Highgate Rise

4

CHARLOTTE DID NOT enjoy the public omnibus, but to hire a hansom cab all the way from Bloomsbury to her mother’s home on Cater Street was an unwarranted extravagance; and should there be any little surplus for her to spend, there were better things that might be done with it. Particularly she had in mind a new gown on which to wear Emily’s silk flowers. Not, of course, that a cab fare would purchase even one sleeve of such a thing, but it was a beginning. And with Emily home again, there might arise an occasion to wear such a gown.

In the meantime she climbed aboard the omnibus, gave the conductor her fare, and squeezed between a remarkably stout woman with a wheeze like a bellows and a short man whose gloomy stare into the middle distance of his thoughts threatened to take him beyond his stop, unless he were traveling to the end of the line.

“Excuse me.” Charlotte sat down firmly, and they were both obliged to make way for her, the large woman with a creak of whalebone and rattle of taffeta, the man in silence.

She alighted presently and walked in mild, blustery wind the two hundred yards along the street to the house where she had been born and grown up, and where seven years ago she had met Pitt, and scandalized the neighbors by marrying him. Her mother, who had been trying unsuccessfully to find a husband for her ever since she had been seventeen, had accepted the match with more grace than Charlotte had imagined possible. Perhaps it was not unmixed with a certain relief? And although Caroline Ellison was every bit as traditional, as ambitious for her daughters, and as sensitive to the opinions of her peers as anyone else, she did love her children and ultimately realized that their happiness might lie in places she herself would never have considered even tolerable.

Now even she admitted to a considerable fondness for Thomas Pitt, even if she still preferred not to tell all her acquaintances what he did as an occupation. Her mother-in-law, on the other hand, had never ceased to find it a social disaster, nor lost an opportunity to say so.

Charlotte mounted the steps and rang the bell. She had barely time to step back before it opened and Maddock the butler ushered her in.

“Good afternoon, Miss Charlotte. How very pleasant to see you. Mrs. Ellison will be delighted. She is in the withdrawing room, and at the moment has no other callers. Shall I take your coat?”

“Good afternoon, Maddock. Yes, if you please. Is everyone well?”

“Quite well, thank you,” he replied automatically. It was not expected that one would reply that the cook had rheumatism in her knees, or that the housemaid had sniffles and the kitchen maid had twisted her ankle staggering in with the coke scuttle. Ladies were not concerned in such downstairs matters. He had never really grasped that Charlotte was no longer a “lady” in the sense in which she had been when she grew up in this house.

In the long-familiar withdrawing room Caroline was sitting idly poking at a piece of embroidery, her mind quite absent from it; and Grandmama was staring at her irritably, trying to think of a sufficiently stinging remark to make. When she was a girl embroidery was done with meticulous care, and if one were unfortunate enough to be a widow with no husband to please, that was an affliction to be borne with dignity and some grace, but one still did things with proper attention.

“If you continue in that manner you will stitch your fingers, and get blood on the linen,” she said just as the door opened and Charlotte was announced. “And then it will be good for nothing.”

“It is good for very little anyway,” Caroline replied. Then she became aware of the extra presence.

“Charlotte!” She dropped the whole lot, needle, linen, frame and threads, on the floor and rose to her feet with delight—and relief. “My dear, how nice to see you. You look very well. How are the children?”

“In excellent health, Mama.” Charlotte hugged her mother. “And you?” She turned to her grandmother. “Grandmama? How are you?” She knew the catalogue of complaint that would follow, but it would be less offensive if it were asked for than if it were not.

“I suffer,” the old lady replied, looking Charlotte up and down with sharp, black eyes. She snorted. She was a small, stout woman with a beaked nose, which in her youth had been considered aristocratic, at least by those most kindly disposed towards her. “I am lame—and deaf—which if you came to visit us more often you would know without having to ask.”

“I do know, Grandmama,” Charlotte replied, determined to be agreeable. “I asked only to show you that I care.”

“Indeed,” the old woman grunted. “Well sit down and tell us something of interest. I am also bored. Although I have been bored ever since your grandfather died—and for some time before, come to that. It is the lot of women of good breeding to be bored. Your mother is bored also, although she has not learned to resign herself to it as I have. She has developed no skill at it. She does bad embroidery. I cannot see well enough to embroider anymore, but when I could, it was perfect.”

“You will have tea.” Caroline smiled across her mother-in-law’s head. These conversations had been part of her life for twenty years, and she accepted them with good grace. Actually, she was seldom bored; when the first grief of her widowhood had passed she had discovered new and most interesting pursuits. She had found herself free to read the newspapers for the first time in her life, any pages she wished. She had learned a little of politics and current affairs, social issues of debate, and she had joined societies which discussed all manner of things. She was finding time heavy this afternoon simply because she had decided to spend the time at home with the old lady, and they had until now received no callers.

“Please.” Charlotte accepted, seating herself in her favorite chair.

Caroline rang for the maid and ordered tea, sandwiches, cakes and fresh scones and jam, then settled to hear whatever news Charlotte might have, and to tell her of a philosophical group she had recently joined.

The tea came, was poured and passed, and the maid retired.

“You will have seen Emily, no doubt.” Grandmama made it a statement, and her face was screwed up with disapproval. “In my day widows did not marry again the moment their poor husbands were cold in the ground. Unseemly haste. Most unseemly. And it’s not even as if she were bettering herself. Stupid girl. That I could understand, at least. But Jack Radley! Who on earth are the Radleys? I ask you!”

Charlotte ignored the whole matter. She was confident Jack Radley would flatter the old lady and she would melt like butter on a hot crumpet. It was simply not worth trying to argue the point now. And of course whatever Emily had brought her from Europe she would criticize, but she would be pleased all the same, and show it off relentlessly.

As if aware of Charlotte’s well-controlled temper the old lady swiveled around and glared at her over the top of her eyeglasses.

“And what are you doing with yourself these days, miss? Still meddling in your husband’s affairs? If there is anything in the world that is totally and inexcusably vulgar, it is curiosity about other people’s domestic tragedies. I told you at the time no good would come of it.” Again she snorted spitefully and settled back a little in her seat. “Detective, indeed!”

“I am not involved in Thomas’s present case, Grandmama.” Charlotte took a fifth cucumber sandwich and ate it with relish. They really were delicious, thin as wafers, and sweet and crisp.

“Good,” the old woman said with satisfaction. “You eat too much. It is unladylike. You have lost all the refinement of manner you used to have. I blame you, Caroline! You should never have allowed this to happen. If she had been my daughter she would not have been permitted to marry beneath her!”

Caroline had long ago ceased to defend herself from such remarks, and she did not wish to quarrel, even though she was provoked. In fact it gave her a certain satisfaction to catch her mother-in-law’s beady eyes and smile sweetly back at her, and see the irritation in them.

“Unfortunately I had not your skill,” she said gently. “I managed very well with Emily—but Charlotte defeated me.”

The old lady was temporarily beaten. “Hah!” she said, at a loss for words.

Charlotte hid her smile, and took another sip of tea.

