Highgate Rise

8

PITT AND MURDO were working from early in the morning until long after dark pursuing every scrap of material evidence until there was nothing else to learn. The Highgate police themselves were still searching for the arsonist they were convinced was guilty, but as yet they had not found him, although they felt that every day’s inquiry brought them closer. There had been other fires started in similar manner: an empty house in Kentish Town, a stable in Hampstead, a small villa to the north in Crouch End. They questioned every source of fuel oil within a three-mile radius of Highgate, but discovered no purchases other than those which were accounted for by normal household needs. They asked every medical practitioner if they had treated burns not explained to their certain knowledge. They counseled with neighboring police and fire forces on the name, present whereabouts, past history and methods of every other person known to have committed arson in the last ten years, and learned nothing of use.

Pitt and Murdo also delved into the value, insurance and ownership of all the houses that had been burned, and found nothing in common. Then they asked into the dispositions in wills and testaments of Clemency Shaw and Amos Lindsay. Clemency bequeathed everything of which she died possessed to her husband, Stephen Robert Shaw, with the solitary exception of a few personal items to friends; and Amos Lindsay left his works of art, his books and the mementos of his travels also to Stephen Shaw, and the house itself most surprisingly to Matthew Oliphant, a startling and unexplained gift of which Pitt entirely approved. It was just one more evidence of a kind and most unconventional man.

He knew that Charlotte was busy, but since she was traveling in Great-Aunt Vespasia’s carriage, and with her footman in attendance, he was satisfied there was no danger involved. He thought there was also little profit, since she had told him she was pursuing Clemency Shaw’s last known journeys, and he was quite sure, since Lindsay’s death, that Clemency had been killed by chance and the true intended victim was Stephen Shaw.

So the morning after the dinner at Vespasia’s house in which they had learned the extent and nature of the law, Charlotte dressed herself in tidy but unremarkable clothes. This was not in the least difficult, since that description encompassed the greater part of her wardrobe. She then waited for Emily and Jack to arrive.

They came surprisingly early. She had not honesüy thought Emily rose at an hour to make this possible, but Emily was at the door before nine, looking her usual fashionable self, with Jack only a pace behind her, dressed in plain, undistinguished browns.

“It won’t do,” Charlotte said immediately.

“I am quite aware that it won’t.” Emily came in, gave her a quick peck on the cheek and made her way to the kitchen. “I am only half awake. For pity’s sake have Gracie put on the kettle. I shall have to borrow something of yours. Everything of mine looks as if it cost at least as much as it did—which of course was the intention. Have you got a brown dress? I look terrible in brown.”

“No I haven’t,” Charlotte said a little stiffly. “But I have two dark plum-colored ones, and you would look just as terrible in either of them.”

Emily broke into laughter, her face lighting up and some of the tiredness vanishing.

“Thank you, my dear. How charming of you. Do they both fit you, or might one of them be small enough for me?”

“No.” Charlotte joined in the mood, her eyes wide, preventing herself from smiling back with difficulty. “They will be excellent ’round the waist, but too big in the bosom!”

“Liar!” Emily shot back. “They will bag around the waist, and I shall trip over the skirts. Either will do excellently. I shall go and change while you make the tea. Are we taking Gracie as well? It will hardly be a pleasant adventure for her.”

“Please ma’am?” Gracie said urgently. She had tasted the excitement of the chase, of being included, and was bold enough to plead her own cause. “I can ’elp. I unnerstand them people.”

“Of course,” Charlotte said quickly. “If you wish. But you must stay close to us at all times. If you don’t there is no accounting for what may happen to you.”

“Oh I will, ma’am,” she promised, her sober little face as grave as if she were swearing an oath. “An’ I’ll watch an’ listen. Sometimes I knows w’en people is tellin’ lies.”

Half an hour later the four of them set out in Emily’s second carriage on the journey to Mile End to trace the ownership of the tenement house to which Charlotte had followed the trail of Clemency Shaw. Their first intent was to discover the rent collector and learn from him for whom he did this miserable duty.

She had made note of the exact location. Even so it took them some time to find it again; the streets were narrow and took careful negotiation through the moil of costers’ barrows, old clothes carts, peddlers, vegetable wagons and clusters of people buying, selling and begging. So many of the byways looked alike; pavements wide enough to allow the passage of only one person; the cobbled centers, often with open gutters meandering through them filled with the night’s waste; the jettied houses leaning far out over the street, some so close at the top as to block out most of the daylight. One could imagine people in the upper stories being able to all but shake hands across the divide, if they leaned out far enough, and were minded to do so.

