Southampton Row (22 page)

Wray frowned, his expression darkening. “You mean one of those people who claim to be in touch with the spirits of the dead, and take money from the vulnerable in order to produce voices and signs?”

He could hardly have more clearly worded his contempt for them. Did it spring from his religious views or his own betrayal? There was real anger in his eyes; the gentle, courteous man of a few moments ago was temporarily gone. Perhaps noticing Pitt’s attention, he went on. “It is a very dangerous thing to do, Mr. Pitt. I would wish no one harm, but it is better that such activities cease, although I would not have had it by violent means.”

Pitt was puzzled. “Dangerous, Mr. Wray? Perhaps I misled you. She was killed by entirely human means, there was nothing occult about it. It was your possible knowledge of the other people who were present that I wanted, not of the divine.”

Wray sighed. “You are a man of your time, Mr. Pitt. Science is the idol we worship now, and Mr. Darwin, not God, the begetter of our race. But the power of good and evil is still there, whatever the mask of the day we set over them. You assume that this medium had no powers to touch beyond the grave, and you are probably right, but that does not mean to say that they do not exist.”

Pitt felt a chill in the warmth of the room and knew it was inside himself. He had been too quick to like Wray. He was old, charming, gentle and generous in manner, and he was lonely and he had invited Pitt in to luncheon. He loved his garden and his cats. He also believed in the possibilities of calling up the spirits of the dead, and was deeply and profoundly angry with those who attempted to do so. Pitt must at the very least find out why.

“It was the sin of Saul,” Wray continued earnestly, as if Pitt had spoken his thoughts aloud.

Pitt was completely blank. Nothing returned from schoolroom memories.

“King Saul of the Bible,” Wray said with sudden gentleness, almost apology. “He sought the ghost of the Prophet Samuel through the witch of Endor.”

“Oh.” It was the intensity in Wray’s face, the fixity of his eyes, that held Pitt. There was an almost uncontrollable emotion in the man. Pitt was compelled to ask him the next question. “And did he find him?”

“Oh yes, of course,” Wray replied. “But it was the beginning of that seed of defiance in his nature, the pride against God which in the end was rage and envy, and sin unto death.” His face was intensely earnest, a tiny muscle in his temple flickering uncontrollably. “Never underestimate the danger of seeking to know what should not be known, Mr. Pitt. It carries with it a monstrous evil. Shun it as you would a plague pit!”

“I have no desire whatever to enquire into such things,” Pitt said honestly, and then realized with a rush of gratitude and guilt how easy it was to say that when he had no insupportable grief, no loneliness that wrapped around him as this man had, no real temptation. He could not bear even to think of it, to believe that the threat in Voisey’s eyes was anything but emotion, the rage at his defeat in Whitechapel, blind, incapable of action.

“I hope that if I lost someone profoundly dear to me I would seek my comfort in the faith of a resurrection according to the promises of God,” he said to Wray, embarrassed to find his voice trembling. A sudden shivering cold seized hold of him as thoughts of Charlotte and his children forced themselves into his mind, without him, and in a place he had never even seen. Were they safe? He had not heard from them yet! Was he protecting them the best way, and was it good enough? What if it wasn’t? What if Voisey did take that way to exact his vengeance? It might be crass, obvious, unrefined and too quick in its execution, dangerous for him—but it would also be the most exquisitely painful for Pitt . . . and final. If they were dead, what would there be left of value in life?

He looked at the elderly, broken man in front of him, so filled with his loss it seemed to bleed out of him into the air of the room, and Pitt could feel the ache of it himself. In such a situation would he be different? Was it not foolish and unbelievably arrogant, the sign of complacent stupidity, to be so sure that he would never turn to mediums, tarot cards, tea leaves, anything at all that would fill the void in which he dwelt alone in a universe crowded with strangers he could touch in no way of the heart?

“At least I hope so,” he said again. “But of course I don’t know.”

Wray’s eyes filled with tears which spilled down his cheeks without his blinking. “Do you have family, Mr. Pitt?”

“Yes. I have a wife and two children.” Was it compounding the pain to tell him that?

“You are fortunate. Say to them all that you mean, while there is time for you. Never let a day go by without thanking God for what He has given you.”

Pitt struggled to bring his mind back to his reason for being here. He should satisfy himself once and for all that Wray could not have been the man represented by the cartouche in Maude Lamont’s diary.

“I will try,” he promised. “Unfortunately, I still need to do what I can to understand the death of Maude Lamont and prevent the wrong person from being blamed for having killed her.”

Wray looked at him with incomprehension. “If it was unlawful, surely that is a matter for the police, distressing as that is. I understand perfectly that you may not wish to have them involved, but I am afraid you have no moral choice.”

