Buckingham Palace Gardens

by Anne Perry

  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 h
ad 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.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  AFTER NARRAWAY HAD gone, Pitt abandoned pretense and asked Tyndale to send Gracie to him. She came ten minutes later, carrying a tray of tea with three slices of buttered toast and a dish of marmalade. She put it down on the table and stood more or less to attention. She looked very small, miserable, and a little crumpled.

  “Sit down,” he said gently. “The tea’s good, but it was only an excuse to get you here.”

  She obeyed. “Is it true they done ’er in like the poor thing in the cupboard?” she asked. Her face screwed up as she searched his eyes, frightened of what she would see.

  For her sake he tried to conceal his own sense of panic. “Yes, almost exactly. It has to be the same person. You said she was asking questions all day.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. “An’ I think as she knew ’oo did it. It were in ’er face, in the way she walked, gettin’ more an’ more excited, like, all the time. She were addin’ it up an’ it made sense to ’er, even if it don’t ter us.”

  “Tell me again who she spoke to and all you know about it.”

  She nodded, tight-lipped. He could see her fear for him in every angle of her small body.

  “I dunno everythin’,” she started. “’Cos I couldn’t follow ’er all the time. She could ’ave spoke ter others as well. But she were on ter Biddie an’ Norah about the sheets, an’ ter Mags as well, an’ ter Edwards about buckets an’ buckets o’ water up an’ downstairs inter the other part goin’ that way.” She pointed vaguely. “This place is so big I in’t never certain where anyone’s gone ter, but it were out o’ this wing, inter one o’ the places we in’t allowed. An’ they come back wi’ all them bits o’ broken china.”

  She looked even more unhappy. “I asked Mr. Tyndale, an’ ’e went all peculiar, like ’e were scared ’alf out of ’is wits. I in’t never seen ’im like that, an all sort o’ stiff an’ proper bloke like ’im. Wot is it, Mr. Pitt? Is it ’cos ’ooever done it is mad? Is that’s wot’s got ’im so scared? Like the back streets ’as come inter their palace wot they thought was all safe from real life?”

  “It could be, Gracie,” he said. The thought had flicked through his mind, but he was surprised that she had seen it so sharply. Did it hurt her as it hurt him? Perhaps disillusion was the same, whoever you were. “But it’s something more than that as well. Did Mrs. Sorokine know about the port bottles?”

  She shook her head.

  “I dunno. I don’t see ’ow she could. ’Less someone else saw ’em an’ told ’er? But I reckon if anyone saw ’em, they’d just ’ave thrown ’em out ’cos o’ the flies. You wouldn’t ’ardly go an’ tell guests, would yer? An’ she wouldn’t ’ave asked, ’cos why would yer? ‘Excuse me, but ’ave yer seen any old wine bottles wi’ blood in ’em?’”

  “All the same,” Pitt said thoughtfully, “I wonder if she knew, or guessed? Or if they have nothing to do with the murder.” But even as he spoke, he did not believe it. “That means premeditation,” he said aloud.

  “Wot?” she frowned. “’Ave yer tea, Mr. Pitt. Lettin’ it go cold don’t ’elp.”

  “No. Thank you.” Absentmindedly he poured it, only marginally aware of the fragrant steam in the air. “It means it wasn’t a sudden crime of madness, on the spur of the moment, like losing your temper. If somebody brought blood in bottles, then they planned it beforehand. You can’t get blood into a wine bottle easily. You would have to use a funnel and pour with great care.”

  Gracie frowned. “’Course,” she agreed. “But ’oose blood, an’ wot for?”

  “A diversion,” he answered. “That’s all it could be. And it could be any sort of blood, an ox or a sheep, or a rabbit.” He spread marmalade on the first slice of toast and bit into it.

  “In’t that much blood in a rabbit,” Gracie pointed out practically.

  “Yer could get it at a butcher’s. D’yer s’pose it were blood ter put on the Queen’s sheets, ter scare us off lookin’ too close elsewhere, like?”

  He smiled. He had wondered the same thing.

  “In’t gonna work, though, is it?” she asked anxiously, trying to read his eyes.

  “No,” he answered her. “We won’t stop looking for the truth, whatever it is.” He saw her relax and realized the conflict of emotions crowding within her, led by the fear of disillusion. It was the pain that had tugged at the edge of his own feelings ever since arriving here. He did not wish to see the fragility of those he had grown up admiring, believing to be not only privileged but uniquely deserving of honor. In spite of all their frailties of taste and even loyalty to one another, he had still imagined in them a love of the same values as the best of their subjects. He had taken for granted the acceptance of responsibility for one’s acts, good or bad, of kindness and truth, the value of friendship, and gratitude for good fortune.

  She was looking at him steadily, reassured. “Wot d’yer want me ter do, sir? You got the bottles, but I can see if Mrs. Sorokine asked anyone about them?”


  His first thought was of Gracie’s safety. “No. You can’t do that without betraying that you found them.”

  She stared at him, her eyes widening.

  He had hurt her feelings by refusing to let her help. “You have no way of explaining except by saying that you found them,” he said, wishing that he had put it that way in the beginning. “I can’t afford to have them know who you are yet. And someone might work it out.”

  “You in’t sure as ’e did it, are yer?” she said in awe.

  He had not realized she knew about Julius Sorokine, but he should have. Orders had been given to Tyndale for all the staff that they must leave Julius’s door locked, and food was to be delivered only by Tyndale himself, taking a manservant with him. That would go around the staff like wildfire. Suddenly they would all feel safe. The mystery was solved and the madman locked up. Gracie would have assumed the same thing. Now she was staring at him with a clarity sharper than his own.

  “If we are to lock him up for the rest of his life, we have to be certain, beyond any question,” he answered, trying to convince himself. “At least I do.”

  She nodded slowly. “Well, if it in’t ’im, then it’s someone else,” she said quietly. “I’ll see if Mrs. Sorokine found out about them bottles or not. But more’n anything else for meself, I’d like ter know wot that blood were for, an’ ’ow it got ’ere.”

  “Gracie, be careful!”

  “You be careful, Mr. Pitt,” she answered him fiercely. “If it weren’t Mr. Sorokine, it’s still one o’ ’em guests. It in’t one o’ the servants, so they won’t be after me. ’E may be mad as an ’atter, but ’e in’t daft. An’ it in’t the only thing goin’ on ’ere neither, sir. I don’t like to say it, but there’s summink ’orrid as Mr. Tyndale knows about an’ ’e don’t want nobody else knowin’ it.”