The wood was pitted where sections were rotten and had fallen away, the plaster was dark with stains of old leakage and rising dampness from the stones, and here and there ancient pargetting made half-broken patterns or insignia.

People stood in doorways, dark forms huddled together, faces catching the light now and then as one or another moved.

Emily reached out and took Jack’s hand. The teeming, fathomless despair of it frightened her. She had never felt quite this kind of inadequacy. There were so many. There was a child running along beside them, begging. He was no older than her own son sitting at home in his schoolroom struggling with learning his multiplication tables and looking forward to luncheon, apart from the obligatory rice pudding which he loathed, and the afternoon, when he could play.

Jack fished in his pockets for a coin and threw it for the boy. The child dived on it as it rolled almost under the carriage wheels and for a sickening moment Emily thought he would be crushed. But he emerged an instant later, jubilant, clutching the coin in a filthy hand and biting his teeth on it to check its metal.

Within moments a dozen more urchins were close around them, calling out, stretching their hands, fighting each other to reach them first. Older men appeared. There were catcalls, jeers, threats; and all the time the crowd closing in till the horses could barely make their way forward and the coachman was afraid to urge them in case he crushed the weight of yelling, writhing, shoving humanity.

“Oh my God!” Jack looked ashen, realizing suddenly what he had done. Frantically he turned out his pockets for more.

Emily was thoroughly frightened. She hunched down on the seat, closer to his side. There seemed to be clamoring, reaching people all around them, hands grasping, faces contorted with hunger and hatred.

Gracie was wrapped with her shawl around her, wide-eyed, frozen.

Charlotte did not know what Jack intended that would help, but she emptied out her own few coins to add to his.

He took them without hesitation and forcing the window open flung them as far behind the coach as he could.

Instantly the crowd parted and dived where the coins had fallen. The coachman urged the horses forward and they were free, clattering down the road, wheels hissing on the damp surface.

Jack fell back on the seat, still pale, but the beginning of a smile on his lips.

Emily straightened up and turned to look at him, her eyes very bright and her color returned. Now as well as pity and fear, there was a new, sharp admiration.

Charlotte too felt a very pleasant respect which had not been there before.

When they reached the tenement it was decided Charlotte and Gracie should go in, since they were familiar to the occupants. To send more might appear like a show of force and produce quite the opposite effect from the one they wished.

“Mr. Thickett?” A small group of drab women looked from one to another. “Dunno w’ere ’e comes from. ’E jus’ comes every week and takes the money.”

“Is it his house?” Charlotte asked.

“ ’Ow the ’ell der we know?” a toothless woman said angrily. “An’ why der you care, eh? Wot’s it ter you? ’Oo are yer any’ow, comin’ ’ere arskin’ questions?”

“We pays our rent an’ we don’ make no trouble,” another added, folding fat arms over an even fatter bosom. It was a vaguely threatening stance, although she held no weapon nor had any within reach. It was the way she rocked very slightly on her feet and stared fiercely at Charlotte’s face. She was a woman with little left to lose, and she knew it.

“We wanna rent,” Gracie said quickly. “We’ve bin put aht o’ our own place, an’ we gotta find summink else quick. We can’t wait till rent day; we gotta find it now.”

“Oh—why dincher say so?” The woman looked at Charlotte with a mixture of pity and exasperation. “Proud, are yer? Stupid, more like. Fallen on ’ard times, ’ave yer, livin’ too ’igh on the ’og—an’ now yer gotta come down in the world? ’Appens to lots of folk. Well, Thickett don’t come today, but fer a consideration I’ll tell yer w’ere ter find ’im—”

“We’re on ’ard times,” Gracie said plaintively.

“Yeah? Well your ’ard times in’t the same as my ’ard times.” The woman’s pale mouth twisted into a sneer. “I in’t arskin’ money. O’ course you in’t got no money, or yer wouldn’t be ’ere—but I’ll ’ave yer ’at.” She looked at Charlotte, then at her hands and saw their size, and looked instead at Gracie’s brown woollen shawl. “An’ ’er shawl. Then I’ll tell yer w’ere ter go.”

“You can have the hat now.” Charlotte took it off as she spoke. “And the shawl if we find Thickett where you say. If we don’t—” She hesitated, a threat on her lips, then looked at the hard disillusioned face and knew its futility. “Then you’ll do without,” she ended.

