Buckingham Palace Gardens (26 page)

“Did they?” he repeated.

Could he already know about the affair? If she lied to conceal it, then he would know she was trying to protect Julius. It would seem extraordinary to him, suspicious. Minnie was her stepdaughter; that is where her loyalties should lie. At least she must pretend they did. And yet everyone knew of the affair. Someone would tell him, probably they already had. Pitt would know she was lying if she pretended not to know.

“From anger perhaps,” she suggested. “Mr. Marquand was…attracted to her. How far it went I can only surmise, but it was intense, at least for a while.” She made it sound so prosaic, reducing passion to a commonplace thing. “Regrettably, such things happen all the time,” she added. “People do not kill over it. They may weep, or even lash out in some way or other. It's best to maintain all the dignity one can, and trust that it will pass. Regardless of that, Mr. Pitt, it was no reason to kill the prostitute who had nothing to do with our private affairs. None of us had ever seen or heard of her before. And you said that Minnie had been asking questions that led you to believe that she had some idea who killed the poor woman. Surely that is why she was also killed?”

“It does seem to be the case,” he agreed. “My own inquiries tell me that she spent most of yesterday asking questions of the servants, and she appeared to have discovered something that made her very excited, as if she had found the answer.”

“And…” Elsa gulped. “You think she confronted someone?”

“I think someone realized that she knew,” he amended.

“I don't know who it was.” The moment she had said it she knew she had spoken too quickly. He had not asked her. She had already said she had no idea. She felt her face burn.

He was looking at her steadily. “Mr. Dunkeld has no doubt that it was Mr. Sorokine. He confronted him and they fought. They both have injuries to face and hands.”

She did not understand. All she wanted to do was stop Pitt from believing it. What could she say? If she defended Julius and blamed Cahoon, then Pitt would see her emotions quite nakedly. Was that what he was trying to do, see if Julius had killed his wife and was trying to blame Cahoon?

“If they fought…” she started, then realized the remark was pointless, and stopped.

“Neither of them denied that,” he said. “And Cahoon says that Julius had his injuries before their fight.”

She did not understand.

“I'm sorry.” His voice was very gentle now, as if he pitied her. “Mrs. Sorokine fought for her life. Whoever killed her would have scratches and perhaps bruises as well.”

She had to say it. The words were like a nightmare, but if she did not say them, it would be even worse. How could she outthink him? “My husband would never have killed his daughter, Mr. Pitt. He loved her deeply, far more than he loved anyone else.”

“Didn't Mr. Sorokine also love his wife?” he asked.

She could not read the expression on his face now. He had gray eyes, very clear, as if he could see into the horror and confusion inside her.

“I imagine so,” she said hesitantly. “One always assumes. And when it is family, even more so. I…I can't believe that Julius killed her.”

He waited.

It was a stupid thing to have said, and yet it was true. Whatever Cahoon had seen, or said he had seen, she did not believe Julius had murdered either the woman in the cupboard or Minnie. She would not believe it; the burden of loss it would bring was more than she could carry.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunkeld. I don't think I have anything else to ask you at the moment,” Pitt said.

She had betrayed herself. He knew what she felt. She saw it in his face. She was embarrassed, as if she were emotionally naked. She rose to her feet, tried to think of something to say so she could leave with a shred of grace, but there was nothing. She went to the door and opened it without speaking again.

         

C
HANGING HER MORNING GOWN
for one suitable for luncheon, she found herself alone with Cahoon. It was the one thing she had wished to avoid. Bartle had already left when he came into her dressing room. She swiveled around to face him. She always felt uncomfortable when he was behind her.

He looked haggard. He had aged ten years since yesterday. She felt a moment's stab of pity for him again. It would have been instinctive to have touched him, to have gone over and put her arms around him and held him, but the barrier of estrangement was too high. They had touched in the heat of physical hunger, but never in tenderness, the need of the heart or the mind.

“I'm so sorry,” she said quietly.

He was watching her, his eyes so dark she could see no expression in them. “You didn't think Julius would do that, did you!” It was a challenge, not a question.

A shiver of alarm went through her. “Of course I didn't,” she said abruptly.

“You didn't know him as well as you thought!” A flash of pleasure lit his eyes, almost of triumph.

She was cold inside, frightened that he could hate her enough to savor hurting her, even in the depth of his own loss.

She tried to look surprised. “Why? Did you imagine it then?” She must be desperate to be fighting back. She had thought of doing it before, but never had the courage.

Rage flared in his face. “For God's sake, you stupid creature, do you think I would have let him into the same house as my daughter if I had?” His voice was hoarse, almost cracking with grief.

Again the pity for him drowned out her own anger. “None of us saw it, Cahoon, or we would have done something and prevented this,” she told him gently. Was he blaming himself for not having had Julius arrested before this happened? How could she tell him that it was not his fault without sounding both insincere and patronizing?

He was looking at her with that strange kind of triumph again, as if snatching some shred of victory out of the disaster. “They won't hang him, which is a pity,” he went on. “They'll keep it all secret, to protect the Prince of Wales. They'll just take him to some madhouse and lock him up there for the rest of his life.” There was something almost like a smile on his face, and he was watching her intently.

As if she should have seen it from the beginning, she suddenly understood with blinding clarity that he had always hated Julius. In spite of Minnie's death, he was still able to rejoice in his destruction. Elsa couldn't help but wonder if her husband had planned all this. Was the prostitute's death supposed to implicate and ruin Julius?

Why? Because Elsa loved him? Cahoon did not love her; he never had. But she belonged to him. This was not jealousy, it was hatred for having been insulted. His vanity was wounded, his right of possession injured.

Would she let him trample over her like this? Did she think Julius had butchered that woman, then when Minnie worked it out and faced him, he had killed her in the same way? If she said nothing, then she was admitting that she did, and that would always be part of her. Better to deny it, whatever it cost, than surrender the dream now.

“They will have to prove him guilty first,” she said aloud.

“They will do,” he replied, eyes shining again. “Cling on as long as you can, Elsa! Imagine all you like. You don't know men, and you don't know love. You never did! Julius is a madman. Minnie had the courage to face that. But then she was always braver, stronger, and better than you!”

She looked at him and saw the hate in his face, for Julius, and for her too. In all his agony over Minnie—and she believed that—he had a joy that Julius would be destroyed as well. Perhaps it was all he had left now.

Except to destroy her too.

How would he do it? If Julius was locked in his room, he could not cut her throat and her stomach and blame him for it. But he could implicate her somehow, in something, and then put her aside, divorce her. Then perhaps he could marry Amelia Parr!

She looked at him, searched his face, and believed with ice-cold certainty that it was true. There was nothing to protect her, except her own nerve and intelligence, and a will not to be beaten.

“We'll see,” she said softly. “It isn't the end yet.”

CHAPTER
NINE

V
ICTOR 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.

I
N 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.”