Highgate Rise tp-11

by Anne Perry

  They greeted her very formally, Daniel half a step behind Jemima, but as she took out her lorgnette to regard them, they were so fascinated by it they forgot to be shy. Charlotte had no qualms as she watched them mount into the carriage, with considerable assistance from the footman, and depart along the street.

  Gracie was so excited she could hardly hold her comb in her hand to tidy her hair, and her fingers slipped and made a knot in the strings of her bonnet which she would probably have to cut with scissors ever to get it off again. But what did it matter? She was going with the mistress to help her detect! She had very little clear idea of what it would involve, but it would absolutely without question be marvelously interesting and very important. She might learn secrets and make discoveries concerning issues of such magnitude that people were prepared to commit murder in their cause. And possibly it would even be dangerous.

  Of course she would walk a couple of steps behind, and only speak when she was invited to; but she would watch and listen all the time, and notice everything that anyone said or did, even the way their faces looked. Maybe she would notice something vital that no one else did.

  It was some two hours later when Charlotte and Gracie descended from the second carriage. They were handed down by Percival, to Gracie’s intense delight; she had never ridden in a proper carriage before, still less been assisted by another servant. They walked up the path to St. Anne’s Church side by side at Charlotte’s insistence, in hope of finding someone there who might guide them in matters of parish relief, and thus to a more precise knowledge of Clemency Shaw’s interest in housing.

  Charlotte had given the matter a good deal of thought. She did not wish to be open about her intentions and it had been necessary to construct a believable story. She had tussled with the problem without success until Gracie, biting her lip and not wishing to be impertinent, had suggested they inquire about a relative who had been thrown on the parish as a result of widowhood, which they had just heard about and were anxious to help.

  Charlotte had thought this so unlikely to be true that even Hector Clitheridge would doubt it, but then Gracie had pointed out that her Aunt Bertha had been in just such a predicament, and Gracie had indeed heard about it only two weeks ago. Then Charlotte realized what she meant, and seized upon the idea instantly.

  “O’ course me Aunt Bertha din’t live in ’Ighgate,” Gracie said honestly. “She lived in Clerkenwell-but then they dunno that.”

  And so after learning that there was no one in at the parsonage, they repaired to the church of St. Anne’s itself, and found Lally Clitheridge arranging flowers in the vestry. She turned at the sound of the door opening, a look of welcome on her face. Then she recognized Charlotte and the smile froze. She kept the Michaelmas daisy in her hand and did not move from the bench.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt. Are you looking for someone?”

  “I expect you could help me, if you would be so kind,” Charlotte answered, forcing a warmth into her voice which did not come naturally in the face of Lally’s chill gaze.

  “Indeed?” Lally looked beyond her at Gracie with slightly raised brows. “Is this lady with you?”

  “She is my maid.” Charlotte was conscious as she said it of sounding a trifle pompous, but there was no other reasonable answer.

  “Good gracious!” Lally’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you unwell?”

  “I am perfectly well, thank you.” It was becoming harder and harder to keep an amiability in her tone. She wanted to tell Lally she owed her no account of her arrangements and would give none, but that would defeat her purpose. She needed at the least an ally, better still a friend. “It is on Gracie’s behalf we are here,” she continued her civil tone with an effort. “She has just heard that her uncle has died and left her aunt in very poor circumstances, most probably a charge on the parish. Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me which of the ladies in the neighborhood have been most involved in charitable works and might know of her whereabouts.”

  Lally was quite obviously torn between her dislike for Charlotte and her compassion for Gracie, who was staring at her belligerently, but Lally apparently took it for well-controlled grief.

  “You do not know her address?” She looked past Charlotte as if she had not been there. It was an excellent compromise.

  Gracie’s mind was quick. “I know ’er old ’ouse, ma’am; but I’m afraid wot wif poor Uncle Albert bein’ took so sudden, and not much put by, that they might’a bin put out on the street. They’d ’ave no one to turn to, ’ceptin the parish.”