Pitt felt a stab of shame at willfully misleading this man. “They are already involved, Mr. Wray. But one of the people present on that last evening is the wife of a man standing for a seat in Parliament, and a third is someone who wishes to keep his identity a secret, and so far has succeeded.”

“And you wish to know who he is?” Wray said in a moment of startling clarity. “Even if I knew, Mr. Pitt, if it were told me as a matter of confidence, I could not pass on that secret to you. The best I could do would be to counsel him with all my strength to be honest with you. But then I would already have counseled him with every argument and plea within my power to have nothing to do with such an evil and dangerous practice as meddling with knowledge of the dead. The only righteous knowledge of such things is gained through prayer.” He shook his head a little. “Why is it you were led to believe that I might be of service to you? I do not understand that.”

Pitt improvised with a flash of invention. “You have a name for knowledge on the subject, and for your powerful feelings against it. I thought you might have some information on the nature of mediums, particularly Miss Lamont, which would help. She has a very wide reputation.”

Wray sighed. “I am afraid my knowledge, such as it is, is general and not particular. And lately my memory is not as keen as it used to be. I forget things, and I regret to say I have a tendency to repeat myself. I tell the jokes that I like rather too many times. People are very kind, and I would almost prefer that they were not. Now I never know if I have already said before what I am saying now, or if I haven’t.”

Pitt smiled. “You have said nothing twice to me!”

“I have not told you any jokes,” Wray said sadly. “Nor have we had luncheon yet, and no doubt I will show you every flower at least twice.”

“A flower is worth looking at at least twice,” Pitt replied.

A few moments later Mary Ann came in to tell them somewhat nervously that the meal was ready, and they removed to the small dining room, where she had obviously gone to some trouble to make it look even more attractive. There was a china jug of flowers in the center of the table and a carefully ironed cloth set with blue-ringed china and old, well-polished silver. She served a thick vegetable soup with crusty bread, butter and a soft, crumbling white country cheese, and a homemade pickle that Pitt guessed to be rhubarb. It all made him realize how much he missed the domestic touches in his own home with Charlotte and Gracie both away.

Pudding was plum pie with clotted cream. He refrained only with the greatest difficulty from actually asking for more.

Wray seemed to be happy to eat in silence. Perhaps simply to have someone opposite him at the table was sufficient.

Afterwards they rose to go and admire the garden. It was only then that Pitt saw on the side table a folder advertising the powers of Maude Lamont, in which she offered to bring back to the bereaved the spirits of loved ones departed and to give them the opportunity to say all those precious and important things that untimely death had taken from them.

Wray was ahead of him, walking out into the sun, dazzling as it was reflected off the blaze of flowers and the clean white of the painted fence. Almost stumbling on the sill of the French doors, Pitt went after him.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

Bishop Underhill did not spend a great deal of time in speaking with individual parishioners. When he did it was largely on formal occasions, weddings, confirmations, now and then baptisms. However, it was part of his calling to be available to counsel the clergy within the boundaries of his see, and when they had spiritual burdens of any sort it was right that it was to him they came for help and comfort.

Isadora was used to seeing anxious men of all ages, from curates overwhelmed by their responsibilities or their ambitions to acquire more, to senior clergy who found administration and the care of those in their charge sometimes more than they felt equipped to handle.

The ones she dreaded most were the bereaved, those who had lost a wife or child and came seeking a greater comfort and strength to their faith than their daily rituals could offer them. They could give so much support to others, and yet their own grief sometimes overwhelmed them.

Today it was the Reverend Patterson, who had lost his daughter in childbirth. He sat in the Bishop’s study, an elderly man with gaunt body, his head bent, his face half covered by his hands.

Isadora brought in the tray of tea and set it on the small table. She did not speak to either of them, but silently filled both cups. She knew Patterson well enough not to need to ask him if he wished for milk or sugar.

“I thought I would understand,” Patterson said desperately. “I’ve been a minister in the church for almost forty years! God knows how many people I’ve comforted in their loss, and now all those words I’ve said so carefully mean nothing to me.” He peered up at the Bishop. “Why? Why don’t I believe them when I say them to myself?”

Isadora waited for the Bishop to reply that it was shock, anger at pain, and he must give himself time to heal. Even expected death is a huge and strange thing and takes courage to face, no less by a man dedicated to God’s service than by any other. Faith is not certainty, and belief does not take away the hurt.

The Bishop seemed to be floundering for words. He drew in his breath, and then let it out again in a sigh. “My dear man, we will all experience great trials of faith during our lives. I am sure you will rise to this with all your usual fortitude. You are a good man, rest in the knowledge of that.”

Patterson stared up at him, the agony in his face as naked as if he were oblivious of Isadora’s presence. “If I am a good man, why has this happened to me?” he begged. “And why do I feel nothing but confusion and pain? Why can I see no hand of God in it, no whisper of the divine anywhere?”