“Yeah?” The woman’s voice was steeped in years of experience. “An’ w’en yer’ve got Thickett yer goin’ ter come back ’ere ter give me yer shawl. Wotcher take me for, eh? Shawl now, or no Thickett.”

“Garn,” Gracie said with withering scorn. “Take the ’at and be ’appy. No Thickett, no ’at. She may look like gentry, but she’s mean w’en she’s crossed—an’ she’s crossed right now! Wotsa matter wiv yer—yer stupid or suffink? Take the ’at and give us Thickett.” Her little face was tight with disgust and concentration. She was on an adventure and prepared to risk everything to win.

The woman saw her different mettle, heard the familiar vowels in her voice and knew she was dealing with one more her own kind. She dropped the bluff, shrugging her heavy shoulders. It had been a reasonable attempt, and you could not blame one for trying.

“Yer’ll find Thickett in Sceptre Street, big ’ouse on the corner o’ Usk. Go ter ve back an’ ask fer Tom Thickett, an’ say it’s ter give ’im rent. They’ll let yer in, an’ if yer says aught abaht money e’ll listen ter yer.” She snatched the hat out of Charlotte’s hands and ran her fingers over it appreciatively, her lips pursed in concentration. “If yer on ’and times, ’ock a few o’ these and yer’ll ’ave enough ter eat for days. ’Ard times. Yer don’ know ’ard times from nuffin’.”

No one argued with her. They knew their poverty was affected for the occasion and a lie excusable only by its brevity, and their own flicker of knowledge as to what its reality would be.

Back in the carriage, huddled against the chill, they rode still slowly to Sceptre Street as the woman had told them. The thoroughfare was wider, the houses on each side broader fronted and not jettied across the roadway, but the gutters still rolled with waste and smelled raw and sour, and Charlotte wondered if she would ever be able to get the stains out of the bottom of her skirts. Emily would probably throw hers away. She would have to make some recompense to Gracie for this. She looked across at her thin body, as upright as Aunt Vespasia, in her own way, but a full head shorter. Her face, with its still childish softness of skin, was more alive with excitement than she had ever seen it before.

They stepped down at the designated corner and crossed the footpath, wider here, and knocked on the door. When a tousle-headed maid answered they asked for Mr. Thickett, stating very clearly that it was a matter of money, and some urgency to it, Gracie putting in a dramatic sniff. They were permitted to enter and led to a chilly room apparently used for storing furniture and for such occasional meetings as this. Several chests and old chairs were piled recklessly on top of each other, and there was a table missing a leg and a bundle of curtains which seemed to have rotted in places with damp. The whole smelled musty and Emily pulled a face as soon as they were inside.

There was no place to sit down, and she remembered with a jolt that they were supplicants now, seeking a favor of this man and in no position to be anything but crawlingly civil. Only the remembrance of Clemency Shaw’s death, the charred corpse in her imagination, enabled her to do it.

“He won’t tell us the owner,” she whispered quickly. “He thinks he has the whip hand of us if we are here to beg half a room from him.”

“You’re right, m’lady,” Gracie whispered back, unable to forget the title even here. “If ’e’s a rent collector ’e’ll be a bully—they always is—an’ like as not big wif it. ’E won’t do nuffin’ fer nobody less’n ’e ’as ter.”

For a moment they were all caught in confusion. The first story would no longer serve. Then Jack smiled just as they heard heavy footsteps along the passageway and the door opened to show a big man, barrel-chested, with a hatchet face, jutting nose and small, round, clever eyes. He hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat, which was once beige but was now mottled and faded with years of misuse.

“Well?” He surveyed them with mild curiosity. He had only one yardstick by which he measured people. Could they pay the rent, either by means already in their possession or by some they could earn, steal or sublet to obtain. He looked at the women also, not as possessors of money or labor force worth considering, but to see if they were handsome or young enough to earn their livings on the street. He judged them all handsome enough, but only Gracie to have the necessary realism. The other two, and it showed plainly in his face, would have to come down a good deal farther in the world before they were accommodating enough to please a paying customer. However, a friendliness made up for a lot of flaws, in fact almost anything except age.

