Buckingham Palace Gardens

CHAPTER

NINE

VICTOR NARRAWAY SAT in the hansom oblivious of the sunlit streets through which he passed. He was more concerned with the murders in the Palace than he had allowed Pitt to know. Five years ago, at the time of the Whitechapel atrocities by the man who had come to be known as Jack the Ripper, the Queen had almost retired from public duties. The Prince of Wales’s extravagance had been out of control and he was deeply in debt. The reputation of the Crown was so low that the cry for a republic was finding many to answer it. There had been ugly riots in the streets, especially in the East End, and around the Whitechapel area in particular.

Three years later, Pitt had encountered the same emotions still high with Charles Voisey’s attempt at a republican coup. It had come far too close to success, and far too recently for a scandal like this not to be profoundly dangerous. There was a current of political unrest that was more serious than Pitt was aware.

The other matter that disturbed Narraway was the whole issue of the Cape-to-Cairo railway. On the surface it was a brilliant idea: daring, farsighted, and patriotic. It would unite Africa physically, accomplish new marvels in engineering and exploration, and bring culture, civilization, and possibly Christianity to new regions never before fully explored. And of course it would also be the greatest boost for trade in the Empire since the beginnings of the East India Company over a century before.

However, such a vast undertaking had negative aspects as well, and there was a gnawing doubt in his mind. It had been his habit all his life to listen to both sides of any argument, to give at least as much weight to the opinion against as to the praise. It was a practice that had proved painful, and often unpopular, but it had saved both money and life, not to mention political embarrassment.

In this case he had heard only murmurings against the scheme. These could quite easily be seen as envy or timidity for such a huge venture. He was on his way to keep an appointment to dine with Watson Forbes at his house, where there would be time to extend the conversation as far as it needed to go. He had not canceled it because of Minnie Sorokine’s death, which might prove that the whole issue was Julius Sorokine’s personal madness, some sexual deviation with no real relevance to the Cape-to-Cairo project at all. Some of the other possibilities were too fearful to think of. The ghost of the Ripper still haunted his mind.

Regardless of that, there were questions about the railway that troubled him, doubts that, if well founded, could damage the Empire for generations to come.

He arrived at Forbes’s house and was received by the butler, who conducted him into the same pleasant room as before, with its African paintings and curios.

Forbes offered him sherry, then stood by the mantel, although the fire was not lit. The late-summer sun streamed in through the long windows, making jeweled patterns on the colors of the Turkish rug. He seemed mildly amused, his eyes bright.

“What is it I can tell you at such length, Mr. Narraway? I am not involved in this railway project. Did I not make that clear?”

“Quite clear,” Narraway replied. “Therefore your views on it may be less driven by the desire for it to succeed.”

Forbes smiled. “You think Dunkeld is too partisan to entertain a rational judgment?”

“Wouldn’t you be, if your future and your honor depended on it?” Narraway asked.

Forbes sipped his sherry, rolling it over his tongue before swallowing. “Of course I would. It is the greatest adventure of a lifetime, and more than most men ever dream of. Have you some specific fear in mind?”

“Cost?” Narraway suggested.

“Every building venture costs more than one calculated,” Forbes replied with a rueful smile. “Whether it is a garden shed or a transcontinental railway. One expects it and plans accordingly. Or are you afraid it will cost more than it is worth?”

“Could it?” Narraway asked. Cost was not what he had feared at all, but he wanted to test Forbes on everything. He needed to know why, with all his African experience, he was not involved—in consultation at least.

Forbes was watching him over the rim of his glass. “No,” he said simply. “The exercise of building it will bring in vast profits of all sorts: engineering, trade, timber, steel, sheer reputation. And Marquand is brilliant. All the investment money will be protected, as far as the builders are concerned. Africa has diamonds, gold, copper, timber, ivory—just to start with. Cecil Rhodes is totally behind the venture. Money will pour in.” There was no doubt in either his voice or his face.

Narraway tried to read him more deeply and knew he failed. There was a reservation of some kind in Forbes, but he had no idea what it was. It could even be some personal emotion that had to do with the people involved rather than the project itself.

