Highgate Rise

10

“I SUPPOSE we should have expected it—had we bothered to take the matter seriously at all,” Aunt Vespasia said when Charlotte told her about the duel in the field. “One might have hoped they would have more sense, but had they any proportion in things in the first place, they would not have become involved in such extremes of opinion. Some men lose track of reality so easily.”

“Thomas said they were both injured,” Charlotte went on. “Quite unpleasantly. I knew they said a great deal about the subject of freedom of expression, and the need to censor certain ideas in the public interest, but I did not expect it to come to actual physical harm. Thomas was very angry indeed—it all seems so farcical, in the face of real tragedy.”

Vespasia sat very upright and her concentration seemed to be entirely inward, as if she did not see the graciousness of the room around her, or the gentle movement of the bronzing beech leaves outside the window, dappling the light.

“Failure, disillusion and love rejected can all make us behave in ways that seem absurd, my dear—perhaps loneliness most of all. It does not lessen the pain in the slightest, even if you are one who is able to laugh while you weep. I have thought at times that laughter is man’s greatest salvation—and at other times that it is what damns him beneath the animals. Beasts may kill one another, they may ignore the sick or distressed—but they never mock. Blasphemy is a peculiarly human ability.”

Charlotte was confused for a moment. Vespasia had taken the thought much further than anything she had intended. Perhaps she had overdramatized the scene.

“The whole quarrel was about the rights of censorship,” she said, starting to explain herself. “That wretched monograph of Amos Lindsay’s, which is academic now, since the poor man is dead anyway.”

Vespasia stood up and walked over towards the window.

“I thought it was the question as to whether some men have the right to make mock of other men’s gods, because they believe them to be either vicious or absurd—or simply irrelevant.”

“One has the right to question them,” Charlotte said with irritation. “One must, or there will be no progress of ideas, no reforming. The most senseless ideologies could be taught, and if we cannot challenge them, how are we to know whether they are good or evil? How can we test our ideas except by thinking—and talking?”

“We cannot,” Vespasia replied. “But there are many ways of doing it. And we must take responsibility for what we destroy, as well as for what we create. Now tell me, what was it Thomas said about Prudence Hatch being so mesmerized with fright? Did she imagine Shaw was going to let slip some appalling secret?”

“That is what Thomas thought—but he has never persuaded Shaw to tell him anything at all that would indicate any secret he knows worth killing to hide.”

Vespasia turned to face Charlotte.

“You have met the man—is he a fool?”

Charlotte thought for several seconds, visualizing Shaw’s dynamic face with its quick, clear eyes, the power in him, the vitality that almost overflowed.

“He’s extremely intelligent,” she replied frankly.

“I daresay,” Vespasia agreed dryly. “That is not the same thing. Many people have high intelligence and no wisdom at all. You have not answered me.”

Charlotte smiled very slighüy. “No, Aunt Vespasia, I am not sure that I can. I don’t think I know.”

“Then perhaps you had better find out.” Vespasia arched her brows very gently but her eyes were unwavering.

Very reluctantly Charlotte rose to her feet, a quiver of excitement inside her, and a very real sense of fear which was getting larger with every moment. This time she could not hide behind a play of innocence as she had done so often in the past when meddling in Pitt’s cases. Nor would she go with some slight disguise as she had often done, the pretense of being some gentlewoman of no account, up from the country, and insinuate herself into a situation, then observe. Shaw clearly knew exactly who she was and the precise nature of her interest. To try to deceive him would be ridiculous and demean them both.

She must go, if she went at all, quite openly as herself, frank about her reasons, asking questions without opportunity of camouflage or retreat. How could she possibly behave in such a way that it would be anything but intrusive and impertinent—and hideously insensitive?

It was on the edge of her tongue to make an excuse, simply say all that was in her mind; then she saw Vespasia’s slender shoulders stiff as a general commanding a charge to battle, and her eyes as steady as a governess controlling a nursery. Insubordination was not even to be considered. Vespasia had already understood all her arguments, and would accept none of them.

“ ‘England expects that every man will do his duty,’ ” Charlotte said with a ghost of a smile.

A spark of laughter lit Vespasia’s eyes.

“Quite,” she agreed relentiessly. “You may take my carriage.”

“Thank you, Aunt Vespasia.”

