Buckingham Palace Gardens (19 page)

“I suppose he told you?” Minnie retorted. “You are always listening. I don't know what you expect to hear. Or perhaps it doesn't matter, just so long as it is something.”

Elsa looked at her gravely. “I am sure you would like to reconsider that remark,” she observed. “You cannot have meant it.” She allowed her gaze to wander to Alexandra, then away again quickly.

Suddenly Minnie understood and the blush spread from her cheeks down her neck to her bosom, but there was of course no elegant way for her to explain that she had meant Elsa's vanity, not the Princess's deafness.

For the first time in the evening, Olga laughed. It was a rich, extraordinarily pleasant sound, more attractive than Minnie's higher, louder voice.

There was another half hour of chatter, gossip, polite nothingness, before the gentlemen rejoined them. Cahoon was in charge, talking so earnestly with the Prince it seemed an effort for them to even acknowledge the ladies. They returned almost immediately to their conversation.

Simnel and Lord Taunton were obviously discussing finance, the language of which was sufficiently esoteric, and therefore they had no need to be particularly discreet. Hamilton came in last, walking so close to Julius it was not difficult to guess that Julius was both steering him and preventing him from falling over.

Liliane saw them and started to rise, then sank back again, biting her lip. To have gone to him would have made the situation even more apparent. She sat silently, her face tense, avoiding everyone's eyes.

“I feel we are a great step closer,” Cahoon said with a smile. He looked at Taunton. “We have certainly received both support and excellent advice. I look forward to being in Africa again. I can almost feel the sun on my skin, the heat, the dust, the smell of animals.” He looked at Lady Parr and then at Alexandra. “Africa is unlike any other place on earth, ma'am. It is almost as if one were carried back to the dawn of creation, when everything was new and barely finished. There is an energy to it that stirs the blood and fires the brain.” This last was to Lady Parr only. “You would love it!”

She smiled at him, the vision of it lighting her eyes. “I will.” It sounded more like a promise than a mere remark.

Elsa caught Alexandra's eye, but neither of them spoke. Perhaps such understanding was better without words.

“It's not all…glamour.” Hamilton spoke with a slight slur. “It's also dirty and as hot as the stones of hell. Except, of course, when it's wet. Then it's more like being boiled alive.”

“I dare say we wouldn't go into the jungle,” Olga filled the silence that followed. She turned to Liliane. “Isn't Cape Town very pleasant?”

“The climate is most agreeable,” Liliane replied, looking from Olga to Hamilton and back again. “I should rather like to see Cairo. Wouldn't you, Julius?”

“Julius doesn't care about any of them,” Simnel put in before Julius could reply. “He'll probably be riding around the capitals of Europe being charming, eating the best food, drinking the best wine, and in no danger of getting dirt on his boots, never mind fever or snakebite or charged by a bull elephant. But he won't see a million stars across the sky, or hear lions roar in the night.” He said it with a smile, but there was anger behind the smoothness of his voice.

“Most of the banks are in London, Zurich, and Berlin,” Julius pointed out. “Your boots shouldn't suffer too much there. Or your appetite. Perhaps there are some good banks in Rome, or Milan? Lombardy has always been good for money also. And Italian food is marvelous. Their boots are pretty good as well.”

“I'll accept your advice; you always have only the best,” Simnel replied. There was something in his face that suggested his remark covered far more than the subject at hand.

Julius turned away.

Cahoon looked at Lady Parr. “Of course, Africa is dangerous. Some fearful things happen there. But then they happen in London also. Every place that man ventures has its darkness.”

Liliane was staring at him, her eyes unmoving. Elsa had stared at spiders in the washbasin with just that feeling inside her. What you fear may be hideous, but at least if you watch it, you will know when it jumps.

“I never imagined Africa being steeped in misery and exploitation, degraded, as parts of London are,” Lady Parr said to Cahoon. “Surely it is, as you say, more primal, less tired and corrupted?”

