Buckingham Palace Gardens

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.

“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.

“Good afternoon, Victor,” she said with interest. “Emily, do you remember Mr. Narraway? My niece, Mrs. Radley.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Narraway,” Emily said quietly. She was not quite beautiful, but the vitality in her appealed even more, and the arch of her brow, the line of her cheek reminded him again of Charlotte Pitt. “I hope you are well?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Radley,” he replied. “I am very well, thank you, but unfortunately I have to ask Lady Vespasia’s help with a confidential matter. I apologize for such an ill-mannered intrusion. I would avoid it if I could.”

Emily hesitated, then recognized that she had no graceful alternative, even though her eyes betrayed a burning curiosity. “Of course.” She gave him a dazzling smile. She turned to Vespasia. “I shall meet you at the carriage in…shall we say an hour?” And without waiting for a reply, with a swirl of skirts, she was gone.

“Your problem must be urgent.” Vespasia took Narraway’s arm and they moved slowly toward the next room. “Is it to do with Thomas?”

He heard the edge of anxiety in her voice. “Pitt is quite well,” he said quickly. “But we are dealing with a case of such delicacy that I dare not mention it, except that it has to do with the Prince of Wales. I need your assistance.”

“You have it. What may I do?” She did not raise her voice or alter her tone.

He knew it would disappoint her that it was merely information he wanted, and he regretted it. In the past she had involved herself in cases more daringly, and shown considerable flair. “There are several people I need to know more about than I can ask easily, and with the speed and discretion I require,” he told her.

“I see.” She looked away so he could not see her silver-gray eyes, or read the emotions in them.

“There has been a murder,” he confided as they came into the next room. “The victim is a woman of the streets, but she was found in a residence where even her presence would cause a scandal, let alone her bloodied corpse in the linen cupboard.”

Vespasia’s silver eyebrows rose. “Indeed? How unfortunate. Who is it you suspect?”

“It has to be one of three men.” He named them.

“I am surprised,” she confessed.

“You think none of them capable?”

She smiled. “I think none of them foolish enough, which is not the same thing at all.”

“What can you tell me of them, in the way of gossip, scandal, or anything else that may be of interest?”

“You mean of relevance,” she corrected him. “I am quite capable of reading between the lines, Victor.”

He was pleased that she should use his Christian name, and aware that it was ridiculous it should make such a difference to him. “What can you tell me?” he asked.

“I should be surprised if it is Julius Sorokine,” she began thoughtfully, speaking almost under her breath. “He is a young man perhaps too handsome for his own good. Much has come to him easily, though not personal happiness, I think. He has not extended himself because he has had little need. He has no temper and not the kind of vanity that lashes out against denial. He is too lazy, too much on the periphery of life, nor has he so far the emotional energy necessary for violence.” She looked a trifle sad as she said it, as if he had disappointed her.

If someone had asked her, would she have said the same of him: “too much on the periphery of life?” Refraining from violence not through self-mastery but through emotional indolence? He had loved, and betrayed, but it was a long time ago. As always, he had chosen duty over passion.

No, that was not true. Passion was far too strong a word for what he had felt. The choice had not torn his heart. He remembered it with a certain shame, but not agony.

Vespasia was watching him, waiting for his attention to return.

“And Marquand?” he prompted.

“It is possible,” she conceded. “He is Julius’s half-brother, elder by a year or two, and driven by a certain jealousy. Of course Julius married Cahoon Dunkeld’s daughter, Wilhelmina. I believe she calls herself Minnie. A girl with a great talent to attract masculine admiration, which she exercises freely. What the unkind may call a troublemaker.”

“And what would you call her, Lady Vespasia?” He concealed a very slight smile.

“An unhappy young woman who is having a prolonged tantrum,” she replied without hesitation. “Too much like her father.”

“And what would you say of him?”

“You did not include him,” she pointed out.

“Only because his whereabouts are accounted for.”

“Perfectly capable of killing anyone,” she said without hesitation.

“But far too intelligent to do so. If he is guilty, I would say he lost his temper, which is considerable, and did so more by accident than design.”

