Highgate Rise (44 page)

So at twenty-five minutes past nine he knocked on the door of the Lutterworth house. When the maid answered, he asked
if he might see Miss Flora Lutterworth, to seek her aid in an official matter.

He tripped over the step on the way in, and was sure the maid was giggling at his clumsiness. He was angry and blushing at the same time and already wished he had not come. It was doomed to failure. He was making a fool of himself and she would only despise him.

“If you’ll wait in the morning room, I’ll see if Miss Lutterworth’ll see you,” the maid said, smoothing her white starched apron over her hips. She thought he was very agreeable, nice eyes and very clean-looking, not like some she could name, but she wasn’t for having him get above himself. But when he had finished with Miss Flora, she would make sure it was she who showed him out. She wouldn’t mind if he asked her to take a walk in the park on her half day off.

“Thank you.” He stood in the middle of the carpet, twisting his helmet in his hands, and waited while she went. For a wild moment he thought of simply leaving, but his feet stayed leadenly on the floor and while his mind took flight and was halfway back to the station, his body remained, one moment hot, the next cold, in the Lutterworths’ elegant morning room.

Flora came in looking flushed and devastatingly pretty, her eyes shining. She was dressed in a deep rose-pink which was quite the most distinguished and becoming gown he had ever seen. His heart beat so hard he felt sure the shaking of his body must be visible to her, and his mouth was completely dry.

“Good morning, Constable Murdo,” she said sweetly.

“G—good morning, ma’am.” His voice croaked and squeaked alternatively. She must think him a complete fool. He drew in a deep breath, and then let it out without speaking.

“What can I do for you, Constable?” She sat down in the largest chair and her skirts billowed around her. She gazed at him most disconcertingly.

“Ah—” He found it easier to look away. “Er, ma’am—” He fixed his eyes on the carpet and the prepared words
carne out in a rush. “Is it possible, ma’am, that some young gentleman, who admired you very much, might have misunderstood your visits to Dr. Shaw, and become very jealous—ma’am?” He dared not look up at her. She must see through this ruse, which had sounded so plausible alone in his room. Now it was horribly transparent.

“I don’t think so, Constable Murdo,” she said after considering it for a moment. “I really don’t know of any young gentlemen who have such powerful feelings about me that they would entertain such … jealousy. It doesn’t seem likely.”

Without thinking he looked up at her and spoke. “Oh yes, ma’am—if a gentleman had kept your company, socially of course, and met you a number of times, he might well be moved to—to such passions—that—” He felt himself blushing furiously, but unable to move his eyes from hers.

“Do you think so?” she said innocently. She lowered her eyes demurely. “That would suppose him to be in love with me, Constable—to quite an intense degree. Surely you don’t believe that is so?”

He plunged in—he would never in his wildest dreams have a better opportunity. “I don’t know whether it is, ma’am—but it would be very easy to believe. If it is not so now, it will be—There are bound to be many gentlemen who would give everything they possessed to have the chance to earn your affections. I mean—er—” She was looking at him with a most curious smile, half interested and half amused. He knew he had betrayed himself and felt as if there were nothing in the world he wanted so much as to run away, and yet his feet were rooted to the floor.

Her smiled widened. “How very charming of you, Constable,” she said softly. “You say it as if you really believed I were quite beautiful and exciting. It is certainly the nicest thing anyone has told me for as long as I can remember.”

He had no idea what to say, no idea at all. He simply smiled back at her and felt happy and ridiculous.

“I cannot think of anyone who might entertain such emotions that they could have harmed Dr. Shaw on my account,”
she went on, sitting up very straight. “I am sure I have not encouraged anyone. But of course the matter is very serious, I know. I promise you I shall think about it hard, and then I shall tell you.”

“May I call in a few days’ time to learn what you have to say?” he asked.

The corners of her mouth curled up in a tiny smile.

“I think, if you don’t mind, Constable, I would rather discuss it somewhere where Papa will not overhear us. He does tend to misunderstand me at times—only in my best interest, of course. Perhaps you would be good enough to take a short walk with me along Bromwich Walk? The weather is still most pleasant and it would not be disagreeable. If you would meet me at the parsonage end, the day after tomorrow, we might walk up to Highgate, and perhaps find a lemonade stall to refresh ourselves?”