Charlotte arrived at the lodging house where Shaw was temporarily resident exactly as the landlady was serving luncheon. This was ill-mannered in the extreme, but most practical. It was probably the only time when she could have found him present and not either in the act of repacking his bag to leave again or trying to catch up with his notes and messages.

He was obviously surprised to see her, when the landlady showed her in, but the expression on his face showed far more pleasure than irritation. If he minded being interrupted in his meal he hid it with great skill.

“Mrs. Pitt. How very agreeable to see you.” He rose, setting his napkin aside, and came around to greet her, holding out his hand and taking hers in a strong, warm grip.

“I apologize for calling at such an inconvenient time.” She was embarrassed already, and she had not yet even begun. “Please do not allow me to spoil your luncheon.” It was a fatuous remark. She had already done so by her mere presence. Whatever she said, he would not allow her to wait in the parlor while he ate in the dining room, and even if he were to, it could hardly be a comfortable repast in such circumstances. She felt her face coloring with awareness of the clumsy way she had begun. How could she possibly ask him all the intimate and personal questions she wished? Whether she ever learned if he was a fool—in Aunt Vespasia’s terms of reference—she herself most certainly was.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, still holding her hand.

She seized the opportunity he offered.

“No—no, I have somehow mislaid time this morning, and it is much later than I had realized.” It was a lie, but a very convenient one.

“Then Mrs. Turner will fetch you something, if you care to join me.” He indicated the table set for one. Whatever other lodgers there were resident, they appeared to take their midday meal elsewhere.

“I would not dream of inconveniencing Mrs. Turner.” She had only one answer open to her. She cooked herself; she knew perfectly well any woman with the slightest economy in mind did not prepare more than she knew would be required. “She cannot have been expecting me. But I should be most happy to take a cup of tea, and perhaps a few slices of bread and butter—if she would be so good. I had a late breakfast, and do not wish for a full meal.” That was not true either, but it would serve. She had eaten a considerable number of tomato sandwiches at Aunt Vespasia’s.

He swung his arms wide in an expansive gesture and walked over to the bell, pulling it sharply.

“Excellent,” he agreed, smiling because he knew as well as she did that they were reaching a compromise of courtesy and truth. “Mrs. Himer!” His voice rang through the room and must have been clearly audible to her long before she had even entered the hall, let alone the dining room.

“Yes, Dr. Shaw?” she said patiently as she opened the door.

“Ah! Mrs. Turner, can you bring a pot of tea for Mrs. Pitt—and perhaps a few slices of bread and butter. She is not in need of luncheon, but some slight refreshment would be most welcome.”

Mrs. Turner shook her head in a mixture of doubt and acceptance, glanced once at Charlotte, then hurried away to do as she was requested.

“Sit down, sit down,” Shaw offered, drawing out a chair for her and holding it while she made herself comfortable.

“Please continue with your meal.” She meant it as more than good manners. She knew he worked hard, and hated to think of him obliged to eat his boiled mutton, potatoes, vegetables and caper sauce cold.

He returned to his own seat and began to eat again with considerable appetite.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Pitt?” It was a simple question and no more than courtesy dictated. Yet meeting his eyes across the polished wood set with dried flowers, a silver cruet stand and assorted handmade doilies, she knew any evasion would meet his immediate knowledge, and contempt.

She did not want to make a fool of herself in his estimation. She was surprised how painful the idea was. And yet she must say something quickly. He was watching her and waiting. His expression had a remarkable warmth; he was not seeking to find the slightest fault with her, and her sudden realization of that only made it worse. Old memories of other men who had admired her, more than admired, came back with a peculiar sharpness, and a sense of guilt which she had thought forgotten.

She found herself telling the truth because it was the only thing that was tolerable.

“I followed Mrs. Shaw’s work,” she said slowly. “I began with the parish council, where I learned very little.”

“You would,” he agreed, his eyes puzzled. “She started from my patients. There was one in particular who did not get better, regardless of my treatment of her. Clemency was concerned, and when she visited her she began to realized it was the condition of the house, the damp, the cold, the lack of clean water and any sanitation. She never would recover as long as she lived there. I could have told her that, but I didn’t because I knew there was nothing that could be done to better it, and it would only cause her distress. Clem felt people’s misery very much. She was a remarkable woman.”

“Yes I know,” Charlotte said quickly. “I went to those same houses—and I asked the same questions she had. I have learned why they didn’t complain to the landlord—and what happened to those who did.”

