Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [102]
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