“The divine is an infinite mystery,” the Bishop answered, staring across Patterson’s head at the far wall, his face intensely troubled, his eyes fixed. He looked as if he saw no more comfort than Patterson did himself. “It is beyond us to comprehend. Perhaps we are not meant to.”

Anguish contorted Patterson’s features, and it seemed to Isadora, afraid to move in case she drew attention to herself, that he was on the edge of screaming with the sheer frustration that boiled up inside him, unanswered by anything he could ever reach towards.

“There’s no sense in it all!” he cried out, his voice strangled in his throat. “One day she was alive, so alive, her child within her. She glowed with the joy of her time coming . . . and then nothing but suffering and death. How could it be? How? It’s senseless! It’s cruel and wasteful, and stupid, as if there is no meaning in the universe.” He drew in a great sob. “Why have I spent my life telling people there is a just and loving God, that it all makes a perfect pattern that we will see one day, and then when I need to know that myself . . . there’s nothing but darkness . . . and silence? Why?” His voice grew more demanding, angrier. “Why? Was my whole life a farce? Tell me!”

The Bishop hesitated, shifting his weight to the other foot, his body awkward.

“Tell me!” Patterson shouted.

“My dear man . . .” the Bishop sputtered. “My dear . . . man, these are dark times . . . we all have them, times when it seems the world is monstrous. Fear covers everything like a descending night and no dawn is . . . is imaginable . . .”

Isadora could not bear it. “Mr. Patterson, of course your sense of loss is terrible,” she said urgently. “If you truly love anyone then their death has to hurt, but most especially if they are young.” She moved forward a step, ignoring the Bishop’s startled expression. “But to lose is part of our human experience, as God intended it to be. The fact that it hurts to the very limit of our ability to bear is the whole point. In the end it comes down to one question, do you trust God, or not? If you do, then you endure the pain until you can come through to the other side of it. If you don’t, then you had better begin to think exactly what you do believe, and exercise yourself to your very soul.” She lowered her voice very gently. “I think you will find that your life experience tells you that your faith is there . . . not all the time, but most of it. And most of it is enough.”

Patterson looked up at her in amazement. The anguish eased out of him as he began to consider what she had said.

The Bishop turned towards her, incredulity slackening his face until it held exactly the same expression he had when he was asleep, an uncanny vacancy waiting to be filled by thought.

“Really, Isadora . . .” he started, then stopped again. It was desperately apparent that he was at a loss to know how to deal with her or with Patterson, but above either was some emotion deep within himself which overpowered even his anger or his embarrassment. His usual complacency had vanished, the polished certainty in his own power to answer everything which she was so accustomed to, and its absence was like a raw wound.

She turned to Patterson. “People do not die because they are good or bad,” she said firmly. “And it is certainly not to punish anyone else. That thought is monstrous and would destroy all reality of good or evil. There are scores of reasons, but many of them are simply mischance. The only thing we know to cling to, all the time, is that God is in control of the greater destiny, and we do not need to know what that is. Indeed, we could not understand it if we were told. What we need to do is trust Him.”

Patterson blinked. “You make it sound as if it were simple, Mrs. Underhill.”

“Perhaps.” She smiled with a sudden bleakness at the force of the knowledge inside her of her own prayers unanswered, the loneliness which at times was almost unbearable. “But that is not the same thing as saying it is easy. That is what should be done; I do not say that I can do it, any more than you or anyone else.”

“You are very wise, Mrs. Underhill.” He looked up at her gravely, trying to read in her face what experience it was that had taught her such things.

She turned away. It was too vulnerable to share, and if he understood anything at all, it would betray Reginald completely. No woman who was happy in her marriage had such a desolation inside her. “Do drink your tea while it is still hot,” she advised. “It doesn’t solve problems, but it makes us better able to attempt them.” And without waiting for any response she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Out in the hall, she was overcome with a profound sense of having intruded. Never in all her married life had she usurped her husband’s role in such a way. Hers was to support, sustain, to be loyal and discreet. She had just violated almost every rule there was. She had made him look hopelessly inadequate in front of one of his own juniors.

No! That was unfair. He
had
been inadequate. She had not caused that. He had dithered when he should have been decisive, full of quiet confidence, an anchor when Patterson was tossed by storms, at least temporarily, beyond his control.

Why? What on earth was wrong with Reginald? Why could he not have stated with passion and certainty that God loved every man, woman and child, and when understanding failed then trust must take over? That is what faith means. Most of us can cling to our faith, or at least seem to cling to it, when we have all we want. Nothing is measured until faith is tested.

She walked back to the kitchen to speak to the cook about dinner the following day. Tonight she and the Bishop were going to another one of the interminable political receptions. Still, it was only days till the election now, and then at least this part of it would be over.

What lay ahead? Only variations of the same, stretching on into loneliness infinite.

