quite right, I did appeal to Mr. Etheridge to help me, as a constituent of his, which I was at the time. I lived in Lincolnshire.'
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'And I assume he did not help you?'
Again the hatred twisted her face and made it ugly; her mouth, which had been mobile, soft, and intelligent a moment before became a flat, bitter line.
'He promised to, and then like all men, he rallied to his own kind in the end. He betrayed me and left me with nothing!' She was shaking, her thin body beneath the cotton of her gown was tense with passion, shoulders rigid. 'Nothing!'
The French doors opened and the other woman came in, obviously having heard the anguish ringing in Florence's voice. She was several years younger, barely twenty. She was of a completely different build, taller and softer in outline, with a delicate bosom and rounded arms. Rosetti could have used her perfect Pre-Raphaelite face in one of his Arthurian romances; she had all the earthy naivete and the unconscious strength of his subjects.
She went to Florence Ivory and put an arm round her defensively, facing Pitt with anger.
Florence put one hand on the girl's. 'It is all right, Africa. Mr. Pitt is from the police. He is inquiring into the murder of Vyvyan Etheridge. I was telling him what kind of a person Mr. Etheridge was. Naturally that involved my own experiences with him.' Her eyes met Pitt's again. 'Mr. Pitt, my friend and companion, Miss Africa Dowell, whose house this is, and who has been generous enough to take me in and give me a home when I would otherwise have nothing.'
'How do you do, Miss Dowell,' Pitt said gravely.
'How do you do,' she answered guardedly. 'What do you want from us? We despised Mr. Etheridge, but we did not kill him, nor do we know who did.''
'I did not suppose you knew who did,' Pitt agreed. 'At least, not that you were aware. But you may well know something that helps when it is put together with what I know or may yet learn.'
'We don't know any anarchists.' There was something 118
in the lift of her chin, her frank-eyed defiance, that made Pitt think it was at least in part a lie.
'You believe it was anarchists? Why, Miss Dowell?'
She swallowed, confused. It was not the reply she had expected.
Florence stepped in. 'Well, if there were a personal motive, a matter of inheritance, or passion, you would hardly imagine that we should know anything of help to you. And as far as I know we are also acquainted with no lunatics.'
Only part of Pitt was irritated by them, standing close together, defensively; they had been hurt and they were protecting themselves against being hurt again.
' 'But possibly some people disliked Mr. Etheridge for political reasons?' he continued.
'Dislike is far too mild a term, Mr. Pitt,' Florence said, the bitterness returning. 'I hated him.' Her hand tightened on Africa's arm. ' 'I daresay there were others he treated similarly, but I do not know of them, nor would I tell you if I did.'
'People who might have been sufficiently angered to behave violently, Mrs. Ivory?'
'I've told you, I have no idea. But sometimes all the pleading and protestations in the world do no good, when the people who have power are comfortable themselves, when they have warmth, food, safety, social rank, families around them, and the position to see that everything remains that way. They cannot and do not want to believe that other people are suffering any pain or injustice, that things should be changed-most especially if the changes involve questioning an order which they find so satisfactory.'
He saw the passion in her face, the vehemence with which she spoke, and he knew this was no instant response to his words, it was a conviction boiling under the surface, awaiting the right moment to burst out with all the strength of years of suffering, however occasioned.
He must keep his emotions quiet. This was no time to give 119