Mrs. Himer knocked briskly on the door, opened it and brought in a tray with teapot, cup and saucer and a plate of thin bread and butter. She put it down on the table, was thanked, and departed.

Charlotte poured herself a cup of tea, and Shaw resumed his meal.

“They got evicted and had to seek accommodation even less clean or warm,” Charlotte continued. “I followed them down the scale from one slum to another, until I saw what I think may be the worst there is, short of sleeping in doorways and gutters. I was going to say I don’t know how people survive—but of course they don’t. The weak die.”

He said nothing, but she knew from his face that he understood it even better than she did, and felt the same helplessness, the anger that it should be, the desire to lash out at someone—preferably the clean and comfortable who chose to laugh and look the other way—and the same pity that haunted both of them whenever the eyes closed and the mind relaxed vigilance, when the hollow faces came back, dull with hunger and dirt and weariness.

“I followed her all the way to one particular street she went where the houses were so crammed with people old and young, men and women, children and even babies, all together without privacy or sanitation, twenty or thirty in a room.” She ate a piece of bread and butter because it had been provided—memory robbed her of appetite. “Along the corridor and up the stairs was a brothel. Down two doors was a gin mill with drunken women rolling about on the steps and in the gutter. In the basement was a sweatshop where women worked eighteen hours a day without daylight or air—” She stopped, but again she saw in his eyes that he knew these places; if not this particular one, then a dozen others like it.

“I discovered how hard it is to find out who owns such buildings,” she continued. “They are hidden by rent collectors, companies, managers, lawyers’ offices, and more companies. At the very end there are powerful people. I was warned that I would make enemies, people who could make life most unpleasant for me, if I persisted in trying to embarrass them.”

He smiled bleakly, but still did not interrupt. She knew without question that he believed her. Perhaps Clemency had shared the same discoveries and the same feelings with him.

“Did they threaten her also?” she asked. “Do you know how close she came to learning names of people who might have been afraid she would make their ownership public?”

He had stopped eating altogether, and now he looked down at his plate, his face shadowed, a painful mixture of emotions conflicting within him.

“You think it was Clem they meant to kill in the fire, don’t you?”

“I did,” she admitted, and saw him stiffen. His eyes lifted instantly and met hers, searching, startled. “Now I’m not sure,” she finished. “Why should anyone wish to kill you? And please don’t give me an evasive answer. This is too serious to play games with words. Clemency and Amos Lindsay are dead already. Are you sure there will be no more? What about Mrs. Turner and Mr. Oliphant?”

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.

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.

Had these women, who had given the whole of their lives, wasted their youth and their mature womanhood pandering to their father, killed to protect that same reputation—and their own comfort in a community they had led for over half a century? It was not inconceivable.

“I heard so well of her from other people,” Charlotte went on, her voice sounding gushing in her ears, artificial and a little too highly pitched. Was she foolish to have come here alone? No—that was stupid. It was the middle of the day, and Aunt Vespasia’s coachman and footman were outside.

But did they know that?

Yes of course they did. They would hardly imagine she had walked here.

But she might have come on the public omnibus. She frequently traveled on it.

“Which other people?” Celeste said with raised eyebrows. “I hardly thought poor Clemency was known outside the parish.”

“Oh indeed she was.” Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to sound normal. Her hands were shaking, so she clasped them together, digging her nails into her palms. “Mr. Somerset Carlisle spoke of her in the highest terms possible—he is a noted member of Parliament, you know. And Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould also. In fact I was speaking to her only this morning, telling her I should call upon you this afternoon, and she lent me her carriage, for my convenience. She is determined that Mrs. Shaw shall not be forgotten, nor her work perish.” She saw Celeste’s heavy race darken. “And of course there are others,” she plowed on. “But she was so discreet, perhaps she was too modest to tell you much herself?”

“She told us nothing,” Celeste replied. “Because I believe, Mrs. Pitt, that there was nothing to tell. Clemency did the sort of kindnesses among the poor that all the women of our family have always done.” She lifted her chin a fraction and her tone became more condescending. “We were raised in a very Christian household, as I daresay you are aware. We were taught as children to care for those less fortunate, whether through their own indigence or not. Our father told us not to judge, merely to serve.”

Charlotte found it hard to hold her tongue. She ached to tell them precisely what she thought of the bishop’s charity.