“Given up meddling, have you?” The old lady renewed the attack. “Emily will be disappointed!”

Charlotte sipped her tea again.

“All cutpurses and thieves, I suppose,” Grandmama continued. “Been demoted, has he?”

Finally Charlotte was drawn, in spite of her resolution.

“No. It is arson and murder. A very respectable woman has been burned to death in Highgate. In fact her grandfather was a bishop,” she added with something unpleasantly like triumph.

The old lady looked at her guardedly. “What bishop would that be? Sounds unlikely to me.”

“Bishop Worlingham,” Charlotte replied immediately.

“Bishop Worlingham! Augustus Worlingham?” The old lady’s eyes snapped sharp with interest; she leaned forward in her chair and thumped her black walking stick on the ground. “Answer me, girl! Augustus Worlingham?”

“I imagine so.” Charlotte could not remember Pitt having mentioned the bishop’s Christian name. “There surely cannot be two.”

“Don’t be impertinent!” But the old lady was too excited to be more than cursorily critical. “I used to know his daughters, Celeste and Angeline. So they still live in Highgate. Well why not? Very fortunate area. I should go and call upon them, convey my condolences upon their loss.”

“You can’t!” Caroline was appalled. “You’ve never mentioned them before—you cannot have called upon them in years!”

“And is that any cause not to comfort them now in their distress?” the old lady demanded, eyebrows high, searching for reason in an unreasonable house. “I shall go this very afternoon. It is quite early. You may accompany me if you wish.” She hauled herself to her feet. “As long as you do not in any circumstances display a vulgar curiosity.” And she stumped past the tea trolley and out of the withdrawing room without so much as glancing behind her to see what reaction her remarks had provoked.

Charlotte looked at her mother, undecided whether to declare herself or not. The idea of meeting people so close to Clemency Shaw was strongly appealing, even though she believed the person who had connived her death, whoever had lit the taper, was someone threatened by her work to expose slum profiteers to the public knowledge.

Caroline drew in her breath, then her expression of incredulity turned rapidly through contemplation to shamefaced interest.

“Ah—” She breathed in and out again slowly. “I really don’t think we should permit her to go alone, do you? I have no idea what she might say.” She bit her lip to suppress a smile. “And curiosity is so vulgar.”

“Perfectly terrible,” Charlotte agreed, rising to her feet and clasping her reticule, ready for departure.

They made the considerable ride to Highgate in close to silence. Once Charlotte asked the old lady if she could inform them of her acquaintance with the Worlingham sisters, and anything about their present situation, but the reply was scant, and in a tone that discouraged further inquiry.

“They were neither prettier nor plainer than most,” the old lady said, as if the question had been fatuous. “I never heard any scandal about them—which may mean they were virtuous, or merely that no opportunity for misbehavior offered itself. They were the daughters of a bishop, after all.”

“I was not seeking scandal.” Charlotte was irritated by the implication. “I simply wondered what nature of people they were.”

“Bereaved,” came the reply. “That is why I am calling upon them. I suspect you of mere curiosity, which is a character failing of a most distasteful sort. I hope you will not embarrass me when we are there?”

Charlotte gasped at the sheer effrontery of it. She knew perfectly well the old lady had not called on the Worlinghams in thirty years, and assuredly would not now had Clemency died in a more ordinary fashion. For once a suitably stinging reply eluded her, and she rode the remainder of the journey in silence.

The Worlingham house in Fitzroy Park, Highgate, was imposing from the outside, solid with ornate door and windows, and large enough to accommodate a very considerable family and full staff of indoor servants.

Inside, when they were admitted by a statuesque parlormaid, it was even more opulent, if now a little shabby in various places. Charlotte, well behind her mother and grandmother, had opportunity to glance around with a more lingering eye. The hall was unusually large, paneled in oak, and hung with portraits of varying age, but no plates underneath to tell their names. An instant suspicion crossed Charlotte’s mind that they were not ancestral Worlinghams at all, merely dressing to awe a visitor. In the place of honor where the main light shone on it was by far the largest portrait, that of an elderly gentleman in very current dress. His broad face was pink fleshed, his silver hair grew far back on his sloping forehead and curled up over his ears, forming an almost luminous aureole around his head. His eyes were blue under heavy lids, and his chin was wide; but his most remarkable feature was the benign, complacent and supremely confident smile on his lips. Under this the plate was legible even as Charlotte walked past it to the morning room door. BISHOP AUGUSTUS T. WORLINGHAM.

The maid departed to inquire whether they would be received, and Grandmama bent herself stiffly to sit in one of the chairs, staring around at the room critically. The pictures here were gloomy landscapes, framed samplers with such mottoes as “Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,” in cross-stitch; “The price of a good woman is above rubies,” framed in wood; and “God sees all,” with an eye in satin and stem stitches.

Caroline pulled a face.

Charlotte imagined the two sisters as girls sitting on a sabbath afternoon in silence, carefully sewing such things, all fingers and thumbs, hating every moment of it, wondering how long until tea when Papa would read the Scriptures to them; they would answer dutifully, and then after prayers be released to go to bed.

Grandmama cleared her throat and looked with disfavor at an enormous glass case filled with stuffed and mounted birds.

The antimacassars were stitched in brown upon linen, and all a trifle crooked.

The parlormaid returned to say that the Misses Worlingham would be charmed to receive them, and accordingly they followed her back across the hall and into the cavernous withdrawing room hung with five chandeliers. Only two of these were lit, and the parquet wooden floors were strewn with an assortment of Oriental rugs of several different shades and designs, all a fraction paler where the pile had been worn with constant tread, from the door to the sofa and chairs, and to a distinct patch in front of the fire, as if someone had habitually stood there. Charlotte remembered with an odd mixture of anger and loss how her father had stood in front of the fire in winter, warming himself, oblivious of the fact that he was keeping it from everyone else. The late Bishop Worlingham, no doubt, had done the same. And his daughters would not have raised their voices to object, nor would his wife when she was alive. It brought a sharp flavor of youth, being at home with her parents and sisters, the callowness and the safety of those times, taken for granted then. She glanced at Caroline, but Caroline was watching Grandmama as she sailed up to the elder of the Misses Worlingham.

“My dear Miss Worlingham, I was so sorry to hear of your bereavement. I had to come and offer my condolences in person, rather than simply write a letter. You must feel quite dreadful.”

Celeste Worlingham, a woman in her late fifties with strong features, dark brown eyes and a face which in her youth must have been handsome rather than pretty, now looked both confused and curious. The marks of shock were visible in the strained lines around her mouth and the stiff carriage of her neck, but she had admirable composure, and would not give in to unseemly grief, at least not in public, and she considered this public. Obviously she did not recall even the barest acquaintance with any of her visitors, but a lifetime of good manners overrode all.

“Most kind of you, Mrs. Ellison. Of course Angeline and I are very grieved, but as Christians we learn to bear such loss with fortitude—and faith.”

“Naturally,” Grandmama agreed, a trifle perfunctorily. “May I introduce to you my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Caroline Ellison, and my granddaughter, Mrs. Pitt.”