“Is it likely that we do not have the engineering skills?” he asked. “Much of it is relatively unknown country. Chasms will have to be bridged, mountains cut through, deserts and shifting sands crossed, hostile territory of all sorts, possibly even jungles traversed.”

“It will be surveyed before they begin,” Forbes replied without hesitation. “What they cannot cross they will skirt around. That may require some extra diplomatic skill, but Sorokine has it. And when he wants to, he has enormous charm. Congo Free State may prove difficult, but he won’t have to bother with them if German East Africa is willing to oblige. No doubt he will play one against the other.” He sipped at his sherry again. “Most of the territory is British anyway. They’ll manage.” The tone of his voice dipped a little. There was a sadness in the lines of his face.

Narraway moved to lean forward, then changed his mind. What was the shadow in Forbes’s mind, the reservation that still troubled him?

“It sounds like a great advantage for the British Empire,” Narraway said slowly. “Something that would bring benefits of all kinds, possibly far into the future. I assume we will make enemies. Belgium, France, and Germany just to begin with.”

Forbes smiled. “Very likely,” he agreed. “But then any advantage to one nation is a disadvantage to others. If you were afraid of offending people, you would never do anything at all. It’s a matter of degree.”

Narraway knew they were playing games with words. They had not touched the real issue yet. “You believe the project can succeed?”

“Yes. Dunkeld will not stop until he has done so.”

“And make himself a fortune.” It was a conclusion rather than a question.

There was a change in Forbes’s face so small it could have been no more than an alteration in the light. “I imagine so.”

“And so will the providers of timber, steel, labor, and the shipping of gold, diamonds, copper, timber, and ivory,” Narraway added.

Forbes’s face was motionless. He drew in his breath, then let it out with a sigh. “You want to know why I am not concerned to be involved with the railway. You think perhaps it is more of a personal issue with Cahoon Dunkeld? You are mistaken. I have spent over half my life in Africa.” Now there was unmistakable emotion in his face. It was clear in his eyes, his mouth, even the tightening of the muscles in his neck. “I love the country. It is the last great mystery left in the world, the one place too big for us to crush and occupy with our smallness, trying to impress our image on its people and convince them it is the likeness of God.”

Narraway was stunned. The passion in Forbes had taken him totally by surprise.

“You don’t know Africa, Mr. Narraway,” Forbes said softly. “You have never felt the sun scorch your face and smelled the hot wind blowing across a thousand miles of grassland teeming with beasts like the sands of the seashore. You haven’t seen the sky flame with sunset behind the acacia trees, heard the lions roar in the night with the Southern Cross burning in the darkness above you, or put your ear to the ground as it trembles with the thunder of a million hoofs. Have you ever seen a giraffe’s eyelashes? Or a cheetah run? Felt the terror in your blood and in your bones when you know there’s a leopard stalking you? Then you know how sweet life is, and how unbearably fragile.” Forbes shook his head fractionally, a denial so small Narraway almost missed it. “Here in England there’s a glass wall between you and the taste of reality. I don’t want to see the last true passion tamed by railways, and men with Bibles telling everyone to cover their bodies.” He spread his powerful, elegant hands. “Play your string quintets, by all means, Mr. Narraway, but don’t silence the drums simply because you don’t understand them. The men who play violins have steel and gunpowder, and the men who play drums don’t.”

Narraway did not answer immediately. He studied Forbes’s intense face, the powerful nose and curious, thin-lipped mouth, which was yet so expressive.

In the end he waited so long it was Forbes who broke the silence. “Is that what the Empire is for?” he asked. “To change everything into something we can buy and sell?”

Narraway was repulsed by the thought. It was worse than offensive, it was blasphemous. But he did not want Forbes to know that. That he should be so moved was a revelation he could not afford to make. “Exploitation?” he said calmly.

“Isn’t it?” Forbes’s black eyebrows rose. He was watching Narraway intensely.

“And you are against it?” Narraway allowed no more than a shred of sarcasm in his voice.

Temper flared in Forbes’s face, then vanished. “A longer view,” he said softly. “What will Africa be a century from now? Dominion, friend, enemy, battleground?”

