He leaned forward eagerly, the picture coming more sharply into his mind. 'She, or he, took the money, gave him the flowers, and then reached up to pin them on for him'-he curved his right hand sharply sideways, fingers crooked as if to hold a razor-'and cut his throat. Then as
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he collapsed she propped him up against the lamppost and tied him to it with his own scarf, leaving the primroses in his buttonhole. She could hide the razor again on the tray of flowers and simply walk away. No one would notice her: she was a flower seller who had made a sale and pinned the flowers on her patron before leaving.'
'She must be a damn strong woman!' Drummond said with a shiver of distaste. 'Or it might have been a man; it would be perfectly possible for a man to disguise himself as a flower seller, muffled up on a chilly spring night, hat drawn down, shawl round his neck and chin. How in hell do we find him, Pitt?'
'We have an actual person to ask about now! We'll start again with other M.P.s. She can't have sold only the one bunch of flowers-others will have bought as well. Someone may remember something about her. After all, it was unusual for it to be anyone other than Maisie, and it was unusual to have primroses rather than violets. We ought to learn at least her height, that's hard to disguise; a stoop is noticeable. And you can add weight easily enough with clothes, but you can't take it off. A man can look like an old woman, but it's very much harder to look like a young one: the bones and the skin are wrong. Did anyone notice hands? No doubt she wore mitts, but the size? A big man can't make his hands look like a woman's.'
'Perhaps it
Pitt knew what he was thinking. Africa Dowell with flowers while Florence Ivory crept up with a razor from behind, the victim turning at the last moment-the cuts had been made from the front with the left hand-and then both women together holding him and tying him to the lamppost. More dangerous; more likely they'd be noticed, two women leaving the scene. But not impossible.
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'There must be clothes,' he said levelly, forcing the picture from his mind's eye. 'A flower seller in a lady's gown and cloak would be remarked instantly, and the M.P.s never mentioned that it was not the usual woman, therefore she must have looked something similar, of average height, broadly built, big shoulders and bosom, wide hips. Plain clothes, probably several layers; a hat and shawl, and probably a second shawl against the wind coming up off the river. And most important of all, a tray of flowers. She had to buy some, not very many. She would want to look as if she were at the end of a long day's selling: four or five bunches would be enough. But she had to buy them somewhere.'
'Didn't you say Florence Ivory had a garden?' Drum-mond asked, moving back to the fire again and staring up at Pitt as he bent to put more coal on it. The day was colder and there was a thin drizzle of rain running down the window. Both men felt the chill.
'Yes, but you can't pick primroses by the bunch day after day from a private garden.'
'Can't you? How do you know so much about gardens, Pitt? Don't have a garden, do you? When do you find the time?' He looked round. 'Mind, you'll have more when you're promoted after we tie up this case.'
Pitt smiled thinly. 'Yes-yes I will. Actually, we do have a small garden, but Charlotte does more in it than I do. I grew up in the country.'
'Did you?' Drummond's eyebrows rose. 'I didn't know that. Somehow I thought you were a Londoner. Amazing how little we know about people, even though we see them every day. So she bought primroses?'
' 'Yes, probably from the same source as other flower sellers. One of the markets. We can send men out to search.'
'Good; arrange it. And questioning the M.P.s, I'll go out on that again too. Which of the people we know would be capable of passing as a street vendor? Surely not Lady Hamilton?'
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' 'I doubt it, and I don't think Barclay Hamilton could pass himself off as a woman-he's far too tall, apart from anything else.'
'Mrs. Sheridan?'
'Possibly.'