  Lally’s face softened. “There’s been no Albert buried in this parish, child; not in more than a year. And believe me, I mark every burial. It is part of my Christian duty, as well as my wish. Are you sure it is here in Highgate?”

  Gracie did not look at Charlotte, but she was acutely conscious of her a foot or two away.

  “Oh, yes ma’am,” she replied earnestly. “I’m sure that’s wot they said. Per’aps if you would just tell us the names o’ the other ladies as ’elps them as is in trouble, we could ask an’ mebbe they’d know, like?” She smiled appealingly, putting to the front of her mind their purpose in having come; it was, after all, the greater loyalty. This must be what detecting involved, learning facts people were reluctant to tell you.

  Lally was won over, in spite of herself. Still ignoring Charlotte she directed her answer to Gracie.

  “Of course. Mrs. Hatch may be able to assist you, or Mrs. Dalgetty, or Mrs. Simpson, Mrs. Braithwaite or Miss Crombie. Would you like their addresses?”

  “Oh, yes ma’am, if you’d be so good?”

  “Of course.” Lally fished in her reticule for a piece of paper, and failed to find a pencil.

  Charlotte produced one and handed it to her. She took it in silence, wrote for several moments, then gave the slip to Gracie, who took it, still without looking at Charlotte, and held on to it tightly. She thanked Lally with a slight curtsey.

  “That’s ever so kind of you, ma’am.”

  “Not at all,” Lally said generously. Then her expression clouded over again and she looked at Charlotte. “Good day, Mrs. Pitt. I hope you are successful.” She passed back the pencil. “Now if you will excuse me I have several vases of flowers to finish and then some calls to make.” And she turned her back on them and began furiously poking daisies into the rolled-up wire mesh in the vase, sticking them in at all angles.

  Side by side Charlotte and Gracie left, eyes downcast until they were outside. Then immediately Gracie pushed the paper at Charlotte with a glow of triumph.

  Charlotte took it and read it. “You did expertly, Gracie,” she said sincerely. “I couldn’t have managed without you!”

  Gracie flushed with pleasure. “What does it say, ma’am? I carsn’t read that kind o’ writin’.”

  Charlotte looked at the sprawling cursive script. “It is exactly what we want,” she answered approvingly. “The names and addresses of several of the women who might know where Clemency Shaw began her work. We shall start immediately with Maude Dalgetty. I rather liked her manner at the funeral. I think she may be a sensible woman and generous spirited. She was a friend of Clemency’s and so, I expect, inclined to help us.”

  And so it proved. Maude Dalgetty was both sensible and desirous to help. She welcomed them into a withdrawing room full of sunlight and bowls of late roses. The room had a graciousness of proportion and was elegantly furnished, although many of the pieces were beginning to show wear. There were little knots and gaps in some of the fringes around lamps and the sashes on the curtains, and some of the crystals were missing from the chandelier. But the warmth was unmistakable. The books were used-here was one open on the side table. There was a large sewing basket with mending and embroidery clearly visible. The painting above the mantelpiece was a portrait of Maude herself, probably done a dozen years earlier, sitting in a garden on a summer day, the light on her skin and hair. She certainly had been a remarkable beauty, and much of it was left, even if a l
ittle more amply proportioned.

  Two cats lay curled up together in a single ball of fur by the fire, sound asleep.

  “How may I help you?” Maude said as soon as they were in. She paid no less attention to Gracie than to Charlotte. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  It was, strictly speaking, too early for such a thing, but Charlotte judged it was sincerely offered and since she was thirsty and had eaten no lunch, and she imagined Gracie was the same, she accepted.

  Maude ordered it from the maid, then inquired again how she might help.

  Charlotte hesitated. Sitting in this warm room looking at Maude’s intelligent face she was uncertain whether to risk telling her the truth rather than a concocted lie, however plausible. Then she recalled Clemency’s death, and Lindsay’s so soon after, and changed her mind. Wherever the heart of the murders lay, there were tentacles of it here. An unwitting word by even an innocent person might provoke more violence. It was one of the ugliest changes in the aftermath of murder that instinctive trusts disappeared. One looked for betrayal and suspected every answer of being a lie, every careless or angry word of hiding greed or hatred, every guarded comment of concealing envy.