Again Narraway said nothing.

“We will not be alive then,” Forbes answered himself. “Is that all that matters, the basis of all judgment?”

Narraway did not answer. “But you think Dunkeld will build it anyway?” he said instead.

“Not easily, and not with my help, but yes, he will build it.” Again Forbes’s face was dark with emotion, but with such a conflicting mixture it was impossible to read.

Over dinner they spoke of other things. Forbes was an interesting and hospitable host, and Narraway did not arrive home until close to midnight.

IN THE MORNING Narraway was back at the Palace facing Pitt. There was a tray with tea on the table and Pitt sat opposite him. He looked weary, trapped. More than that, there was a disillusion in him that Narraway had not seen before. Suddenly he realized how being here oppressed Pitt, who had witnessed violence and degradation often enough, but never before on this level. It was not that these murders were more brutal than others, it was that they were here in a place he had considered inviolate.

Perhaps it mattered also that the victims were women, the second one not wildly unlike Charlotte, at least in class and origin. Charlotte had something of the same warmth inside her, the same courage and quick tongue. She was just gentler, and perhaps immeasurably happier.

This was breaking Pitt’s ideals of his monarch, and threatening his feelings dangerously.

The ideals Narraway did not envy. He had lost his own illusions about people too long ago. Proximity had forced him into realism. It was hard to believe that Pitt had kept his naïveté so long. He must simply have refused to see what he did not wish. Narraway felt both impatience and pity for that.

Then he thought of Charlotte’s face, her eyes, the curve of her mouth and her throat, and was drenched with loneliness. In that instant he would have traded all the knowledge and understanding he had in return for the innocence in Pitt that made Charlotte love him. Was it innocence or hope?

And if the fact of these Palace murders crushed that, what was Pitt going to lose?

Pitt finished his tea and set his cup down, waiting for Narraway to speak. His eyes were dark-rimmed, his skin shadowed, and there were tiny cuts on his jaw where he had shaved clumsily. Did violent death still churn his stomach too, in spite of how well he hid it? Did he share Narraway’s sense of guilt for not preventing Minnie Sorokine’s death?

“Is Sorokine still locked in his room?” he asked.

“Yes. There was no alternative,” Pitt replied unhappily.

“Are you satisfied he killed her?” Narraway did not want to ask, but he needed the matter closed, and Pitt’s troubled face left him no choice. “Presumably she realized he had killed the first woman, and he could not afford to leave her alive because sooner or later she would betray him over it?”

Pitt spoke slowly. “That’s what it looks like.”

“Why aren’t you satisfied?” Narraway’s voice rose in spite of his effort to keep it level and under control. He was accustomed to anarchy, treason, and very considerable violence, but he had not met sexual aberration before. There was something uniquely repulsive about the intimacy of it, like the foul smell of some disease.

“There was no blood on him,” Pitt spoke carefully, as if picking his way through chaotic thoughts. “None at all, except the little from the scratches on his face. Nothing of the dark gore that came from her.”

Narraway’s stomach turned and he felt the chill of sweat on his skin. “He’d had all night to wash,” he pointed out.

Pitt shook his head. “There was shaving water in the jug and basin, but it was all clean. Nothing in it but soap. And what about his clothes?”

“He stripped to do it?” Narraway suggested. “There was no blood on anyone the first time either. It seems to be his pattern.”

Pitt frowned. “The first time he might have planned it, but the second was because she challenged him. He would hardly have told her to wait there while he stripped off, then came back and killed her!”

“Then what did he do?” Narraway demanded, frustration burning up inside him. Just as Pitt was still unfamiliar with the complexities of anarchy, so was he with the nature of murder.

“I don’t know,” Pitt replied. “He was distressed over her death, but he looked totally sane to me. He denied it.”

Narraway was startled. “Did you expect him to confess?”

Pitt pushed his hair out of his eyes with a clumsy hand. “It’s not just what he said, it’s the way in which he spoke. I don’t know what I think.” His brow furrowed. “There’s something wrong with it, something about all of it that I haven’t understood. I’ve racked my mind, but all I see is the break in reasoning, the place where something should be to tie it together. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.”

