by Anne Perry
He winced as if she had struck him, and the pain in his eyes was dark, the tightening of his lips undisguised. The knife and fork slid from his hands.
“Do you imagine I haven’t thought? I’ve been through every case I have treated in the last five years. There isn’t a single one that it would be even sane to suspect of murder, let alone anything one would pursue.”
There was no point in turning back now, even though no doubt Thomas had already asked exactly the same questions.
“Every death?” she said quietly. “Are you sure absolutely every death was natural? Couldn’t one of them, somewhere, be murder?”
A half-unbelieving smile curled the corners of his lips.
“And you think whoever did it may fear I knew—or may come to realize that—and is trying to kill me to keep me silent?” He was not accepting the idea, simply turning over the possibility of it and finding it hard to fit into the medicine he knew, the ordinary domestic release or tragedy of death.
“Couldn’t it be so?” she asked, trying to keep the urgency out of her voice. “Aren’t there any deaths which could have been profitable to someone?”
He said nothing, and she knew he was remembering, and each one had its own pain. Each patient who had died had been some kind of failure for him, small or great, inevitable or shocking.
A new thought occurred to her. “Perhaps it was an accident and they covered it up, and they are afraid you realized the truth, and then they became afraid you would suspect them of having done it intentionally.”
“You have a melodramatic idea of death, Mrs. Pitt,” he said softly. “Usually it is simple: a fever that does not break but exhausts the body and burns it out; or a hacking cough that ends in hemorrhage and greater and greater weakness until there is no strength left. Sometimes it is a child, or a young person, perhaps a woman worn down by work and too many childbirths, or a man who has labored in the cold and the wet till his lungs are wasted. Sometimes it’s a fat man with apoplexy, or a baby that was never strong enough to live. Surprisingly often in the very end it is peaceful.”
She looked at his face, the memories so plain in his eyes, the grief not for the dead but for the confusion, anger and pain of those left behind; his inability to help them, even to touch the loneliness of that sudden, awful void when the soul of someone you love leaves the shell and gradually even the echo of life goes and it becomes only clay in the form of a person but without the substance—like a cold hearth when the fire is gone.
“But not always,” she said with regret, hating to have to pursue it. “Some people fight all the way, and some relatives don’t accept. Might there not be someone who felt you did not do all you could? Perhaps not from malice, simply neglect, or ignorance?” She said it with a small, sad smile, and so gently he could not think that she believed it herself.
A pucker formed between his brows and he met her eyes with a mild amusement.
“No one has ever showed anything beyond a natural distress. People are often angry, if death is unexpected; angry because fate has robbed them and they have to have something to blame, but it passes; and to be honest no one has suggested I could have done more.”
“No one?” She looked at him very carefully, but there was no evasion in his eyes, no faint color of deceit in his cheeks. “Not even the Misses Worlingham—over Theophilus’s death?”
“Oh—” He let out his breath in a sigh. “But that is just their way. They are among those who find it hard to accept that someone as … as full of opinion and as sound as Theophilus could die. He was always so much in evidence. If there was any subject under discussion, Theophilus would express his views, with lots of words and with great certainty that he was right.”
“And of course Angeline and Celeste agreed with him—” she prompted.
He laughed sharply. “Of course. Unless he was out of sympathy with his father. The late bishop’s opinions took precedence over everyone else’s.”
“And did they disagree overmuch?”
“Very little. Only things of no importance, like tastes and pastimes—whether to collect books or paintings; whether to wear brown or gray; whether to serve claret or burgundy, mutton or pork, fish or game; whether chinoiserie was good taste—or bad. Nothing that mattered. They were in perfect accord on moral duties, the place and virtue of women, and the manner in which society should be governed, and by whom.”
“I don’t think I should have cared for Theophilus much,” she said without thinking first and recalling that he had been Shaw’s father-in-law. The description of him sounded so much like Uncle Eustace March, and her memories of him were touched with conflicting emotions, all of them shades of dislike.
He smiled at her broadly, for a moment all thought of death banished, and nothing there but his intense pleasure in her company.
“You would have loathed him,” he assured her. “I did.”
An element in her wanted to laugh, to see only the easy and absurd in it; but she could not forget the virulence in Celeste’s face as she had spoken of her brother’s death, and the way Angeline had echoed it with equal sincerity.
“What did he die of, and why was it so sudden?”
“A seizure of the brain,” he replied, this time looking up and meeting her eyes with complete candor. “He suffered occasional severe headaches, great heat of the blood, dizziness and once or twice apoplectic fits. And of course now and again gout. A week before he died he had a spasm of temporary blindness. It only lasted a day, but it frightened him profoundly. I think he looked on it as a presage of death-”
“He was right.” She bit her lip, trying to find the words to ask without implying blame. It was difficult. “Did you know that at the time?”
“I thought it was possible. I didn’t expect it so soon. Why?”
“Could you have prevented it—if you had been sure?”
“No. No doctor knows how to prevent a seizure of the brain. Of course not all seizures are fatal. Very often a patient loses the use of one side of his body—or perhaps his speech, or his sight—but will live on for years. Some people have several seizures before the one that kills them. Some lie paralyzed and unable to speak for years—but as far as one can tell, perfectly conscious and aware of what is going on around them.”