  “Gracie has recently heard that an aunt of hers in this locality has been widowed,” she explained. “She fears she may be in straitened circumstances, perhaps even to the degree of being put out on the street.”

  Maude’s face showed immediate concern but she did not interrupt.

  “If she has fallen on the care of the parish then perhaps you know what has become of her?” Charlotte tried to put the urgency into her voice that she would have felt had it been true, and saw the compassion in Maude’s eyes, and hated herself for the duplicity. She hurried on to cover it in speech. “And if you do not, then someone else may? I believe that the late Mrs. Shaw concerned herself greatly with such cases?” She felt her cheeks burn. This was the kind of deception she most despised.

  Maude tightened her lips and blinked several times to control the very obvious grief that flooded her face.

  “Indeed she did,” she said gently. “But if she had any record of whom she helped it will have been destroyed when the house was burned.” She turned to Gracie, since it was Gracie whose aunt they were speaking of. “The only other person likely to know would be the curate, Matthew Oliphant. I think she confided in him and he gave her counsel, and possibly even help. She spoke very little of her work, but I know she felt more deeply about it as time passed. Most of it was not within the parish, you know? I am not at all sure she would have been directly involved with a local loss. You might be better advised to ask Mrs. Hatch, or perhaps Mrs. Wetherell.”

  The maid returned with tea and the most delicious sandwiches, made with the thinnest of bread and tomato cut into minute cubes so there was nothing squashy in them and no stringy skins to embarrass the eater. For several minutes Charlotte abandoned the purpose of her visit and simply enjoyed them. Gracie, who had never even seen anything so fine, let alone tasted it, was absolutely spellbound.

  It was early afternoon and becoming overcast when Percival drew up the carriage outside the lodging house where Matthew Oliphant lived. He handed down Charlotte, and then Gracie, and watched them walk up the path and knock on the door before he returned to the carriage seat and prepared to wait.

  The door was opened by a maid who advised them that Mr. Oliphant was in the sitting room and would no doubt receive them, since he seemed to receive everyone.

  They reached the sitting room, an impersonal place furnished with extreme conservatism, armchairs with antimacassars, a portrait of the Queen over the mantel and one of Mr. Gladstone on the far wall, several samplers of religious texts, three stuffed birds under glass, an arrangement of dried flowers, a stuffed weasel in a case, and two aspidistras. They reminded Charlotte immediately of the sort of things that had been left over after everyone else had taken what they liked. She could not imagine the person who would willingly have selected these. Certainly not Matthew Oliphant, with his humorous, imaginative face, rising in his chair to greet them, leaving his Bible open on the table; nor Stephen Shaw, busy writing at the rolltop desk by the window. He stood up also when he saw Charlotte, surprise and pleasure in his face.

  “Mrs. Pitt, how charming to see you.” He came towards her, his hand extended. He glanced at Gracie, who was standing well back, smitten with shyness now they were dealing with gentlemen.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Shaw,” Charlotte replied, hastily concealing her chagrin. How could she question the curate with Shaw himself present? Her whole plan of action would have to be changed. “This is Gracie, my maid-” She could think of no explanation for her presence, so she did not try.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Oliphant.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt. If-if you wish to be alone with the doctor, I can quite easily excuse myself. My room is not cold; I can pursue my studies there.”

  Charlotte knew from the temperature of the hallway that that was almost certainly a fiction.

  “Not at all, Mr. Oliphant. Please remain. This is your home and I should be most uncomfortable to have driven you away from the fire.”

  “What may I do for you, Mrs. Pitt?” Shaw asked, frowning at her in grave concern. “I hope you are as well as you seem? And your maid?”

