation that morning, Narraway had traveled by hansom cab to Westminster and the House of Commons. He wrote a brief message on a card, saying that he wished to consult on a matter of the most extreme urgency, and asked one of the junior clerks to take it to Somerset Carlisle, wherever he might be. Then he waited, pacing the floor, glancing every few moments at each doorway of the vast antechamber to see if Carlisle was coming. Every footstep alerted him, and even though he knew many of the members who crossed the antechamber on their way from one meeting to another, he chose to remain near the wall and meet the eyes of none of them. His work was better done if he moved in the shadows and few could actually say exactly what he looked like or who he was.
It was about twenty minutes before Carlisle appeared. He was soft-footed on the stone-flagged floor, thinner than he used to be, and not quite as straight of shoulder. But he had exactly the same gaunt, ironic face with heavy brows and quick intelligence, and the air as if no joke could be lost on him.
“What is so urgent that it brings you out into the open?” he said in a low voice. To a passerby he would be no more than acknowledging Narraway’s presence, as one would a constituent come on business.
“I need information,” Narraway replied with a slight smile.
“How surprising.” Carlisle was amused rather than sarcastic. “About what?”
“The Cape-to-Cairo railway.”
Carlisle’s brows shot up. “And this is sufficiently urgent to call me out of a meeting with the Home Secretary?”
“Yes, it is,” Narraway replied. He saw Carlisle’s skepticism. “Believe me, it is.”
“It will take decades to build,” Carlisle pointed out, facing Narraway now. “If they do it at all. I cannot think, offhand, of anything less important.”
“I need to know about the issues, and the people involved,” Narraway told him. “Today. And even that may be too late.”
“But you expect me to tell you the truth.” Carlisle made it obvious that he did not believe Narraway. There was an irritation in his face, as if he felt Narraway was lying to him in order to use his skills. It was uncharacteristic of him. He was not a vain or short-tempered man.
“If I tell you, then it must be alone, not overheard, and if possible, not observed either.” Narraway yielded in order to save time. This was an ugly case. Because of the Prince’s involvement, they had to tread a great deal more delicately than in most instances of violence or threatened anarchy. A scandal uncovered could do damage impossible to predict. One never knew where it would end.
“Let us go up Great George Street to Birdcage Walk,” Carlisle replied. “When we are free of Westminster, you can tell me what it is you need to know, and I’ll give you any information I have. But I warn you, the entire project is only speculative. Cecil Rhodes would certainly back it, and that means a good deal. Highly ambitious man. You’re not mixed up with him, are you?”
“No,” Narraway said wryly. “At least I doubt it. This is much more immediate.”
“I suppose you know what you are talking about, but I’m damned if I do!” Carlisle remarked with a gesture of resignation. “But I’ll listen. Come on.” He led the way out to the street and slowly up the hill away from the river with its traffic of pleasure boats, barges, and ferries until finally they were all but alone on Birdcage Walk. The green expanse of St. James’s Park lay to their right, trees rustling in the slight breeze, and promenading couples totally uninterested in anyone but each other.
Narraway began at last. He had no idea if the murder had anything to do directly with the proposed railway or any of its diplomatic ramifications. The motives might be of ambition or personal greed that sprung from the power and the profits to be won. Or it could be simply that one of the men involved was a madman, and the time and place of his act a hideous coincidence.
Regardless, he needed to learn all he could. Carlisle was the last man to tell him, and at the same time the man he could most trust to absolute discretion.<
br />
“The Prince of Wales is interested in the Cape-to-Cairo railway,” he began aloud, phrasing it as briefly as he could. “He has as his personal guests at the Palace at the moment four men and their wives: Cahoon Dunkeld, Hamilton Quase, Julius Sorokine, and Simnel Marquand.”
“Planning to bid for the railway?” Carlisle asked, slowing to an amble.
“Yes. To obtain the Prince’s approval so he will favor them.” Narraway matched his stride.
“That makes sense. Why is it Special Branch’s concern? Is there one of them you distrust?”
