had affairs with other women,' Vespasia agreed dourly. 'But even in the unlikely event they had husbands who were offended by it, to cut the throats of three members of Parliament and hang them on Westminster Bridge seems oblique, and excessive to a degree!'
Charlotte was suitably crushed. It was absurd. Had it been Etheridge alone it might have made sense. 'It doesn't seem to be a crime of passion,' she said aloud. 'Indeed it does not appear to make any kind of sense!''
'Then there is only one conclusion,' Vespasia said grimly. 'There is either a passion or a reason of which we are not aware. Certainly if it is a passion, it was not momentary, but rather extremely sustained, and therefore I would suppose it is one of great depth.'
'Someone has been done a wrong so terrible it corrodes their souls like a white-hot acid,' Charlotte offered.
Vespasia stared at her. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Charlotte not to be melodramatic; then she glimpsed for
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an instant the horror of what such a thing might be, and remained silent.
Charlotte pursued her own line. 'Or there is a motive we have not seen, perhaps because we do not know the facts, or the people, or because it is too ugly to us, and we have refused to see it. All we know of what those three men had in common was a fierce disapproval of the movement to extend the franchise to women.'
'Hamilton's disapproval was not fierce,' Vespasia corrected automatically, but there was no lightness in her voice; it need not be said between them that Hamilton's death may have been a mistake, due to the assumption, in the dim light on the bridge, that he was Etheridge. 'It could be others trying to blacken the reputation of the women fighting for suffrage,' Vespasia went on, 'knowing they would be blamed.'
'Oblique, and excessive to a degree,' Charlotte repeated Vespasia's own words, then instantly regretted the impertinence. 'I'm sorry!'
Vespasia's face softened for a moment in recognition of the emotion. 'You are quite right,' she conceded. 'If somewhat cruel in your manner of observation.' She stood up and went to the window, gazing out at the sunlight in the garden, slanting pale and brilliant on the tree trunks and the first red shoots of the rose leaves. 'We had best pursue what we can. Since we fear Florence Ivory may indeed be guilty, it would be profitable for you to form a further opinion of her character. You might call upon her again, if you will.''
Charlotte looked at Vespasia's slender back, stiff under her embroidered lace dress, her shoulders so thin Charlotte was reminded quite painfully of how old she was, how fragile; she remembered that with age one does not cease to love or to be hurt, nor feel any less vulnerable inside. Without waiting to allow self-consciousness to prevent her, she went over and put her arms round Vespasia, regardless of whether it
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was a liberty or not, and held her tight as she would have a sister or a child.
'I love you, Aunt Vespasia, and there is nothing I would like in the world more than one day to become a little like you.'
It was several moments before Vespasia spoke, and when she did her voice was hesitant and a little throaty. 'Thank you, my dear.' She sniffed very delicately. 'I am sure you have made an excellent beginning-both the good and the bad. Now if you would be so good as to let go of me, I must find my handkerchief.' She did, and blew her nose in a less ladylike manner than usual, with her back to Charlotte. 'Now!' she said briskly, stuffing the totally inadequate piece of cambric and lace up her sleeve. ' 'I shall use the telephone to speak to Nobby and have her call upon Lady Mary Carfax again; I shall renew some political acquaintances who may be able to tell me something of use; you will call upon Florence Ivory; and then tomorrow we shall meet here at two o'clock and go together to express our condolences to the widow of Cuthbert Sheridan. It may even be that it was he who was the intended victim.' She tried hard to keep hope out of her voice-it had a certain indecency-and failed.
'Yes, Aunt Vespasia,' Charlotte said obediently. 'Tomorrow at two o'clock.'
Charlotte set out for her visit to Florence Ivory with little pleasure. Indeed, the fear was strong inside her that she would either learn nothing at all or that her present anxieties would be strengthened and she would feel a greater conviction that Florence was both capable of such murders and likely to have committed them, with the help perhaps of Zenobia's niece Africa Dowell. She herself hoped she might find that they were not at home.