  “We are very well, thank you. Our visit has nothing to do with your profession, Dr. Shaw.” There was now no purpose whatsoever in continuing with the tale of Gracie’s uncle. He would see through it and despise them both, not only for the lie, but for the inadequacy of it. “I did not come about myself.” She faced him boldly, meeting his eyes and being considerably disconcerted by the acute intelligence in them, and the directness of his gaze back at her. She took a deep breath and plunged on. “I have determined to pursue the work that your late wife was involved in regarding the housing of the poor, and their conditions. I would like to learn where she began, so I may begin in the same place.”

  There was a full minute’s total silence. Matthew Oliphant stood by the fire with the Bible in his hand, his knuckles white where he grasped it, his face pale, then flushed. Gracie was rooted to the spot. Shaw’s expression flashed from amazement to disbelief, and then suspicion.

  “Why?” he said guardedly. “If you have some passion to work with the poor or the dispossessed what is wrong with those in your own neighborhood?” His voice hovered on the edge of sarcasm. “Surely there are some? London is teeming with poor. Do you live in some area so select you have to come to Highgate to find anyone in need?”

  Charlotte could think of no answer. “You are being unnecessarily rude, Dr. Shaw.” She heard herself mimicking Aunt Vespasia’s tone, and thought for an awful moment that she sounded ridiculous. Then she saw Shaw’s face and the sudden color of shame in his cheeks.

  “I apologize, Mrs. Pitt. Of course I am.” He was contrite. “Please forgive me.” He did not mention either his bereavement or the loss of his friend; as an excuse it would have been cheap and beneath him.

  She smiled at him with all the warmth and deep empathy that she felt for him, and the very considerable liking. “The matter is forgotten.” She dismissed it charmingly. “Can you help me? I should be so obliged. Her crusade is one in which I should like to become involved myself, and draw others. It would be foolish not to profit from what she has already done. She has earned much admiration.”

  Very slowly, wordlessly, Matthew Oliphant sat down again and opened his Bible, upside down.

  “Do you?” Shaw frowned in some inner concentration. “I cannot see that it will be much advantage to you. She worked alone, so far as I know. She certainly did not work with the parish ladies, or the vicar.” He sighed. “Not that poor old Clitheridge could fight his way out of a wet paper bag!” He looked at her gravely, a kind of laughing admiration in his eyes she found a trifle discomfitting. One or two rather absurd thoughts flashed through her mind, and she dismissed them hastily, a flush in her cheeks.

  “Nevertheless I should like to
try,” she insisted.

  “Mrs. Pitt,” he said gently. “I can tell you almost nothing, only that Clemency cared very much about reforming the laws. In fact I think she cared more about them than almost anything else.” His face pinched a little. “But if, as I suspect, what you are really seeking is to discover who set fire to my house, you will not accomplish it this way. It is I who was meant to die in that fire, as it was when poor Amos died.”

  She was at once fiercely sorry for him and extraordinarily angry.

  “Indeed?” Her eyebrows shot up. “How arrogant of you! Do you assume that no one else could possibly be important enough in the scheme of things, and only you arouse enough passion or fear to be murdered?”

  It was one sting too much. His temper exploded.

  “Clemency was one of the finest women alive. If you had known her, instead of arriving the moment she was dead, you wouldn’t have to be told.” He was leaning forward a little, his shoulders tight and hunched. “She did nothing to incur the kind of insane hatred that burns down houses and risks the lives of everyone in them. For heaven’s sake if you must meddle-at least do it efficiently!”

  “I am trying to!” she shouted back. “But you are determined to obstruct me. One would almost think you did not want it solved.” She pointed at him sharply. “You won’t help. You won’t tell the police anything. You stick to your wretched confidences as if they were secrets of state. What do you imagine that we are going to do with them, except catch a murderer?”

  He jerked very upright, back straight. “I don’t know any secrets that will catch anyone but a few unfortunate devils who would rather keep their diseases private than have them spread ’round the neighborhood for every able and nosy busybody to turn over and speculate on,” he shouted back. “Dear God-don’t you think I want him caught-whoever he is? He murdered my wife and my best friend-and I may be next.”