Cahoon looked across at Hamilton, who was slumped a little crookedly in his chair. “What do you think, Quase? You have spent more time in Africa than any of us.”

Hamilton opened his eyes wider, and with something of an effort he focused on him. “I think there are barbarians everywhere,” he answered, enunciating his words with exaggerated care. “It's just that the veneer is thicker in some places than others.”

“Of course it's different from Europe,” Liliane said quickly. “That doesn't really mean anything.”

Lady Parr looked at her with surprise, waiting for an explanation. When she realized she was not going to receive one, her gaze returned to Cahoon.

“What makes you say that, Hamilton?” Cahoon asked curiously, his expression innocent in a way Elsa knew was false. What was he looking for? Hamilton was drunk, his face crumpled with pain, and Liliane was obviously frightened for him. Why? What had happened in Africa? Something that was still an open wound, a danger even now? No. It must simply be that Liliane's brother had died in Africa. Elsa wished she could stop Cahoon's cruel probing into the matter. But Cahoon had never shrunk from cruelty if he thought it served his purpose. He had often told her that you could not build anything worthwhile if you were afraid to destroy what was taking up its place.

Everyone must have been aware of the emotion in the room, but Taunton and his sister, and probably the Princess of Wales, were unaware of the woman who had been murdered in the cupboard, and that one of the men who were guests here had to be responsible: the husband of one of these women. And did that woman know, or even guess?

“What makes you think that, Hamilton?” Cahoon repeated.

Hamilton blinked as if he had forgotten the question, but there was fear in his eyes, and disgust.

“Oh, of course,” Cahoon said, seeming to remember something at last. “You're thinking of that awful murder. The poor woman who was slashed to death in Cape Town. Throat cut, and…and other things. I heard about it. That was appalling. You were there then too, weren't you, Julius?”

They all turned to look at Julius.

“Yes,” he said simply. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind, as if it were true, but pointless to express.

“It can happen anywhere,” Liliane said a trifle too loudly. “Even in Africa they never had anything worse than the Whitechapel murderer, right here in London.”

Hamilton shuddered violently.

“Another brandy?” the Prince of Wales offered. He looked embarrassed and unhappy, but was trying to mask it.

“No,” Liliane answered too rapidly. “Thank you, sir.”

The Prince looked at Hamilton, then sighed and turned to Cahoon. “Perhaps it is a man's country, at least to begin with. I envy you the chance to be in at the very foundation of such a world-changing enterprise. It seems comparatively tame to remain here at home. One cannot build real happiness in life totally upon safety.”

“We can do without one adventurer more or less, sir,” Cahoon replied. “We have only one future king.”

Julius smiled. Hamilton shivered again, his hands clenched. Simnel looked at Julius, the emotion in his face unreadable. Lady Parr regarded Cahoon with open admiration.

Elsa wished the evening were over, but knew they had at least two more hours, more probably three, before anyone could retire. No one could leave before the Prince and Princess of Wales.

         

I
T WAS NEARLY
midnight when Alexandra invited Elsa to accompany her to one of the galleries that held some of her favorite pictures. Elsa had no interest in pictures at the moment, but apart from the fact that one did not refuse a princess, she was grateful for the escape. They excused themselves and rose.

Elsa walked beside the Princess through magnificent rooms, walls covered with the great masterpieces of Europe throughout the centuries. It was a visual history of the dreams, the life, and the characters of half a millennium of Western civilization. In spite of herself, Elsa was drawn into it.

“A somewhat unusual evening,” Alexandra observed with a smile, catching Elsa's eye for a moment as they stood before a dark, moody Rembrandt, all gold light and flesh tones against an umber background. Next to it was a cool Vermeer, morning light on blues and grays, and clarity so sharp one could see the grain in the stones of the floor.

“I'm sorry,” Elsa apologized. “We are all at odds with one another.” She could not give the real reason. “They care so much about the project.”

“Of course they do,” Alexandra agreed. “There is very much to win, or lose. But I imagine it is the other unfortunate event that is really disturbing them and, I think, awakening old fears connected to the new ones.”

