Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [80]
“Indeed?” Florence Ivory looked bitterly amused. “And how does that involve you, Miss Ellison? You cannot possibly call upon every woman in London who faces some injustice!”
Charlotte felt a prickle of irritation. “I should not wish to, Mrs. Ivory, and certainly not upon all those who thought they had!” she answered equally tartly. “I call upon you because Miss Gunne has taken it upon herself to try to prevent this particular injustice which she fears, and has asked my Great-aunt Vespasia’s help, who has in turn asked me.”
“I fail to see what you can do.” Florence spoke from bitterness, but also from despair.
“Of course you fail to,” Charlotte snapped. “If you could see it you could probably do it yourself! You are not unintelligent.” Her mind flashed back to that public meeting and the intensity of determination. “And I have few resources that are not open to you or anyone else. I simply have some experience, some common sense and some courage.” She had not spoken so abruptly, or so arrogantly, to anyone as far back as she could remember! But there was an abrasive-ness and an anger in this woman which she at once understood, knowing her story, and found unnecessary and self-defeating.
Africa Dowell stood up and went to Florence Ivory. She was taller than Charlotte had realized, and although slender, she looked as if she might be of athletic build under the rosy cotton of her gown.
“You cannot be a detective, Miss Ellison, if Lady Cumming-Gould is your great-aunt. What is it you are proposing to do that might be of help to us?”
Florence gave her a withering look. “Really, Africa. The police are all men, and while some of them may have reasonable manners and even some imagination, it is futile to suppose they will come to any conclusion except the most obvious and convenient one! They are hardly going to suspect Miss Ellison’s family or associates, are they? Our best prayer is that some lunatic is caught before they can organize the evidence against me!”
Africa had more patience than Charlotte would have had.
“Aunt Nobby is really very good.” Her chin lifted a little higher. “When she was in her early thirties she began exploring. She went to Egypt, then south to the Congo. She traveled up the great river in a canoe; she was the only white person in her party. She’s had the courage to do things you would like to do, so don’t dismiss her.” She refrained from adding any criticism of Florence Ivory’s prejudice.
Florence was moved more by Africa’s loyalty than by the facts. Her face softened, and she put her hand on the younger woman’s arm. “I would indeed like to do such things,” she admitted. “She must be a remarkable person. But I don’t see how she can help us in this.”
Africa turned to Charlotte. “Miss Ellison?”
Charlotte could not find any comforting panacea. She detected by chance and instinct, by being caught up in events, by caring and observing. And most certainly she would be ill-advised to tell either of these two women that her husband was with the police.
“We will explore the other possibilities,” she answered rather lamely. “Discover whether either man had any personal, business, or political enemies—”
“Won’t the police do that?” Africa asked.
Charlotte saw Florence’s face, the anger in it, the conviction of injustice to come. She sympathized: Florence Ivory had suffered loss already, perhaps the worst she could conceive. But her condescension, her blanket condemnation of all persons in authority, not just those who had betrayed her, lost her the warmth that Charlotte would have felt for her otherwise.
“What makes you certain the police suspect you so strongly, Mrs. Ivory?” she asked rather brusquely.
Florence’s face held both pain and contempt. “The look on the policeman’s face,” she answered.
Charlotte was incredulous. “I beg your pardon?”
“It was