On the other hand, Jack looked like a dandy, in spite of his rather well-worn clothes. They might be old, but that did not disguise the flair with which he tied his cravat, or the good cut of the shoulders and the lie of the lapels. No, here was a man who knew and liked the good things. If he was on hard times he would make no worker: his hands, smooth, well-manicured and gloveless, attested to that. But then he did look shrewd, and there was an air about him of easiness, a charm. He might make an excellent trickster, well able to live on his arts. And he would not be the first gentieman to do that—by a long way.

“So yer want a room?” he said mildly. “I daresay as I can find yer one. Mebbe if yer can pay fer it, one all ter yerselves, like. Ow abaht five shillin’s a week?”

Jack’s lip curled with distaste and he reached out and put his hand on Emily’s arm. “Actually you mistake our purpose,” he said very frankly, looking at Thickett with hard eyes. “I represent Smurfitt, Taylor and Mordue, Solicitors. My name is John Consterdine.” He saw Thickett’s face tighten in a mixture of anger and caution. “There is a suit due to be heard regarding property upon which there have been acts of negligence which bear responsibility for considerable loss. Since you collect the rents for this property, we assume you own it, and therefore are liable—”

“No I don’t!” Thickett’s eyes narrowed and he tightened his body defensively. “I collect rents, that’s all. Just collect. That’s an honest job and yer got no business wi’ me. I can’t ’elpyer.”

“I am not in need of help, Mr. Thickett,” Jack said with considerable aplomb. “It is you, if you own the property, who will shortly be in prison for undischarged debt—”

“Oh no I won’t. I don’t own nuffin but this ’ouse, which in’t ’ad nuffin wrong wif it fer years. Anyway”—he screwed up his face in new appraisal, his native common sense returning, now the first alarm had worn off—“if yer a lawyer, ’oo are they? Lawyers’ clerks, eh?” He jabbed a powerful finger towards Emily, Charlotte and Gracie.

Jack answered with transparent honesty.

“This is my wife, this is my sister-in-law, and this is her maid. I brought them because I knew you would be little likely to see me alone, having a good idea who I was and why I came. And circumstances proved me right. You took us for a family on hard fortune and needing to rent your rooms. The law requires that I serve papers on you—” He made as if to reach into his inside pocket.

“No it don’t,” Thickett said rapidly. “I don’t own no buildings; like I said, I just collect the rents—”

“And put them in your pocket,” Jack finished for him. “Good. You’ll likely have a nice fund somewhere to pay the costs—”

“All I ’ave is me wage wot I’m paid for it. I give all the rest, ceptin’ my bit, over.”

“Oh yes?” Jack’s eyebrows went up disbelievingly. “To whom?”

“Ter ve manager, o’ course. Ter ’im wot manages the business fer ’o’ever owns all them buildings along Lisbon Street.”

“Indeed? And who is he?” The disbelief was still there.

“I dunno. W’ere the ’ell are you from? D’yer think people ’oo ’as places like vat puts their names on the door? Yer daft, or suffink?”

“The manager,” Jack backtracked adeptly. “Of course the owner wouldn’t tell the likes of you, if you don’t report to him—who is the manager?’ I’m going to serve these papers on someone.”

“Mr. Buffery, Fred Buffery. Yer’ll find ’im at Nicholas Street, overbe’ind the brewery, vat’s w’ere ’e does business. Yer go an’ serve yer papers on ’im. It in’t nuffink ter do wi’ me. I just take the rents. It’s a job—like yours.”

Jack did not bother to dispute it with him. They had what they wanted and he had no desire to remain. Without expressing any civilities he opened the door and they all left, finding the carriage a few houses away, and proceeding to the next address.

Here they were informed that Mr. Buffery was taking luncheon at the neighboring public house, the Goat and Compasses, and they decided it would be an excellent time to do the same. Emily particularly was fascinated. She had never been inside such an establishment before, and Charlotte had only in more salubrious neighborhoods, and that on infrequent occasions.

Inside was noisy with laughter, voices in excited and often bawdy conversation, and the clink of glasses and crockery. It smelled of ale, sweat, sawdust, vinegar and boiled vegetables.

Jack hesitated. This was not a suitable place for ladies, the thought was as plain on his face as if he had spoken it.

“Nonsense,” Emily said fiercely just behind him. “We are all extremely hungry. Are you going to refuse to get us luncheon?”

“Yes I am—in this place,” he said firmly. “We’ll find something better, even if it’s a pie stall. We can get Mr. Buffery when he returns to his office.”

“I’m staying here,” Emily retorted. “I want to see—it’s all part of what we are doing.”

