Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [100]
“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 counterquestion, perhaps partly because he was