Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [103]
Did Barclay Hamilton’s deep, unwavering aversion to his stepmother have anything to do with his father’s death? Did he know or suspect something? That thought was no pleasanter; she had liked them both, and what cause could there be in their antipathy that would inspire murder now? Was the murderer a business or political enemy? Pitt had found neither.
James or Helen Carfax? Nobby Gunne had thought not, and her judgment seemed good. If their own investigations were worth anything—which was growing doubtful; never had Charlotte felt less confidence in herself—then it would be their judgment of character; their knowledge, as women, of other women; their intimacy with Society, which the police could not have; that would make a difference. They had engineered opportunities for observing their subjects in unguarded moments, obtaining confidences because their interest was unsuspected. If they discounted that advantage, then there was nothing left.
And Cuthbert Sheridan? As yet they knew nothing of him, except that his family seemed in no way unusual, nor did they seem to have any reason to desire his death. His widow was a woman newly discovering her own aspirations and for the first time in her life developing independent opinions. Perhaps they had quarreled, but one does not hire a cutthroat to murder one’s husband because he disapproves of one’s newfound political views, even if he forbids them outright. And there was nothing to suggest Cuthbert Sheridan had done that, was there?
Pitt was out now trying to learn something more of Sheridan’s political, business, and private life. But what had he in common with the others that had marked him for death? She had not even a guess.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the postman, who brought the butcher’s bill, the coal merchant’s account, and a long letter from Emily. The bills were for a trifle less than expected, which was cheering: the price of mutton was three ha’pence a pound less than she had budgeted for. She put them on the kitchen mantel, then tore open Emily’s latest letter.
Florence, Saturday
My dearest Charlotte,
What a perfectly marvelous city! Palaces with names that roll off the tongue, statues everywhere, and of such astounding beauty that I stand in the street and stare until passersby bump into me and I feel foolish, but I don’t care. I think sometimes Jack pretends he is not with me! And the people! I used to think that those faces painted by da Vinci lived only in his imagination, or perhaps he had a fixation with one family and painted them over and over again. But Charlotte, there are people here who look exactly so! I saw a perfect “Madonna of the Rocks” standing in the piazza yesterday, feeding the birds while her carriage waited for her and her footman grew impatient. I think she may have been hoping to catch a glimpse of a lover, perhaps waiting for Dante to cross the bridge? I know I am in the wrong century—but who cares? It is all like a glorious poetic dream come true.
And I thought the golden light over the hills in Renaissance paintings was a mixture of the artist’s license and the tint of old varnish. It isn’t: the air really is different here, there is a warmth in its color, a shade of gold in the sky, the stones, even the trees. Utterly different from Venice, with all its shifting patterns, its blue sky and water, but every bit as lovely.
I think my favorite of all the statues is Donatello’s Saint George. He is not very big, but oh so young! He has so much hope and courage in his face, as if he had newly seen God and was determined to overcome all the evil in the world to find his way back, to fight every dragon of selfishness and squalor, every dark idea of man, without having the least idea how long or how dreadful the fight would be. My heart aches for him, because