“No it isn’t.” He took her arm. “We need Buffery to tell us who he manages the building for; we don’t need this place. I’m not going to argue about it, Emily. You are coming out.”

“But Jack—”

Before the altercation could proceed any further Gracie slid forward and grasped the bartender waiting on the next table, pulling his sleeve till he turned to see what was upsetting his balance.

“Please mister,” she appealed to him with wide eyes. “Is Mr. Buffery in ’ere? I can’t ’ear ’is voice, an’ I don’t see too well. E’s me uncle an’ I got a message fer ’im.”

“Give it ter me, girl, an’ I’ll give it ’im,” the bartender said not unkindly.

“Oh I carsn’t do that, mister, it’d be more ’n me life’s worf. Me pa’d tan me summink wicked.”

“ ’Ere, I’ll take yer. E’s over ’ere in the corner. Don’t you bovver ’im now, mind. I’ll not ’ave me customers bowered. You give yer message, then scarper, right?”

“Yes mister. Thank yer, mister.” And she allowed him to lead her over to the far corner, where a man with a red face and golden red hair was seated behind a small table and a plate generously spread with succulent pie and crisp pickles and a large slice of ripe cheese. Two tankards of ale stood a hand’s reach away.

“Uncle Fred?” she began, for the bartender’s benefit, hoping fervently at least Charlotte, if not all of them, were immediately behind her.

Buffery looked at her with irritation.

“I in’t yer uncle. Go and bother someone else. I in’t interested in your sort. If I want a woman I’ll find me own, a lot sassier than you—and I don’t give ter beggars.”

“ ’Ere!” the bartender said angrily. “You said as ’e were yer uncle.”

“So ’e is,” Gracie said desperately. “Me pa said as ter tell ’im me gramma’s took bad, an’ we need money fer ’elp for ’er. She’s that cold.”

“That right?” the bartender demanded, turning to Buffery. “You runnin’ out on yer own ma?”

By this time Charlotte, Emily and Jack were all behind Gracie. She felt the warmth of relief flood through her. She sniffed fiercely, half afraid, half determined to play this for all it was worth.

“Yer got all them ’ouses, Uncle Fred, all Lisbon Street mostly. You can find Gramma a nice place w’ere she can be warm. She’s real bad. Ma’ll look after ’er, if’n yer just find a better place. We got water on all the walls an’ it’s cold summink awful.”

“I in’t yer Uncle Fred,” Buffery said furiously. “I in’t never seen yer before. Git out of ’ere. ’Ere—take this!” He thrust a sixpence at her. “Now get out of ’ere.”

Gracie ignored the sixpence, with difficulty, and burst into tears—with ease.

“That won’t buy more’n one night. Then wot’ll we do? Yer got all the ’ouses on Lisbon Street. Why can’t yer get Ma and Pa a room in one of ’em, so we can keep dry? I’ll work, honest I will. We’ll pay yer.”

“They in’t my ’ouses, yer little fool!” Buffery was embarrassed now as other diners turned to look at the spectacle. “D’yer think I’d be ’ere eatin’ cold pie and drinkin’ ale if I got the rents fer that lot? I jus’ manages the bus’ness of ’em. Now get aht an’ leave me alone, yer little bleeder. I in’t never seen yer an’ I got no ma wot’s sick.”

Gracie was saved further dramatic effort by Jack stepping forward and pretending to be a lawyer’s clerk again, entirely unconnected with Gracie, and offering his services to dispatch her on her way. Buffery accepted eagerly, very aware now of his associates and neighbors staring at him. His discomfort offered a better sideshow than many of the running patterers who sang ballads of the latest news or scandal. This was immediate and the afflicted one was known to them.

When Buffery had identified himself, Jack told Gracie to leave, which she did rapidly and with deep gratitude, after picking up the sixpence. Jack then proceeded to threaten him with lawsuits as accessory to fraud, and Buffery was ready to swear blind that he did not own the buildings in Lisbon Street, and prove it if necessary before the lawyer who took the rent money from him every month, less his own miserable pittance for the service he performed.

After a brief luncheon, early afternoon found them in the offices on Bethnal Green Road of Fulsom and Son, Penrose and Fulsom, a small room up narrow stairs where Jack insisted on going alone. He returned after a chilly half hour. Emily and Charlotte and Gracie were wrapped in carriage rugs, Gracie still glowing from her triumph in the public house, and the subsequent praise she had received.

