Highgate Rise (43 page)

But again there was no verbal retreat, only physical, and this time she excused herself, bade them farewell and swept out, head high, twitching her skirts smartly over the step. A few moments later she was back in Aunt Vespasia’s carriage and once again going towards Stephen Shaw’s lodgings. There were now far more questions she wished to ask him. Perhaps it really was all to do with radical political ideas, not merely Clemency’s slum profiteers, but Lindsay’s socialist beliefs as well. She had never asked him if Lindsay knew about Clemency’s work, or if it had taken her to the new Fabian Society; it simply had not occurred to her.

Mrs. Himer admitted her again with no surprise, and told her that the doctor was out on a call but she expected him back shortly, and if Charlotte cared to wait in the parlor she was welcome. She was brought yet another pot of tea, set out on a brand-new Japanese lacquer tray.

She poured herself a cup of tea and sat sipping it. Could Shaw really know anything that someone would kill to keep secret? Pitt had said little to her about the other patients he had investigated. Shaw seemed so certain all the deaths he had attended were natural—but then if he were in conspiracy with someone, he would say that. Was it possible he had helped someone to murder, either by actually providing the means, or simply by concealing it afterwards? Would he?

She recalled his face to mind easily, the strength in him, and the conviction. Yes—if he believed it to be right, she had no doubt he would. He was quite capable of exercising his powers. If ever a man had the courage of his convictions it was Stephen Shaw.

But did he believe it was right—or could ever be? No, surely not. Not even a violent or insane person? Or someone with a painful and incurable disease?

She had no idea if he was treating such a person. Pitt must have thought of all this too—surely?

She had resolved nothing when some thirty minutes later Shaw burst in, half throwing his case into the corner and flinging his jacket over the back of the chair. He swung around, startled to see her, but his expression lit with delight and he made no pretense of indifference.

“Mrs. Pitt! What fortune brings you back here again so soon? Have you discovered something?” There was humor in his eyes, and a little anxiety, but nothing disguised his liking for her.

“I have just been visiting the Misses Worlingham,” she answered, and saw the instant appreciation of all that that meant in his face. “I was not especially welcome,” she said in answer to his unspoken question. “In fact Mrs. Clitheridge, who called at the same time, has taken a strong dislike to me. But as a result of certain conversation that took place, several other thoughts come to my mind.”

“Indeed? And what are they? I see Mrs. Turner gave you some tea. Is there any left? I am as dry as one of poor Amos’s wooden gods.” He reached for the pot and lifted it experimentally. It was obvious from the weight that there was considerable liquid left in it. “Ah—good.” He poured out her used cup in the slop bowl, rinsed it from the hot water jug, and proceeded to pour himself some tea. “What did Celeste and Angeline say that sparked these new ideas? I must admit, the thought intrigues me.”

“Well, there is always money,” she began slowly. “The Worlinghams have a great deal of money, which Clemency must have inherited, along with Prudence, when Theophilus died.

He met her eyes with total candor, even a black laughter without a shred of rancor at her for the suggestion.

“And you think I might have murdered poor Clem to get my hands on it?” he asked. “I assure you, there isn’t a penny
left—she gave it all away.” He moved restlessly around the room, poking at a cushion, setting a book straight on a shelf so it did not stand out from the rest. “When her will is probated you will see that for the last few months she had been obliged to me even for a dress allowance. I promise you, Mrs. Pitt, I shall inherit nothing from the Worlingham estate except a couple of dressmakers’ bills and a milliner’s account. Which I shall be happy to settle.”

“Given it all away?” Charlotte affected surprise. Pitt had already told her that Clemency had given her money away.

“All of it,” he repeated. “Mostly to societies for slum clearance, help to the extremely poor, housing improvement, sanitation, and of course the battle to get the law changed to make ownership easily traceable. She went through thirty thousand pounds in less than a year. She just gave it away until there was no more.” His face was illuminated with a kind of pride and a fierce gentleness.

Charlotte asked the next question without even stopping to weigh it. She had to know, and it seemed so easy and natural to ask.

“Did she tell you why? I mean, did she tell you where the Worlingham money came from?”

His mouth curled downward and his eyes were full of bitter laughter.

“Where the old bastard got it from? Oh, yes—when she discovered it she was devastated.” He walked over and stood with his back to the mantel. “I remember the night she came home after she found out. She was so pale I thought she would pass out, but she was white with fury, and shame.” He looked at Charlotte, his eyes very steady on hers. “All evening she paced the floor back and forth, talking about it, and nothing I could say could take away the guilt from her. She was distraught. She must have been up half the night—” He bit his lip and looked downwards. “And I’m ashamed to say I was so tired from being up the night before that I slept. But I knew in the morning she had been weeping. All I could do was tell her that whatever her decision, I would
support her. She took two more days to decide that she would not face Celeste and Angeline with it.”

He jerked up again, his foot kicking against the brass fender around the hearth. “What good would it do? They had no responsibility for it. They gave their whole lives to looking after and pandering to that old swine. They couldn’t bear it now to think it had all been a farce, all the goodness they thought was there a whited sepulcher if ever there was one!”

“But she told Prudence,” Charlotte said quietly, remembering the haunting fear and the guilt in Prudence’s eyes.