“You do not cut a woman’s throat in the linen cupboard by accident.”

Her eyes widened only very slightly. “No, that is true. Then I doubt it was Dunkeld. If you had told me he beat his wife, I should have believed you.”

“Why?”

“Because he is a man who takes his possessions very seriously.”

“I see. That leaves Hamilton Quase.”

“A very civilized man,” she observed.

“Too civilized for violence?”

“Certainly not! The most outwardly civilized are the most capable of appearing to be something different from reality. I am quite sure you know that as well as I do.” There was a slight reproof in her voice.

“I apologize,” he said sincerely.

“Thank you. If Mr. Quase were to have done such a thing, I believe he would have had a reason for it that seemed to him to be adequate. But he is a man who takes risks and will pay highly for what he wants.”

“Really!” He had put Quase down as a man who dreamed rather than acted, finding most of his reality at the bottom of a bottle. “And what does he want?” he asked.

“A few years ago I should have said it was Liliane Forbes,” she said. “Now, of course, I do not know. Perhaps it has not changed.”

“He is married to her,” he observed.

“There is more to possessing a woman than the legality of marriage, Victor,” she corrected him. “Quase was very much in love with her, or else he would not have behaved as he did over her brother’s death. A very messy affair. If Eden Forbes had lived, Liliane would very probably have married Julius Sorokine, and a great many things would be different.”

Now he was genuinely interested. “Watson Forbes’s son?”

“His only son.”

“What happened to him?”

She frowned, her voice dropping even lower as they stood in front of a large, very ugly portrait of a woman. “The details are very unclear,” she answered. “He died in Africa, boat overturned in a river. Hippopotami, crocodiles, or something of the sort. Watson Forbes was shattered, as was Liliane. It was Hamilton Quase who dealt with the whole, very miserable matter. Kept it as discreet as possible, saw to the funeral and so on. Liliane had been in love with Julius, but after a decent period of mourning, she married Quase instead.”

“Gratitude?” Narraway inquired. “And if Quase rose to the occasion, and Sorokine did not, perhaps she chose the better man?”

“Possibly.”

“You don’t think so?”

She smiled at him. “I think she paid a debt of gratitude, but that is only a supposition. I don’t know.”

“How do you know so much about it? Were you there?”

“In Africa? Good gracious, no. It holds no enchantment for me,” she replied. “But I have an excellent friend, Zenobia Gunne, who has explored in all manner of places, including long stretches of the Congo and Zambezi rivers, certainly in much of Southern Africa. It was she who told me.”

“Nobby Gunne,” Narraway said with a smile, remembering a remarkable woman who was unafraid of lions, elephants, tsetse flies, or malaria, but still able to be cut to the quick by disloyalty and wounded by the suffering of others. “If she says that is what happened, then I will take it as so.”

“It is of very little use, though, I fear,” Vespasia said unhappily. “I know a little of the wives, but it is only trivial: matters of fashion and spite, who said what to whom, where love or dreams may have led. I cannot imagine that any of it was toward murder in a linen cupboard, no matter whose. It seems a preposterous story to me.”

“It is preposterous,” he agreed. “But regrettably true. Somerset Carlisle suggested that Watson Forbes was the greatest expert in the practicalities of the proposed railway, both diplomatically and with regard to engineering.”

“After Cecil Rhodes, you mean?” she said, amusement touching her lips. “I imagine Mr. Rhodes, with his boundless ambition and love of Empire, will be a keen backer of this project?” She started to move on from the picture. “As Prime Minister of Cape Colony, it will be vastly in his interest. All British Africa will be open to him by land as well as by sea. He would be a better friend than enemy.”

“I’m sure that is true,” Narraway agreed, following her closely. “But I can’t imagine any way in which he will be involved in this tragedy in London.”

“I cannot see why anyone would be,” Vespasia said unhappily. “I think you will find it is a madness that is quite personal and could as easily have happened anywhere else, once the passion that ignites it is disturbed.”