“How terrible—like death, but without its peace.” She shivered. “Could that have happened to Theophilus?”
“It could. But he went with the first seizure. Perhaps that was not so unlucky.”
“Did you tell Angeline and Celeste that?”
His brows rose in slight surprise, perhaps at his own omission.
“No—no, I didn’t.” He pulled a face. “I suppose it is a trifle late now. They would think I was making excuses.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “They blame you—but how bitterly I don’t know.”
“For heaven’s sake!” He exploded, amazement filling his eyes. “You don’t imagine Angeline and Celeste crept around in the dark and set fire to my house hoping to burn me to death because they think I could have saved Theophilus? That’s preposterous!”
“Someone did.”
The hilarity vanished and left only the hurt.
“I know—but not over Theophilus.”
“Are you absolutely positive? Is it not possible that his death was murder—and someone is afraid you may realize it, and then know who killed him? After all, the circumstances were extraordinary.”
He looked at her with disbelief which was almost comic, his eyes wide, his mouth open. Then gradually the thought became less absurd and he realized the darkness of it. He picked up his knife and fork again and began to eat automatically, thinking.
“No,” he said at last. “If it was murder, which I don’t believe, then it was perfect. I never suspected a thing—and I still don’t. And who would want to kill him anyway? He was insufferable, but then so are a lot of people. And neither Prudence nor Clemency wanted his money.”
“Are you sure?” she said gently.
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p; His hand came up; he stopped eating and smiled at her with sudden charm, a light of sheer pleasure in his eyes.
“Certainly. Clemency was giving her money away as fast as she could—and Prudence has quite sufficient from her books.”
“Books?” Charlotte was totally confused. “What books?”
“Well, Lady Pamela’s Secret for one,” he said, now grinning broadly. “She writes romances—oh, under another name, of course. But she is really very successful. Josiah would have apoplexy if he knew. So would Celeste—for utterly different reasons.”
“Are you sure?” Charlotte was delighted, and incredulous.
“Of course I’m sure. Clemency managed the business for her—to keep it out of Josiah’s knowledge. I suppose I shall have to now.”
“Good gracious.” She wanted to giggle, it was all so richly absurd, but there was too much else pressing in on both of them.
“All right.” She sobered herself with an effort. “If it was not over Theophilus, either personally or his money, over what then?”
“I don’t know. I’ve racked my brain, gone over and over everything I can think of, real or imaginary, that could cause anyone to hate or fear me enough to take the awful step of murder. Even the risk—” He stopped and a shred of the old irony came back. “Not that it has proved to be much of a risk. The police don’t seem to have any more idea who it was now than they did the first night.”
She defended Pitt in a moment of instinct, and then regretted it.
“You mean they have not told you of anything? That does not mean they don’t know—”
His head jerked up, his eyes wide.
“Nor have they told me,” she said quickly.
But he had understood the difference.
“Of course. I was too hasty. They seem so candid, but then they would hardly tell me. I must be one of their chief suspects—which is absurd to me, but I suppose quite reasonable to them.”
There was nothing else for her to say to him, no other questions she could think of to ask. And yet she could not answer Aunt Vespasia’s question yet. Was he a fool, in her sense—blind to some emotional value that any woman would have seen?
“Thank you for sparing me so much time, Dr. Shaw.” She rose from the table. “I realize my questions are impertinent.” She smiled in apology and saw the quick response in his face. “I asked them only because having followed Clemency’s path I have such a respect for her that I care very much that whoever killed her should be found—and I intend to see that her work is continued. My brother-in-law is actually considering standing for Parliament—he and my sister were so moved by what they learned, I think they will not rest until they are engaged in doing what they can to have such a law passed as she suggested.”
He stood also, as a matter of courtesy, and came around to pull her chair back so she might move the more easily.
“You are wasting your time, Mrs. Pitt,” he said very quietly. It was not in the tone of a criticism, but rather of regret, as if he had said exactly the same words before, for the same reasons—and not been believed then either. It was as if Clemency were in the room with them, a benign ghost whom they both liked. There was no sense of intrusion, simply a treasured presence who did not resent their moments of friendship, not even the warmth in the touch of his hand on Charlotte’s arm, his closeness to her as he bade her good-bye, nor the quick, soft brightness of his eyes as he watched her departing figure down the front steps and up into the carriage, helped by Vespasia’s footman. He remained in the hallway, straight-backed, long after the carriage had turned the corner before eventually he closed the door and returned to the dining room.
Charlotte had instructed the coachman to drive to the Worlingham house. It did sound unlikely that either Celeste or Angeline would have attempted to kill Shaw, however derelict they believed him to have been in the matter of Theophilus’s death. And yet Clemency, and thus Shaw, had inherited a great deal of money because of it. It was a motive which could not be disregarded. And the more she thought of it, the more did it seem the only sensible alternative if it were not some powerful owner of tenements who feared the exposure she might bring. Was that realistic? Who else’s name had she uncovered, apart from her own grandfather’s?
