“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 con-fidential 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?”