“Then for God’s sake, think!” Narraway said desperately. “Before it’s too late. We’ve got to make an arrest. This victim wasn’t a whore, she was Dunkeld’s daughter. We can’t afford to be wrong. If we are, and we have to admit it, it will be the end of Special Branch. We won’t ever have a case higher in the public eye than this, when it comes out. And it will.”

“I won’t condemn the wrong man to a life in the hell of a madhouse,” Pitt told him, stubbornness setting hard in his face. “Have you ever been in one of those places? I have. He’ll be gibbering mad in a year or two, even if he isn’t to begin with. It would be cleaner and more humane to hang him in the first place. I can still hear the screaming of Bedlam in my nightmares sometimes.”

Narraway leaned forward. “Pitt, we can’t afford any more dead women, whether we make or break the Cape-to-Cairo railway. One of those three men has murdered two women in four days. The Queen will be back here this week.”

Pitt said nothing.

Narraway waited again, his mind going back to what Forbes had said about Julius Sorokine. He seemed a civilized and intelligent man, even if a little indolent—or taking some of his privileges for granted. What could possibly have happened to turn him into a creature who had cut the throats and gouged open the bellies of two women? “Something started it,” he said aloud. “Find it.”

Pitt looked up. “Two in four days? It started long before now. You aren’t sane one day and then a raving, blood-soaked murderer the next, unless something has happened to shatter your mind in between, and nothing did. They sat around talking about the African railway and planning the future full of wealth and achievement for all of them. They flirted, specifically Mrs. Sorokine with Mr. Marquand. And Mrs. Dunkeld is in love with Mr. Sorokine.”

“And he with her?” Narraway asked quickly. Was that a thread to the truth?

Pitt shrugged very slightly. “I don’t know. But none of it began while they were here, and I doubt anyone learned of it for the first time either. Even if they did, it doesn’t explain killing the prostitute. It’s not a crime of jealousy or even betrayal—it’s hatred born out of some kind of madness.”

“Given that this particular insanity lies dormant most of the time, what wakens it out of control?” Narraway asked, the urgency building up inside him again. “You’ve dealt with madness before, people who kill and go on killing until they are caught. I know evil, but not unreason. Help me, Pitt! If I search through Sorokine’s history, what am I looking for?”

Pitt sighed; there was weariness and desperation in it. “Obviously another death like these: a woman with her throat and belly slashed. Before that, for violent quarrels, irrational hatred of women, someone who belittled him, jilted him, did something that he might have seen as betrayal. An explosive temper. It will have to have been covered up very carefully. He’s a diplomat. Look for someone else being blamed, or something unsolved, possibly described as an accident.”

Narraway considered for several minutes. “I spoke to Watson Forbes,” he said finally. “He’s against the Cape-to-Cairo railway. He believes it will exploit Africa to its disadvantage, and ultimately to the disadvantage of the whole British Empire, possibly in the next century.”

“Interesting,” Pitt admitted. “But I can’t see any connection with the murders. Can you?”

“No. They don’t seem to have anything to do with the railway, just a ghastly coincidence that they exploded here in the Palace just as the railway is being discussed. But I don’t like coincidences. I’ve seen very few real ones.”

“There are other things I need to make sense of,” Pitt went on. “If Mrs. Sorokine deduced from all these odd pieces of information exactly how her husband killed Sadie, and possibly why, then I want to know how she did it. They seem unrelated and nonsensical to me.”

“What pieces?” Narraway asked.

“Port bottles with blood in them, a broken dish, which nobody admits ever existed, buckets of water being carried hurriedly and discreetly up-and downstairs. The Queen’s own sheets slept on, and soaked in blood. How did whatever Minnie Sorokine knew of that prove to her that it was her husband who killed Sadie?”

“Who was carrying buckets of water? Not Sorokine?”

“No, household servants.”

“Then what connection has it?”

“I have no idea!”

Narraway stood up. “I’ll look into his past. And the others, at least where they cross.”