Everyone exchanged courtesies and Grandmama fixed her eyes on Celeste, then changed her mind and looked at Angeline, a younger, fairer woman with mild features and a comfortable, domestic look. Grandmama swayed back and forth on her feet and planted her stick heavily on the carpet and leaned on it.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Ellison,” Angeline said immediately. “May we offer you some refreshment? A tizanne, perhaps.”

“How kind,” Grandmama accepted with near alacrity, pulling Caroline sharply by the skirt so she also was obliged to sit on the fat red sofa a step behind her. “You are as thoughtful as ever,” Grandmama added for good measure.

Angeline reached for the hand bell and rang it with a sharp, tinkling sound, and almost as soon as she had replaced it on the table the maid appeared. She requested a tizanne, then changed her mind and asked for tea for all of them.

Grandmama sank back in her seat, set her stick between her own voluminous skirts and Caroline’s, and rather belatedly masked a look of satisfaction with concern again.

“I imagine your dear brother will be a great strength to you, and of course you to him,” she said unctuously. “He must be most distressed. It is at such a time that families must support each other.”

“Exactly what our father the bishop used to say,” Angeline agreed, leaning forward a little, her black dress creasing across her ample bosom. “He was such a remarkable man. The family is the strength of the nation, he used to say. And a virtuous and obedient woman is the heart of the family. And dear Clemency was certainly that.”

“Poor Theophilus passed on,” Celeste said with a touch of asperity. “I am surprised you did not know. It was in The Times.” For an instant Grandmama was confounded. It was no use saying she did not read obituaries; no one would have believed her. Births, deaths, marriages and the Court calendar were all that gentlewomen did read. Too much of the rest was sensational, contentious or otherwise unsuitable.

“I am so sorry,” Caroline murmured reluctantly. “When was it?”

“Two years ago,” Celeste answered with a slight shiver. “It was very sudden, such a shock to us.”

Caroline looked at Grandmama. “That will have been when you were ill yourself, and we did not wish to distress you. I imagine by the time you were recovered we had forgotten we had not told you.”

Grandmama refused to be obliged for the rescue. Charlotte was moved to admiration for her mother. She would have allowed the old lady to flounder.

“That is the obvious explanation,” Grandmama agreed, staring at Celeste and defying her to disbelieve.

A flicker of respect, and of a certain dry humor, crossed Celeste’s intelligent face.

“Doubtless.”

“It was very sudden indeed.” Angeline had not noticed the exchange at all. “I am afraid we were inclined to blame poor Stephen—that is, Dr. Shaw. He is our nephew-in-law, you know? Indeed I almost said as much, that he had given Theophilus insufficient care. Now I feel ashamed of myself, when the poor man is bereaved himself, and in such terrible circumstances.”

“Fire.” Grandmama shook her head. “How can such a thing have happened? A careless servant? I’ve always said servants are nothing like they used to be—they’re slovenly, impertinent and careless of detail. It is quite terrible. I don’t know what the world is coming to. I don’t suppose she had this new electrical lighting, did she? I don’t trust that at all. Dangerous stuff. Meddling with the forces of nature.”

“Oh, certainly not,” Angeline said quickly. “It was gas, like ours.” She barely glanced at the chandelier. Then she looked wistful and a little abashed. “Although I did see an advertisement for an electric corset the other day, and wondered what it might do.” She looked at Charlotte hopefully.

Charlotte had no idea; her mind had been on Theophilus and his unexpected death.

“I am sorry, Miss Worlingham, I did not see it. It sounds most uncomfortable—”

“Not to say dangerous,” Grandmama snapped. She not only disapproved of electricity, she disapproved even more of being interrupted in what she considered to be her conversation. “And absurd,” she added. “A bedpost and a maid with a good strong arm was sufficient for us—and we had waists a man could put his hands ’round—or at least could think of such a thing.” She swiveled back to Celeste. “What a mercy her husband was not also killed,” she said with a perfectly straight face, not even a flicker or a blush. “How did it happen?”

Caroline closed her eyes and Grandmama surreptitiously poked her with her stick to keep her from intervening.

Charlotte let out a sigh.

Celeste looked taken aback.

“He was out on a call,” Angeline answered with total candor. “A confinement a little earlier than expected. He is a doctor, you know, in many ways a fine man, in spite of—” She stopped as abruptly as she had begun, a tinge of pride creeping up her cheeks. “Oh dear, I do beg your pardon. One should not speak ill, our dear father was always saying that. Such a wonderful man!” She sighed and smiled, staling mistily into some distance within her mind. “It was such a privilege to have lived in the same house with him and been of service, caring for him, seeing that he was looked after as such a man should be.”

Charlotte looked at the plump, fair figure with its benign face, a blurred echo of her sister’s, softer, and more obviously vulnerable. She must have had suitors as a young woman. Surely she would rather have accepted one of them than spend her life ministering to her father’s needs, had she been permitted the chance. There were parents who kept their daughters at home as permanent servants, unpaid but for their keep, unable to give notice because they had no other means of support, ever dutiful, obedient, ever loving—and at the same time hating, as all prisoners do—until it was too late to leave even when the doors were at last opened by death.

Was Angeline Worlingham one of these? Indeed, were they both?

“And your brother also.” Grandmama was unstoppable; her beadlike eyes were bright and she sat upright with attention. “Another fine man. Tragic he should die so young. What was the cause?”

“Mama-in-law!” Caroline was aghast. “I really think we—Oh!” She gave a little squeal as the old lady’s stick poked her leg with a sharp pain.

“Have you the hiccups?” Grandmama inquired blandly. “Take a little more of your tea.” She returned to Celeste. “You were telling us of poor Theophilus’s passing. What a loss!”

“We do not know the cause,” Celeste said with chill. “It appears it may have been an apoplectic seizure of some sort, but we are not perfectly sure.”

“It was poor Clemency who found him,” Angeline added. “That is another thing for which I hold Stephen responsible. Sometimes he is a touch too free in his ideas. He expects too much.”

“All men expect too much,” Grandmama opined sententiously.

Angeline blushed furiously and looked at the floor; even Celeste looked uncomfortable.

This time Caroline ignored all strictures and spoke.

“That was a most unfortunate turn of phase,” she apologized. “I am sure that you meant it was unfair to expect Clemency to cope with the discovery of her father’s death, especially when it was quite unexpected.”

“Oh—of course.” Angeline collected herself with a gasp of relief. “He had been ill for a few days, but we had not presumed it serious. Stephen paid scant regard to it. Of course”—she drew down her brows and lowered her voice confidentially—“they were not as close as they might have been, in spite of being father- and son-in-law. Theophilus disapproved of some of Stephen’s ideas.”

“We all disapprove of them,” Celeste said with asperity. “But they were social and theological matters, not upon the subject of medicine. He is a very competent doctor. Everyone says so.”

“Indeed, he has many patients,” Angeline added eagerly, her plump hands fingering the beads at her bosom. “Young Miss Lutterworth would not go to anyone else.”

