Elsa’s first reaction had been one of horror and pity at the waste of life. She sat on her bed, rigid with misery. She knew she had not ever truly liked Minnie. The relationship had been uneasy from the outset. Elsa had replaced Minnie’s dead mother, at least socially, if not in Cahoon’s affections. Not that he ever mentioned his first wife, and certainly he never made comparisons, or spoke of her with grief.
She should have found that strange, but at the time she had been so fascinated by his power and the weight of his emotion, she had been flattered that he wanted her at all. And he had, then. But how quickly he had grown tired!
Minnie had seen that, and understood it. The coldness between Elsa and Minnie had become one of mutual contempt on one level, a degree of tolerance on another. It was a situation from which neither could escape. For survival, it was best to make as little trouble as possible.
And then there was Julius. Elsa was no longer sure about anyone else’s emotions. This ghastly week had shaken every certainty she had. Looking at them all around the dinner table yesterday evening she had realized she had very little idea what any of them truly cared about, loved or hated, longed for, wept over. Olga’s isolation and self-disgust were simple, at least on the surface. But why did she not fight back? Had victory become pointless to attempt? Was her pallor and weariness disillusion rather than defeat?
Simnel’s infatuation with Minnie was not hard to understand.
She had had fire and passion, laughter compared with Olga’s misery.
But were any of these attributes anything more than patterns on the surface? Was Minnie’s fire only appetite? And Olga’s chill only a result of the pain of rejection freezing her? She had barely even mentioned her children, as if she had no more heart to fight with the weapons she had.
Liliane was obviously terrified that Hamilton would drink too much and let slip some awful secret, either his own or someone else’s.
Was it about the murder of the other woman in Africa, so much like the ones here? She protected him as if he had been one of her children rather than her husband.
And Julius. That was the blow that left her numb. She could not accept that he had murdered Minnie, destroyed all that fierce will, that hunger and greed for life, whatever the cost. Minnie had been selfish, even cruel, but she had been as bright as a fire. To have snuffed her out seemed almost a crime against nature.
Elsa felt a searing pity for Cahoon. He had looked bruised to the heart when he had told her how Minnie had died, as if he had lost part of himself. She wanted to reach out to his agony but it was closed hard and tight inside him, and he turned away from her. Moments later he had actually left the room and she had stood alone, bewildered, bruised by rejection, and desperately sad.
She did not want to speak to anyone else, and yet to remain sitting in her room alone seemed even worse. She stood up and walked over to the window. She stared out at the heavy, summer trees, barely seeing them. Who had done this? It could not be Cahoon. Minnie was the one person he loved. She could remember a score of times she had seen them together sharing a joke, an idea, the kind of instant understanding from half a sentence that people have when they are truly close. She had never known it herself. Her father had been a distant man who did not see women as friends, only as beings of comfort, dependency, warmth, obedience, and virtue.
Minnie had been nothing like that. She was hungry, selfish, brave, and strong, like her father. Cahoon fought with her, but he admired her. If he could have found a woman like that to marry, he would have been happy.
Was it Simnel, struggling to free himself from his uncontrollable fascination with Minnie who had finally killed her? It had led him to betray the wife he had once loved in a different way, not only privately but, because he could not conceal it, publicly as well. Olga must have seen it every day, during every mealtime at the table: the pity and the impatience in the eyes of her friends because she did not know how to fight back.
Elsa was cold, in spite of the sun coming through the window.
Had Olga fought back at last?
No. That was ridiculous. If Minnie had been killed in the same way as the street woman, then it had to have been a man who had done it. Except that if Elsa could think of copying the original murder, then couldn’t Olga, or anyone? Could a woman be driven to that kind of fury by jealousy?
It wasn’t simple jealousy, not a matter of hating someone for having what you did not, or even hatred for taking it from you. It wasn’t love that had robbed her, it was the heat of physical need, the raging appetite that destroyed both judgment and honor. It had consumed Simnel like a disease.
Most of all it might have been the humiliation, the destruction of belief in herself, even in love, the ultimate betrayal. How far was that from madness?
Surely Olga could not have killed the street woman too? No.
That was utterly different. There was nothing personal in it-if it had even happened. The prostitutes had been brought in to entertain, not necessarily anything more, although the possibility and the assumption of more extensive services were there.
The other thought, which was waiting on the edge of her mind, refused to be denied any longer. If Olga could kill out of jealousy and humiliation, then how could Elsa deny that Julius could too? And Julius would have the strength to kill Minnie, who was a big woman, tall and graceful with full bosom, rounded arms, and perfect poise.
Olga would not have the strength, unless she had taken her totally by surprise. Julius would.
But had he cared enough to do it? Elsa had no idea, not really. She knew the outer man: the courtesy, the dry humor, the seeming gentleness, the way he met her eyes when she spoke to him. She knew intimately, passionately, what she hoped he was, dreamed he was, but what had that to do with reality? How much was she in love with something that existed only in her own mind? How much was anyone?
It is so easy to see what you need to see, perhaps it is even necessary.
What had Julius seen in Minnie? What had he believed of her?
He must once have thought she would be warm and loyal, gentle to his faults, strong to her own truths, that she had an inner core that could not be tarnished.
Or perhaps being beautiful and willing was enough? Had he an integrity that could not be broken, stained, bought, if the price were high enough?
For that matter, had she herself?
There was a knock on the door. She assumed it was Bartle and told her to come in without bothering to turn away from the window.
“I’m sorry to intrude on you, Mrs. Dunkeld, but it is necessary.”
She whirled round and saw the policeman just inside the doorway.
“Oh!” She drew in her breath sharply. “Yes. Of course it is. Do you wish me to come to your sitting room?”
“Yes, please, if you are well enough. Otherwise perhaps your maid could wait with you?” he replied.
“I’m quite well enough, thank you,” she accepted, following him out of the door again and down the stairs to the room he had been given. Bartle knew her too well; she did not want her here for the questions he would ask. She sat in the chair opposite him.
He apologized for having to distress her. She dismissed it. “You have no choice,” she said. “We have to know who did this.”
He nodded slightly. “Did Mrs. Sorokine confide in you at all yesterday, or the day before, Mrs. Dunkeld? It seems she had a strong suspicion as to who had killed the woman found in the cupboard, and was asking a great many questions.”
Elsa was startled. She was about to deny it completely when she remembered how excited Minnie had been, and the way she had hinted at the dinner table that she had learned something no one else knew. She was showing off for her father. They had all heard her. Perhaps one of them had realized that she was on the brink of learning the whole truth, and exposing it.
Pitt was watching her. She must face him and reply.
“No. She made hints during dinner, but that’s all they were. I didn’t understand. It all sounded. .” She was searching for the right word. “It sounded obscure to me. I thought she was just trying to be the center of attention. I’m. . so sorry.” That was an admission of guilt. She was guilty of not listening, not judging more kindly, not even trying to love Minnie.
She met Pitt’s eyes, and saw more understanding in them than she wished to. She turned away, and realized that in doing so she was still betraying herself.