They spent until dark trying to track down the property management company whose name Jack had elicited, by a mixture of lies and trickery from the seedy little Mr. Penrose, but eventually were obliged to return home unsuccessful.

Charlotte intended to recount the day’s events to Pitt, but when he arrived home late, lines of weariness deep in his face, and in his eyes a mixture of eagerness and total bafflement, she set aside her own news and asked after his.

He sat down at the kitchen table and picked up the mug of tea she had automatically put before him, but instead of drinking it he simply warmed his hands holding it, and began to talk.

“We went to Shaw’s solicitors today and read Clemency’s will. The estate was left to Shaw, as we had been told, all except a few personal items to friends. The most remarkable was her Bible, which she left to Matthew Oliphant, the curate.”

Charlotte could see nothing very odd in this. One might well leave a Bible to one’s minister, especially if he were as sincere and thoughtful as Oliphant. She could almost certainly have had no idea of his feelings for her; they had been so desperately private. She recalled his bony, vulnerable face as clearly as if she had seen it a few moments ago.

Why was Pitt so concerned? It seemed ordinary enough. She looked at him, waiting.

“Of course the Bible was destroyed in the fire.” He leaned forward a little, elbows on the table, his face puckered in concentration. “But the solicitor had seen it—it was an extraordinary thing, leather bound, tooled in gold and with a hasp and lock on it which he thought must be brass, but he wasn’t sure.” His eyes were bright with the recollection. “And inside every initial letter of a chapter was illuminated in color and gold leaf with the most exquisite tiny paintings.” He smiled slowly. “As if one glimpsed a vision of heaven or hell through lighted keyholes. She showed it to him just once, so he would know what item he was dealing with and there could be no mistake. It had been her grandfather’s.” His face shadowed for a moment with distaste. “Not Worlingham, on the other side.” Then the awareness of the present returned and with it the waste and the destruction. His face was suddenly blank and the light died out of it. “It must have been marvelous, and worth a great deal. But of course it’s gone with everything else.”

He looked at her, puzzled and anxious. “But why on earth should she leave it to Oliphant? He’s not even the vicar, he’s only a curate. He almost certainly won’t stay there in Highgate. If he gets a living it will be elsewhere—possibly even in a different county.”

Charlotte knew the answer immediately and without any effort of reasoning. It was as obvious to her as to any woman who had loved and not dared to show it, as she had once, ages ago, before Pitt. She had been infatuated with Dominic Corde, her eldest sister’s husband, when Sarah was alive and they all lived in Cater Street. Of course that had died as delusion became reality and impossible, agonizing love resolved into a fairly simple friendship. But she thought that for Clemency Shaw it had remained achingly real. Matthew Oliphant’s character was not a sham she had painted on by dream, as Charlotte had with Dominic. He was not handsome, dashing, there at every turn in her life; he was at least fifteen years her junior, a struggling curate with barely the means of subsistence, and to the kindest eye he was a little plain and far from graceful.

And yet a spirit burned inside him. In the face of other people’s agony Clitheridge was totally inadequate, graceless, inarticulate and left on the outside untouched. Oliphant’s compassion robbed him of awkwardness because he felt the pain as if it were his own and pity taught his tongue.

The answer was clear. Clemency had loved him just as much as he had loved her, and been equally unable to show it even in the slightest way, except when she was dead to leave him something of infinite value to her, and yet which would not seem so very remarkable that it would hurt his reputation. A Bible, not a painting or an ornament or some other article which would betray an unseemly emotion, just a Bible—to the curate. Only those who had seen it would know—and perhaps that would be the solicitor—and Stephen Shaw.

Pitt was staring at her across the table.

“Charlotte?”

She looked up at him, smiling a very little, suddenly a tightness in her throat.

“He loved her too, you know,” she said, swallowing hard. “I realized that when he was helping me to follow Bessie Jones and those awful houses. He knew the way she went.”

Pitt put the cup down and reached to take her hands, gently, holding them and touching her fingers one by one. There was no need to say anything else, and he did hot wish to.

In fact it was the following morning, just before he left, that he told her the other thing that had so troubled him. He was tying up his boots at the front door and she was holding his coat.

“The lawyers have sorted the estate already. It’s quite simple. There is no money—only a couple of hundred pounds left.”

“What?” She felt she must have misunderstood him.

He straightened up and she helped him on with the coat.