Fifteen minutes later he was outside in the sun and the wind. An hour after that he was talking to a friend who had amassed a fortune in shipping and spent a good deal of it buying and selling gems. He knew most of the cities of the Mediterranean, both of Europe and of Africa, and of course the great diamond cutting and dealing centers of the Middle East. His name was Maurice Kelter.

“Sorokine,” he turned the name over experimentally. “What is it, Russian?”

“Possibly,” Narraway replied, crossing his legs and leaning back in the broad leather chair. He was at his club, where he should have been at ease. “If it is, it will be third-or fourth-generation. He is a diplomat, tall, good-looking, probably around forty.”

Kelter nodded, sipping at the whisky and soda at his elbow. “Yes. I know the fellow you mean. Married Dunkeld’s daughter, didn’t he? Lovely-looking woman. Bit of a handful. Why are you interested in him? Has something happened?”

Narraway smiled, but it felt forced. “Things are happening all the time. What sort of thing did you think would be connected to Sorokine?”

Kelter made a little grimace. “To be frank, probably indifference. I don’t think he’s ever stretched himself to the best he could be. Very pleasant chap, but things have come easy to him. Position, enough money, certainly women.”

“Many women?” Narraway asked quickly.

Kelter’s eyes opened wider. “Possibly. Why?”

Narraway ignored the question. “Temper?” he asked.

Kelter smiled. “Not that I heard of, but…do you want unsubstantiated rumor?”

“If that’s all you have.” Narraway disliked innuendo, but that was often where lines of investigation began. “Temper?” he prompted again.

Kelter put his whisky down. “There was a particularly ugly affair in Cape Town a few years ago. Half-caste woman was murdered. Throat cut, stomach slit open. Never found out who did it. Prostitute of sorts, so it wasn’t followed the way it would have been if she’d been decent, or white.”

Narraway was skeptical. Could it really be so easy? “What was Sorokine’s involvement with it?”

Kelter shrugged. “Don’t really know. Whispers. Apparently he knew the woman, had some kind of relationship with her.”

“Did the police investigate him?”

Kelter sighed. “We’re talking about a half-caste prostitute on the edges of Cape Town, Narraway. Nobody investigated it. People asked a few questions. Men came and went: miners, traders, explorers, adventurers, all nationalities, ex-patriots who couldn’t go home, drunks and fugitives, all sorts. It could have been anyone.”

“Who said it was Sorokine?”

Kelter frowned. “Now that I think of it, I’m not certain. It was not much more than looks and nods. I didn’t track it down because frankly I didn’t care. There were far more interesting things going on at the time.”

Narraway did not pursue it with Kelter, but there were other people he knew from whom he could collect favors, and he sought them out now. It was not easy to keep the sense of urgency out of his manner. He knew that betraying his need would open him up to being lied to, and favors done him now would earn repayment later, perhaps at a time when he could not afford it.

He walked into another crowded club room, the pungent cigar smoke in the air mixed with the smell of leather armchairs and old malt whisky. Sometimes he loved the game of question and counterquestion, perhaps partly because he was so good at it. He saw the respect in other men’s eyes, the guarded admiration, and the equally guarded fear. Today he was tired of it. The constant measuring of words, even gestures, the sheer loneliness of it weighed him down. Pitt might feel trapped in the suffocating ritual of the Palace now, but it was only for a short while—days at the most. Then he would go home again to Charlotte, to warmth and kindness, to an inner safety Narraway would never have. Even if all his illusions were broken, his lifetime’s loyalties destroyed, at heart Pitt could not be damaged. Nothing could touch what was safe inside him. Had he any idea how fortunate he was?

He walked round a corner and found the man he was looking for. He sat down opposite him, knowing he was intruding on a few moments of peace and also that the man dared not refuse him.

Yet if he did not play these games, what would he do? Through the long years he had developed no other skill that used his mind fully, or the sensitivities he had honed.

Welling looked up and jerked himself out of the study in which he had been lost. “Who are you after?” he asked.

“Sorokine,” Narraway replied.