He frowned at her, his expression clouded where she had expected to see something a little like relief.

“No.” He was quite definite. “No, she certainly didn’t tell Prudence. What could she do, except be plagued with shame too?”

“But she is,” Charlotte said, still gently. She was filled with sorrow, catching some glimpse of how it would torment Prudence, when her husband admired the bishop almost to hero worship. What a terrible burden to live with, and never to let slip, even by hint or implication. Prudence must be a very strong woman with deep loyalty to keep such a secret. “She must find it almost unendurable,” she added.

“She doesn’t know!” he insisted. “Clem never told her—just because it would be, as you say, unendurable. Old Josiah thinks the bishop was the next thing to a saint—God help him. The bloody window was all his idea—”

“Yes, she does,” Charlotte argued, leaning a little forward. “I saw it in her eyes looking at Angeline and Celeste. She’s terrified of it coming out, and she’s desperately ashamed of it.”

They sat across the table staring at each other, equally determined they were in the right, until slowly Shaw’s face cleared and understanding was so plain in him she spoke automatically.

“What? What have you realized?”

“Prudence doesn’t know anything about the Worlingham
money. That’s not what she is afraid of—the stupid woman—”

“Then what?” She resented his calling her stupid, but this was not the time to take it up. “What is she afraid of?”

“Josiah—and her family’s contempt and indignation—”

“For what?” she interrupted him again. “What is it?”

“Prudence has six children.” He smiled ruefully, full of pity. “Her confinements were very hard. The first time she was in pain for twenty-three hours before the child was delivered. The second time looked like being similar, so I offered her anesthetic—and she took it.”

“Anesthetic—” Suddenly she too began to see what terrified Prudence. She remembered Josiah Hatch’s remarks about women and the travail of childbirth, and it being God’s will. He would, like many men, consider it an evasion of Christian responsibility to dull the pain with medical anesthesia. Most doctors would not even offer it. And Shaw had allowed Prudence her choice, without asking or telling her husband—and she was living in mortal fear now that he might break his silence and betray her to her husband.

“I see,” she said with a sigh. “How tragic—and absurd.” She could recall her own pain of childbirth only dimly. Nature is merciful in expunging the recollection in all save a small corner of the mind, and hers had not been harsh, compared with many. “Poor Prudence. You would never tell him—would you?” She knew as she said it that the question was unnecessary. In fact, she was grateful he was not angry even that she asked.

He smiled and did not answer.

She changed the subject.

“Do you think it would be acceptable for me to come to Amos Lindsay’s funeral? I liked him, even though I knew him for so short a while.”

His face softened again, and for a moment the full magnitude of his hurt was naked.

“I should like it very much if you did. I shall speak the eulogy. The whole affair will be awful—Clitheridge will behave like a fool, he always does when anything real is involved.
Lally will probably have to pick up the pieces. Oliphant will be as good as he is allowed to be, and Josiah will be the same pompous, blind ass he always is. I shall loathe every moment of it. I will almost certainly quarrel with Josiah because I can’t help it. The more sycophantic he is about the damn bishop the angrier I shall be, and the more I shall want to shout from the pulpit what an obscene old sinner he was—and not even decent sins of passion or appetite—just cold, complacent greed and the love of dominion over other people.”

Without thinking she put out her hand and touched his arm.

“But you won’t.”

He smiled reluctantly and stood immobile lest she move.

“I shall try to behave like the model mourner and friend-even if it chokes me. Josiah and I have had enough quarreling—but he does tempt me sorely. He lives in a totally spurious world and I can’t bear his cant! I know better, Charlotte. I hate lies; they rob us of the real good by covering it over with so many coats of sickening excuses and evasions until what was really beautiful, brave, or clean, is distorted and devalued.” His voice shook with the intensity of his feeling. “I hate hypocrites! And the church seems to spawn them like abscesses, eating away at real virtue—like Matthew Oliphant’s.”

She was a little embarrassed; his emotion was so transparent and she could feel the vitality of him under her hand as if he filled the room.

She moved away carefully, not to break the moment.

“Then I shall see you at the funeral tomorrow. We shall both behave properly—however hard it is for us. I shall not quarrel with Mrs. Clitheridge, although I should dearly like to, and you will not tell Josiah what you think of the bishop. We shall simply mourn a good friend who died before his time.” And without looking at him again she walked very straight-backed and very gracefully to the parlor door, and out into the hallway.

11

I
T HAD TAKEN
Murdo two days of anxiety and doubt, lurching hope and black despair before he found an excuse to call on Flora Lutterworth. And it took him at least half an hour to wash, shave and dress himself in immaculately clean clothes, pressed to perfection, his buttons polished—he hated his buttons because they made his rank so obvious, but since they were inescapable, they had better be clean and bright.

He had thought of going quite frankly to express his admiration for her, then blushed scarlet as he imagined how she would laugh at him for his presumption. And then she would be thoroughly annoyed that a policeman, of all the miserable trades—and not even a senior one—should dare to think of such a thing, let alone express it. He had lain awake burning with shame over that.

No, the only way was to find some professional excuse, and then in the course of speaking to her, slip in that she had his deepest admiration, and then retreat with as much grace as possible.