“There is no money left,” he repeated. “All the Worlingham money she inherited is gone, except about two hundred and fourteen pounds and fifteen shillings.”

“But I thought there was a lot—I mean, wasn’t Theophilus rich?”

“Extremely. And all of it went to his two daughters, Prudence Hatch and Clemency Shaw. But Clemency has none left.”

There was one ugly thought which she had to speak because it would haunt her mind anyway. “Did Shaw spend it?”

“No—the solicitor says definitely not. Clemency herself paid huge drafts to all kinds of people—individuals and societies.”

“Whatever for?” said Charlotte, although the beginning of an idea was plain in her mind, as she could see that it was in his also. “Housing reform?”

“Yes—most of it that the solicitor knew about, but there is a great deal he cannot trace—to individuals he has never heard of.”

“Are you going to find them?”

“Of course. Although I don’t think it has anything to do with the fire. I still believe that was intended for Shaw, although I haven’t even the beginning of proof as to why.”

“And Amos Lindsay?”

He shrugged. “Because he knew, or guessed, who was responsible; perhaps from something Shaw said, without realizing its significance himself. Or even uglier and perhaps more likely, whoever it is is still after Shaw, and that fire was a failed attempt to kill him also.” He pulled his muffler off the hook and put it around his neck, the ends hanging loosely. “And of course it is still not impossible Shaw set them himself: the first to kill Clemency, the second to kill Lindsay because in some way he had betrayed himself to him—or feared he had.”

“That’s vile!” she said fiercely. “After Lindsay had been his closest friend. And why? Why should Shaw murder Clemency? You just said there was no money to inherit.”

He hated saying it, and the revulsion showed in his face as he formed the words. “Precisely because there is no money. If it was all gone, and he needed more, then Flora Lutterworth was young, very pretty and the sole heiress to the biggest fortune in Highgate. And she is certainly very fond of him—to the point where it is the cause of local gossip.”

“Oh,” she said very quietly, unable to find anything to refute what he said, although she refused to believe it unless there was inescapable proof.

He kissed her very gently, and she knew he understood what she felt, and shared it. Then he left, and she turned immediately and went upstairs to dress for the day’s journey with Emily, Jack and Gracie.

It took all morning to trace the management company, and a mixture of evasions and trickery to elicit from them the name of the solicitors, this time a highly reputable firm in the City which took care of the affairs of the company which actually owned the properties in Lisbon Street, and also several others.

At two o’clock they were all seated in the warm and extremely comfortable offices of Messrs Warburg, Warburg, Boddy and Boddy, awaiting Mr. Boddy Senior’s return from an extended luncheon with a client. Grave young clerks perched on stools writing in perfect copperplate script on documents of vellum, which had scarlet seals dangling from them. Errand boys scurried on silent feet, discreet and obedient, and a wrinkled man in a stiff, winged collar kept a careful eye on them, never moving from his wooden chair behind the desk. Gracie, who had never been in an office of any sort before, was fascinated and her eyes followed every movement.

Eventually Mr. Boddy returned, he was silver-haired, smooth-faced, impeccably bland in voice and manner. He disregarded the women and addressed himself solely to Jack. It seemed he had not moved with the times and recognized that women now had a legal entity. To him they were still appendages to a man’s property: his pleasure possibly, his responsibility certainly, but not to be informed or consulted.

Charlotte bristied and Emily took a step forward, but Jack’s hand stayed her and as a matter of tactics she obeyed. In the last two days she had learned a quite new respect for his ability to read character and to obtain information.

But Mr. Boddy was of an entirely different mettle than those they had dealt with to date. He was smooth, quite certain of his own safety from suit of any kind, and his calm, unctuous face did not flicker when he explained with barely civil condescension that yes, he handled affairs of property and rent for certain clients but he was not at liberty to name them nor give any particulars whatsoever. Yes, most certainly Mrs. Shaw had called upon him with similar questions, and he had been equally unable to answer her. He was profoundly grieved that she should have met so tragic a fate—his eyes remained chill and expressionless—please accept his sincerest condolences, but the facts remained.

This was a murder inquiry, Jack explained. He was acting on behalf of persons, whom he also was unable to name, and would Mr. Boddy prefer it if the police came and asked these questions?