They walked past a few more portraits, only glancing at the faces, then made their way to the entrance. They had been together almost an hour. He escorted her to her carriage where Emily was waiting. He thanked her both for the information and quite genuinely for the pleasure of her company, and he thanked Emily for her patience.

Half an hour later he alighted from a hansom cab in Lowndes Square to call upon Watson Forbes. He had already ascertained by telephone that he would be received.

The house was elegant, with all the marks of unobtrusive wealth, a man who is comfortable with his possessions and does not need to display them except for his own pleasure. The outer doors were of carved teak, oiled and gleaming. The parquet flooring in the hall was Indian hardwood in various shades of rich brown. The paintings were quiet: Dutch canal scenes, domestic interiors, light on water, a furled barge sail, a face in repose, a winter scene all blues and grays on the ice.

It was not until he was in Forbes’s study that Narraway saw the paintings of grasslands with an elephant standing motionless in the heat and the strange, flat-topped acacia trees in the distance. There were many carved animals in ivory and semi-precious stone. One entire wall was lined with books, nearly all of them leather-bound. On the well-used desk was an ostrich egg and a box covered with what looked like crocodile skin.

Watson Forbes was a solid man with thick hair that had once been dark but was now paling almost to white, leaving black brows and a sun-darkened complexion. He had a long nose and a neat, chiseled mouth, which was surprisingly expressive. It was a powerful face, and highly individual. Narraway had heard that he was close to seventy, but he rose easily to his feet and came forward to greet the Special Branch man with interest.

“How do you do? You said in your conversation on the telephone—wonderful invention—that you need expert information on Africa. I know only parts of it, but whatever knowledge I have is at your disposal. Please,” he gestured to include the several leather-covered chairs, inviting Narraway to take his pick. “What is it you wish to know?” He sat down in the chair opposite. “Whisky? Or do you prefer something more exotic? Brandy, perhaps? Or sherry?”

“Not yet, thank you,” Narraway declined. “Do you know Cecil Rhodes?”

Forbes smiled. It lit his face, altering the severity of it, but the look in his dark eyes was guarded. “Certainly. One cannot do serious business in British Africa and not know him.”

“And Cahoon Dunkeld?”

“Interesting you should mention them almost in the same breath,” Forbes observed. “Coincidental, or not?” Now the amusement was in his eyes also.

“Of course not,” Narraway answered. Forbes’s intelligence was obvious; he would be a fool to try to dupe him. He needed Forbes’s knowledge and perhaps also his judgment. He must not insult him, even unintentionally. “You see a likeness? Or a contrast?”

“Both,” Forbes replied. “Dunkeld has the same ambition, something of the same ruthlessness, but far more charm. However, he started his African adventures later in his life than Rhodes, and he has no brothers to help him.”

“But a gifted man?” Narraway pressed. “And able to gather about him others of talent, and to inspire loyalty in them?”

“Obedience,” Forbes replied, choosing his word carefully. His eyes never left Narraway’s face.

“Well liked?”

Again he smiled. “No. Why do you ask? Is this to do with the plan for a Cape-to-Cairo railway?” Forbes was now studying him quite openly. His amusement was more marked, his eyes bright. “It’s not a new dream, Mr. Narraway. It may be built, but it will be a far bigger undertaking than some of its proponents believe. Have you any knowledge of the terrain it will pass through? It is farther from Cape Town to Cairo than it is from New York across the great plains of America and the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific shores, and then back again. And the climate and terrains cross extremes of equatorial jungle, grassland, mountains, desert, waterless wastes you cannot imagine.” He gestured with strong, square hands. “There are diseases, parasites, poisonous reptiles and insects, plagues of locusts, and the largest beasts on earth. Africa is another world, Mr. Narraway. It is nothing like Europe at all.”

Narraway heard the emotion. Forbes’s voice was thick, almost trembling, and there was a passion in his eyes.