“Dead,” Welling told him. “Good man. Died about five years ago. Surprised you didn’t know that.” There was a faint glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.

“Julius Sorokine,” Narraway corrected him.

Some of the pleasure died out of Welling’s face. “Oh. Yes. The son. Good man too, but a bit too handsome for his own well-being. Doesn’t have to work hard enough. Suppose that might change. Seemed to be putting a bit more energy into it a couple of months ago, then slacked off again.”

“Slacked off?” Narraway was startled. This didn’t seem relevant to the murderer in Cape Town he was looking for, but it was interesting because it made no sense. Any anomaly should be pursued. “What was he doing?”

“For God’s sake, Narraway, don’t treat me like a fool!” Welling said impatiently. “He’s negotiating for this damn railway for Dunkeld. Talking to the Belgians and the Germans, and all the odd African lands right the way up to Cairo.”

“And he slacked off? Why?” Now Narraway was really interested in spite of himself. Suddenly Sorokine was more complex than he had assumed. “Did someone else approach him?” It was an ugly thought, a kind of betrayal that was peculiarly offensive, presumably for money.

Welling smiled but his lips were turned down. “I doubt it. There’s no one else in a position to rival Dunkeld, since Watson Forbes isn’t interested. And Sorokine’s married to Dunkeld’s daughter anyway. It would be against his own interest.”

“So why? Just lazy?”

Welling shrugged. “I’ve nothing but rumors, bits of whisper not worth a lot.”

“Sabotage?” Narraway suggested. Had someone looked into the old murder and found something? Or even a second crime somewhere, and blackmailed him over it? He found that hard to believe, simply because the murder appeared to be the product of eruptions of a darkness inside the mind that no one could control, no matter what the threat.

“Sabotage is always possible.” Welling misunderstood him. “Seven thousand miles of track, mostly unprotected? Pardon me, but it’s a stupid question.”

“Not of the track,” Narraway told him. “I meant of the project in the first place.”

“By somehow removing Sorokine? I suppose it’s possible. But pretty short term, and hardly worth the trouble.” Welling sat up a little straighter in the chair, his eyes sharper. “What the hell are you really after, Narraway?”

“What was being said, exactly?” Narraway ignored the question.

“It’s serious?” Welling blinked. “What I heard was that Sorokine was uncertain in his loyalty to the project altogether. Someone had been talking to him about lateral lines, from the center to the sea, rather than a long spine up the back of Africa. The real future of the British Empire lies in sovereignty of the sea, not of Africa. Build railways to take inland timbers, ivory, gold, and so on, to the ports. Let the nations of Africa have their own transport, independently, build it and maintain it themselves, and we’ll ship the goods round the world. It’s what we’ve always done. We’ve explored the world, settled it, and traded with it. Africa was never a maritime continent. Keep it that way.” He was watching Narraway’s face more closely than he let on, eyes half-veiled.

Narraway turned it over in his mind. At first it seemed reactionary: a denial of adventure, trade, the brilliant advance of engineering the Cape-to-Cairo railway would be. Then he realized that it was not denying new exploration or building, simply the scale of it. There would still be new tasks, but laterally, east to west rather than south to north. The difference that mattered was that the railway would belong to the multitude of nations concerned, not to the British Empire.

Ships would be the key, not trains. And the British had been masters of the sea since the days of Nelson and in maritime adventure since the defeat of the Spanish Armada in the time of Queen Elizabeth. British ships traded in every port on earth and across every ocean.

“And Sorokine was listening to this?” he said aloud.

“So I heard,” Welling replied. “But he might have told the man to go to the devil, for all I know. How did you get to hear of it? And why do you care? Is the Cape-to-Cairo railway Special Branch business?”

“No,” Narraway said honestly. He would need Welling again. Lying to him would destroy future trust. “It’s to do with the man, not the project. At least I think it is. Do you know Sorokine personally?”

“I’ve met him, can’t say I know him. Why?”

“Is he a womanizer?”

“He’s probably had his share. He’s a good-looking man. Doesn’t have to try very hard.” He was looking at Narraway curiously now. “Are you thinking of that damn business in Cape Town with the prostitute? There was no proof it was him, just gossip, and I think honestly you could trace most of that back to Dunkeld.”

