Buckingham Palace Gardens (17 page)

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.”

         

N
ARRAWAY 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.

CHAPTER
SIX

E
LSA SAT IN
front of her bedroom mirror, stiff and unhappy. Everyone was afraid. On the day the body was discovered they had been so shocked they had taken a little while to absorb the horror of what had happened, but with the second day the reality of it was far more powerful. The gangling policeman with his overstuffed pockets was asking questions. They were always courteous; questions that only afterward did you realize how intrusive they had been.

It seemed absurd, like something senseless out of a nightmare where none of the pieces fit, but at last they were realizing that it had to have been one of them who had killed the woman. No one dared say it. They had talked about all kinds of things, making remarks no one listened to, and gossip in which, for once, no one was interested.

She stared at her reflection in the glass. It was pale and familiar, horribly ordinary.

It was impossible to sleep properly, but even the little rest they had had meant they had woken with a far more painful clarity. They were trapped here until the policeman found a solution, and one of them was destroyed forever. Or perhaps they would all be. How did you survive the fact that someone you knew, perhaps loved, could kill like that? Was that who they had always been underneath? You had just been too stupid, too insensitive to have seen it?

She was in love with Julius. Or she was in love with the idea of love, the hunger for it that was a gnawing ache inside her, as if she were being eaten from within. She didn't know Julius, not really.

She shuddered as Bartle laid out her gown for the evening. It was exquisite: the sort of smoky blue that most flattered her cool coloring, and was trimmed with black lace. Minnie could get away with the hot scarlets and appear wild and brave. Elsa would only look like a failed imitation. Cahoon had told her as much. He had often compared her to Minnie—never to her advantage. This was in the shades of dusk, or the twilight sea that she had once felt to be romantic. Now she simply found it drab.

She obeyed patiently as Bartle assisted her into first the chemise, then the petticoats, and finally the gown itself, then she stood still while it was laced up as tightly as she could accommodate without actual discomfort. It was wide at the shoulder with the usual exaggerations of fashion, and low at the bosom. It had a sweeping fall of silk down the front, and pale ruches at the hem. The bustle behind was very slight but extraordinarily flattering. The color made her skin look flawless, like alabaster, and her eyes a darker blue than they really were.

Then she sat again, motionless while Bartle dressed her hair. It was long and thick, dark brown with warmer lights in it. The jewels that Cahoon was so proud of would come last.

It was preposterous to be preparing for dinner when that woman had been hacked to death, and they could not escape the fact that one of the men at the table with them had done it. But neither could they put off the occasion without arousing a suspicion they could not afford. The Prince was dining with them, and of course the Princess. Lord Taunton was the guest. He was a financier Simnel had been courting, who had specific interests in Africa. His support would be of great importance, possibly even necessity. He had never married, so he would bring as his companion his younger sister, Lady Parr, who was recently widowed. Her husband had left her with a fortune of her own, and she was handsome in a rather obvious way. She certainly had admirers—Cahoon among them. Elsa had seen the flash of hunger in his eyes, the way he had once looked at her.

The evening would require great fortitude and the sort of self-mastery that even the strongest woman would find taxing. They would all have to hide their fears. There must be no frayed tempers, no hint of anxiety. Taunton must believe that all was well, that they were full of optimism and faith in the success of the new and marvelous venture.

“There you are, Miss Elsa,” Bartle said, clasping the sapphire necklace around her throat. “You look lovely.”

Elsa regarded her reflection. She was tired and too pale, but there was nothing she could do about it. Pinching her cheeks would bring a little color, but only for a very short time. It seemed a pretense not worth making.

She thanked Bartle and sent her to inform Cahoon that she was ready.

A moment later she heard the door close and saw his reflection in the glass. He examined her critically, but seemed satisfied. He said nothing, and they went down the stairs together in silence.

Olga and Simnel were already waiting, standing in the yellow sitting room with its illusion of sunlight, two or three yards apart from each other. She wore a gown of dark green, darker than the emeralds at her ears and throat. It was hard and too cold for her. It leached from her skin what little color there was, and its lightless depth made her look even more angular. Her lady's maid should have told her so. Perhaps she had, and been ignored. There was not the warmth or the softness about her that one would wish to see in a woman.