“Modesty is one of the most attractive of all the virtues,” she said aloud, gritting her teeth. “It seems that she said nothing to you of her work to have the laws changed with regard to the ownership of the very worst of slum properties.”

There was nothing at all in either of their faces that looked like even comprehension, let alone fear.

“Slum properties?” Angeline was utterly confused.

“The ownership of them,” Charlotte continued, her voice sounding dry and very forced. “At present it is almost impossible to discern who is the true owner.”

“Why should anyone wish to know?” Angeline asked. “It seems an extraordinary and purposeless piece of knowledge.”

“Because the conditions are appalling.” Charlotte murmured her answer and tried to make it as gentle as was appropriate to two elderly women who knew nothing of the world beyond their house, the church and a few of the people in the parish. It would be grossly unfair now to blame them for an ignorance which it was far too late for them to remedy. The whole pattern of their lives, which had been set for them by others, had never been questioned or disturbed.

“Of course we know that the poor suffer,” Angeline said with a frown. “But that has always been so, and is surely inevitable. That is the purpose of charity—to relieve suffering as much as we can.”

“A good deal of it could be prevented, if other people did not exercise their greed at the expense of the poor.” Charlotte sought for words they would understand to explain the devastating poverty she had seen. She looked at the total lack of comprehension on their faces. “When people are poor already, they are much more prone to illness, which makes them unable to work, and they become poorer still. They are evicted from decent housing and have to seek whatever they can get.” She was simplifying drastically, but a long explanation of circumstances they had never imagined would only lose their emotion. “Landlords know their plight and offer them room without light or air, without running water or any sanitary facilities—”

“Then why do they take them?” Angeline opened her eyes wide in inquiry. “Perhaps they do not want such things, as we would?”

“They want the best they can get,” Charlotte said simply. “And very often that is merely a place where they can shelter and lie down—and perhaps, if they are lucky, share a stove with others so they can cook.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Celeste replied. “If that is all they can afford.”

Charlotte put forward the one fact she knew would reach the bishop’s daughters.

“Men, women and children all in the same room?” She stared straight into Celeste’s strong, clever face. “With no lavatory but a bucket in the corner—for all of them—and nowhere to change clothes in privacy, or to wash—and no way of sleeping alone?”

Charlotte saw all the horror she could have wished.

“Oh, my dear! You don’t mean that?” Angeline was shocked. “That is—quite uncivilized … and certainly unchristian!”

“Of course it is,” Charlotte agreed. “But they have no alternative, except the street, which would be even worse.”

Celeste looked distressed. It was not beyond her imagination to think of such conditions and feel at least a shadow of their wretchedness, but she was still at a loss to see what purpose could be served by making the owners known.

“The owners cannot make more space,” she said slowly. “Nor solve the problems of poverty. Why should you wish to discover who they are?”

“Because the owners are making a very large profit indeed,” Charlotte replied. “And if their names were public, they might be shamed into maintaining the buildings so they are at least clean and dry, instead of having mold on the walls and timbers rotting.”

It was beyond the experience of either Celeste or Angeline. They had spent all their lives in this gracious house with every comfort that money and status could supply. They had never seen rot, never smelled it, had no conception of a running gutter or open sewerage.

Charlotte drew breath to try to depict it in words, and was prevented from beginning by the parlormaid returning to announce the arrival of Prudence Hatch and Mrs. Clitheridge.

They came in together, Prudence looking a little strained and unable to stand or to sit with any repose. Lally Clitheridge was charming to Celeste, full of smiles to Angeline; and then when she turned to where Charlotte had risen to her feet, recognizing her before introductions were made, her face froze and she became icily polite, her eyes hard and a brittle timbre to her voice.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt. How surprising to see you here again so soon. I had not thought you such a personal friend.”

Celeste invited them to be seated, and they all obeyed, rearranging skirts.

“She came to express her admiration for Clemency,” Angeline said with a slight nervous cough. “It seems Clemency really did look into the question of people making extreme profits out of the wretchedness of some of the poor. We really had no idea. She was so very modest about it.”

“Indeed?” Lally raised her eyebrows and looked at Charlotte with frank disbelief. “I had not realized you were acquainted with Clemency at all—let alone to the degree where you know more of her than her family.”

Charlotte was stung by the manner more than the words. Lally Clitheridge was regarding her with the air one might show a rival who had tricked one out of a deserved advantage.