“Why would Dunkeld say it if there were no foundation to it? Sorokine’s married to Dunkeld’s daughter,” Narraway pointed out.

Welling sighed. “Sometimes you’re so devious and so damn clever, you miss what a more emotional man less occupied with his brain would know instinctively. Dunkeld is possessive, especially of his daughter. Sorokine was taken with her to begin with, then he got bored with her. No emotional weight.”

“Sorokine, or Minnie Dunkeld?” Narraway asked.

Welling smiled. “Probably both of them, but I meant her. To love or hate is excusable, but a woman like her is never going to forgive a man for being bored with her, whoever’s fault it is. It would do you a lot of good to fall in love, Narraway. You would understand the forces of nature a great deal better. If you survived it.” He pulled a silver case out of his pocket. “Do you want a cigar?”

“No thank you.” Narraway had difficulty mastering his sense of having been somehow intruded upon. “Do you think Sorokine had anything to do with the woman in Cape Town?” he asked a little coolly.

“No.” There was no doubt in Welling’s face. “Whoever did it was raving mad. If he’s still alive, he’ll be foaming at the mouth by now, and certainly have done it again, probably several times.” The unlit cigar fell out of his mouth. “God Almighty, is that what’s happened?”

“Don’t oblige me to arrest you for treason, Welling,” Narraway said softly, a tremor in his voice he would prefer to have disguised. “I rather like you, and it would make me very unhappy.”

“I doubt it is Sorokine.” Welling was rattled. He picked up the cigar to give himself a moment more before he answered. “I don’t think he has the temperament. But I’ve been mistaken before.”

Narraway tried to think of other questions to ask, something that would indicate a further line of inquiry. A woman had been killed in Africa, and the method was apparently exactly the same as that used in the Palace. He knew Welling was watching him. He would be a fool to underestimate his intelligence.

“Tell me more about the crime in Cape Town,” he asked.

Welling shrugged. “Prostitute, half-caste with the best features of both races, as so often happens. Fine bones of the white, rich color and graceful bearing of the black, but wanted by neither side. Made her money where she could, and who can blame her? No one wanted to marry her: too white for the blacks, ideas above her station. Too black for the whites, can’t take her home to the parents, but too handsome not to lust after.”

Welling lit the cigar and drew on it experimentally. “Ended up on the floor in a bawdy house, her throat cut and her belly slit open. Nobody ever knew who did it.”

“But Sorokine was there?”

“He was in the area, no more than that. So were a lot of white men.”

“It had to be a white man?”

“Apparently. It was a place that didn’t allow blacks in.”

Narraway said nothing. It was ugly, equivocal, and inconclusive. It was also disturbingly like the present crimes. Finally he thanked Welling and left.

Over the course of the day, he made a few more inquiries to see if he could learn of any other murders of women in the same pattern, anywhere connected with Sorokine, Marquand, or Quase. He heard stories, possibilities. There were always noted crimes in large cities or in settlements on the edges of wild places where there are many men and few women. Nothing matched exactly, although several could have been close enough. Julius Sorokine’s name did not arise.

Lastly he went back yet again to Watson Forbes. It was late in the evening and it was discourteous to impose on him. Nevertheless, he did not hesitate to do so.

Forbes was polite, as always. “You look tired,” he observed. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet,” Narraway confessed.

Forbes rang the bell and when the servant answered, sent him for cold beef, horseradish sauce, and fresh bread and butter. “Perhaps tea would be better than whisky?” he suggested.

Narraway would have preferred whisky, but he accepted the tea. Forbes was right, it would be wiser. They spoke of trivial things until the food came and the servant had withdrawn.

“I presume you are still concerned with the railway?” Forbes said when they were alone. “I know of nothing else useful I can tell you. I have been more than frank with my own opinion.”

“Indeed,” Narraway agreed. He swallowed. “I spoke with someone else who favored lateral lines, east and west to the coastal ports, rather than north and south. Said Britain’s historic power lay at sea. We should enlarge on it, and allow Africa to develop itself.”