“Flora Lutterworth is no better than she should be,” Celeste said darkly. “She consults him at every fit and turn, and I have my own opinions that she would be a good deal less afflicted with whatever malady it is had Stephen a wart on the end of his nose, or a squint in one eye.”

“Nobody knows what it is,” Angeline whispered. “She looks as healthy as a horse to me. Of course they are very nouveau riche,” she added, explaining to Caroline and Charlotte. “Working-class really, for all that money. Alfred Lutterworth made it in cotton mills in Lancashire and only came down here when he sold them. He tries to act the gentleman, but of course everyone knows.”

Charlotte was unreasonably irritated; after all, this was the world in which she had grown up, and at one time might have thought similarly herself.

“Knows what?” she inquired with an edge to her voice.

“Why, that he made his money in trade,” Angeline said with surprise. “It is really quite obvious, my dear. He has brought up his daughter to sound like a lady, but speech is not all, is it?”

“Certainly not,” Charlotte agreed dryly. “Many who sound like ladies are anything but.”

Angeline took no double meaning and settled back in her seat with satisfaction, rearranging her skirts a trifle. “More tea?” she inquired, holding up the silver pot with its ornate, swan neck spout.

They were interrupted by the parlormaid’s return to announce that the vicar and Mrs. Clitheridge had called.

Celeste glanced at Grandmama, and realized she had not the slightest intention of leaving.

“Please show them in,” Celeste instructed with a lift of one of her heavy eyebrows. She did not glance at Angeline; humor was not something they were able to share, their perceptions were too different. “And bring more tea.”

Hector Clitheridge was solid and bland, with the sort of face that in his youth had been handsome, but was now marred by constant anxiety and a nervousness which had scored lines in his cheeks and taken the ease and directness out of his eyes. He came forward now in a rush to express his condolences yet again, and then was startled to find an additional three women there whom he did not know.

His wife, on the other hand, was quite homely and probably even in her very best years could only have offered no more charms than a freshness of complexion and a good head of hair. But her back was straight, she could well have walked with a pile of books on her head without losing any, and her eye was calm, her manner composed. Her voice was unusually low and agreeable.

“My dear Celeste—Angeline. I know we have already expressed our sympathies and offered our services, but the vicar thought we should call again, merely to assure you that we are most sincere. So often people say these things as a matter of custom, and one does not care to take them up on it for precisely that reason. Some people avoid the bereaved, which is scarcely Christian.”

“Quite,” her husband agreed, relief flooding his face. “If there is anything we can do for you?” He looked from one to the other of them as if he awaited a suggestion.

Celeste introduced them to the company already present, and everyone exchanged greetings.

“How very kind,” Clitheridge said, smiling at Grandmama. His hands fiddled with his badly tied tie, making it worse. “Surely a sign of true friendship when one comes in times of grief. Have you known the Misses Worlingham long? I do not recall having seen you here before.”

“Forty years,” Grandmama said promptly.

“Oh my goodness, how very fine. You must be exceedingly fond of each other.”

“And it is thirty of them since we last saw you.” Celeste finally lost her temper. It was apparent from her face that Grandmama mildly amused her, but the vicar’s waving hands and bland words irritated her beyond bearing. “So kind of you to have come just now when we are suffering a dramatic loss.”

Charlotte heard the sarcasm in her tone, and could see in the strong, intelligent face that none of the motives or excuses had passed her by.

Grandmama sniffed indignantly. “I told you, I did not read of poor Theophilus’s death. If I had I would surely have come then. It is the least one can do.”

“And at Papa’s death too, no doubt,” Celeste said with a very slight smile. “Except perhaps you did not read of that either?”

“Oh, Celeste. Don’t be ridiculous.” Angeline’s eyes were very wide. “Everyone heard of Papa’s passing. He was a bishop, after all, and a most distinguished one. He was respected by absolutely everybody!”

Caroline attempted to rescue Grandmama.

“I think perhaps when someone passes in the fullness of their years, it is not quite the same grief as when a younger person is cut off,” she offered.

Grandmama swung around and glared at her, and Caroline colored faintly, more with annoyance at herself than apology.

The vicar fidgeted from one foot to the other, opened his mouth to say something, then realized it was a family dispute, and retreated hastily.

Charlotte spoke at last.

“I came because I had heard of Mrs. Shaw’s magnificent work attempting to improve the housing standards of the poor,” she said into the silence. “I have several friends who held her in the very highest esteem, and feel her loss is one to the whole community. She was a very fine woman.”

There was utter silence. The vicar cleared his throat nervously. Angeline gave a little gasp, then put her handkerchief to her mouth and stifled it. Grandmama swiveled around in her seat with a crackle of taffeta and glared at Charlotte.

“I beg your pardon?” Celeste said huskily.

Charlotte realized with a hollowness, and a rush of blood up her cheeks, that obviously Clemency’s work was unknown to her family, and to her vicar. But it was impossible to retreat; she had left herself no room at all. There was nothing to do but advance and hope for the best.

“I said she was a very fine woman,” she repeated with a rather forced smile. “Her efforts to improve the living standards of the poor were greatly admired.”

“I fear you are laboring under a misapprehension, Mrs…. er—Pitt,” Celeste replied, now that she had recovered her poise. “Clemency was not concerned in any such matter. She did her ordinary duties such as any Christian woman will do. She took soup and the like, preserves and so on, to the deserving poor about the neighborhood, but so do we all. No one does as much as Angeline. She is always busy with some such thing. Indeed, I serve on several committees to assist young women who have—er—fallen into difficult circumstances and lost their character. You appear to have poor Clemency confused with someone else—I have not the slightest idea who.”

“Nor I,” Angeline added.

“It sounds a very virtuous work,” Mrs. Clitheridge put in tentatively. “And most courageous.”

“Quite unsuitable, my dear.” The vicar shook his head. “I am sure dear Clemency would not have done such a thing.”

“So am I.” Celeste finished the subject with a chilly stare at Charlotte, her rather heavy brows raised very slightly. “Nevertheless, it was gracious of you to call. I am sure your mistake was perfectly genuine.”

“Perfectly,” Charlotte assured her. “My informants were the daughter of a duke and a member of Parliament.”

Celeste was taken aback. “Indeed? You have some notable acquaintances—”

“Thank you.” Charlotte inclined her head as if accepting a compliment.

“There must be another lady by the same name,” the vicar suggested soothingly. “It seems unlikely, and yet what other explanation is there?”

“You must be right, my dear.” His wife touched his arm with approval. “It seems obvious now. Of course that is what has happened.”

“It all seems to be quite unimportant.” Grandmama reasserted her influence on the conversation. “My acquaintance is with you, and has been since our youth. I should like to pay my respects at the funeral, and should be greatly indebted if you would inform me as to when it is.”

“Oh certainly,” the vicar answered before either of the Misses Worlingham had time. “How kind of you. Yes—it is to be held in St. Anne’s, next Thursday at two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“I am obliged.” Grandmama was suddenly very gracious.

