Bethlehem Road (19 page)

Great-aunt Vespasia was sitting in her favorite chair by the fire. Opposite her was a woman almost gawkily lean, with a face of marvelous, dynamic ugliness, so full of intelligence it had its own kind of beauty. Her eyes were very dark, her brows fiercely winged, her nose too powerful, mouth humorous, perhaps in youth even tender. She was nearly sixty, and her complexion had been ruined by all kinds of weather, from the extremes of ocean wind to the heat of a tropical sun. She gazed at Charlotte with quite undisguised curiosity.

“Come in, Charlotte,” Vespasia said quickly. “Thank you, Jeavons. Call us when luncheon is ready.” She turned to the other woman. “This is Charlotte Pitt. If anyone can give us really practical help it is she. Charlotte, Miss Zenobia Gunne.”

“How do you do, Miss Gunne,” Charlotte said courteously, although a single glance at the woman made her feel sure such formality was soon going to be dismissed.

“Sit down,” Vespasia directed, waving her lace-cuffed hand. “We have a great deal to do. Nobby will tell you what we know so far.”

Charlotte obeyed, catching the urgency in Vespasia’s voice and realizing the other woman must be profoundly worried to have come for help to a person she had never met before, nor even heard of socially.

“I am most grateful for your attention,” Zenobia Gunne said to Charlotte. “The situation is this: My niece owns a house south of the river, inherited from her parents, my younger brother, and his wife upon their death some twelve years ago. Africa—my brother called her after that continent because I spent a great many years exploring it, and he was fond of me—Africa is a girl of intelligence and independent opinions, and a very lively compassion, especially for those whom she feels to have suffered injustice.”

Zenobia was watching Charlotte’s face as she spoke, trying already to ascertain what impression she might be forming.

“Some two or three years ago Africa met a woman a few years older than herself, perhaps twelve or fourteen, who had left her husband, taking with her her young daughter. She had managed quite adequately on her own resources for some time, but when some change in circumstance made this no longer possible, Africa offered both the woman and the child a home. She grew very fond of both of them, and they of her.

“Now, the part of the story that concerns us is that the woman’s vicious husband sought to obtain custody of the child. She appealed to her member of Parliament, who promised to assist her, which for some time he did. Suddenly he changed his mind and instead gave his aid to the husband, who then won his custody order for the child and forthwith removed her. The mother has not seen her since.”

“And the husband has been murdered?” Charlotte asked, fearing already that there was going to be nothing she or anyone could do to help.

“No.” Zenobia’s remarkable eyes held hers unflinchingly, but for the first time Charlotte realized that there was both resolution and pain in them, clearly justifying all Vespasia’s fears. “No, it is the member of Parliament who has been murdered, Mrs. Pitt.”

Charlotte felt a chill, as if that night on the Bridge with its chill and fog from the river had entered the room. This was Thomas’s case that he had told her of with such confusion and pity. She knew all London was appalled by the crimes, not merely by their nature but by the identity of the victims and the apparent ease with which able men, men both cherished and respected, the makers of law, had been killed within sight of the Mother of Parliaments.

“Yes,” Zenobia said very quietly indeed, her eyes on Charlotte’s face. “The Westminster Bridge murders. I fear the police may believe it was Africa and her lodger who committed these terrible acts. The poor woman certainly had motive enough, and neither she nor Africa can prove themselves innocent.”

Pitt’s description of them was sharp in Charlotte’s memory, his sense of Florence Ivory’s anger and grief, and the passion he was sure could bring her to kill. The question beat in Charlotte’s head so, nothing else could form itself or find shape. Had they?
Had they?

“Charlotte, we must do all we can to help,” Vespasia said briskly, before the silence could become painful. “Where do you suggest we begin?”

Charlotte’s mind was whirling. How well did Great-aunt Vespasia know this woman with the extraordinary face? Were they lifelong friends, or merely social acquaintances? They were a generation apart. If they had been friends years ago, what had happened to them since? How much had they changed and grown separate, been marked by experience, learned to value different things, to love different people? What sort of a woman explored Africa? Why? With whom? Did she perhaps count family loyalty above the lives of those who were not of her class or kin? It was ridiculous to be discussing this in front of her, where Charlotte could not be frank.

“At the beginning,” Zenobia said gravely into the silence, answering Vespasia’s question. “No, I do not know that Africa is innocent. I believe it, but I cannot know it, and I realize that if we attempt to help her, there is a possibility that we may do exactly the opposite. I am prepared to take that risk.”