Forbes’s eyes opened a little wider, but it was a very slight movement, almost as if he did not wish it seen. “Really! A little…conservative, but perhaps he is right. It doesn’t sound like a great adventure. An old man, I assume?”

Narraway smiled. “You think it is an old man’s vision?”

“Isn’t it?”

“I think he saw it as the vision of a man keen to build on what we have, both physically and morally, rather than risk it all on a new venture that might be dangerous in both regards.”

Forbes smiled. “Possibly. I approve of his reluctance to carve up Africa, keeping all the important places in British hands. Did you come to tell me that?”

“No. I have heard of an incident in Cape Town from two or three people. A tragedy that might have bearing on the present.”

“Dunkeld’s project?” Forbes asked.

There was a stillness in the room now, a waiting.

“Possibly.” Narraway had struggled with finding a way to ask Forbes for information without telling him of the present crisis. If Sorokine was proven guilty, then it would not matter. The fear of scandal would be past. The crime could be mentioned, Minnie Sorokine’s death would not be hidden, but the details, and above all the place and circumstances, could and would be lied about. It might even be necessary to say that Julius was dead also.

“What is it?” Forbes asked, his voice very steady.

More lies might be necessary now. “A murder that happened in Cape Town, several years ago,” Narraway answered as casually as he could.

“Really?” The silence thickened.

Narraway was about to continue, but some sense of conflict in Forbes’s face made him hesitate. Forbes was struggling with a decision. Narraway finished the rest of his beef and buttered another slice of bread. He had eaten that also before Forbes finally spoke.

“Since you are concerned with Sorokine, I imagine you are concerned with the murder of a woman that, so far as I know, has never been solved.”

Narraway swallowed the last mouthful. “Yes, I’m afraid so. I hear rumor of various sorts, nothing substantial, but enough to cause me anxiety.”

Forbes seemed surprised. “Because of Sorokine’s involvement in the railway?”

Perhaps at least an element of the truth was necessary in order to persuade Forbes to be frank. “Yes. It is possible the Prince of Wales may lend the project his support.”

“Ah, I see. Now I understand why Special Branch is concerned.” Forbes’s expression was curiously unreadable. “I wish I could comfort you. Sorokine is definitely the best man I know of to make the diplomatic arrangements. His father was skilled and had excellent connections. I think Julius is even more so, and of course the connections are still there. A certain lack of commitment could be…overcome, if he chose. I think he has it in him.”

“But…?” Narraway prompted. Was it his imagination that there was a coldness in the room, as if the summer were already passing?

“But I cannot tell you that he was not involved in the murder of the woman,” Forbes finished. “I am afraid I think it is more than likely he was. I don’t know if you will ever prove it, or how you even learned of the matter. But if you did, then you had best be told the truth.” He sounded resigned. “He was there, he appeared to have some connection with the woman. Africa can have strange effects on people. They can forget the laws they would keep almost by second nature in their own countries.”

He drew in his breath and let it out slowly. “I have no proof, but were I responsible for the honor and reputation of the heir to the throne, I would not have him associate with Sorokine. You could not afford the scandal it would cause were the matter to be raised. I assume that it is why you asked me before if the project might have enemies? Of course it will, and they will be those men who have lived in Africa themselves. And whether they are prompted by envy, greed, altruism, or personal hatred, they will either know of it already, or they will make it their business to find out.”

“Thank you,” Narraway said unhappily. “I appreciate your candor.”

He felt peculiarly alone and disillusioned as he left Forbes’s house and walked down the front steps into the street. It was as if a great dream, something of nobility and vision, had collapsed unexpectedly, leaving him only dust.

He thought of Pitt in his room in the Palace, and how he too was facing disillusion. Would he be honest enough, brave enough to acknowledge it, if that were the truth? Part of him hoped he would not—Pitt had so much of life’s true wealth already!

Then that feeling vanished, and profoundly, passionately he hoped that Pitt would find that courage. If Narraway had been a man of faith, he would have prayed. There were times when one was empty and did not have something larger and better than oneself in which to believe.