She turned as Elsa and Cahoon came in and acknowledged them with nervous politeness. “Do you know Lady Parr?” she asked Elsa.

“I have met her on several occasions,” Elsa replied, realizing as she spoke how much she did not like Amelia Parr. She had no idea why. It was unfair and unreasonable. “She is very pleasant,” she lied. She felt Cahoon glance at her and knew that her face betrayed her.

“She is said to be very interesting,” Olga continued. “I hope, I must admit. I would find it hard to think of anything to say this evening.”

No one needed to ask her to clarify what she meant.

Hamilton and Liliane came in. He appeared to have already drunk a considerable amount of whisky. There was too much color in his face and a mild, slightly glazed look in his eyes. Liliane kept glancing at him as if to reassure herself that he was all right. She herself looked superb. Her shining amber hair and gold-brown eyes were richly complemented by the bronze of her gown, trimmed with elaborate black velvet ribbons. She made Elsa feel as dowdy as a moment before she had considered Olga to be. To judge from the appreciation in Cahoon's face, he was of the same opinion.

More words of apprehension and encouragement were exchanged, then the door opened again and Minnie swept in. She was vivid as a flame in hot scarlet, her dark hair piled gorgeously on her head, adding to her height. Her skin was flushed, and her bosom a good deal more accentuated than Elsa would have dared to copy, although she was easily as well endowed by nature. But curves had little to do with Minnie's allure; it lay in her vitality, the challenge given by the boldness of her stare, the grace with which she moved. There was a constant air of risk and bravado about her as if she were always on the edge of something exciting.

“Good evening,” Olga said quietly. No one answered her.

Minnie smiled, ignoring Julius, two steps behind her. “Ready to sail into the attack?” she said brightly. “Are you ready to be charming to Lady Parr?” she asked Cahoon, then, before he could answer, she turned to Elsa. “Or perhaps you had better do that. It will confound her completely, especially after your last encounter.” She gave a small, meaningful smile.

Elsa knew exactly what she was referring to, and felt the heat burn up her cheeks, but she had no defense. She ached to be able to belittle Minnie, just once to tear that glowing confidence to pieces. She might despise herself afterward, but it would be wonderful to know she could do it.

“And Papa can bewilder the Princess of Wales, while Simnel and the Prince talk to Lord Taunton,” Minnie went on. “It really doesn't matter what you say to the Princess. She will pretend to be interested, and not hear a word of it.” She shot a withering glance at her husband. “Perhaps we should let Julius talk to her?”

The innuendo was so sharp for a moment no one responded.

Elsa felt fury rise up inside her. Cahoon had often told her she should remain silent at such moments, but the words rose to her lips. “A good idea,” she agreed sharply. “He knows how to conduct himself and exercise loyalty and good manners. He will not embarrass her by showing off.”

“Of course not!” Minnie retorted instantly. “He will be utterly predictable.”

“To whom?” Elsa snapped back. “You couldn't predict rain with a thunderstorm.”

Minnie looked her up and down, a faint curl on her lip. “If it is a cold, gray day and has rained all morning, I can predict that it will rain all afternoon!” she said with arched eyebrows and a cool, pitying look at Elsa's gown.

Elsa longed for something crushing to say, something that would hurt Minnie just as much, but nothing came. There were times when what she felt for Minnie was close to hatred.

Julius was smiling. Was it to hide pain, or had he simply not understood her implication? Or was that what he did to conceal embarrassment? “Have you ever seen a dry lightning storm?” he inquired of nobody in particular. “You get them sometimes in summer. Spectacular, and rather dangerous. In Africa they can set the grassland alight and the fires consume thousands of acres.”

“How destructive,” Olga murmured uncomfortably.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But the new growth afterward is marvelous. There are some plants whose seeds only germinate in the extreme heat.” He looked very quickly at Elsa, his eyes soft for an instant, then away again. Or did she imagine it?