Narraway smiled. “Profoundly,” he said bitterly. “The problem is that I don’t know which one. You see, two nights ago the gentlemen, including the Prince, had a rather wild party, with three prostitutes as guests for their entertainment. The following morning the corpse of one of them was discovered in the linen cupboard, throat cut and disemboweled. We have excluded the possibility of it having been any of the servants, and since it is the Palace, it is not difficult to exclude any intruders.”
Carlisle had stopped abruptly, almost losing his balance. “What?” He blinked. “What did you say?”
“Exactly what you thought I said,” Narraway replied softly. “It was not Dunkeld. He is accounted for. One of the other three has to have been responsible. I need to know which one, as quickly and discreetly as possible.”
“Get Thomas Pitt,” Carlisle answered, a flash of rueful humor in his eyes. “He’s the best man I know of to solve a complicated murder among the gentry.” He had his own reasons for knowing this. Narraway had heard it mentioned but had never inquired as to the details. This was not the occasion to begin, even if Carlisle would have told him.
“I have him there already,” Narraway answered. “What can you tell me about the less obvious aspects of the Cape-to-Cairo railway?”
Carlisle was surprised. “You think it has to do with that? Isn’t it just some…some private insanity?”
“I don’t know. It seems an odd time and place for it.”
“Decidedly. But I imagine real madness does not cater to convenience.”
They were walking under the trees now, the smell of cut grass heavy in the air, the path easy and smooth. There was barely a soft crunch of grit under their feet and the sound of birdsong in the distance. A child was throwing sticks for a happy spaniel pup.
“That sort of madness doesn’t explode without some event as a catalyst,” Narraway answered him. “Some old passion woken by mockery, rejection, a compulsion exploding in the mind, a sudden surge of rage out of control.”
“I know very little about any of those men,” Carlisle said apologetically. “Not much that is more than common knowledge.”
“Or it could be a colder and saner motive,” Narraway said. “A sabotage to the talks. A long and bitter enmity. Who else could build this railway, if not these men? Who would want it stopped, and why? National pride? Political power? Tell me something I can’t read in the newspaper.”
Carlisle thought for several minutes. They passed from the shade of the trees and emerged into the sun again.
“I don’t know of anyone else in particular who would be as good as this group, if they work together,” he said at last. “Marquand is a superb financier with all the best connections. Sorokine is a better diplomat than he has so far shown. He’s lazy. I don’t mean he isn’t good; he could be brilliant if he cared enough to stir himself. Quase is an engineer with flashes of genius, and he knows Africa. And Dunkeld is a driving force with intelligence, imagination, and a relentless will. If any man can draw it all together, he can.”
“Ruthless?”
Carlisle smiled. “Unquestionably. But what use would a man be at a task like this if he were not? And you say he is accounted for?”
“Yes. Who else might achieve it?”
Carlisle thought for a moment. “A few years ago I would have said Watson Forbes,” he answered. “Cleverer than Dunkeld, but perhaps less magnetic. Better knowledge of Africa. Explored a lot of it himself, all the way up from Cape Town north to Mashonaland, and Matabeleland. Knows Cecil Rhodes personally. Walked the Veldt, saw the great Rift Valley, took a boat up the Zambezi, looked at the falls there, maybe the biggest in the world. And he knows Egypt and the Sudan too. Been up the Nile beyond Karnak and the Valley of the Kings, and then on by camel as far as Khartoum. But he’s returned to England now. Had enough. The man’s tired. He was actually offered this project and declined it, which is how Dunkeld came to the fore.”
“Why, do you know?”
“I don’t, really. Lost the energy. Perhaps the climate got to him.”
Narraway considered for a hundred yards or so, then turned to Carlisle again. “Any serious political enemies to the project?”
“What difference would that make?” Carlisle asked with a slight shrug. “Sorry, but I think you’re looking for a man who is sane and highly intelligent almost all the time, but has a germ of madness in him that burst through a couple of nights ago. I don’t see how it can have anything whatever to do with the railway. Of course, there’s vast money to be made in it, eventually, and, far more than all the financial fortunes, there’s honor, immense personal power, certainly peerages, fame for a lifetime and beyond. Your name would be on the maps and in the history books. For some men that’s the prize above all others. Never underestimate the love of power.”