“I did not know her, Mrs. Clitheridge. But I know those who did. And why she chose to share her concern with them and not with her family and neighbors I am unaware—but possibly it was because they were almost as concerned as she and they understood and respected her feelings.”

“Good gracious.” Lally’s voice rose in amazement and offense. “Your intrusion knows no bounds. Now you suggest she did not trust her own family—but chose instead these friends of yours, whom you have been careful not to name.”

“Really, Lally,” Prudence said gently, knotting her hands together in her lap. “You are distressing yourself unnecessarily. You have allowed Flora Lutterworth to upset you too much.” She glanced at Charlotte. “We have had a rather distasteful encounter, and I am afraid hasty words were said. That young woman’s behavior is quite shameless where poor Stephen is concerned. She is obsessed with him, and does not seem able to comport herself with any restraint at all-even now.”

“Oh dear—that again.” Angeline sighed and shook her head. “Well of course she has no breeding, poor soul, what can you expect? And raised virtually without a mother. I dare say there is no one to instruct her how to behave. Her father is in trade, after all and he’s from the north; you could hardly expect him to have the least idea.”

“No amount of money in the world makes up for lack of breeding,” Celeste agreed. “But people will insist upon trying.”

“Exactly,” Charlotte said with a voice that cut like acid. “People with breeding can lie, cheat, steal or sell their daughters to obtain money, but people who only have money can never acquire breeding, no matter what they do.”

There was a silence that was like thunder, prickling the air and touching the skin in a cold sweat.

Charlotte looked at their faces one by one. She was quite sure, although there was no proof whatever, that neither Celeste nor Angeline had even the shadow of an idea where their family money came from. Nor did she believe that money was at the root of Prudence’s fear. She looked aghast now, but not for herself; her hands were quite still, even loose in her lap. She was staring at Charlotte in total incomprehension, for her devastating rudeness, not because she was afraid of her.

Lally Clitheridge was dumbfounded.

“I thought Stephen Shaw was the rudest person I had ever met,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “But you leave him standing. You are totally extraordinary.”

There was only one possible thing to say.

“Thank you.” Charlotte did not flinch in the slightest. “Next time I see him I shall tell him of your words. I am sure he will be most comforted.”

Lally’s face tightened, almost as if she had been struck—and quite suddenly and ridiculously Charlotte realized the root of her enmity. She was intensely jealous. She might regard Shaw as verbally reckless, full of dangerous and unwelcome ideas, but she was also fascinated by him, drawn from her pedestrian and dutiful life with the vicar towards something that promised excitement, danger, and a vitality and confidence that must be like elixir in the desert of her days.

Now the whole charade not only made Charlotte angry but stirred her to pity for its futility and the pointless courage of Lally’s crusade to make Clitheridge into something he was not, to do his duty when he was swamped by it, constantly to push him, support him, tell him what to say. And for her daydreams of a man so much more alive, the vigor that horrified and enchanted her, and the hatred she felt for Charlotte because Shaw was drawn to her, as easily and hopelessly as Lally was to Shaw.

It was all so futile.

And yet she could hardly take the words back, that would only make it worse by allowing everyone to see that she understood. The only possible thing now was to leave. Accordingly she rose to her feet.

“Thank you, Miss Worlingham, for permitting me to express my admiration for Clemency’s work, and to assure you that despite any dangers, or any threats that may be made, I will continue with every effort at my command. It did not die with her, nor will it ever. Miss Angeline.” She withdrew her hand, clutched her reticule a trifle more closely, and turned to leave.

“What do you mean, Mrs. Pitt?” Prudence stood up and came forward. “Are you saying that you believe Clemency was murdered by someone who—who objected to this work you say she was doing?”

“It seems very likely, Mrs. Hatch.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Celeste said sharply. “Or are you suggesting that Amos Lindsay was involved in it as well?”

“Not so far as I know—” Charlotte began, and was cut off instantly.

“Of course not,” Celeste agreed, rising to her feet also. Her skirt was puckered but she was unaware of it in her annoyance. “Mr. Lindsay was no doubt murdered for his radical political views, this Fabian Society and all these dreadful pamphlets he writes and supports.” She glared at Charlotte. “He associated with people who have all sorts of wild ideas: socialism, anarchy, even revolution. There are some very sinister plots being laid in our times. There is murder far more abominable than the fires here in Highgate, fearful as they were. One does not read the newspapers, of course. But one cannot help but be aware of what is going on—people talk about it, even here. Some madman is loose in Whitechapel ripping women apart and disfiguring them in the most fearful way—and the police seem powerless either to catch him or prevent him.” Her face was white as she spoke and no one could fail to feel her horror rippling out in the room like coldness from a door opened on ice.

