by Anne Perry
“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?”
“I haven’t traced any connection.” Pitt screwed up his face. “But certainly Clemency knew Lindsay, and they liked each other. But since they are both dead, it is impossible to know what they spoke about, unless Shaw knows and can be persuaded to tell us. And since both houses are burnt to the ground, there are no papers to find.”
“You might have to go and speak to some of the other members of the society—”
“I will, if it comes to that; but today I’m going to Lindsay’s funeral. And perhaps I can discover what Clemency did on her last day or two alive, who she spoke to and what happened that made someone so angry or so frightened that they killed her.”
“Report to me afterwards, will you? I want to know.”
“Yes sir. Now I must leave, or I shall be late. I hate funerals. I hate them most of all when I look around the faces of the mourners and think that one of them murdered him—or her.”
Charlotte also was preparing to attend the funeral, but she w
as startled to have received a hand-addressed note from Emily to say that not only would she and Jack attend, and for convenience would pick Charlotte up in their carriage at ten o’clock, but that Great-Aunt Vespasia also would come. No explanation was given, nor when they arrived, since it was now five minutes past nine, would there be any opportunity to decline the arrangements or ask for any alternative.
“Thank heaven at least Mama and Grandmama are remaining at home.” Charlotte folded the note and put it in her sewing basket, where Pitt would not find it, simply as a matter of habit. Of course he would ultimately know they had all attended, but there was no way she would be able to pretend to Pitt it was a matter of personal grief, although she had liked Lindsay. They were going because they were curious, and still felt they could discover something of meaning about Lindsay’s death, and Clemency’s. And that Pitt might not approve of.
Perhaps Emily knew something already? She and Jack had said they would probe the political questions, and Jack had made some contact with the Liberal party with a view to standing for Parliament when a vacant seat arose that would accept him as a candidate. And if he were truly serious about continuing Clemency’s work, he might also have met with the Fabians and others with strong socialist beliefs—not, of course, that they had the slightest chance of returning a member to the House. But ideas were necessary, whether to argue for or against.
She was busy dressing her hair and unconsciously trying to make the very best of her appearance. She did not realize till she had been there half an hour and was still not entirely satisfied, just what an effort she was making. She blushed at her own vanity, and foolishness, and dismissed the wrenching thoughts of Stephen Shaw from her mind.
“Gracie!”
Gracie materialized from the landing, a duster in her hand, her face bright.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Would you like to come to Mr. Lindsay’s funeral with me?”
“Oh yes, ma’am! When is it, ma’am?”
“In about quarter of an hour—at least that is when we shall be leaving. Mrs. Radley is taking us in her carriage.”
Gracie’s face fell and she had to swallow hard on the sudden lump in her throat.
“I ’aven’t finished me work, ma’am. There’s still the stairs to do, and Miss Jemima’s room. The dust settles jus’ the same though she in’t there right now. An’ I in’t changed proper. Me black dress in’t pressed right—”
“That dress is dark enough.” Charlotte looked at Gracie’s ordinary gray stuff working dress. It was quite drab enough for mourning. Really, one day when she could afford it she should get her a nice bright blue one. “And you can forget the housework. It’ll not go away—you can do it tomorrow; it’ll all be the same in the end.”
“Are you sure, ma’am?” Gracie had never been told to forget dusting before, and her eyes were like stars at the thought of just letting it wait—and instead going off on another expedition of detecting.
“Yes I’m sure,” Charlotte replied. “Now go and do your hair and find your coat. We mustn’t be late.”
“Oh yes, ma’am. I will this minute, ma’am.” And before Charlotte could add anything she was gone, her feet clattering up the attic stairs to her room.
Emily arrived precisely when she said she would, bursting in in a wildly elegant black gown cut in the latest lines, decorated with jet beading and not entirely suitable for a funeral, in that although the lace neckline was so high as to be almost to the ears, the main fabric of the dress was definitely a trifle fine, showing the pearliness of skin in an unmistakable gleam more fit for a soiree than a church. Her hat was very rakish, in spite of the veil, and her color was beautifully high in her cheeks. It was not difficult to believe that Emily was a new bride.
Charlotte was so happy for her she found it hard to disapprove, sensible though that would have been, and appropriate.
Jack was a couple of steps behind, immaculately dressed as always, and perhaps a little easier now about his tailor’s bills. But there was also a new confidence about him too, not built solely on charm and the need to please, but upon some inner happiness that required no second person’s approbation. Charlotte thought at first it was a reflection of his relationship with Emily. Then as soon as he spoke, she realized it was deeper than that; it was a purpose within himself, a thing radiating outward.
He kissed Charlotte lightly on the cheek.
“I have met with the Parliamentary party and I think they will accept me as a candidate!” he said with a broad smile. “As soon as a suitable by-election occurs I shall stand.”
