'You're really angry about it, aren't you?' she observed.
Charlotte was ready to hit her; all the frustration and pity and hopelessness boiled up inside her. But the table was too wide to reach her, and she had the marmalade in her hand. She had to be content with a blistering look.
Emily was quite unscathed. She bit into her toast and spoke with her mouth full.
'We shall have to find out as much about it as we can,' she said in a businesslike manner.
'I beg your pardon?'' Charlotte was icy. She wanted to sting Emily into hurting as much as she did herself. 'If you would care to swallow your food before attempting to speak, I might know what it is you are saying.'
Emily looked at her impatiently. 229
'The facts!' she enunciated clearly. 'We must find out all the facts-then we can present them to the right people.'
'What right people? The police don't care who killed Albie! He is only one prostitute more or less, and what does that matter? And anyway we can't get the facts. Even Thomas can't get them. Use your head, Emily. Bluegate Fields is a slum, there are hundreds of thousands of slum people, and none of them will tell the police the truth about anything unless they have to.'
'Not who killed Albie, stupid!' Emily was beginning to lose patience. 'But how he died. That's what matters! How old he was, what happened to him. He was strangled, you said, and dropped into the river like rubbish, then washed up at Dept-ford? And the police aren't the people who matter, you told me that yourself.' She leaned forward eagerly, toast in the air. 'But how about Callantha Swynford? How about Lady Way-bourne? Don't you see? If we can make them envision all that in their minds' eye, all the obscenity and pathos, then we may draw them into our battle. Albie dead may be no use to Thomas, but he's excellently useful to us. If you want to appeal to people's emotions, the story of one person is far more effective than a catalogue of numbers. A thousand people suffering is much too hard to think of, but one is very easy.'
At last Charlotte understood. Of course Emily was right; she had been stupid, allowing herself to wallow in emotion. She should have thought of it herself. She had allowed her feelings to blot out sense, and that was the ultimate uselessness. She must not let it happen again!
'I'm sorry,' she said sincerely. 'You are quite right. That is definitely the right thing to do. I shall have to find out the details from Thomas. He didn't really tell me a lot yesterday. I suppose he thought it would upset me.'
Emily looked at her through her eyelashes. ''I can't imagine why,' she said sarcastically.
Charlotte ignored the remark, and stood up. 'Well, what are we going to do today? What is Aunt Vespasia planning to do?' she said, tweaking her skirt to make it fall properly.
Emily stood up, too, patted her lips with her napkin, and re-230
placed it on the plate. She reached for the bell to summon the maid.
'We are going to visit Mr. Carlisle, whom I find I like-you didn't tell me how nice he was! From him I hope we shall learn some more facts-about rates of pay in sweatshops and things-so we know why young women cannot live on them and so take to the streets. Did you know that people who make matches get a disease that rots away their bones till half their faces are destroyed?'
'Yes, I did. Thomas told me about it a long time ago. What about Aunt Vespasia?'
'She is taking luncheon with an old friend, the Duchess of somewhere or other, but someone everybody listens to-I don't think they dare ignore her! Apparently, she knows absolutely everyone, even the Queen, and hardly anybody knows the Queen these days, since Prince Albert died.'
The maid came in, and Emily told her to order the carriage to be ready in half an hour; then she was to clear the table. No one would be home until late afternoon.
'We shall take luncheon at Deptford,' Emily said, answering Charlotte's look of surprise. ' 'Or else we shall go without.' She surveyed Charlotte's figure with a mixture of envy and distaste. 'A little self-denial will not
