Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [52]
“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.