She tried to keep the envy from her voice. She herself had had only a long weekend at Margate, and then Pitt had had to go back on duty, and she had spent the next month moving into the first tiny house, with rooms smaller than the maids' quarters in her family home. She had had to learn to manage for a month on money she would previously have spent on one gown, and how to cook, where she once would have instructed the kitchen staff. It did not matter, really, but she would have loved just once to sail off in a ship, to visit foreign places, dine splendidly, not so much for the food but for the romance of it! She would like to see Venice, to drift on a canal by moonlight and hear the gondoliers singing across the water; to see Florence, that city of great artists, and walk among the ruins of Rome dreaming of the grandeur and glory of great ages past.
'Very nice,' Grandmama agreed, nodding her head. 'Every young girl should do it some time in her life, the earlier the better. A civilizing influence, as long as it is not taken too seriously. One should learn about foreigners, but never imitate them.''
'Yes Grandmama,' Charlotte said absently.
'Of course you wouldn't know that!' the old lady went 63
on. 'I don't suppose you'll ever see Calais, never mind Venice or Rome!'
It was true, and this time Charlotte had no heart to answer.
'Told you that before,' the old woman added vindictively. 'But you never listen. Never did, even as a child. But you've made your bed, and you must lie in it.'
Charlotte stood up and went to Emily. The formal part of the celebration was over, and she and Jack were preparing to leave. She looked so happy Charlotte felt tears in her eyes as the emotions churned inside her, joy for Emily at this moment and relief for the shadows that were past, the grief and the mourning, the terror as suspicion had hemmed her in, hope for the years ahead, envy for the adventures and the shared laughter, the new sights and the glamor.
She put her arms round Emily and hugged her.
'Write to me. Tell me of all the beautiful things you see, the buildings and the paintings, the canals in Venice. Tell me about the people, and if they're funny or charming or odd. Tell me about the fashions and the food, the weather- everything!'
'Of course! I'll write a letter every day and post them when I can,' Emily promised, tightening her own arms round Charlotte. 'Don't get into any adventures while I'm gone, or if you do, be careful!' She held her sister a little tighter. 'I love you, Charlotte. And thank you for being there, all the time, ever since we were little.' Then she was on her way, clinging to Jack's arm and smiling at everyone, her eyes full of tears, her gorgeous dress sweeping and rustling.
Several days passed by, with Pitt pursuing every avenue in the investigation of the murder of Sir Lockwood Hamilton. The details of his business were checked more thoroughly, but the accounts of the firm's property purchases and sales yielded nothing more than they had at first glance. Not one of them was out of the ordinary with regard either to unfair
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acquisition through pressure of any kind, or to any advantage being taken of others' misfortune, nor had any holding been sold at unreasonable profit. It appeared that it was exactly as Charles Verdun had said, a business in which Hamilton took some share of the profit but little in the conduct, and in which Verdun himself employed his time because he enjoyed it.
The business in Birmingham from which Hamilton drew most of his income was merely a matter of inherited shares, and unremarkable in any way Pitt could discover.
Barclay Hamilton owned a very pleasant house in Chelsea and was reputed to be quiet, a little melancholy, but perfectly respectable. No one had ill to speak of him, and his financial affairs were in excellent order. He was a highly eligible young man at whom many young ladies of fine family had set their caps, without success. But nothing was said, even in a whisper, to his discredit.
Nor had the cold breath of scandal ever touched Amethyst Hamilton. She did not overspend on gowns or jewelry, she ran her house with skill but without extravagance, she entertained generously in her husband's interest. She had many friendships, but none of a closeness that caused even the most critical to make comment that was worth Pitt's time to consider.
A more thorough investigation of Hamilton's political career, the account of which Pitt spent many hours reading and rereading, produced no injustices so glaring as to have provoked anything like murder. He had been the object of envy perhaps, of resentment that favors had been unequally given, but all this was a part of a hundred other political lives as well. He appeared to have taken no remarkable stand on any issue that could single him out as the object of violent feeling. He was a competent man, both liked and respected, but not marked for that greatness which inspires passion.
In the meantime Micah Drummond had as many of his force as he could spare in pursuit of every known band of anarchists or pseudo-revolutionaries who might have used
