There was more in from cabdrivers, but nothing that added to what they already knew. No one had any word on anarchists or Fenians, or any other violent group.
The newspapers were still featuring the story in headlines, with speculations on civil riot and dissolution below.
The Home Secretary was becoming anxious and had informed them of his profound wish that they bring the case to a speedy conclusion, before public unrest became any more serious.
The briefest of inquiries ascertained that Florence Ivory lived in Walnut Tree Walk, off the Waterloo Road, a short distance to the east of Paris Road and Royal Street, and the
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Westminster Bridge. She was acknowledged by the local police station with frowns and slight shrugs. There was no record of any offense against the law. Their attitude seemed to be a mixture of amusement and exasperation. The sergeant answering Pitt's questions pulled his features into a grimace, but it was good-natured.
Pitt called in the early afternoon. It was a pleasant house, modest for the area, but well cared for, sills recently painted and chintz curtains in the open windows and ajar of daffodils catching the sun.
A maid of all work opened the door, the apron round her broad waist obviously for service, not ornamentation, and a mop leaned against the wall where she had rested it to attend to the caller. ,
'Yes sir?' she asked, looking surprised.
'Is Mrs. Ivory at home? I am Inspector Pitt, from the Bow Street Police Station, and I believe Mrs. Ivory may be able to help us.'
'I can't see 'ow she could do that! But if you want I'll go an' ask 'er.' She turned and left him on the step while she retreated somewhere into the back of the house, leaving her mop behind.
It was only a moment before Florence Ivory appeared, whisking the mop out of the hallway and into the door of a room to the right, then facing Pitt with a startlingly direct gaze. She was of average height and slender to the point of gauntness. She had no bosom to speak of, and her shoulders were square and a trifle bony; nevertheless she was not un-feminine, and there was a considerable elegance to her, of a quite individual nature. Her face was far from traditionally beautiful: her eyes were large and wide set, her brows too heavy for fashion, her nose long, straight, and much too large; there were deeply marked lines round her mouth. In spite of the fact, Pitt judged her to be thirty-five at the very most. When she spoke her voice was husky, sweet, and completely unique.
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'Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt. Mrs. Pacey informs me you are from the Bow Street Police Station and believe that I can help you in some way. I cannot imagine how, but if you care to come in I shall try.''
'Thank you, Mrs. Ivory.' He followed her through the hallway into a wide room at the back of the house, dark-paneled, and yet creating an illusion of light. A polished table held a porcelain dish, cracked but still retaining much of its delicate beauty, and on it was a bowl of spring blossom. The far wall was almost entirely taken up with windows and a French door opening onto a small garden. The curtains were pale cotton, sprigged with some sort of flower design, and the seat beneath the windows was covered with cushions in the same material. It was a room in which he felt immediately comfortable.
Beyond the windows he could just see the figure of a woman bending in the garden, working the earth. She was not far away, for the garden was small, but through the panes, unless he stared, he could make out no more than a white blouse and the sun on a cloud of auburn hair.
'Well?' Florence Ivory said briskly. 'I would imagine your time is precious, and mine certainly is. What is it you imagine I know that could possibly interest the Bow Street police?'
He had been turning over in his mind how he could approach the subject with her, both yesterday evening and this morning, and now that he had met her all his preparations seemed inadequate. Her penetrating stare was fixed on him with impatience ready to become dislike; deviousness would be torn apart and would alienate her by insulting her intelligence, an act which he judged she would take very ill.
'I am investigating a murder, ma'am.'
'I know no one who has been murdered.'
