She took a scone herself and covered it with jam and cream.
“What time was the poor creature killed, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt froze. So she knew!
“In the early hours of the morning, ma’am. Before half-past two.”
Beside him the lady-in-waiting stiffened.
Alexandra saw it. “Oh, do be realistic, Eleanor,” she said briskly.
“I am deaf, certainly, but I am not blind. I know perfectly well what the party was all about. What I don’t know is why the bath was still warm.”
“I beg your pardon?” Pitt said before he realized the impropriety of it.
“The bath was warm,” she repeated, offering him another scone.
“The cast iron holds the heat from the water for a while afterward, you know. Otherwise it is quite cold to the touch. It was still noticeably warm at eight o’clock. I touched it myself.”
“Which bath, ma’am?”
“His Royal Highness’s, of course. But his valet did not bring water up. Do have more cream over that. It makes all the difference.”
Pitt took it from her quite automatically, his brain racing, his fingers almost numb.
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 acknowledg-ing 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.”