She was in the sitting room again when she heard Patterson leave and knew that within minutes the Bishop would be through to face her for her intrusion, and she waited, wondering what she would say. Would it be simplest in the long run merely to apologize? Nothing would justify what she had done. She had undermined him by offering the comfort that he should have given.

She was still waiting a quarter of an hour later when at last he came into the room. He looked pale, and she expected the explosion of outrage any moment. But the apology still stuck in her throat.

“You look exhausted,” she observed with less sympathy than she knew she ought to feel, of which she was truly ashamed. She should have cared. In fact, he sank into a chair as if he felt really quite ill. “What have you done to your shoulder?” She tried to make up for her indifference, noticing that he winced and rubbed his arm as he shifted position a trifle.

“A touch of rheumatism,” he replied. “It’s most painful.” He smiled, a forced gesture which disappeared almost instantly. “You must speak to Cook. She has allowed her standards to slip lately. I have never had so much indigestion in my life.”

“Perhaps a little milk and arrowroot?” she suggested.

“I can’t live on milk and arrowroot for the rest of my days!” he snapped. “I need a household that is properly run with a kitchen that serves edible food! If you paid attention to your own duties instead of interfering in mine, then we would not have the problem. You are responsible for my health, and you should concern yourself with it, not attempting to console someone like poor Patterson, who is crumbling before the vicissitudes of life.”

“Death,” she corrected.

“What?” His hand jerked up and he glared at her. He really was very pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his lip.

“It is death that he is finding impossible to accept,” she pointed out. “She was his daughter. It must be the most terrible thing to lose a child, although heaven knows it happens to enough people.” She buried the empty ache inside herself because it could never happen to her. She had dealt with most of that years ago; only now and then did it return, unexpectedly, and surprise her.

“She was not a child,” he replied. “She was twenty-three.”

“For heaven’s sake, Reginald, what on earth has her age got to do with it?” She was finding it more and more difficult to keep her temper. “Anyway, it really makes no difference what was the cause of his distress; it is our task to try to comfort him, or at least offer him the assurance of our support and remind him that in time faith will ease his grief.” She drew in her breath deeply. “Even if the time in question is beyond this life. Surely that is one of the main purposes of the church, to offer the strength for those losses and afflictions that the world cannot ease?”

He rose suddenly to his feet, coughing and putting his hand to his chest. “It is the church’s task, Isadora, to point the moral pathway so that those who are faithful may reach the . . .” He stopped.

“Reginald, are you ill?” she asked, now prepared to believe that he really was.

“No, of course I’m not ill!” he said angrily. “I am simply tired and have indigestion . . . and a spot of rheumatism. I wish you would keep the windows either open or closed, not this ajar manner which causes so many drafts!” His voice was sharp, and she caught something she thought with amazement was an edge of fear. Was it because he had so signally failed to help Patterson? Was he afraid of a weakness in himself, of being seen to fall short?

She tried to think back to any other time when she had heard him comfort the bereaved, or indeed the dying. Surely he had been stronger than this; the words had come to him fluently, quotations from scriptures, past sermons, the words of other great churchmen. His voice was beautiful; it was the one physical characteristic that had never failed to please her, even now.

“Are you sure you are . . .” She was not certain what she meant to say. Was she about to press for an answer she did not want?

“What?” he demanded, turning in the doorway. “Ill? Why do you ask? I’ve already told you, it is indigestion and a touch of stiffness. Why? Do you think it is more, something worse?”

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “You are quite right. I apologize for making a fuss. I shall see that Cook is more careful with spices and pastries. And goose—goose is very rich.”

“We haven’t had goose in years!” he said in disgust, and went out of the door.

“We had it last week,” she said to herself. “At the Randolphs’. It didn’t agree with you then!”

Isadora prepared for the reception with great care.

“Is it something special, ma’am?” her lady’s maid asked with interest and just an edge of curiosity as she wound Isadora’s hair up to show off the white streak from the brow just to the right of her widow’s peak. It was startling and she did not try to disguise it.

“I am not expecting it to be,” Isadora replied with a touch of self-mockery. “But I would dearly like something remarkable to happen. It promises to be unutterably tedious.”

Martha was not quite sure what to say, but she caught the idea very well. Isadora was not the first lady she had worked for who hid a deep restlessness under a mask of good behavior. “Yes, ma’am,” she said obediently, and proceeded to make the hairstyle a little more extreme, and really very flattering.

The Bishop made no comment upon Isadora’s appearance, either the dramatic hair or the ocean-green gown with its daringly swathed bodice crossed very low over the bosom and filled in with exquisite white lace, the same as that shown where the skirt was slashed so the silk fell to a point at the floor in front, and then in wide, sweeping folds all around the back. He looked at her, and then away again as he helped her up into the carriage and bade the coachman be on his way.