Minnie was temporarily confused, aware she had been bettered, but not certain how it had happened. She smiled dazzlingly at Simnel. “I think storms can be rather fun, don't you?”

He was uncomfortable, as if somehow guilty, but he could not drag his gaze from her.

Olga moved even farther away from him, her face almost colorless. Her body was all angles, as if she might be clumsy enough to knock over ornaments balanced on the side tables. Had she any idea how naked her feelings were?

Elsa looked at Julius and saw the pity in his face. For an instant it was the most beautiful thing she knew. He was utterly different from Cahoon. Cahoon had no patience with the weak. Mercy was an impediment to the march of progress. She had heard him say so many times, and inside herself she had longed to protest. What about the beautiful, the funny, the kind, which might also be vulnerable?

She was afraid of Cahoon. She knew it with a sort of sickness that made the thought of eating repulsive. How could she get through the evening without fumbling, dropping knives and spoons, making stupid remarks because her mind was on the woman in the cupboard, and the knowledge that one of these men had killed her? Was it Simnel, because he lusted after Minnie and loathed himself because he could not control it? Did he imagine that killing some poor woman who awoke the same in him would make anything better? Or Hamilton Quase, for God knew what reason? Because he was drunk and frightened and suddenly lost all sense? Perhaps the woman had laughed at him. Elsa tried to imagine it. It was pathetic and disgusting. She hoped profoundly that that was not true. She refused to think it could be Julius. That was unbearable. What a pity it could not have been Cahoon.

What a terrible thought! How could she have allowed it into her mind? She had lain in his arms. Once she had even thought she loved him, imagined awakening in him a tenderness toward her he had felt for no other person in his life.

How naïve! The only person he had ever loved was Minnie, and even that was equivocal. She was too like him, too strong to be controlled, and he resented that.

The footman announced that dinner was about to be served. They all trooped after him from the guest wing to the magnificent state dining room hung with portraits of past members of the royal family, framed in ornate gold. It was far too big for such a gathering and Elsa wondered why the Prince of Wales had chosen it. The red curtains and carpet warmed the almost cathedral-like vault of the pale golden walls and domed and fretted ceiling. Still it dwarfed them, and the table seemed lost in its enormity. The chandeliers glittered; the light on the silver and crystal was blinding. The white mantel and white tablecloth were as virgin as snow. The scent of lilies on the table reminded her of a hothouse. Everywhere there were more footmen in livery, gold buttons gleaming, white gloves immaculate.

The Prince and Princess of Wales welcomed them. She looked magnificent in cream and gold and blue, blazing with diamonds. She was a beautiful woman, with classic features; calm, remote, and slightly bemused.

Elsa curtsied and smiled, and wondered how much the Princess was aware of anything going on around her. It must be a purgatory to be deaf, never knowing quite what was happening, like seeing everything through thick glass. See but never hear, know but don't touch, never quite understand. How often do people get frustrated and simply not bother trying to communicate anymore?

Did she even know that there had been a murder? Probably not. Perhaps she always lived on the edge of everything.

Lord Taunton and Lady Parr were shown in and presented, then introduced to everyone else. She was dressed in plum-colored silk. It was very rich and complimented her skin, though it clashed hideously with Minnie's scarlet. It amused Cahoon. Elsa could see it in his face.

Dinner was announced and they went to the table in exact order of precedence, the Princess of Wales on Lord Taunton's arm, followed by Elsa and Cahoon. She saw the flash of discontent in his eyes. He would like to have been in Taunton's place, but he had no title, no status except that of money, and all the money in the world counted for nothing here.

Next came Hamilton and Liliane, Simnel as elder brother, with Olga, then Julius with Minnie, and lastly the Prince of Wales with Lady Parr.

The first course of julienne soup was served, or alternatively fillet of turbot and Dutch sauce, or red mullet. Elsa ate very sparingly. She knew there would be entrées of meat or fowl, then a third course of heavier meat, possibly including game, maybe venison at this time of year. Then there would be a fourth course, probably some kind of pastry dish—fruit pies, tarts, custards—and lastly a dessert of grapes or other fresh fruit, and after the meal, cheese.