against either victim, in the hope they might discover something,
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and entertain no real suspicions towards Mrs. Ivory or your niece?'
A fleeting smile crossed Zenobia's face, a mixture of irony, amusement, and regret. 'It is a hope to cling to, Mrs. Pitt, but Africa said the policeman who came to see them was an unusual man; he did not bluster or threaten them in the least and seemed to find no satisfaction whatever in having discovered the power of their motive. Florence told him her story and made no attempt to hide either the depth of her grief at the loss of her child or her hatred of Etheridge. Africa said she watched the man's face, and she believes he would have preferred to discover an alternative solution to his case; indeed, she was convinced the story weighed him down. But she was also equally certain that he will investigate it and return. And since they have no witness that they were at home alone in the house, which is not far from Westminster Bridge, and as they have abundant motive, and as indeed Africa has sufficient money to have employed someone else to perform the actual task, they fear they may well be arrested.'
Charlotte could not help but believe it also, except for the unlikelihood of their having killed Lockwood Hamilton as well. And it seemed improbable, but not impossible, that there was another such murderer loose in London.
' 'Then if it was not Africa and Mrs. Ivory,'' she answered 'it must have been someone else. We had better set about finding out who!'
Zenobia fought against a rising panic. She mastered it, but Charlotte could see clearly in her eyes her knowledge of the enormity of the task, the near hopelessness of it.
Vespasia sat up a little straighter in her chair, her chin high, but it was courage speaking rather than belief, and they all knew it.
'I am sure Charlotte will have an idea. Let us discuss it over luncheon. Shall we go through to the breakfast room? I thought it would be pleasant there; the daffodils are in bloom
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and there is always an agreeable view.' And she rose, brushing away Charlotte's assistance, and led the way through as if it had been the most casual of occasions, the renewing of an old friendship and the making of a new one, and there was nothing more serious to consider than what to wear this evening and upon whom they might call tomorrow.
The breakfast room was parquet-floored like the hall and had French windows opening onto the paved terrace. There were china cabinets full of Minton porcelain in blue and white round the walls, and a full service of white Rocking-ham scrolled and tipped in gold. A gateleg table was set for three, and the parlormaid waited to serve the soup.
When they began the second course, which was chicken and vegetables, and the servants had temporarily left, Vespasia looked up and met Charlotte's gaze, and Charlotte knew it was time to begin. She forgot the succulence of the meat and the sweetness of the spring sprouts.
'If it is anarchists or revolutionaries,' she said carefully, weighing her logic as she went and trying not to think of Florence Ivory and her child, or of Zenobia Gunne, calm, attentive, but under her composure desperately aware of tragedy, ' 'or a madman, then there is very little chance that we shall discover who it is. Therefore, we had best direct our efforts where we have some possibility of success-which is to say we must assume Sir Lockwood and Mr. Etheridge were killed by someone who knew them and had a personal reason for wishing them dead. As far as I can think, there are very few emotions strong enough to drive an otherwise sane person to such extremes: hatred, which covers revenge for past wrongs; greed; and fear, fear of some physical danger, or more likely the fear of losing something precious, such as one's good reputation, love, honor or position, or simply peace from day to day.'
'We know very little about either of the victims,' Zenobia said with a frown, and again a touch of understanding
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that the task might be far greater than she had hoped when she appealed to Vespasia.
It was not the difficulty that disturbed Charlotte, but the fear that in the end they would discover it was indeed Florence Ivory who had brought about the murders, if not directly, then by the even greater misdeed of employing someone else to commit the act.
'That is what we must set ourselves to do,' she said aloud, pushing the vegetables round her plate-suddenly the delicacy of their taste no longer mattered. 'We are in a far better position than the police to meet the appropriate people at a time and in a manner we can observe them unguarded. And because we are in many ways of a similar station in life, we can understand what is in their minds, what