“I am sure you are right, Celeste.” Angeline seemed to withdraw into herself as if she would retreat from these new and terrible forces that threatened them all. “The world is changing. People are thinking quite new and very dangerous ideas. It sometimes seems to me as if everything we have is threatened.” She shook her head and pulled at her black shawl to put it more closely around her shoulders, as if it could protect her. “And I really believe from the way Stephen speaks that he quite admires this talk of overthrowing the old order and setting up those Fabian ideas.”

“Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t,” Lally contradicted strongly, her face pink and her eyes very bright. “I know he liked Mr. Lindsay, but he certainly never agreed with his ideas. They are quite revolutionary. Mr. Lindsay was reading some of the essays and pamphlets and things by that fearful Mrs. Bezant who helped to put the match girls up to refusing to work. You remember that in April—or was it May? I mean, if people refuse to work, where will we all be?”

Charlotte was powerfully tempted to put forward her own political views, in favor of Mrs. Bezant and explaining the plight of the match girls, their physical suffering, the necrosis of the facial bones from breathing the phosphorus; but this was neither the time nor were these the people. Instead she turned to Lally with interest.

“Do you believe they were political murders, Mrs. Clitheridge? That poor Mrs. Shaw was killed because of her agitation for slum reform? You know I think you may well be correct. In fact it is what I believe myself, and have been saying so for some time.”

Lally was very much put out of composure by having to agree with Charlotte, but she could not backtrack now.

“I would not have put it quite in those terms,” she said, bridling. “But I suppose that is what I think. After all, it makes by far the most sense out of things. What other reason could there be?”

“Well there are others who have suggested more personal forms of passion,” Prudence pointed out, frowning at Charlotte. “Perhaps Mr. Lutterworth, because of Dr. Shaw’s involvement with Flora—if, of course, it was Stephen he meant to kill, not poor Clemency.”

“Then why would he kill Mr. Lindsay?” Angeline shook her head. “Mr. Lindsay certainly never did her any harm.”

“Because he knew something, of course.” Prudence’s face tightened in impatience. “That does not take a great deal of guessing.”

They were all standing close together near the door, the sunlight slanting between the curtains and the blinds making a bright patch behind them and causing the black crepes to look faintly dusty.

“I am surprised the police have not worked it out yet,” Lally added, glancing at Charlotte. “But then I suppose they are not a very superior class of person—or they would not be employed in such work. I mean, if they were clever enough to do something better—they would, wouldn’t they?”

Charlotte could accommodate a certain amount of insult to herself and keep her temper, but insult to Pitt was different. Again her anger slipped out of control.

“There are only a certain number of people who are willing to spend their time, and sometimes to risk their lives, digging into the sin and tragedy of other people’s affairs and uncovering the violence in them,” she said acidly, staring at Lally, her eyes wide. “So many people who look the picture of rectitude on the outside and pretend to civic virtue have inner lives that are thoroughly sordid, greedy and full of lies.” She looked from one to another of them, and was satisfied to see alarm, even fear in some of their faces, most especially Prudence’s. And seeing it she instantly relented and was ashamed. It was not Prudence she had intended to hurt.

But again there was no verbal retreat, only physical, and this time she excused herself, bade them farewell and swept out, head high, twitching her skirts smartly over the step. A few moments later she was back in Aunt Vespasia’s carriage and once again going towards Stephen Shaw’s lodgings. There were now far more questions she wished to ask him. Perhaps it really was all to do with radical political ideas, not merely Clemency’s slum profiteers, but Lindsay’s socialist beliefs as well. She had never asked him if Lindsay knew about Clemency’s work, or if it had taken her to the new Fabian Society; it simply had not occurred to her.

Mrs. Himer admitted her again with no surprise, and told her that the doctor was out on a call but she expected him back shortly, and if Charlotte cared to wait in the parlor she was welcome. She was brought yet another pot of tea, set out on a brand-new Japanese lacquer tray.