“It has a great and terrible beauty,” he went on, leaning forward a little. “See a bull elephant charge! It is the most magnificent beast in the world. And intelligent! Hear lions roar in the night. Or hyenas laugh. They sound human, but insane. It chills the blood. Have you heard about the drums? They send messages over hundreds of miles, one drummer to another, as we would use beacon fires. Only, of course, their messages are much more complicated, an entire language.”

Narraway did not interrupt him.

“There are scores of kingdoms,” Forbes went on urgently. “Boundaries that have nothing to do with the white man: Zulu, Mashona, Hutu, Masai, Kikuyu, and dozens more. And the Arabs still trade in slaves from the interior to the coasts. There are old wars and hatreds going back a thousand years that we know nothing about.”

“Are you saying that it cannot succeed?” Narraway asked. He was both awed and disappointed. Did he want Africa tamed by the white man’s railway? Did he want the British Empire spreading culture, commerce, and Christianity throughout? Or was it a better dream to leave its dark heart unconquered?

He surprised himself. He loved knowledge, acquired it, traded in it, and benefited from its power. There was a kind of safety in there being something still unknown, as if dreams and miracles could still happen. To know everything was to destroy the infinite possibilities of unreasoning hope.

Did he see some reflection of this in Watson Forbes’s face also, even a certain humility? Or was that only what he imagined he saw?

“No,” Forbes said softly. “It may succeed one day, but I think it will be a far longer undertaking than these men are prepared for. It will need greater courage and fortitude, and require greater wisdom than they yet have.”

“You know the people who could do it?” Narraway dragged his mind back to his reason for coming here.

“Of course. Africa is larger than we who are used to England can imagine, but the white men there still know one another. There are few enough of them.”

“Tell me what you know of them, honestly. I cannot tell you my reasons for needing to know, but they are real and urgent.”

Forbes did not argue, and if he was troubled by curiosity, it did not show in his unusual face. “Where should I begin?” he asked.

“With Cahoon Dunkeld,” Narraway answered. Dunkeld was the leader, by far the most dominant personality. If there was an ordinary human person behind this crime, then surely Dunkeld’s will, his cruelty, or his mistake was at the heart of it. “Is there more to say of him? What do you know of his wife?”

“Elsa?” Forbes was surprised. “Nothing much. A woman with the possibility of beauty, but not the fire. In the end she is essentially boring.”

“Is he bored with her?”

“Undoubtedly. But she has certain attributes that make her an excellent wife for him.”

Narraway winced.

“His daughter is a completely different matter,” Forbes continued, the slightest smile moving his lips. “She is passionate, handsome, and dangerous. I cannot think why she married Julius Sorokine, who is emotionally also a bore. He is very gifted in diplomacy, has great charm when he wishes to use it, but he is lazy. He could be immeasurably better than he is, and that is his tragedy.”

“And his half-brother, Simnel Marquand?”

“Oh, Simnel. He is probably at the crown of his achievements. His financial abilities are superb. He understands money better than any other man I know.”

“Is that all?” Narraway asked, remembering that Vespasia had said he envied his brother. Surely not for an ability he was too lazy to use?

“Quite possibly. But then that is all they will need from him for the railway.” There was still a shred of humor in Forbes’s face, but other emotions also: anger, regret, and also an immense power.

“And Hamilton Quase?” Narraway asked, dropping his voice without having meant to. He knew the relationship between the two men.

“My son-in-law?” Forbes’s dark brows rose. “I am hardly impartial.”

“I will set it against other people’s opinions.”

Forbes measured his words carefully this time. “He is a brilliant engineer, imaginative, technically highly skilled. Anyone proposing to build across an entire continent could do no better than to employ Hamilton.”

“You are telling me of his professional skills. What of his character?”

“Loyal,” Forbes said immediately. “Essentially fair, I believe. He will pay for what he wants. A hard man to read, very much out of the ordinary in his tastes, and perhaps in his dreams. He drinks too much. I am not betraying him in saying so. Anyone else will tell you the same.”