The door opened again and the parlormaid announced Mr. and Mrs. Hatch, and was followed immediately by a woman of about the same height as Angeline, and with a considerable resemblance to her in feature. The nose was a trifle more pronounced, the eyes had not faded, nor the hair, and she was obviously a generation younger, yet there was much in the bearing that was like, and she too wore the total black of mourning.

Her husband, only a step behind her, was of medium height and extreme gravity. He reminded Charlotte quite strongly of pictures of Mr. Gladstone, the great Liberal prime minister, in his earlier years. There was the same dedicated purpose in his stare, the same look of total rectitude and certainty in his own convictions. His side whiskers were less bristling and his nose of less grand proportions; still, the impression was sharp.

“My dear Prudence.” Celeste greeted Mrs. Hatch with outstretched hands.

“Aunt Celeste.” Prudence went to her and they kissed each other lightly, then she moved to her Aunt Angeline, and was kissed more closely and held a moment longer.

Josiah was more formal, but his condolences seemed every bit as sincere. In fact he looked quite obviously distressed; his face was pale and there was a drawn appearance to the skin about his mouth. His emotions were apparently very deep and he kept them in control with some effort.

“The whole situation is quite dreadful,” he said fixedly, looking at no one in particular. “Everywhere there is moral decline and decay. Young people in confusion, not knowing whom or what to admire anymore, women unprotected—” His voice was thick with distress. “Look at this unspeakable business in Whitechapel. Bestial—quite bestial. A sign of the chaos of our times—rising anarchy, the Queen closed up in Osborne ignoring us all, the Prince of Wales squandering his time and money in gambling and loose living, the Duke of Clarence worse.” Still he looked at no one, his mind consumed with his inner vision. His body was motionless, but there was great strength in it, a feeling of waiting power. “The coarsest and most absurd ideas are being propagated and there is one tragedy after another. Everything has begun to slip ever since the dear bishop died. What a terrible loss that was.” For a moment a look of sheer anguish crossed his features as if he gazed upon the end of a golden age, and all that followed must be darker and lonelier. His hands clenched in front of him, large knuckled and powerful. “And no one remotely near his stature has arisen to carry God’s light for the rest of us.”

“Theophilus …” Angeline said tentatively, then stopped. His look of contempt froze the words before they were formed.

“He was a good man,” Prudence said loyally.

“Of course he was,” her husband agreed. “But not his father’s equal, not by a very long way. He was a pygmy in comparison.” A strange mixture of grief and contempt crossed his face, then a zeal that had a wild beauty, almost visionary. “The bishop was a saint! He had wisdom incomparable with any of us. He understood the order of things as they should be, he had the insight into God’s ways and how we should live His word.” He smiled briefly. “How often I have heard him give counsel to men—and to women. Always his advice was wise and of spiritual and moral upliftment.”

Angeline sighed gently and reached for her handkerchief, a wisp of cambric and lace.

“Men be upright,” he continued. “Be utterly honest in your dealings, preside over your families, instruct your wives and children in the teachings of God. Women be obedient and virtuous, be diligent in your labors and they shall be your crown in heaven.”

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The strength of his emotion was so obvious she could not dismiss it, but the sentiment was one she longed to quarrel with.

“Love your children and teach them by your example,” Hatch went on, unaware of her, or anyone else. “Be chaste—and above all, be dutiful and be loyal to your family; therein lies your happiness and the happiness of the world.”

“Amen,” Angeline said with a sweet smile, her eyes raised as if in thought she could feel her father somewhere above her. “Thank you, Josiah, you have again reminded one of the purpose and reason for life. I don’t know what we should do without you. I do not mean to speak slightly of Theophilus, but more than once I have thought you were Papa’s true spiritual heir.”

The color spread up his cheeks and for a moment there seemed to be tears in his eyes.

“Thank you, my dear Angeline. No man alive could wish for a finer compliment, and I swear to you, I shall endeavor to live worthily of it.”

She beamed at him.

“The window?” Celeste said quietly, her face also softer and an expression of pleasure filling her eyes. “How is it progressing?”

“Very well,” he answered after a sharp sniff and a shake of his head. “Very well indeed. It is most gratifying to see how everyone in Highgate, and far beyond, wishes to remember him and give all they can. I think they truly realize that these are dark times full of the doubts and misguided philosophies that these days pass as some kind of greater freedom. If we do not show very plainly what is the right way, God’s way, then many souls will perish, and drag the innocent down with them.”

“You are so very right, Josiah,” Celeste put in.

“Indeed,” Angeline nodded. “Indeed you are.”

“And this window will be a powerful influence.” He would not be cut off before he had spoken his mind, even by agreement. “People will look at it, and remember what a great man Bishop Worlingham was, and revere his teachings. It is one of the achievements of my life, if I may say so, to perpetuate his name and the good works that he performed in his mortal existence here.”

“I’m sure we are all indebted to you,” Angeline said heartily. “And Papa’s work will not die as long as you are alive.”

“Indeed we are most grateful,” Celeste agreed. “I’m sure Theophilus would say so too, were he alive to do so.”

“Such a loss,” Clitheridge said awkwardly, two spots of pink coloring his cheeks.

His wife put her hand on his arm and her grip was surprisingly firm; Charlotte could see the white of her knuckles.

A pinched expression crossed Josiah Hatch’s face, drawing tight the corners of his mouth, and he blinked several times. It seemed a mixture of sudden envy and disapproval.

“Ah—I—I would have expected Theophilus to initiate such a project himself,” he said with wide eyes. “I am sometimes tempted to think, indeed I cannot avoid it, that Theophilus did not truly appreciate what an outstanding man his father was. Perhaps he was too close to him to realize how far above that of others were his thoughts and his ideals, how profound his perception.”

It seemed no one had anything to add to this, and there were several moments of uncomfortable silence.

“Ahem!” The vicar cleared his throat. “I think, if you will excuse me, we will leave you, and go and visit Mrs. Hardy. Such a sad case, so difficult to know what to say to be of comfort. Good day, ladies.” He bowed rather generally in the visitors’ direction. “Good day to you, Josiah. Come, Eulalia.” And taking his wife by the arm he went rather hastily out into the hallway and they heard the front door open and close again.

“Such a kind man—so kind,” Angeline said almost as if she were pronouncing an incantation. “And so is dear Lally, of course. Such a strength to him—and to us all.”

Charlotte thought that perhaps without her the vicar would collapse into incomprehensibility, but she forbore from saying so.

“He preaches a very good sermon,” Celeste said with faint surprise. “He is really very learned, you know. It doesn’t come through in his conversation, but perhaps that is as well. It doesn’t do to overwhelm people with more learning than they can understand. It offers neither comfort nor instruction.”

“How very true,” Prudence agreed. “In fact I admit at times I do not know what he is talking about. But Josiah assures me it is all extremely good sense, don’t you, my dear?”

“So it is,” he said decisively, nodding his head a little, but there was no warmth in his tone. “He is always up to date on what the learned doctors of theology have said, and frequently quotes their works; and he is always correct, because I have taken the liberty of checking.” He glanced briefly at the three visitors. “I have a considerable library, you know. And I have made it my business to take such periodicals as are enlightening and enlarging to the mind.”

