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There was no way for her even to guess if the emotion had been anything more, anything deeper. If there were jealousies, greeds, other lovers, Charlotte had caught no whisper of it, seen no clue she might follow, nor even had she formed questions to ask in her own mind.
The single step forward they had taken that day was that Zenobia was convinced that Helen Carfax was not a suspect, either directly or indirectly. James Carfax remained, although Zenobia did not believe he had the courage to have done it himself, nor the skill or power to have procured the service from someone else. Both Charlotte and Vespasia were inclined to agree with her.
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Charlotte had told them of her own impressions of Florence Ivory, of the pity she had felt, the helplessness to counter Florence's anger, and of the terrible wound of injustice which remained inside the woman, poisoning everything that might otherwise have been love. Charlotte concluded reluctantly that she could not dismiss the idea that Florence might indeed be guilty, and they must prepare their minds for that possibility. She had found nothing to help their cause.
Different ideas came to her mind, ugly and terrible, of subtle plans, hatred cold and careful enough to design not only the death of someone known and close to them, but the corruption of another's soul, the leading to murder and all its long trail of nightmare and guilt. Was it conceivable that all the motives were separate and personal-and the link between them was deliberate conspiracy, each to fulfill the other's need? It was a monstrous thought, but they had been monstrous acts, and there seemed no other connection except their membership in Parliament, which they shared with six hundred other men, and that they walked home across Westminster Bridge.
Was Florence Ivory really deranged enough to kill, and to go on killing even after Etheridge was dead? Was her regard for life, even her own, so very little? Charlotte searched her heart, and did not know.
She organized Gracie in the kitchen, and Mrs. Phelps, the woman who came in twice a week to do the heavy work, and busied herself with linen and ironing. As she pushed the heavy fiatiron back and forth over the linen, meanwhile heating a fresh iron on the stove, she recounted everything she and Aunt Vespasia and Zenobia Gunne had learned, and all that Pitt had told her-and she was left with a confusion of mind that grasped at hope and could not hold it. If not Florence, then who?
Did Barclay Hamilton's deep, unwavering aversion to his stepmother have anything to do with his father's death? Did he know or suspect something? That thought was no pleas-
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anter; she had liked them both, and what cause could there be in their antipathy that would inspire murder now? Was the murderer a business or political enemy? Pitt had found neither.
James or Helen Carfax? Nobby Gunne had thought not, and her judgment seemed good. If their own investigations were worth anything-which was growing doubtful; never had Charlotte felt less confidence in herself-then it would be their judgment of character; their knowledge, as women, of other women; their intimacy with Society, which the police could not have; that would make a difference. They had engineered opportunities for observing their subjects in unguarded moments, obtaining confidences because their interest was unsuspected. If they discounted that advantage, then there was nothing left.
And Cuthbert Sheridan? As yet they knew nothing of him, except that his family seemed in no way unusual, nor did they seem to have any reason to desire his death. His widow was a woman newly discovering her own aspirations and for the first time in her life developing independent opinions. Perhaps they had quarreled, but one does not hire a cutthroat to murder one's husband because he disapproves of one's newfound political views, even if he forbids them outright. And there was nothing to suggest Cuthbert Sheridan had done that, was there?
Pitt was out now trying to learn something more of Sheridan's political, business, and private life. But what had he in common with the others that had marked him for death? She had not even a guess.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the postman, who brought the butcher's bill, the coal merchant's account, and a long letter from Emily. The bills were for a trifle less than expected, which was cheering: the price of mutton was three ha'pence a pound less than she had budgeted for. She put them on the kitchen mantel, then tore open Emily's latest letter.
