Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [92]
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