than Charlotte had realized, and although slender, she looked as if she might be of athletic build under the rosy cotton of her gown.
'You cannot be a detective, Miss Ellison, if Lady Cumming-Gould is your great-aunt. What is it you are proposing to do that might be of help to us?'
Florence gave her a withering look. 'Really, Africa. The police are all men, and while some of them may have reasonable manners and even some imagination, it is futile to suppose they will come to any conclusion except the most obvious and convenient one! They are hardly going to suspect Miss Ellison's family or associates, are they? Our best prayer is that some lunatic is caught before they can organize the evidence against me!'
Africa had more patience man Charlotte would have had.
'Aunt Nobby is really very good.' Her chin lifted a little higher. 'When she was in her early thirties she began exploring. She went to Egypt, then south to the Congo. She traveled up the great river in a canoe; she was the only white person in her party. She's had the courage to do things you would like to do, so don't dismiss her.'' She refrained from adding any criticism of Florence Ivory's prejudice.
Florence was moved more by Africa's loyalty than by the facts. Her face softened, and she put her hand on the younger
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woman's arm. 'I would indeed like to do such things,' she admitted. ''She must be a remarkable person. But I don't see how she can help us in this.''
Africa turned to Charlotte. 'Miss Ellison?'
Charlotte could not find any comforting panacea. She detected by chance and instinct, by being caught up in events, by caring and observing. And most certainly she would be ill-advised to tell either of these two women that her husband was with the police.
'We will explore the other possibilities,' she answered rather lamely. 'Discover whether either man had any personal, business, or political enemies-'
'Won't the police do that?' Africa asked.
Charlotte saw Florence's face, the anger in it, the conviction of injustice to come. She sympathized: Florence Ivory had suffered loss already, perhaps the worst she could conceive. But her condescension, her blanket condemnation of all persons in authority, not just those who had betrayed her, lost her the warmth that Charlotte would have felt for her otherwise.
'What makes you certain the police suspect you so strongly, Mrs. Ivory?' she asked rather brusquely.
Florence's face held both pain and contempt. 'The look on the policeman's face,' she answered.
Charlotte was incredulous. 'I beg your pardon?'
'It was in his eyes,' Florence repeated. 'A mixture of pity and judgment. For heaven's sake, Miss Ellison! I have motive enough, and I wrote to Etheridge and said so-no doubt the police will find my letters before long. I have the means: anyone can purchase a razor, and the kitchen is full of knives of excellent sharpness! And I was alone in the house the night he was killed; Africa went to visit a neighbor who was sick and sat up with her half the night. But the woman was delirious, so I don't suppose she knows whether Africa remained there or not! You may be very good at solving petty thefts and discovering the authors of unpleasant
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letters, Miss Ellison, but proving me innocent is beyond your abilities. But I am grateful for your well-meaning efforts. And it was kind of Lady Cumming-Gould to be concerned for us. Please thank her for me.''
Charlotte was so angry it took all her strength of will to force herself to remember how dreadfully the woman had already been hurt. Only by recalling Jemima's face to her inner vision, by remembering the feel of her slender little body in her arms, the smell of her hair, did she quell the fury. In its place came a pity so wrenching it left her almost breathless.
' 'You may not be the only person he betrayed, Mrs. Ivory; and if you did not kill him, then we shall continue to search for whoever did. And I will do it because I wish to. Thank you for your time. Good day. Good day, Miss Dowell.'' And she turned and walked back towards the hall, out of the front door, and into the late spring sunlight feeling exhausted and frightened. She did not even know whether she believed Florence Ivory to have killed Etheridge or not. Certainly the cause was there, and the passion!
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