“I—” His voice would hardly obey him, his heart was so high in his throat and there was a curious, singing happiness all through his veins. “I’m sure that would be most—” He wanted to say “marvelous” but it was much too forward. “Most satisfactory, ma’am.” He should get that silly smile off his face, but it would not go.

“I’m so glad,” she said, rising to her feet and passing so close to him he could smell the scent of flowers and hear the soft rustle of the fabric of her skirts. “Good day, Constable Murdo.”

He gulped and swallowed hard. “G-good day, Miss Lutterworth.”

“An artist’s model?” Micah Drummond’s eyes widened and there was laughter in them, and a wry appreciation. “Maude Dalgetty was that Maude!”

Now it was Pitt’s turn to be startled. “You know of her?”

“Certainly.” Drummond was standing by the window in his office, the autumn sunlight strearning in, making bright patterns on the carpet. “She was one of the great beauties—of a certain sort, of course.” His smile widened. “Perhaps not quite your generation, Pitt. But believe me, any young
gentleman who attended the music halls and bought the odd artistic postcard knew the face—and other attributes—of Maude Racine. She was more than just handsome; there was a kind of generosity in her, a warmth. I’m delighted to hear she married someone who loves her and found a respectable domestic life. I imagine it was what she always wanted, after the fun was over and it came time to leave the boards.”

Pitt found himself smiling too. He had liked Maude Dalgetty, and she had been a friend of Clemency Shaw.

“And you have ruled her out?” Drummond pursued. “Not that I can imagine Maude caring passionately enough about her reputation to kill anyone to preserve it. There was never anything of the hypocrite in her in the old days. Are you equally sure about the husband—John Dalgetty? No evasions, Pitt!”

Pitt leaned against the mantel shelf and faced Drummond squarely.

“Absolutely,” he said without a flicker. “Dalgetty believes passionately in total freedom of speech. That is what the idiotic affair in the field was about. No censorship, everything open and public, say and write what you please, all the new and daring ideas you can think of. The people who matter most to him wouldn’t cut him because his wife was on the stage and posed for pictures without certain of her clothes.”

“But she would care,” Drummond argued. “Didn’t you say she works in the parish, attends church and is part of an extremely respectable community?”

“Yes I did.” Pitt put his hands in his pockets. One of Emily’s silk handkerchiefs was in his breast pocket and he had folded it to show slightly. Drummond’s eyes had caught it, and it gave him a slow satisfaction which more than made up for the cold, early ride on the public omnibus, so he could add a few more pence to the economy for Charlotte’s holiday.

“But the only person who knew,” he went on, “so far as I am aware, was Shaw—and, I presume, Clemency. And Clemency was her friend—and Shaw wouldn’t tell anyone.” Then a flash of memory returned. “Except in a fit of anger
because Josiah Hatch thinks Maude is the finest woman he’s ever met.” His eyes widened. “And he’s such a rigid creature—with all the old bishop’s ideas about the purity and virtue of women, and of course their duties as the guardians of the sanctity of the home as an island from the vile realities of the outer world. I can well imagine Shaw giving the lie to that, as a piece of cant he couldn’t abide. But I still think he wouldn’t actually betray her—simply tell.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Drummond pursed his lips. “No reason to suspect Pascoe—no motive we know of. You’ve ruled out Prudence Hatch, because Shaw would never betray her medical secrets.” Drummond’s eyes were bright. “Please convey my compliments to Charlotte.” He slid down a little in his chair and rested his feet on the desk. “The vicar is an ass, you say, but you know of no quarrel with Shaw, except that his wife is titillated by the man’s virility—hardly enough to drive a clergyman to multiple arson and murder. You don’t think Mrs. Clitheridge could be so besotted with Shaw, and have been rejected, to the point where she tried to murder him in fury?” He was watching Pitt’s expression as he spoke. “All right—no. Nor, I assume, would she have killed Mrs. Shaw in jealousy. No—I thought not. What about Lutterworth, over his daughter?”