“Very commendable.” Grandmama was frustrated with her enforced silence for so long. “I presume Theophilus inherited the bishop’s library?”

“He did not.” Celeste corrected her instantly. “I did.”

“Celeste wrote up all Papa’s sermons and notes for him,” Angeline explained. “And of course Theophilus was not interested in books,” she went on, looking with a nervous glance at Prudence. “He preferred paintings. He had a great many very fine paintings, mostly landscapes, you know? Lots of cows and water and trees and things. Very restful.”

“Charming,” Caroline said, simply for something to add to the conversation. “Are they oils or watercolors?”

“Watercolors, I believe. His taste was excellent, so I am told. His collection is worth a great deal.”

Charlotte was curious to know if Clemency had inherited it, or Prudence; but her family had already disgraced itself more than enough for one day. And she did not believe that the motive for Clemency’s murder, which they had all skirted delicately around mentioning, was money. Far more likely was the dangerous and radical reform she so passionately worked for—and apparently so secretly. Why had she not told even her aunts and her sister? Surely it was something to be proud of, most particularly with such a history of service as her grandfather’s?

Her speculation was cut short by the parlormaid arriving yet again to announce Dr. Stephen Shaw. And again, he was so hard on her heels that she almost bumped into him as she turned to leave. He was not above average height and of strong but not stocky build, but it was the vitality in his face that dominated everything else and made the others in the room seem composed of browns and grays. Even tragedy, which had left its mark on him in shadows around his eyes and more deeply scored lines around his mouth, did not drain from him the inner energy.

“ ’Afternoon, Aunt Celeste, Aunt Angeline.” His voice was excellent with a resonance and a diction full of character and yet in no way eccentric. “Josiah—Prudence.” He gave her a light kiss on the cheek, more a gesture than anything else, but a shadow of irritation crossed Hatch’s face. There was the bleakest flicker of amusement in Shaw’s eyes as he turned to look at Grandmama, Caroline and Charlotte.

“Mrs. Ellison,” Celeste explained, introducing Grandmama. “She was a friend of ours some forty years ago. She called to give us her condolences.”

“Indeed.” The shadow of a smile became more distinct around his mouth. “For the bishop, for Theophilus, or for Clemency?”

“Stephen—you should not speak flippantly of such matters,” Celeste said sharply. “It is most unseemly. You will allow people to take the wrong notion.”

Without waiting for invitation he sat down in the largest chair.

“My dear aunt, there is nothing in creation I can do to prevent people from taking the wrong notion, if that is what they wish to do.” He swung around to face Grandmama. “Most civil of you. You must have a great deal of news to catch up on—after such a space.”

Neither the implication nor his amusement were lost on Grandmama, but she refused to acknowledge them even by an excuse. “My daughter-in-law, Mrs. Caroline Ellison,” she said coldly. “And my granddaughter, Mrs. Pitt.”

“How do you do.” Shaw inclined his head courteously to Caroline. Then as he looked at Charlotte, a flash of interest crossed his features, as though he saw in her face something unusual.

“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt. Surely you are not acquainted with the Misses Worlingham also?”

Hatch opened his mouth to say something, but Charlotte cut across him.

“Not until today; but of course the bishop was much admired by repute.”

“How excellently you choose your words, Mrs. Pitt. I presume you did not know him personally either?”

“Of course she didn’t!” Hatch snapped. “He has been gone about ten years—to our misfortune.”

“Let us hope it was not to his.” Shaw smiled at Charlotte with his back to his brother-in-law.

“How dare you!” Hatch was furious, spots of color mottling his cheeks. He was still standing and he glared down at Shaw. “We are all more than tired of hearing your irreverent and critical remarks. You may imagine some twisted modicum of what you are pleased to call humor excuses anything at all—but it does not. You make a mock of too much. You encourage people to be light-minded and jeer at the things they should most value. That you could not appreciate the virtue of Bishop Worlingham says more about your own shallowness and triviality than it does about the magnitide of his character!”

“I think you are being a trifle harsh, Josiah,” his wife said soothingly. “I daresay Stephen did not mean anything by it.”

“Of course he did.” Hatch would not be placated. “He is always making derisory remarks which he imagines to be amusing.” His voice rose and he looked at Celeste. “He did not even wish to donate to the window. Can you imagine? And he supports that wretched man Lindsay in his revolutionary paper which questions the very foundations of decent society.”

“No it doesn’t,” Shaw said. “It merely puts out certain ideas on reform which would distribute wealth more equitably.”

“More equitably than what?” Hatch demanded. “Our present system? That amounts to overthrow of the government—in fact, revolution, as I said.”

“No it does not.” Shaw was overtly annoyed now and he swung around in his chair to face Hatch. “They believe in a gradual change, through legislation, to a system of collectivist state ownership of the means of producing wealth, with workers’ control—full employment and appropriation of unearned increment—”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Stephen,” Angeline said with her face screwed up in concentration.

“Neither do I,” Celeste agreed. “Are you speaking about George Bernard Shaw and those fearful Webbs?”

“He is talking about anarchy and the total change or loss of everything you know!” Hatch replied with very real anger.

This was far deeper than the reopening of an old family quarrel. They were profound issues of morality. And turning from him to Shaw, Charlotte believed that in his eyes also she saw a fire of seriousness beneath the perception of a very surface absurdity. Humor was always with him, it was deep in all the lines of his face, but it was only the outer garment of a passionate mind.

“People can get away with anything these days,” Grandmama said unhelpfully. “In my youth, Bernard Shaw, Mr. Webb, and their like would have been put in prison before they were permitted to speak of such ideas—but today they are quite openly quoted. And of course Mrs. Webb is quite beyond the pale.”

“Be quiet,” Caroline said sharply. “You are making bad into worse.”

“It is already worse,” the old lady retorted in a stage whisper audible to everyone in the room.

“Oh dear.” Angeline wrung her hands nervously, looking from one to the other of her nephews-in-law.

Charlotte attempted to repair some of the damage.

“Mr. Hatch, do you not think that when people read the ideas proposed in these pamphlets they will consider them, and if they are truly evil or preposterous then they will see them for what they are, and reject them out of hand? After all, is it not better they should know what they stand for and so find them the more repellent and frightening, than merely by our recounting of them? Truth cannot but benefit from the comparison.”

Hatch stopped with his breath drawn in and his mouth open. Her premise was one he could not possibly deny, and yet to do so would rob him of his argument against Shaw.

For seconds the silence hung. A carriage rattled past the street going up Highgate Hill. A snatch of song came from somewhere upstairs and was hushed instantly, presumably some young housemaid disciplined for levity.

“You are very young, Mrs. Pitt,” Hatch said at last. “I fear you do not fully grasp the weakness of some people, how easily greed, ignorance and envy can draw them to espouse values that are quite obviously false to those of us who have had the advantage of a moral upbringing. Unfortunately there are an increasing number”— here he shot a bright, hard glance at Shaw—“who confuse freedom with license and thus behave completely irresponsibly. We have just such a person here, named John Dalgetty, who keeps a shop of sorts, selling books and pamphlets, some of which pander to the lowest possible tastes, some which excite flighty minds to dwell on subjects with which they are quite unable to deal, questions of philosophy disruptive both to the individual and to society.”

