Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [151]
Was that what the Cape-to-Cairo railway was: a heroic dream? Or just single-minded, oppressive empire-building at the expense of a more primitive people? Who was right, Cahoon Dunkeld or Julius Sorokine?
“Where did the carter go from here?” he said aloud.
Narraway dragged his attention back to the present. He was so tired his face was seamed with lines, dragging down his features and hollowing his eyes. It was clear it cost him an intense effort to control his mind and focus it. “It must have been about this time of day, possibly a little earlier,” he replied. “But some of the same people will be about. I suppose we’d better begin asking.”
Pitt nodded and led the way across the street toward the nearest sentry. He asked the man if he had been on duty a week ago.
The man ignored him. Only then did Pitt remember that they were not allowed to speak. They were trained to ignore all comments or actions unless they constituted a threat. He turned and saw Narraway smiling behind him. It gave his face life again.
“All right,” Pitt said, shaking his head. “You ask him.”
Narraway produced his identification as the head of Special Branch. After a moment’s doubt, the sentry replied that he had been on duty.
Narraway asked him about the carter, and if he had seen him, which way he had gone.
“To the right, up the Buckingham Palace Road, sir,” was the unhesitating reply.
Narraway thanked him, and he and Pitt set out, footsore and hungry. A sandwich from a peddler, a cup of hot tea from a group of cabbies around a brazier, and sixpence worth of bootlaces from a one-armed soldier on the corner of Buckingham Palace Road traced the carter at least that far.
They asked around Wilton Place, Chester Street, and Belgrave Square, then into Lowndes Street and beyond. No one had seen him.
“Probably all still in bed,” Narraway said miserably, shivering with exhaustion. “He could have gone anywhere.”
“Servants wouldn’t be in bed at this hour,” Pitt replied, moving his weight from one foot to the other to ease the ache. “There was somebody putting out rubbish, beating a carpet, or carrying coals. Look around you.”
Narraway turned obediently. There were sounds of movement everywhere. A sleepy scullery maid fetched a scuttle of coal, her hands dirty, apron crumpled. A message boy strode along the pavement, whistling cheerfully. Somebody opened an upstairs window.
They tried again, knocking on areaway doors, kitchens, stopping the few people in the street. No one had seen the carter they described.
“He must live here!” Narraway said in disgust an hour and a half later. “We haven’t got time for this, Pitt. We’ll never find him this way.”
“I need breakfast,” Pitt replied. “I’m so thirsty I feel as if my tongue is as trodden on as the soles of my boots.”
“There’s nowhere around here to get anything.” Narraway looked miserably at the elegant façade of Eaton Place. “I know people in this damn street! But I can’t go and ask them for breakfast.”
“Who do you know?” Pitt inquired. “Which houses?”
“No!” Narraway was aghast. “Absolutely not!”
“To avoid them,” Pitt explained patiently.
“What are you going to do?” Narraway was too tired to hide his apprehension.
“Go and question someone’s servants inside,” Pitt replied with a faint smile. “Preferably in the kitchen. I’m not above asking the cook for a cup of tea and a piece of toast. I’ll even ask for one for you, if you like?”
“I like,” Narraway said grudgingly.
“Then I can think,” Pitt added. “We’re going about this the wrong way.”
“Couldn’t you have told me this ten miles ago?” Narraway asked sarcastically.
Fifteen minutes later, sitting at the table in a large and very well appreciated kitchen, they were sipping tea and inquiring about strangers in the neighborhood, possible break-ins, theft of harness or other stable supplies. They gained no information of any value whatsoever, but at least they had done it sitting down with tea, toast, and rather good marmalade.
The scullery maid returned to her chores and the cook resumed the preparation of breakfast