She poured herself a cup of tea and sat sipping it. Could Shaw really know anything that someone would kill to keep secret? Pitt had said little to her about the other patients he had investigated. Shaw seemed so certain all the deaths he had attended were natural—but then if he were in conspiracy with someone, he would say that. Was it possible he had helped someone to murder, either by actually providing the means, or simply by concealing it afterwards? Would he?

She recalled his face to mind easily, the strength in him, and the conviction. Yes—if he believed it to be right, she had no doubt he would. He was quite capable of exercising his powers. If ever a man had the courage of his convictions it was Stephen Shaw.

But did he believe it was right—or could ever be? No, surely not. Not even a violent or insane person? Or someone with a painful and incurable disease?

She had no idea if he was treating such a person. Pitt must have thought of all this too—surely?

She had resolved nothing when some thirty minutes later Shaw burst in, half throwing his case into the corner and flinging his jacket over the back of the chair. He swung around, startled to see her, but his expression lit with delight and he made no pretense of indifference.

“Mrs. Pitt! What fortune brings you back here again so soon? Have you discovered something?” There was humor in his eyes, and a little anxiety, but nothing disguised his liking for her.

“I have just been visiting the Misses Worlingham,” she answered, and saw the instant appreciation of all that that meant in his face. “I was not especially welcome,” she said in answer to his unspoken question. “In fact Mrs. Clitheridge, who called at the same time, has taken a strong dislike to me. But as a result of certain conversation that took place, several other thoughts come to my mind.”

“Indeed? And what are they? I see Mrs. Turner gave you some tea. Is there any left? I am as dry as one of poor Amos’s wooden gods.” He reached for the pot and lifted it experimentally. It was obvious from the weight that there was considerable liquid left in it. “Ah—good.” He poured out her used cup in the slop bowl, rinsed it from the hot water jug, and proceeded to pour himself some tea. “What did Celeste and Angeline say that sparked these new ideas? I must admit, the thought intrigues me.”

“Well, there is always money,” she began slowly. “The Worlinghams have a great deal of money, which Clemency must have inherited, along with Prudence, when Theophilus died.

He met her eyes with total candor, even a black laughter without a shred of rancor at her for the suggestion.

“And you think I might have murdered poor Clem to get my hands on it?” he asked. “I assure you, there isn’t a penny left—she gave it all away.” He moved restlessly around the room, poking at a cushion, setting a book straight on a shelf so it did not stand out from the rest. “When her will is probated you will see that for the last few months she had been obliged to me even for a dress allowance. I promise you, Mrs. Pitt, I shall inherit nothing from the Worlingham estate except a couple of dressmakers’ bills and a milliner’s account. Which I shall be happy to settle.”

“Given it all away?” Charlotte affected surprise. Pitt had already told her that Clemency had given her money away.

“All of it,” he repeated. “Mostly to societies for slum clearance, help to the extremely poor, housing improvement, sanitation, and of course the battle to get the law changed to make ownership easily traceable. She went through thirty thousand pounds in less than a year. She just gave it away until there was no more.” His face was illuminated with a kind of pride and a fierce gentleness.

Charlotte asked the next question without even stopping to weigh it. She had to know, and it seemed so easy and natural to ask.

“Did she tell you why? I mean, did she tell you where the Worlingham money came from?”

His mouth curled downward and his eyes were full of bitter laughter.

“Where the old bastard got it from? Oh, yes—when she discovered it she was devastated.” He walked over and stood with his back to the mantel. “I remember the night she came home after she found out. She was so pale I thought she would pass out, but she was white with fury, and shame.” He looked at Charlotte, his eyes very steady on hers. “All evening she paced the floor back and forth, talking about it, and nothing I could say could take away the guilt from her. She was distraught. She must have been up half the night—” He bit his lip and looked downwards. “And I’m ashamed to say I was so tired from being up the night before that I slept. But I knew in the morning she had been weeping. All I could do was tell her that whatever her decision, I would support her. She took two more days to decide that she would not face Celeste and Angeline with it.”

He jerked up again, his foot kicking against the brass fender around the hearth. “What good would it do? They had no responsibility for it. They gave their whole lives to looking after and pandering to that old swine. They couldn’t bear it now to think it had all been a farce, all the goodness they thought was there a whited sepulcher if ever there was one!”

“But she told Prudence,” Charlotte said quietly, remembering the haunting fear and the guilt in Prudence’s eyes.

He frowned at her, his expression clouded where she had expected to see something a little like relief.