They walked a few more yards in silence, Narraway turning over in his mind what Carlisle had said. The music of a hurdy-gurdy drifted faintly on the breeze.
“You might find a personal hatred among these men, although I still can’t see how murdering a prostitute is going to profit anyone at all,” Carlisle resumed. “Still, you are probably dealing with a man who has some sexual aberration who, in the heat of the excitement, power, and money at stake, simply lost his head and his basic insanity tore through his usual control. Perhaps the woman mocked him, or belittled him in some way.”
“Nobody against the railway?” Narraway asked without expecting anything more than another denial.
“Possibly someone with interests in another country,” Carlisle said thoughtfully, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets as he walked. “French, Germans, and Belgians are bound to be affected by us having such a tremendous advantage. But we have it already—this would only be adding to it. Look at a map of the world. One of your men might have financial interests we don’t know about, or be bribed, I suppose. That could almost rank as treason. But what could it have to do with the murder of a prostitute?”
“No idea,” Narraway admitted honestly. The more he considered it, the more it seemed as if it must be a personal madness in one of the men, which pressure of some sort had exposed. He wished the murder could have been anywhere else, then it would have been the problem of the Metropolitan Police, and not Special Branch. “None of it makes any sense,” he said. “What do you know about these men personally?”
“Very little,” Carlisle replied with a grimace. “At least of the nature that would be of use in this. What an awful mess! As if the Prince’s reputation were not dubious enough!”
“Who does know?” Narraway persisted. “Who will answer me honestly and ask no questions?”
“Lady Vespasia,” Carlisle said without hesitation.
Narraway smiled. “You do not surprise me. Thank you for your time.”
Carlisle nodded. He knew better than to request that Narraway keep him informed. They turned and together walked back through the dappled shade as far as Great George Street.
NARRAWAY RETURNED TO his office briefly and gave instructions regarding other matters. Pitt telephoned him from the Palace, giving Sadie’s name and asking for as much information about her as possible.
Narraway dispatched two of his men to investigate, then set out to look for Lady Vespasia Cumming Gould.
It took him nearly four hours to finally speak to her. Vespasia had been the greatest beauty of her time, and even in old age she maintained the features, the grace, and the
fire that had made her famous. She had added to them even greater courage and wisdom, curiosity, and passion for life.
She was not at home, but, knowing who Narraway was, her maid had informed him that her ladyship had gone to luncheon with her niece. However, afterward they would visit the exhibition of paintings in the National Gallery, and could no doubt be found there. Accordingly, Narraway walked from one room to another there, looking hopefully at every fashionable lady who was a little taller than average and carried herself with that perfect posture required when balancing a particularly heavy tiara on one’s head.
The instant he saw her, he felt foolish for having wasted more than an instant looking at anyone else. She was wearing a simple street costume exquisitely cut in silk, of a soft shade of blue-gray, and a smaller hat than had recently been in vogue. The brim was higher, showing her face. It was less dramatic, except for the fact that it had a very fine veil, which not so much concealed as accentuated the beauty of her skin, the character and mystery of her eyes.
Beside her was a woman in her early thirties with a flawless fair complexion. She was wearing a delicate shade of water green, which, on a less animated person, might have been draining, but on her was most becoming. At the moment Narraway saw them she was laughing and describing some shape that amused her, outlining it with gloved hands. It was Charlotte Pitt’s sister, Emily Radley. For a moment, Narraway was reminded of a warmth he had experienced only from the edges, as an onlooker, and he felt a surge of envy for Pitt, because he belonged.
Narraway thought of Pitt in the Palace, finding it strange, overwhelming. He would certainly make errors in his social conduct and be embarrassed. His sense of morality would be offended. His illusions and even some of his loyalties might be broken, if this case forced him to learn more about the Prince than he had already. But Pitt knew what he believed, and why. And that was another thing Narraway envied in him.
He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and walked over to stand where Vespasia could see him.