Charlotte collected her thoughts and attempted to set them forth logically. “Then if we cannot prove them innocent,” she said, “we shall have to see if we can discover who is guilty—and prove that.” There was no purpose in being falsely modest or decorous with this woman. “I have read something of the matter in the newspapers,” she admitted. At this point she would not say that her husband was the detective in charge of the case—Zenobia might find it impossible to believe she could be impartial, and it would place an intolerable burden of double loyalty upon Vespasia.

She knew it was not the thing for ladies of quality to read anything in the newspapers except the society pages, and perhaps a little of the theater or reviews of suitable books or paintings, but there was no point in pretending she was of delicate sensibilities—even could she have carried it off—if they were going to discover the authors of any crimes at all, let alone such as these.

“What do we know of the facts?” she began. “Two members of Parliament have been murdered at night, upon Westminster Bridge, by having their throats cut, and then their bodies were tied up by their evening scarves to the lamppost at the south end of the bridge. The first was Sir Lockwood Hamilton, the second a Mr. Vyvyan Etheridge.” She looked at Zenobia. “Why should this woman—what is her name?”

“Florence Ivory.”

“Why should Florence Ivory kill both men? Were they both connected in some way with the loss of her child?”

“No, only Mr. Etheridge. I have no idea why the police believe she should have killed Sir Lockwood as well.”

Charlotte was puzzled. “Are you sure she has reason to be afraid, Miss Gunne? Is it not possible the police are merely questioning everyone who had cause to hold a grudge against either victim, in the hope they might discover something, 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 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 Rockingham 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 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 lies behind their words.”

Vespasia folded her hands in her lap and paid attention like a schoolgirl in class. “With whom shall we begin?” she asked.

“What do we know of Mr. Etheridge?” Charlotte inquired. “Has he a widow, family, a mistress?” She saw with some satisfaction that Zenobia’s face registered no horror, nor any indication that her sense of decency had been offended. “And if those avenues prove fruitless, then had he rivals in business, or professionally?”

“The
Times
said that he was a widower and leaves one daughter, married to a James Carfax,” Vespasia offered. “Sir Lockwood left a widow, and a son by his first marriage.”

“Excellent. That is where we shall start. It will always be easier for us both to meet with women and to make judgments and observations of them that may be useful. So we have Mr. Etheridge’s daughter—”

“Helen Carfax,” Vespasia supplied.

Charlotte nodded. “And Lady Amethyst Hamilton. Is the son married?”

“Nothing was said of a wife.”

Zenobia leaned forward. “I have a very slight acquaintance with a Lady Mary Carfax; it was some time ago now, but I believe, if I remember accurately, that her son was named James.”

“Then renew the acquaintance,” Vespasia said instantly.

Zenobia’s mobile mouth turned down. “We disliked each other,” she said reluctantly. “She disapproved of me for going to Africa, among other things. She felt—and said—that I disgraced both my birth and my sex by behaving totally unsuitably on almost every occasion. And I thought her pompous, narrow-minded, and completely without imagination.”

“No doubt you were both correct,” Vespasia said tartly. “But since she is unlikely to have improved with time, and you wish information of her, not she of you, then it is you who will have to accommodate yourself to her social prejudices and remember your niece profoundly enough to force yourself to be agreeable to her.”

Zenobia had faced the insects and heat of the Congo, the discomforts of trekking across deserts and sailing in canoes, fought against exhaustion, disease, outraged family, stubborn officials, and mutinous natives. She had endured heartache, ostracism, and loneliness. She was more than equal now to the self-discipline required of her to be civil to Lady Mary Carfax, since it was so evidently necessary.

“Of course,” she agreed simply. “What else?”

“One of us will visit Lady Hamilton,” Charlotte went on. “Aunt Vespasia, perhaps that had better be you. None of us knows her, so we shall have to invent an excuse. You can say you knew Sir Lockwood through your work for social reform, and you have come to express your condolences.”

“I did not know him,” Vespasia replied, waving one long hand in the air. “Which I agree is immaterial. However, since it is a lie, you can tell it just as well as I. I shall go and see Somerset Carlisle and learn everything I can from him as to the political lives of both men. It is always possible that the crime is political, and it would be wise of us to cover that area of investigation as well.”