There was the same look of horror, the halting request that he wait, the effort at composure, then the long silence while the awful news was broken, and once again Pitt found himself standing in a cold morning room in the gaslight facing a shocked and ashen woman who was trying hard not to weep or to faint.
Parthenope Sheridan was perhaps thirty-five or thirty-six, a small woman with a very straight back. Her face was a little too pointed to be pretty, but she had fine eyes and hair, and slightly crooked teeth which gave her an individuality which at another time might well have been charming. Now she stood hollow-eyed, staring at Pitt.
'Cuthbert?' she repeated the name as if she needed to say it again to grasp its meaning. 'Cuthbert has been mur-
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dered-on Westminster Bridge? Like the others? But why? He has no connection with-with . . . what? What is it about, Inspector Pitt? I don't understand.'' She reached for the chair behind her and sat down in it unsteadily, covering her face with her hands.
Pitt wished passionately that they were of the same social class, just for a few moments, so he could put his arms round her and let her weep on his shoulder, instead of sitting stiffly hunched up, unable to share her emotion, isolated because there was no one in the house but servants, children, and a policeman.
But there was nothing he could do. No pity in the world crossed the chasm between them. Familiarity would add to her burden, not decrease it. So instead he broke across the silence with formal words and the necessities of duty.
'Nor do we, ma'am, but we are working on every possibility. And it seems that it may be political, or it may have been someone with a personal enmity towards any one of the three men, or it may simply be someone who is mad, and we shall find no reason that we can understand.'
She made a supreme effort to speak clearly, without tears in her voice, without sniffling. 'Political? You mean anarchists? People are talking about plots against the Queen, or Parliament. But why Cuthbert? He was only a very junior minister at the Treasury.''
'Had he always been at the Treasury, ma'am?'
'Oh no; members of Parliament move from one office to another, you know. He had been hi the Home Office as well, and the Foreign Office for a very short while.'
'Had he any convictions about Irish Home Rule?'
'No-that is, I think he voted for it, but I'm not sure. He didn't discuss that sort of thing with me.'
'And reform, ma'am; was he inclined towards social and industrial reform, or against it?'
'As long as it was well conducted and not too hasty, he 196
was for industrial reform.' A curious look passed across her face; it seemed made up of both anger and pain.
He asked the question he least wished to. 'And reform of the franchise; was he in favor of extending it to women?'
'No.' The word came from between her teeth. 'No, he was not.'
'Was his opinion well known to others?'
She hesitated; her eyebrows went up. 'I-yes, I imagine so. He expressed it quite forcefully at times.'
He could not fail to see both the surprise and the distress in her face. 'Were you of the same opinion, Mrs. Sheridan?' he asked.
Her face was so white the shadows under her eyes looked almost gray, even in this yellow gaslight.
'No.' Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. 'I believe very strongly that women should have the right to vote for members of Parliament, if they choose, and to stand for local councils themselves. I am a member of my local group fighting for women's suffrage.''
'Are you acquainted with a Mrs. Florence Ivory, or a Miss Africa Dowell?'