Narraway remembered what Vespasia had said of Quase, and of his courage and discretion over Eden Forbes’s death because he was in love with Liliane. And Liliane had wanted Julius Sorokine. It sounded as if her father’s bargain with Quase had earned her the better man. Narraway hoped with considerable depth that she had acquired the wisdom to appreciate that also.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

“Is it of any assistance to you?” Forbes inquired.

“I have no idea,” Narraway confessed. “Do you believe they will succeed in building the railway, with the right backing?”

Forbes hesitated, his eyes flaring with sudden, intense feeling, masked again almost immediately. “The Queen will approve it,” he said softly. “The risk will be high, in the short term, but in the medium term—say for the next four or five decades—it will be the making of men, perhaps of nations.”

Narraway watched him carefully, noting the minutest shadows of his face. “And the long term?” he asked. “After the next half-century, as you judge it?”

“The future of Africa and its people?” He dropped his guard. “That will be in our hands. There will be good men who will want to teach Africa, bring it out of darkness—as they see it. God only knows if they will see it clearly.” His mouth twisted a little. “And on the heels of the good men will come the traders and the opportunists, the builders, miners, explorers. Then the farmers and settlers, scores, hundreds of white men trying to turn Africa into the English suburbs, but with more sun. Some will be teachers and doctors. Most will not.”

Narraway waited, knowing Forbes would add more.

“Good and bad,” Forbes said, tightening his lips. “But our way, not the Africans’ way.”

Narraway was disturbed by the thought. “Is it not inevitable? We cannot undiscover Africa,” he pointed out, but it was as if he were speaking of something already broken.

“Yes, it probably is,” Forbes said flatly. “And I suppose if anyone is going to exploit it, it might as well be Great Britain. We are good at it. God knows, we’ve had enough experience. But I didn’t step back from it for that reason. It is difficult living in harsh climates far from home. I want adventure of the mind now rather than of the body. Cahoon Dunkeld is as good a man for this as you can get. I’m perfectly happy for him to do it.”

“And Sorokine, Quase, and Marquand?”

“Probably the best choices available to him.”

“Why? Best for the job, or because Sorokine is his son-in-law, Marquand is Sorokine’s half-brother, and Quase your son-in-law?”

Forbes flashed him a sudden smile. “I don’t doubt that will have some part in it. One trusts the judgment of those whom one knows, or at least has a perception of their vulnerabilities. Do you fear that the railway is under threat of some kind of sabotage, even this early?”

“If it were, whom would you suspect?” Narraway asked him.

“Ah. Is that what you really want?” Forbes eased back in his chair a little.

“And if I do?”

“If there is another group of men as appropriately gifted, I am not aware of it. If you have any real basis for fear, then you should look to some of the other countries with major interests in Africa. You might begin with Belgium. Congo Free State is vast, and rich in minerals. King Leopold has boundless ambition there.” He made a steeple of his fingers. “The other major participant is Germany. Any railway would have to cross the territory of one of them, or acquire a line of passage between the two. But I assume you can read a map as well as I can?”

“I’ve looked at it, certainly.”

“That may be where Sorokine’s skills come in. He is a diplomat with many connections and far more intelligence than his somewhat casual attitude suggests.”

“Thank you. You have been most courteous.” Narraway rose to his feet.

“A suitably equivocal remark.” Forbes rose also. “If there is anything else I can do, don’t hesitate to call again.”

NARRAWAY RETURNED TO the Palace and found Pitt in the room they had given him, the windows wide open and the warm evening air blowing in. He was eating a supper of cold roast beef sandwiches. Narraway was instantly struck by how tired he looked. He seemed to have none of his usual energy.

“Anything?” Pitt asked with his mouth full, before Narraway had even closed the door.

“Interesting,” Narraway replied, walking over and sitting in the other chair. The sandwiches looked good: fresh bread and plenty of meat. He realized he had not eaten all day. Still, these were Pitt’s, not his, and superior rank did not excuse ill manners. “Not certain if it means much. How about you?”

“Gracie’s about the only one who has achieved anything,” Pitt said ruefully. “And it doesn’t seem to mean much either. You’ve got men inquiring about Sadie?”