“Josiah would have a censor to tell everyone what they may read and what they may not.” Shaw turned to Charlotte, his arms wide, his eyebrows raised. “No one would have had a new idea, or questioned an old one, since Noah landed on Ararat. There would be no inventors, no explorations of the mind, nothing to challenge or excite, nothing to stretch the boundaries of thought. No one would do anything that hadn’t been done before. There would certainly be no Empire.”

“Balderdash,” Charlotte said frankly, then blanched at her temerity. Aunt Vespasia might be able to get away with such candor, but she had neither the social status nor the beauty for it. But it was too late to withdraw it. “I mean, you will never stop people from having radical thoughts, or from speaking them—”

Shaw started to laugh. It was a rich, wonderful sound; even around all the black crepes and the somber faces, it was full of joy.

“How can I argue with you?” He controlled his mirth with difficulty. The room seemed alight with his presence. “You are the perfect argument for your case. Obviously not even Josiah’s presence in person can stop you from saying precisely what comes into your mind.”

“I apologize,” she said, uncertain whether to be offended, embarrassed, orto laugh with him. Grandmama was outraged, probably because Charlotte was the center of attention; Caroline was mortified; and Angeline, Celeste and Prudence were struck dumb. Josiah Hatch struggled between conflicting emotions so powerful he dared not put them into speech. “I was extremely discourteous,” she added. “Whatever my opinions, they were not asked for, and I should not have expressed them so forcefully.”

“You should not have expressed them at all,” Grandmama snapped, sitting bolt upright and glaring at her. “I always said your marriage would do you no good—and heaven knows you were wayward enough to begin with. Now you are a disaster. I should not have brought you.”

Charlotte would have liked to retort that she should not have come herself—but it was not the time, and perhaps there was no such time.

Shaw came to Charlotte’s rescue.

“I am delighted that you did, Mrs. Ellison. I am exceedingly tired of the polite but meaningless conversation of people who wish to express their sympathy but endlessly repeat each other simply because there is nothing anyone can say that is deep enough.” His face lightened. “Words do not encompass it, nor do they bridge the gap between those who grieve and those who do not. It is a relief to talk of something else.”

Suddenly the memory of Somerset Carlisle and the sorrow in his face was as clear in Charlotte’s mind as if he had been here in the room with them.

“May I speak privately with you, Dr. Shaw?”

“Really!” Prudence murmured in amazement.

“Well …” Angeline fluttered her hands as if to brush something away.

“Charlotte,” Caroline said warningly.

The same smile touched Shaw’s mouth with amusement.

“Certainly. We shall repair to the library.” He glanced at Celeste. “And leave the door open,” he added deliberately, and watched her scowl with irritation. A protest rose to her lips, and she abandoned it; the explanation of what she had not thought, or implied, was worse than its absence. She shot him a look of intense annoyance.

He held the door open for Charlotte and then as she swept out, chin high, he followed her and strode ahead. Since she had no idea where she was going, he led the way to the library, which turned out to be as impressive and pompous as the hall, with cases and cases of leather-bound books in brown and burgundy and dark green, all lettered with gold. Pious scripts were framed in mahogany on the free wall space, and there was a large picture of some high church dignitary above the mantelpiece, carved in marble and inset with quartz pillars supporting the shelf. Massive leather-covered chairs occupied much of the dark green carpet, giving the whole room a claustrophobic feeling. A large bronze statue of a lion ornamented the one table. The curtains, like those in the withdrawing room, were heavily fringed, tied back with fringed sashes, and splayed carefully over the floor at their base.

“Not a room to put you at your ease, is it?” Shaw met her eyes very directly. “But then that was never the intention.” A smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Are you impressed?”

“That was the intention?” She smiled back.

“Oh assuredly. And are you?”

“I’m impressed with how much money he must have had.” She was perfectly frank without even considering it. He was a man whose honesty demanded from her exactly the same. “All these leather-bound books. There must be a hundred pounds’ worth in every case. The contents of the whole room would keep an average family for at least two years—food, gaslight, a new outfit for every season, coal enough to keep them thoroughly warm, roast beef every Sunday and goose for Christmas, and pay a housemaid to boot.”

“Indeed it is, but the good bishop did not see it that way. Books are not only the source of knowledge, but the display of them is the symbol of it.” He made a slight gesture of distaste with his shoulders, and paced over to the mantel, and back again, straightening the bronze as he passed it.

“You were not fond of him,” she said with a half smile.

Again his face was unwaveringly direct. In any other man she might have felt it bold, but it was so obviously part of his nature only the most conceited woman would have interpreted it so.

“I disagreed with him about almost everything.” He waved his hands. “Not, of course, that that is the same thing. I do not mean to equivocate. I apologize. No, I was not fond of him. Some beliefs are fundamental, and color everything that a man is.”

“Or a woman,” she added.

His smile was sudden and illuminated his entire face. “Of course. Again, I apologize. It is very avant-garde to suppose that women think at all; I am surprised you mention it. You must keep most unusual company. Are you related to the policeman Pitt who is investigating the fire?”

She noticed that he did not say “Clemency’s death,” and the flicker of pain in his moment of hesitation was not lost on her. He might mask the hurt, but the second’s glimpse of it showed a side of him that she liked even better.

“Yes—he is my husband.” It was the only time she had admitted it when she was involving herself in a case. Every other time she had used her anonymity to gain an advantage. And also, the wives of policemen were not received in society, any more than would be the tradesmen’s wives. Commerce was considered vulgar; trade was beneath mention. In fact the very necessity of earning money at all was not spoken of in the best circles. One simply presumed it came from lands or investments. Labor was honest and good for the soul, and the morals; but the more leisure one had, the greater status one possessed.

He stood perfectly still for a moment, and the very unnaturalness of it in him spoke a kind of pain.

“Is that why you came—to learn more information about us? And brought your mother and grandmother too!”

The only possible answer was the truth. Any alternatives, however laced with honesty, would jar on his ear and degrade them both.

“I think curiosity may well be why Grandmama came. Mama, I think, came with her to try to make it a little less—awful.” She stood facing him across the table with its rampant bronze lion. “I came because I heard from Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, and Mr. Somerset Carlisle, that Mrs. Shaw was a most remarkable person who had given much time to fighting against the power of slum landlords, that she wished to change the law to make them more accessible to public awareness.”

They were standing barely a yard from each other and she was acutely aware of his total attention.

“Mr. Carlisle said she had an unusual passion and unselfishness about it,” she went on. “She was not looking for personal praise nor for a cause to occupy herself, but that she simply cared. I felt such a woman’s death should not go unsolved, nor people who would murder her in order to protect their miserable money remain unexposed—and perhaps scandal of that might even further her work. But your aunts tell me she was not involved in anything of that kind. So it seems I have the wrong Clemency Shaw.”