Elsa stared at her, her mind racing, trying to deduce whether the implication was accidental or not. Could she possibly know?

Alexandra smiled bleakly. “Did you imagine I was unaware of it? My dear, that man Pitt would not be here and allowed to ask such questions were there not something very badly wrong. I'm so sorry. It must be wretched for you.”

Elsa struggled for something appropriate to say, and found nothing. They walked in silence from that gallery to the next one, and the one after.

“If you would care to look at these a little longer, I am sure there is no reason why you should not,” Alexandra said at last. “I fear I should return and speak to Lady Parr again. Not that she would mind in the slightest if I didn't, but duty requires it.”

“Thank you,” Elsa accepted gratefully. Her mind was whirling, and the further respite was intensely welcome. She needed time to be alone. Her thoughts were chaotic, kept in turmoil by emotion. She was frightened because it had to be Simnel, Hamilton, or Julius who had killed the woman in such an appalling way. Someone she had stood next to, exchanging polite chatter, had torn a woman apart, a woman whose name she did not know, whose whole life she knew nothing about, except the sordid manner in which she earned money. How much choice had she had in that?

They were all imprisoned here until the police found the answer. What if they didn't find it? They couldn't stay here indefinitely. Would they let them all go? With that hanging over their heads forever? It would be unbearable to live with. Had the police the power to keep it secret? That was a cold, terrifying thought. A woman could come in here, be butchered like an animal, and nothing would ever be said! That kind of power should not exist.

And yet how could they make it public, and allow three men to live with that type of scandal for the rest of their lives.

She was looking at the dark, passionate Spanish face in a Velázquez portrait when the sound of footsteps jerked her back to where she was. Please heaven it was a servant of some sort, someone she would not have to speak to. Resolutely she kept her face turned toward the picture. Whoever he was was close to her.

“You can feel his emotions, can't you?” he observed.

It was Julius. It was the first time she had been alone with him in a year. She could remember the last time exactly. It had been after dinner at the new home Cahoon had bought in Chelsea. They had been in the conservatory. The smell of leaves and damp earth had hung in the air, warm and motionless, like a tropical jungle.

She cleared her throat. She was shivering. “Yes.” Should she go back to the party now? It would be cowardly. She loathed the coward in herself even more than in others. She wanted to stay, even if they did not speak to each other. “There is a Rembrandt in the next gallery. Different sort of face altogether.”

“Self-portrait?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, I think so. It would be hard to see yourself honestly enough for a painting to be worth doing, wouldn't it.” It was not really a question, simply a remark to fill in the silence, and prevent anything personal from being said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “To catch the weakness, the indecision, the thing that's pleasant but shallow. Willfulness would be easier. Or appetite.”

“More attractive?” she asked, thinking of Minnie. What about herself? Did she find Cahoon's passion and will more exciting than Julius's less forceful nature? Was she afraid that behind the strong bones of his face there was essentially a man without the hunger or the courage to fight for his dreams? Or without dreams at all? But why should she expect of him what she seemed to lack herself?

He had not answered.

“Is it?” she pressed him. “Is that what we like to see?” Then as soon as the words were out she did not want him to answer. But if she spoke again, stopping him from doing so, she would always wonder what he would have said.

“Not on my own walls,” he answered. “I would rather have something with truer beauty, someone you feel would smile at you, if they could move.” He hesitated. “And I would rather have mystery, the feeling that there is something I have yet to learn, perhaps would never entirely know, because it might change in time, grow, as living things do.”

She was burning and cold at once, her heart pounding, her hands chilled. “I would like something with a warmth I could trust,” she said. Was that too obvious? Was she being as clumsy and predictable as Minnie had said she was?

Julius was so close she could smell the faint odor of soap and clean cotton, and the heat of his skin.

“Perhaps we all would.” His voice was not much more than a murmur. “How much of what we see in a face is really there?”

“Not always very much,” she admitted. “If we could read them with any skill we wouldn't make so many mistakes. We see what we want to.”