“Yes. Too soon to expect anything yet.”

“I know. I’m not sure if it matters anymore. Probably not.”

Narraway looked around for the bell. “Do you think they’d fetch me some?” He eyed the sandwiches.

“Have some of these,” Pitt offered. “But there’s no more cider. Maybe you’d prefer ale anyway?”

“Cider’s fine, but I’ll send for some myself, thank you,” Narraway answered, and rose to pull the bell rope. “What did Gracie learn?” He was disappointed. He had had an intense and perhaps unreasonable hope that Pitt would either have learned or deduced something profound. His skill at solving complicated murders was one Narraway had come to value, and he had no intention of allowing the Metropolitan Police to have Pitt back again. He would use his influence, plead the safety of the realm from anarchy or foreign subversion, whatever it required to keep him.

He was placing pressure on Pitt to succeed now, and he was aware of it. It was harsh, but they could not afford to fail. Was he asking too much?

Pitt finished his sandwich before answering. No one hurried to the summons of the bell, but then they knew whose room it was, and no doubt guests took precedence.

“Two badly bloodstained sheets in one of the baskets in the laundry,” Pitt answered, watching him.

Narraway was baffled. Pitt was stating the obvious. Was he overwhelmed by where he was? “Where else would you expect to find them?” he asked. “I imagine most of the sheets from the linen cupboard are there. At least all they think they can save.”

“They had the Queen’s monogram on them.” Pitt looked at him with a frown, his eyes puzzled. “Not the Palace, the Queen personally. And they had been slept on. They were crumpled and the blood was smeared.”

“God Almighty, Pitt!” Narraway exclaimed. “What are you saying? The Queen’s at Osborne.”

“I know that,” Pitt replied steadily. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since Gracie showed them to me, and I don’t know what it is I’m saying. Somebody used the Queen’s sheets on a bed that was slept in, or at any rate used, if you prefer a more exact term, and somebody bled on them, very heavily.”

Narraway’s mind raced. “Then she can’t have been stabbed in the linen cupboard! She was killed somewhere else, and put there afterward. That makes some sense. Why would she have gone willingly to the cupboard anyway? Whoever killed her put her in a place he thought would not incriminate him. We should have realized that before.”

“Bodies don’t bleed a lot after they’re dead,” Pitt pointed out. “Heart stops.”

“But it doesn’t stop instantly. There could still be blood,” Narraway argued.

“Nothing like as much as we found in the cupboard. She must have been alive when she was put in there.” Pitt’s face was twisted with pity and an anger Narraway had rarely seen in him, and was the more moving for that.

“Ripped her belly open in the bed, then carried her naked along the corridor and slashed her across the throat, then left her to bleed to death in the cupboard,” Narraway said very quietly. “By the way, have we found her clothes yet?”

“No,” Pitt replied.

Narraway shivered. “What in God’s name are we dealing with, Pitt?”

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” Narraway said savagely.

The door opened and Gracie’s diminutive figure stood on the threshold. She looked different and even smaller in Palace uniform.

“Come in,” Narraway repeated, more civilly this time. “Can you get me a supper like Pitt’s, roast beef sandwich and a glass of cider?”

“I’ll ask Cook, sir,” Gracie said, closing the door behind her. “But I come because one o’ the maids found the missing knife.” She spoke to Pitt, not Narraway. “An’ it’s got blood on it, sir. Even a couple of ’airs, little ones.” She colored faintly. She could not bring herself to be more exact than that.

“Where?” Pitt stared at her. “Where did they find it? Who did?”

“Ada found it. In the linen cupboard, sir.”

“But we searched it!” Pitt protested. “There was no knife there!”

“I know that, sir,” she agreed. “Someone gone an’ put it there, jus’ terday. We got someone ’ere in this palace ’oo’s very wicked. Mr. Tyndale’s got the knife, sir. I’ll go an’ get yer some sandwiches, an’ a glass o’ cider.” She turned round and went out, whisking her skirt, which was at least two inches too long for her, leaving Pitt and Narraway staring at each other.