“No.” He was quite definite. “No, she certainly didn’t tell Prudence. What could she do, except be plagued with shame too?”

“But she is,” Charlotte said, still gently. She was filled with sorrow, catching some glimpse of how it would torment Prudence, when her husband admired the bishop almost to hero worship. What a terrible burden to live with, and never to let slip, even by hint or implication. Prudence must be a very strong woman with deep loyalty to keep such a secret. “She must find it almost unendurable,” she added.

“She doesn’t know!” he insisted. “Clem never told her—just because it would be, as you say, unendurable. Old Josiah thinks the bishop was the next thing to a saint—God help him. The bloody window was all his idea—”

“Yes, she does,” Charlotte argued, leaning a little forward. “I saw it in her eyes looking at Angeline and Celeste. She’s terrified of it coming out, and she’s desperately ashamed of it.”

They sat across the table staring at each other, equally determined they were in the right, until slowly Shaw’s face cleared and understanding was so plain in him she spoke automatically.

“What? What have you realized?”

“Prudence doesn’t know anything about the Worlingham money. That’s not what she is afraid of—the stupid woman—”

“Then what?” She resented his calling her stupid, but this was not the time to take it up. “What is she afraid of?”

“Josiah—and her family’s contempt and indignation—”

“For what?” she interrupted him again. “What is it?”

“Prudence has six children.” He smiled ruefully, full of pity. “Her confinements were very hard. The first time she was in pain for twenty-three hours before the child was delivered. The second time looked like being similar, so I offered her anesthetic—and she took it.”

“Anesthetic—” Suddenly she too began to see what terrified Prudence. She remembered Josiah Hatch’s remarks about women and the travail of childbirth, and it being God’s will. He would, like many men, consider it an evasion of Christian responsibility to dull the pain with medical anesthesia. Most doctors would not even offer it. And Shaw had allowed Prudence her choice, without asking or telling her husband—and she was living in mortal fear now that he might break his silence and betray her to her husband.

“I see,” she said with a sigh. “How tragic—and absurd.” She could recall her own pain of childbirth only dimly. Nature is merciful in expunging the recollection in all save a small corner of the mind, and hers had not been harsh, compared with many. “Poor Prudence. You would never tell him—would you?” She knew as she said it that the question was unnecessary. In fact, she was grateful he was not angry even that she asked.

He smiled and did not answer.

She changed the subject.

“Do you think it would be acceptable for me to come to Amos Lindsay’s funeral? I liked him, even though I knew him for so short a while.”

His face softened again, and for a moment the full magnitude of his hurt was naked.

“I should like it very much if you did. I shall speak the eulogy. The whole affair will be awful—Clitheridge will behave like a fool, he always does when anything real is involved. Lally will probably have to pick up the pieces. Oliphant will be as good as he is allowed to be, and Josiah will be the same pompous, blind ass he always is. I shall loathe every moment of it. I will almost certainly quarrel with Josiah because I can’t help it. The more sycophantic he is about the damn bishop the angrier I shall be, and the more I shall want to shout from the pulpit what an obscene old sinner he was—and not even decent sins of passion or appetite—just cold, complacent greed and the love of dominion over other people.”

Without thinking she put out her hand and touched his arm.

“But you won’t.”

He smiled reluctantly and stood immobile lest she move.

“I shall try to behave like the model mourner and friend-even if it chokes me. Josiah and I have had enough quarreling—but he does tempt me sorely. He lives in a totally spurious world and I can’t bear his cant! I know better, Charlotte. I hate lies; they rob us of the real good by covering it over with so many coats of sickening excuses and evasions until what was really beautiful, brave, or clean, is distorted and devalued.” His voice shook with the intensity of his feeling. “I hate hypocrites! And the church seems to spawn them like abscesses, eating away at real virtue—like Matthew Oliphant’s.”

She was a little embarrassed; his emotion was so transparent and she could feel the vitality of him under her hand as if he filled the room.

She moved away carefully, not to break the moment.

“Then I shall see you at the funeral tomorrow. We shall both behave properly—however hard it is for us. I shall not quarrel with Mrs. Clitheridge, although I should dearly like to, and you will not tell Josiah what you think of the bishop. We shall simply mourn a good friend who died before his time.” And without looking at him again she walked very straight-backed and very gracefully to the parlor door, and out into the hallway.