In the search surely she must have found others, if not before Worlingham’s, then afterwards? That had been the beginning of her total commitment to change the law, which would mean highly unwelcome attention to quite a number of people. Somerset Carlisle had mentioned aristocratic families, bankers, judges, diplomats, men in public life who could ill afford such a source of income to be common knowledge. And the lawyer with the smug face had been so sure his clients would exercise violence of their own sort to keep themselves anonymous he had been prepared to use threats.
But who had gone so far out of the ordinary social or financial avenues of power as to commit murder? Was there any way whatsoever they could learn? Visions floated into her mind of searching the figures of the criminal world for the arsonist, and trying to force him to confess his employer. It would be hopeless, but for a wild element of luck.
How would they ever know? Had Clemency been rash enough to confront him? Surely not. What would be the purpose?
And she had not exposed the Worlinghams, that much was certain. They could hardly be building the magnificent memorial window to him, and having the Archbishop of York dedicate it, were there the slightest breath of scandal around his name.
Had Theophilus known? Certainly Clemency had not told him because he had died long before she came anywhere near her conclusion, in fact before she became closely involved in the matter at all. Had he ever questioned where the family money came from, or had he simply been happy to accept its lavish bounty, smile, and leave everything well covered?
And Angeline and Celeste?
The carriage was already drawing up at the magnificent entrance. In a moment the footman would be opening the door and she would climb out and ascend the steps. She would have to have some excuse for calling. It was early; it would be unlikely for anyone else to be there. She was hardly a friend, merely the granddaughter of a past acquaintance, and an unfortunate reminder of murder and the police, and other such terrible secret evils.
The front door swung wide and the parlormaid looked at her with polite and chilly inquiry.
Charlotte did not even have a card to present!
She smiled charmingly.
“Good afternoon. I am continuing some of the work of the late Mrs. Shaw, and I should so much like to tell the Misses Worlingham how much I admired her. Are they receiving this afternoon?”
The parlormaid was too well trained to turn away someone who might present an oasis of interest in two extremely monotonous lives. The Misses Worlingham hardly ever went out, except to church. What they saw of the world was what came to their door.
Since there was no card, the parlormaid put down the silver card tray on the hall table and stepped back to allow Charlotte inside.
“If you would care to wait, ma’am, I shall inquire. Who shall I say is calling?”
“Mrs. Pitt. The Misses Worlingham are acquainted with my grandmother, Mrs. Ellison. We are all admirers of the family.” That was stretching the truth a great deal—the only one Charlotte admired in the slightest was Clemency—but that was indeed enough if spread fine to cover them all.
She was shown into the hall, with its marvelous tessellated floor and its dominating picture of the bishop, his pink face supremely confident, beaming with almost luminous satisfaction down at all who crossed his threshold. The other portraits receded into obscurity, acolytes, a congregation, not principals. Pity there was no portrait of Theophilus; she would like to have seen his face, made some judgment of him, the mouth, the eyes, seen some link between the bishop and his daughters. She imagined him as utterly unlike Shaw as possible, two men unintelligible to each other by the very cast of their natures.
The parlormaid returned and told Charlotte that she would be received—a shade
coolly, from her demeanor.
Angeline and Celeste were in the withdrawing room in very much the same postures as they had been when she had called with Caroline and Grandmama. They were wearing afternoon gowns in black similar to the ones they had worn then, good quality, a little strained at the seams, decorated with beads and, in Angeline’s case, black feathers also, very discreetly. Celeste wore jet earrings and a necklace, very long, dangling over her rather handsome bosom and winking in the light, its facets turning as she breathed.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt,” she said with a formal nod of her head. “It is kind of you to come to tell us how much you admired poor Clemency. But I thought you expressed yourself very fully on the subject when you were here before. And I may remind you, you were under some misapprehension as to her work for the less fortunate.”
“I am sure it was a mistake, dear,” Angeline put in hastily. “Mrs Pitt will not have meant to distress us or cause anxiety.” She smiled at Charlotte. “Will you?”
“There is nothing I have learned of Mrs. Shaw which could make you anything but profoundly proud of her,” Charlotte replied, looking very levelly at Angeline and watching her face for the slightest flicker of knowledge.
“Learned?” Angeline was confused, but that was the only emotion Charlotte could identify in her bland features.
“Oh yes,” she answered, accepting the seat which was only half offered, and sitting herself down comfortably well in the back of the lush, tasseled and brocaded cushions. She had no intention of leaving until she had said all she could think of and watched their reactions minutely. This house had been bought and furnished with agony. The old bishop had known it; had Theophilus? And far more recently and more to the point, had these two innocent-looking sisters? Was it conceivable Clemency had come home in her desperate distress when she first learned beyond doubt where her inheritance had been made, and faced them with it? And if she had, what would they have done?
Perhaps fire, secretly and in the night, burning to its terrible conclusion, when they were safely back in their own beds, was just the weapon they might choose. It was horrible to think of, close, like suffocation, and terrifying as the change from mildness to hatred in a face you have known all your life.