this week.”
Pitt said nothing.
Narraway waited again, his mind going back to what Forbes had said about Julius Sorokine. He seemed a civilized and intelligent man, even if a little indolent-or taking some of his privileges for granted.
What could possibly have happened to turn him into a creature who had cut the throats and gouged open the bellies of two women?
“Something started it,” he said aloud. “Find it.”
Pitt looked up. “Two in four days? It started long before now. You aren’t sane one day and then a raving, blood-soaked murderer the next, unless something has happened to shatter your mind in between, and nothing did. They sat around talking about the African railway and planning the future full of wealth and achievement for all of them. They flirted, specifically Mrs. Sorokine with Mr. Marquand.
And Mrs. Dunkeld is in love with Mr. Sorokine.”
“And he with her?” Narraway asked quickly. Was that a thread to the truth?
Pitt shrugged very slightly. “I don’t know. But none of it began while they were here, and I doubt anyone learned of it for the first time either. Even if they did, it doesn’t explain killing the prostitute.
It’s not a crime of jealousy or even betrayal-it’s hatred born out of some kind of madness.”
“Given that this particular insanity lies dormant most of the time, what wakens it out of control?” Narraway asked, the urgency building up inside him again. “You’ve dealt with madness before, people who kill and go on killing until they are caught. I know evil, but not unreason. Help me, Pitt! If I search through Sorokine’s history, what am I looking for?”
Pitt sighed; there was weariness and desperation in it. “Obviously another death like these: a woman with her throat and belly slashed.
Before that, for violent quarrels, irrational hatred of women, someone who belittled him, jilted him, did something that he might have seen as betrayal. An explosive temper. It will have to have been covered up very carefully. He’s a diplomat. Look for someone else being blamed, or something unsolved, possibly described as an accident.”
Narraway considered for several minutes. “I spoke to Watson Forbes,” he said finally. “He’s against the Cape-to-Cairo railway. He believes it will exploit Africa to its disadvantage, and ultimately to the disadvantage of the whole British Empire, possibly in the next century.”
“Interesting,” Pitt admitted. “But I can’t see any connection with the murders. Can you?”
“No. They don’t seem to have anything to do with the railway, just a ghastly coincidence that they exploded here in the Palace just as the railway is being discussed. But I don’t like coincidences. I’ve seen very few real ones.”
“There are other things I need to make sense of,” Pitt went on. “If Mrs. Sorokine deduced from all these odd pieces of information exactly how her husband killed Sadie, and possibly why, then I want to know how she did it. They seem unrelated and nonsensical to me.”
“What pieces?” Narraway asked.
“Port bottles with blood in them, a broken dish, which nobody admits ever existed, buckets of water being carried hurriedly and discreetly up- and downstairs. The Queen’s own sheets slept on, and soaked in blood. How did whatever Minnie Sorokine knew of that prove to her that it was her husband who killed Sadie?”
“Who was carrying buckets of water? Not Sorokine?”
“No, household servants.”
“Then what connection has it?”
“I have no idea!”
Narraway stood up. “I’ll look into his past. And the others, at least where they cross.”
Fifteen minutes later he was outside in the sun and the wind. An hour after that he was talking to a friend who had amassed a fortune in shipping and spent a good deal of it buying and selling gems. He knew most of the cities of the Mediterranean, both of Europe and of Africa, and of course the great diamond cutting and dealing centers of the Middle East. His name was Maurice Kelter.
“Sorokine,” he turned the name over experimentally. “What is it, Russian?”
“Possibly,” Narraway replied, crossing his legs and leaning back in the broad leather chair. He was at his club, where he should have been at ease. “If it is, it will be third- or fourth-generation. He is a diplomat, tall, good- looking, probably around forty.”
Kelter nodded, sipping at the whisky and soda at his elbow. “Yes.
I know the fellow you mean. Married Dunkeld’s daughter, didn’t he?
Lovely-looking woman. Bit of a handful. Why are you interested in him? Has something happened?”
Narraway smiled, but it felt forced. “Things are happening all the time. What sort of thing did you think would be connected to Sorokine?”
Kelter made a little grimace. “To be frank, probably indifference.
I don’t think he’s ever stretched himself to the best he could be. Very pleasant chap, but things have come easy to him. Position, enough money, certainly women.”
“Many women?” Narraway asked quickly.
Kelter’s eyes opened wider. “Possibly. Why?”
Narraway ignored the question. “Temper?” he asked.
Kelter smiled. “Not that I heard of, but. . do you want unsubstantiated rumor?”
“If that’s all you have.” Narraway disliked innuendo, but that was often where lines of investigation began. “Temper?” he prompted again.
Kelter put his whisky down. “There was a particularly ugly affair in Cape Town a few years ago. Half-caste woman was murdered.
Throat cut, stomach slit open. Never found out who did it. Prostitute of sorts, so it wasn’t followed the way it would have been if she’d been decent, or white.”
Narraway was skeptical. Could it really be so easy? “What was Sorokine’s involvement with it?”
Kelter shrugged. “Don’t really know. Whispers. Apparently he knew the woman, had some kind of relationship with her.”
“Did the police investigate him?”
Kelter sighed. “We’re talking about a half-caste prostitute on the edges of Cape Town, Narraway. Nobody investigated it. People asked a few questions. Men came and went: miners, traders, explorers, adventurers, all nationalities, ex-patriots who couldn’t go home, drunks and fugitives, all sorts. It could have been anyone.”
“Who said it was Sorokine?”
Kelter frowned. “Now that I think of it, I’m not certain. It was not much more than looks and nods. I didn’t track it down because frankly I didn’t care. There were far more interesting things going on at the time.”
Narraway did not pursue it with Kelter, but there were other people he knew from whom he could collect favors, and he sought them out now. It was not easy to keep the sense of urgency out of his manner. He knew that betraying his need would open him up to being lied to, and favors done him now would earn repayment later, perhaps at a time when he could not afford it.
He walked into another crowded club room, the pungent cigar smoke in the air mixed with the smell of leather armchairs and old malt whisky. Sometimes he loved the game of question and coun-terquestion, perhaps partly because he was so good at it. He saw the respect in other men’s eyes, the guarded admiration, and the equally guarded fear. Today he was tired of it. The constant measuring of words, even gestures, the sheer loneliness of it weighed him down.
Pitt might feel trapped in the suffocating ritual of the Palace now, but it was only for a short while-days at the most. Then he would go home again to Charlotte, to warmth and kindness, to an inner safety Narraway would never have. Even if all his illusions were broken, his lifetime’s loyalties destroyed, at heart Pitt could not be damaged.
Nothing could touch what was safe inside him. Had he any idea how fortunate he was?
He walked round a corner and found the man he was looking for.
He sat down opposite him, knowing he was intruding on a few moments of peace and also that the man dared not refuse him.
Yet if he did not play these games, what would he do? Through the long years he had developed no other skill
