Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [55]
“It is of very little use, though, I fear,” Vespasia said unhappily. “I know a little of the wives, but it is only trivial: matters of fashion and spite, who said what to whom, where love or dreams may have led. I cannot imagine that any of it was toward murder in a linen cupboard, no matter whose. It seems a preposterous story to me.”
“It is preposterous,” he agreed. “But regrettably true. Somerset Carlisle suggested that Watson Forbes was the greatest expert in the practicalities of the proposed railway, both diplomatically and with regard to engineering.”
“After Cecil Rhodes, you mean?” she said, amusement touching her lips. “I imagine Mr. Rhodes, with his boundless ambition and love of Empire, will be a keen backer of this project?” She started to move on from the picture. “As Prime Minister of Cape Colony, it will be vastly in his interest. All British Africa will be open to him by land as well as by sea. He would be a better friend than enemy.”
“I’m sure that is true,” Narraway agreed, following her closely. “But I can’t imagine any way in which he will be involved in this tragedy in London.”
“I cannot see why anyone would be,” Vespasia said unhappily. “I think you will find it is a madness that is quite personal and could as easily have happened anywhere else, once the passion that ignites it is disturbed.”
They walked past a few more portraits, only glancing at the faces, then made their way to the entrance. They had been together almost an hour. He escorted her to her carriage where Emily was waiting. He thanked her both for the information and quite genuinely for the pleasure of her company, and he thanked Emily for her patience.
Half an hour later he alighted from a hansom cab in Lowndes Square to call upon Watson Forbes. He had already ascertained by telephone that he would be received.
The house was elegant, with all the marks of unobtrusive wealth, a man who is comfortable with his possessions and does not need to display them except for his own pleasure. The outer doors were of carved teak, oiled and gleaming. The parquet flooring in the hall was Indian hardwood in various shades of rich brown. The paintings were quiet: Dutch canal scenes, domestic interiors, light on water, a furled barge sail, a face in repose, a winter scene all blues and grays on the ice.
It was not until he was in Forbes’s study that Narraway saw the paintings of grasslands with an elephant standing motionless in the heat and the strange, flat-topped acacia trees in the distance. There were many carved animals in ivory and semi-precious stone. One entire wall was lined with books, nearly all of them leather-bound. On the well-used desk was an ostrich egg and a box covered with what looked like crocodile skin.
Watson Forbes was a solid man with thick hair that had once been dark but was now paling almost to white, leaving black brows and a sun-darkened complexion. He had a long nose and a neat, chiseled mouth, which was surprisingly expressive. It was a powerful face, and highly individual. Narraway had heard that he was close to seventy, but he rose easily to his feet and came forward to greet the Special Branch man with interest.
“How do you do? You said in your conversation on the telephone—wonderful invention—that you need expert information on Africa. I know only parts of it, but whatever knowledge I have is at your disposal. Please,” he gestured to include the several leather-covered chairs, inviting Narraway to take his pick. “What is it you wish to know?” He sat down in the chair opposite. “Whisky? Or do you prefer something more exotic? Brandy, perhaps? Or sherry?”
“Not yet, thank you,” Narraway declined. “Do you know Cecil Rhodes?”
Forbes smiled. It lit his face, altering the severity of it, but the look in his dark eyes was guarded. “Certainly. One cannot do serious business in British Africa and not know him.”
“And Cahoon Dunkeld?”
“Interesting you should mention them almost in the same breath,” Forbes observed. “Coincidental, or not?” Now the amusement was in his eyes also.
“Of course not,”