“Congratulations,” Charlotte said with a great bubble of happiness welling up inside her. “We shall do everything we can to help you to succeed.” She looked at Emily and saw the intense satisfaction in her face also, and the gleam of pride. “Absolutely everything. Even holding my tongue, should it be the last resort. Now we must go to Amos Lindsay’s funeral. I think it is part of our cause. I don’t know why, but I am convinced he died in connection with Clemency’s death.”
“Of course,” Emily agreed. “It doesn’t make any sense otherwise. The same person must have killed both of them. I still think it is politics. Clemency ruffled a great many feathers. The more I investigate what she was doing, and planning to do, the more I discover how fierce was her determination and how many people could be smeared with the taint of very dirty money indeed. Are you sure the Worlingham sisters did not know what she was doing?”
“No—not absolutely,” Charlotte confessed. “I don’t think so. But Celeste is a better actress than Angeline, whom I find very hard to think guilty, she seems so transparent, and so unworldly—even ineffectual. I can’t think of her being efficient enough, or coolheaded enough, to have planned and laid those fires.”
But Celeste would,” Emily pressed. “After all, they have more to lose than anyone.”
“Except Shaw,” Jack pointed out. “Clemency was giving away the Worlingham money hand over fist. As it happens she had given all her share away before she died—but you have only Shaw’s word for it that he knew that. He may have thought little of what she was doing and killed her to stop her while there was still some left, and only learned afterwards that he was too late.”
Charlotte turned to look at him. It was an extremely ugly thought which she had not until this moment seen, but it was undeniable. No one else knew what Clemency had been doing; there had been only Shaw’s own word for it that he had known all along. Perhaps he hadn’t? Perhaps he had found out only a day or two before Clemency’s death, and it was that discovery which suddenly presented him with the prospect of losing his extremely œmfortable position both financially, for certain, and socially, if she should make it public. It was a very good motive for murder indeed.
She said nothing, a chilling, rather sick feeling inside her.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said gently. “But it had to be considered.”
Charlotte swallowed hard and found it difficult. Shaw’s fair, intense and blazingly honest face was before her inner eye. She was surprised how much it hurt.
“Gracie is corning with us.” She looked away from them towards the door, as if the business of going were urgent and must be attended to. “I think she deserves to.”
“Of course,” Emily agreed. “I wish I thought we should really learn something—but all I can reasonably hope for is a strong instinct. Although we might manage to ask some pertinent questions at the funerary dinner afterwards. Are you invited?”
“I think so.” Charlotte remembered very clearly Shaw’s invitation, and his wish that she should be there, one person with whom he could feel an identity of candor. She thrust it from her mind. “Come on, or we shall be late!”
The funeral was a bright, windy affair with more than two hundred people packing the small church for the formal, very stilted service conducted by Clitheridge. Only the organ music was faultless, flowing in rich, throbbing waves over the solemn heads and engulfing them in the comfort of a momentar
y unity while they sang. The sun streamed through the stained-glass windows in a glory of color falling like jewels on the floor and across the rigid backs and heads and all the variegated textures of black.
Upon leaving’Charlotte noticed a man of unusual appearance sitting close to the back, with his chin in the air and seemingly more interested in the ceiling than the other mourners. It was not that his features were particularly startling so much as the intelligence and humor in his expression, irreverent as it was. His hair was fiercely bright auburn and although he was sitting, he appeared to be quite a slight man. She certainly had not seen him before, and she hesitated out of curiosity.
“Is there something about me which troubles you, ma’am?” he asked, swiveling suddenly around to face her, and speaking with a distinctly Irish voice.
She collected her wits with an effort and replied with aplomb.
“Not in the least, sir. Any man as intent upon heaven as you deserves to be left to his contemplation—”
“It was not heaven, ma’am,” he said indignantly. “It was the ceiling that had my attention.” Then he realized she knew that as well as he, and had been irking him on purpose, and his face relaxed into a charming smile.
“George Bernard Shaw, ma’am. I was a friend of Amos Lindsay’s. And were you also?”
“Yes I was.” She stretched the truth a fraction. “And I am very sorry he is gone.”
“Indeed.” He was instantly sober again. “It’s a sad and stupid waste.”
Further conversation was made impossible by the press of people desiring to leave the church, and Charlotte nodded politely and excused herself, leaving him to resume his contemplation.
At least half the mourners followed the coffin out into the sharp, sunny graveyard where the wet earth was dug and the ground was already sprinkled over with fallen leaves, gold and bronze on the green of the grass.
Aunt Vespasia, dressed in deep lavender (she refused to wear black), stood next to Charlotte, her chin high, her shoulders square, her hand gripping fiercely her silver-handled cane. She loathed it, but she was obliged to lean on it for support as Clitheridge droned on about the inevitability of death and the frailty of man.