“Possible,” Pitt conceded doubtfully. Lutterworth’s broad, powerful face came back to his mind, and the expression of rage in it when he mentioned Shaw’s name, and Flora’s. There was no question he loved his daughter profoundly, and had the depth of emotion and the determination of character to carry through such an act, if he thought there were justification. “Yes, he is possible. Or he was—I think he knows now that Flora’s connection with the doctor was purely a medical one.”

“Then why the sneaking in and out instead of going to the usual surgery?” Drummond persisted.

“Because of the nature of her complaint. It is personal, and she is highly sensitive about it, didn’t want anyone else to know. Not difficult to understand.”

Drummond, who had a wife and daughters himself, did not need to make further comment.

“Who does that leave?”

“Hatch—but he and Shaw have quarreled over one thing or another for years, and you don’t kill someone suddenly over a basic difference in temperament and philosophy. Or the elderly Worlingham sisters—if they really believed that he was responsible for Theophilus’s death—”

“And do they?” Drummond only half believed it, and it was obvious in his face. “Would they really feel so strongly about it? Seems more likely to me they might have killed him to keep him quiet over the real source of the Worlingham money. That I could believe.”

“Shaw says Clemency didn’t tell them,” Pitt replied, although it seemed far more likely to him also. “But perhaps he didn’t know she had. She might have done it the night before she died. I need to find what precipitated the first murder. Something happened that day—or the day immediately before—that frightened or angered someone beyond enduring. Something changed the situation so drastically that what had been at the worst difficult, but maybe not even that, suddenly became so threatening or so intolerably unjust to them, they exploded into murder—”

“What did happen that day?” Drummond was watching him closely.

“I don’t know,” Pitt confessed. “I’ve been concentrating on Shaw, and he won’t tell me anything. Of course, it is still possible he killed Clemency himself, set the fire before he left, and killed Amos Lindsay because somehow he had betrayed himself by a word, or an omission, and Lindsay knew what he’d done. They were friends—but I don’t believe Lindsay would have kept silent once he was sure Shaw was guilty.” It was a peculiarly repugnant thought, but honesty compelled that he allow it.

Drummond saw the reluctance in him.

“Not the first time you’ve liked a murderer, Pitt—nor I, for that matter. Life would be a great deal easier at times, if we could like all the heroes and dislike all the villains. Or
personally I’d settle for simply not pitying the villains as much as I do the victims half the time.”

“I can’t always tell the difference.” Pitt smiled sadly. “I’ve known murderers I’ve felt were victims as much as anyone in the whole affair. And if it turns out to be Angeline and Celeste, I may well this time too. The old bishop filled their lives, dominated them from childhood, laid out for them exactly the kind of women he expected them to be, and made it virtually impossible for them to be anything else. I gather he drove away all suitors and kept Celeste to be his intellectual companion, and Angeline to be his housekeeper and hostess when necessary. By the time he died they were far too old to marry, and totally dependent on his views, his social status and his money. If Clemency, in her outrage, threatened to destroy everything on which their fives were built, and faced them not only with old age in total public disgrace but a negation of everything they believed in and which justified the past, it is not hard to understand why they might have conspired to kill her. To them she was not only a mortal threat but a traitor to her family. They might consider her ultimate disloyalty to be a sin that warranted death.”

“They might well,” Drummond agreed. “Other than that you are left with some as yet unnamed slum profiteer who was threatened by Clemency’s uncovering work. I suppose you have looked into who else’s tenements she was interested in? What about Lutterworth? You said he’s socially ambitious—especially for Flora—and wants to leave his trade roots behind and marry her into society? Slum profiteering wouldn’t help that.” He pulled a sour face. “Although I’m not sure it would entirely hurt it either. A good few of the aristocracy made their money in highly questionable ways.”

“Undoubtedly,” Pitt agreed. “But they do it discreetly. Vice they will overlook, vulgarity they may accept—with reluctance, if there is enough money attached—but indiscretion never.”

“You’re getting very cynical, Pitt.” Drummond was smiling as he said it.

Pitt shrugged. “All I can find out about Lutterworth is
that his money was in the north, and he sold nearly all his interests. There never was any in London that I can trace.”

“What about the political aspect?” Drummond would not give up yet. “Could Clemency have been murdered because of some other connection with Dalgetty and his Fabian tracts—and Lindsay the same?”