Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [86]
She made a supreme effort to speak clearly, without tears in her voice, without sniffling. “Political? You mean anarchists? People are talking about plots against the Queen, or Parliament. But why Cuthbert? He was only a very junior minister at the Treasury.”
“Had he always been at the Treasury, ma’am?”
“Oh no; members of Parliament move from one office to another, you know. He had been in the Home Office as well, and the Foreign Office for a very short while.”
“Had he any convictions about Irish Home Rule?”
“No—that is, I think he voted for it, but I’m not sure. He didn’t discuss that sort of thing with me.”
“And reform, ma’am; was he inclined towards social and industrial reform, or against it?”
“As long as it was well conducted and not too hasty, he was for industrial reform.” A curious look passed across her face; it seemed made up of both anger and pain.
He asked the question he least wished to. “And reform of the franchise; was he in favor of extending it to women?”
“No.” The word came from between her teeth. “No, he was not.”
“Was his opinion well known to others?”
She hesitated; her eyebrows went up. “I—yes, I imagine so. He expressed it quite forcefully at times.”
He could not fail to see both the surprise and the distress in her face. “Were you of the same opinion, Mrs. Sheridan? “ he asked.
Her face was so white the shadows under her eyes looked almost gray, even in this yellow gaslight.
“No.” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “I believe very strongly that women should have the right to vote for members of Parliament, if they choose, and to stand for local councils themselves. I am a member of my local group fighting for women’s suffrage.”
“Are you acquainted with a Mrs. Florence Ivory, or a Miss Africa Dowell?”
There was no change in her expression, no added fear or start of apprehension. “Yes, I know them both, though not well. There are not many of us, Mr. Pitt; it is hard for us not to know of one another, especially of those few who are prepared to take risk, to fight for what they believe, rather than merely pleading for it to a government which is composed entirely of men and quite obviously not disposed to listen to us. Those who hold power have never in all history been inclined to relinquish it willingly. Usually it has been taken from them by force, or it has slipped from their hands because they were too weak or corrupt to retain it.”
“Which does Mrs. Ivory believe will come to pass here?”
The first pale flush of color marked her cheeks, and her face hardened.
“That is a question you had better ask her, Mr. Pitt—after you have discovered who murdered my husband!” Then her anger dissolved in an agony of distress and she turned away from him and crumpled against the back of the chair, weeping silently, her whole body shaking with the violence of her emotion.
Pitt could not apologize. It would have been ridiculous, and without purpose; grief had nothing to do with him; to comment would have served only to show his lack of comprehension. Instead he simply left, going out into the hallway, passing the white-faced butler, and opening the front door for himself. He went down the steps into the spring darkness; a slow mist was curling up from the river now, smelling of the incoming tide. She would weep now, and probably again when the cold light of morning brought back reality and memory, and loneliness.
When Pitt reached home he went straight to the kitchen and made himself a pot of tea. He sat at the table drinking it, warming his hands on the mug, for well over an hour. He felt tired and helpless. There had been three murders, and he had no more real evidence than he’d had the night of the first one. Was it really Florence Ivory, driven beyond sanity by the loss of her child?
But why Cuthbert Sheridan? Simple hatred, because he too was against giving women more power