“No you have not.” Now his voice was very quiet and he moved at last, turning a little away from her towards the mantelpiece and the fire. “She did not choose to tell anyone else what she was doing. She had her reasons.”

“But you knew?”

“Oh yes. She trusted me. We had been”—he hesitated, choosing his word carefully—“friends … for a long time.”

She wondered why he chose the term. Did it mean they had been more than merely lovers—or something less—or both?

He turned back and looked directly at her, without bothering to disguise the grief in his face, nor its nature. She thought he did mean “friends,” and not more.

“She was a remarkable woman.” He used her own words. “I admired her very much. She had an extraordinary inner courage. She could know things, and face them squarely, that would have crushed most people.” He drew in his breath and let it out slowly. “There is a terrible empty space where she used to be, a goodness no longer here.”

She wanted to move forward and touch him, put her hand over his and convey her empathy in the simplest and most immediate way. But such a gesture would be bold, intrusively intimate between a man and a woman who had met only moments ago. All she could do was stand on the spot and repeat the words anyone would use.

“I’m sorry, truly I am sorry.”

He swung his hands out wide, then starting pacing the floor again. He did not bother to thank her; such trivialities could be taken for granted between them.

“I should be very glad if you learned anything.” Quite automatically he adjusted the heavy curtains to remove a crooked fold, then swung back to face her. “If I can help, tell me how, and I shall do it.”

“I will.”

His smile returned for an instant, full of warmth.

“Thank you. Now let us return and see if Josiah and the aunts have been totally scandalized—unless, of course, there is something else you wish to say?”

“No—not at all. I simply desired to know if I was mistaken in my beliefs, or if there were two people with such an unusual name.”

“Then we may leave the wild seductiveness of the bishop’s library”—he glanced around it with a rueful smile—“and return to the propriety of the withdrawing room. Really, you know, Mrs. Pitt, we should have conducted this interview in the conservatory. They have a magnificent one here, full of wrought iron stands with palms and ferns and potted flowers. It would have given them so much more to be shocked about.”

She regarded him with interest. “You enjoy shocking them, don’t you?”

His expression was a curious mixture of impatience and pity.

“I am a doctor, Mrs. Pitt; I see a great deal of real suffering. I get impatient with the unnecessary pain imposed by hypocrisy and idle imaginations which have nothing better to do than speculate unkindly and create pain where there need be none. Yes, I hate idiotic pretense and I blow it away where I can.”

“But what do your aunts know of your reality?”

“Nothing,” he admitted, pulling his face into a rueful smile. “They grew up here. They have neither of them ever left this house except to make social calls or to attend suitable functions and charitable meetings which never see the objects of their efforts. The old bishop kept them here after his wife died; Celeste to write his letters, read to him, look up reference works for his sermons and discourses and to keep him company when he wished to talk. She also plays the piano, loudly when she is in a temper, and rather badly, but he couldn’t tell. He liked the idea of music, but he was indifferent to its practice.”

Even standing in the doorway his intense inner energy was such that he could not keep entirely still. “Angeline took care of all his domestic needs and ran the household, and read romantic novels in brown paper wrappers when no one was looking. They never kept a housekeeper. He considered it a woman’s place and her fulfillment to keep a home for a man and make it a haven of peace and security.” He waved his hands, strong and neat. “Free from all the evils and soil of the outer world with its vulgarity and greed. And Angeline has done precisely that—all her life. I suppose one should hardly blame her if she knows nothing else. I stand reproved. Neither her ignorance nor her sometime fatuity are her fault.”

“They must have had suitors?” Charlotte said before she thought.

He was tidying the curtains automatically and straightened up to look at her.

“Of course. But he saw them off in short shrift, and made sure the call of duty drowned out everything else.”

Charlotte saw a world of disappointment and domestic details, suppressed and confused passions forever overlaid by pious words and the irresistible pressures of ignorance, fear and guilt; duty always winning in the end. Whatever the Worlingham sisters did to occupy their minds and justify the arid years of their lives was to be pitied, not added to further by blame.

“I don’t think I would have cared for the bishop either,” she said with a tight smile. “Although I suppose he is like a great many. They are certainly not the only daughters whose lives have been spent so, with father—or mother. I have known several.”

“And I,” he agreed.

Perhaps the conversation might have gone further had not Caroline and Grandmama appeared in the doorway of the withdrawing room across the hall and seen them.

“Ah, good,” Caroline said immediately. “You are ready to leave. We were just saying good-bye to the Misses Worlingham. Mr. and Mrs. Hatch have already gone.” She looked at Shaw. “May we extend our condolences to you, Dr. Shaw, and apologize for intruding upon a family occasion. You have been most courteous. Come, Charlotte.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Shaw.” Charlotte held out her hand and he took it immediately, holding it till she felt the warmth of him through her gloves.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Pitt. I look forward to our meeting again. Good day to you.”

“Perhaps I should—” Charlotte glanced towards the withdrawing room door.

“Nonsense!” Grandmama snapped. “We have said all that is necessary. It is time we left.” And she marched out of the front door, held open for them by a footman; the parlormaid was presumably occupied in the kitchen.

“Well?” Grandmama demanded when they were seated in the carriage.

“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte pretended mystification.

“What did you ask Shaw, and what did he say, child?” Grandmama said impatiently. “Don’t affect to be stupid with me. Awkward you may be, and certainly lacking in any degree of subtlety whatever, but you are not without native wit. What did that man say to you?”

“That Clemency was precisely what I had supposed her,” Charlotte replied. “But that she preferred to keep her work for the poor a private matter, even from her family, and he would be most obliged if I learned anything about who murdered her.”

“Indeed,” Grandmama said dubiously. “He took an uncommonly long time to say so little. I shouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if he did it himself. There is a great deal of money in the Worlingham family, you know, and Theophilus’s share, as the only son, passed to his daughters equally. Shaw stands to inherit everything poor Clemency had.” She rearranged her skirts more carefully. “And according to Celeste, even that is not sufficient for him. He has set his cap on that young Flora Lutterworth, and she is little better than she should be, chasing after him, seeing him in private goodness knows how many times a month. Her father is furious. He has ambitions for her a great deal higher than a widowed doctor twice her age and of no particular background. Caroline, please move yourself farther to the left; you have not left me sufficient room. Thank you.” She settled herself again. “They have quarreled over it quite obviously, to any discerning eye. And I daresay Mrs. Clitheridge has had a word with her, in a motherly sort of way. It is part of the vicar’s duty to care for the moral welfare of his flock.”

“What makes you think that?” Caroline said with a frown.

“For goodness sake, use your wits!” Grandmama glared at her. “You heard Angeline say Lally Clitheridge and Flora Lutterworth had had a heated and most unpleasant exchange, and were hardly on speaking terms with one another. No doubt that was what it was about—anyone could deduce that, without being a detective.” She turned a malevolent eye on Charlotte. “No—your doctor friend had every reason to have done away with his wife—and no doubt he did. Mark my words.”