intelligentsia, personal friends of Tolstoy, et cetera, with socialist beliefs—you know the form.” Callan gave a wry smile. “It’s easy to be a socialist when you’re rich, eh?”
“Left wing and upper crust—an interesting paradox,” Pike mused.
“To which they are all probably blinkered.”
Pike doubted this was the case of the elder daughter; she seemed to have her feet planted firmly on the ground. Then again, in her profession, she’d have to.
Callan continued. “And then one of Mr. McCleland’s brothers was murdered.”
“Political?”
“No, nothing of the kind; he was a university professor of English in Moscow, shot by a student who felt he deserved better exam marks.”
“Good heavens.”
“Quite. The McClelands presumably saw this as a sign that the country was going to the dogs—in any case, their socialist leanings were drawing the attention of the Russian authorities. They brought their daughter Florence—the older girl was already at school here—and their considerable fortune back to England, where they have lived the life of wealthy eccentrics ever since. Why the interest?”
“I’ve had recent dealings with both daughters.”
“Miss Florence McCleland, I take it, the suffragette? You know, some of the higher-ups view the suffragettes as a greater threat to the British Empire than the Irish, the anarchists, the socialists, and the Germans all rolled into one.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Pike said. “The women were certainly troublesome, but hardly a serious threat. Why were those arrested on Friday released so quickly?”
“The government’s afraid of more hunger strikes, I suspect. The torture of women doesn’t exactly cast any of us in a good light. I’d say the Pankhursts’ tactics appear to be working. You mentioned daughters, plural.”
“The elder is an autopsy surgeon.”
Now it was Callan’s turn to look surprised. “Well, I suppose anything is possible when you consider how they were brought up. Good-looking women, though, so I hear, the younger one especially.”
“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.” Pike smiled slightly, his second of the day.
* * *
T he omnibus dropped Pike off a short walk from the Cartwright residence, one of a row of grand terrace houses fronted with trimmed box hedges in Lyall Street. He stepped back from the front door and looked up, counting five storeys including the servants’ attic. The grey of the tall Georgian building seemed to blend in with the grey of the sky.
“Chief Inspector Pike, Scotland Yard,” the butler announced as he opened the double doors of the opulent morning room. Lady Helen Cartwright remained seated at her writing desk, her back turned to the door. Pike used the same tactics himself on subordinates who needed reminding of their place. He took off his hat and scarf, thumbed open the buttons of his coat, and pointedly handed the damp items to the butler, whom he suspected had deliberately omitted to take them.
Hugo Cartwright acknowledged Pike’s presence with a brief tip of his head, making no effort to move from where he stood warming himself by the fire, coattails lifted.
Despite his considerable height, Cartwright had about him an air of delicacy, enhanced by the fairness of his hair and skin, which would barely require a razor’s scrape. His eyelashes were so blond they appeared tipped with snow. If he stood much closer to the fire, Pike feared he might melt.
Pike remained where he was, the butler hovering behind, as if waiting to eject him at the first sign of trouble.
Lady Helen Cartwright finally turned. She wore a gown of black tulle as befitted the mourning of her sister-in-law, Lady Catherine. “What is your business, Inspector?” she asked with a slight rise of her upper lip.
“I would like to speak to your son, please, my lady.”
She gestured towards Hugo Cartwright. “Well, there he is.”
“Alone, if you please, my lady.”
She frowned, stood up from the desk, and
“Left wing and upper crust—an interesting paradox,” Pike mused.
“To which they are all probably blinkered.”
Pike doubted this was the case of the elder daughter; she seemed to have her feet planted firmly on the ground. Then again, in her profession, she’d have to.
Callan continued. “And then one of Mr. McCleland’s brothers was murdered.”
“Political?”
“No, nothing of the kind; he was a university professor of English in Moscow, shot by a student who felt he deserved better exam marks.”
“Good heavens.”
“Quite. The McClelands presumably saw this as a sign that the country was going to the dogs—in any case, their socialist leanings were drawing the attention of the Russian authorities. They brought their daughter Florence—the older girl was already at school here—and their considerable fortune back to England, where they have lived the life of wealthy eccentrics ever since. Why the interest?”
“I’ve had recent dealings with both daughters.”
“Miss Florence McCleland, I take it, the suffragette? You know, some of the higher-ups view the suffragettes as a greater threat to the British Empire than the Irish, the anarchists, the socialists, and the Germans all rolled into one.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Pike said. “The women were certainly troublesome, but hardly a serious threat. Why were those arrested on Friday released so quickly?”
“The government’s afraid of more hunger strikes, I suspect. The torture of women doesn’t exactly cast any of us in a good light. I’d say the Pankhursts’ tactics appear to be working. You mentioned daughters, plural.”
“The elder is an autopsy surgeon.”
Now it was Callan’s turn to look surprised. “Well, I suppose anything is possible when you consider how they were brought up. Good-looking women, though, so I hear, the younger one especially.”
“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.” Pike smiled slightly, his second of the day.
* * *
T he omnibus dropped Pike off a short walk from the Cartwright residence, one of a row of grand terrace houses fronted with trimmed box hedges in Lyall Street. He stepped back from the front door and looked up, counting five storeys including the servants’ attic. The grey of the tall Georgian building seemed to blend in with the grey of the sky.
“Chief Inspector Pike, Scotland Yard,” the butler announced as he opened the double doors of the opulent morning room. Lady Helen Cartwright remained seated at her writing desk, her back turned to the door. Pike used the same tactics himself on subordinates who needed reminding of their place. He took off his hat and scarf, thumbed open the buttons of his coat, and pointedly handed the damp items to the butler, whom he suspected had deliberately omitted to take them.
Hugo Cartwright acknowledged Pike’s presence with a brief tip of his head, making no effort to move from where he stood warming himself by the fire, coattails lifted.
Despite his considerable height, Cartwright had about him an air of delicacy, enhanced by the fairness of his hair and skin, which would barely require a razor’s scrape. His eyelashes were so blond they appeared tipped with snow. If he stood much closer to the fire, Pike feared he might melt.
Pike remained where he was, the butler hovering behind, as if waiting to eject him at the first sign of trouble.
Lady Helen Cartwright finally turned. She wore a gown of black tulle as befitted the mourning of her sister-in-law, Lady Catherine. “What is your business, Inspector?” she asked with a slight rise of her upper lip.
“I would like to speak to your son, please, my lady.”
She gestured towards Hugo Cartwright. “Well, there he is.”
“Alone, if you please, my lady.”
She frowned, stood up from the desk, and
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