Mr. Boddy did not take kindly to threats. Was Jack aware that the persons who owned these properties were among the most powerful in the City, and had friends they could call upon, if need be, to protect their interests? Some of these said people had high positions and were able to give, or to withhold, favors, which might make a considerable difference to the agreeability of one’s life and the prospect of one’s future advancement in profession, finance or society.

Jack raised his eyebrows and asked with very slight surprise if Mr. Boddy was telling him that these people to whom he was referring were so embarrassed by their ownership of the property in question that they were prepared to damage the reputation or interests of anyone who might inquire.

“You must assume whatever you will, Mr. Radley,” Boddy replied with a tight smile. “I am not answerable for your situation, I have discharged my duty towards you. Now I have further clients to see. Good day to you.”

And with that they were obliged to depart with no more than the company name, which they had already gleaned from the management. No names were given and no principals—the matter was not described in any way, except by the rather amorphous threat.

“Odious little person,” Aunt Vespasia replied when they told her. “But what we might have expected. If he were to repeat names to any Tom, Dick and Harry who came to the door, he would not have lasted long as lawyer to the kind of people who own such properties.” She had already ordered tea and they were sitting around the fire in her withdrawing room, thawing out from the chill both of the weather outside and of their disappointment at having met, at least for the time being, what seemed to be a dead end. Even Gracie was permitted, on this occasion, to sit with them and to take tea, but she said nothing at all. Instead she stared with huge eyes at the paintings on the walls, the delicate furniture with its satin-smooth surfaces, and when she dared, at Vespasia herself, who was sitting upright, her silver hair coiled immaculately on the crown of her head, great pearl drops in her ears, ecru-colored French lace at her throat and in long ruffles over her thin, tapered hands, bright with diamonds. Gracie had never seen anyone so splendid in all her life, and to be sitting in her house taking tea with her was probably the most memorable thing she would ever do.

“But he did say he’d seen Clemency,” Charlotte pointed out. “He didn’t make the slightest attempt to conceal it. He was as bold as brass, and twice as smooth. He probably told whoever owns it that she had been there, and what she meant to do. I would dearly like to have hit him as hard as I could.”

“Impractical,” Emily said, biting her lip. “But so would I, preferably with an exceedingly sharp umbrella point. But how can we find who owns this company? Surely there must be a way?”

“Perhaps Thomas could,” Vespasia suggested, frowning slightly. “Commerce is not something with which I have any familiarity. It is at times like these I regret my lack of knowledge of certain aspects of society. Charlotte?”

“I don’t know whether he could.” She was sharply reminded of the previous evening. “But he doesn’t think there is any purpose. He is quite convinced that Dr. Shaw is the intended victim, not Clemency.”

“He may well be right,” Vespasia conceded. “It does not alter the fact that Clemency was fighting a battle in which we believe intensely, and that since she is dead there is no one else, so far as we know. The abuse is intolerable, for the wretchedness of its victims, and for the abysmal humbug. Nothing irks my temper like hypocrisy. I should like to rip the masks off these sanctimonious faces, for the sheer pleasure of doing it.”

“We are with you,” Jack said instantly. “I didn’t know I had it in me to be so angry, but at the moment I find it hard to think of much else.”

A very slight smile touched Vespasia’s lips and she regarded him with considerable approval. He seemed unaware of it, but it gave Emily a feeling of warmth that startled her, and she realized how much it mattered to her that Vespasia should think well of him. She found herself smiling back.

Charlotte thought of Pitt still struggling with Shaw’s patients, seeking for the one piece of knowledge that was so hideous it had led to two murders, and might lead to more, until Shaw himself was dead. But she still felt it was Clemency that had been meant to die in that first fire, and the second was merely to cover it. The murderer in act might be any one of dozens of arsonists for hire, but the murderer in spirit was whoever owned those fearful, rotting, teeming tenements in Lisbon Street, and was afraid of the public embarrassment Clemency would expose him to when she succeeded in her quest.

“We don’t know how to find who owns a company.” She set her cup down and stared at Vespasia. “But surely Mr. Carlisle will—or he will know someone else who does. If necessary we must hire someone.”

“I will speak to him,” Vespasia agreed. “I think he will see that the matter is of some urgency. He may be persuaded to set aside other tasks and pursue this.”

And so he did, and the following evening reported to them, again in Vespasia’s withdrawing room. He looked startled and a little confused when he was shown in by the footman. His usual wry humor was sharp in his eyes, but there was a smoothness in his face as if surprise had ironed out the customary lines deep around his mouth.

He gave the greetings of courtesy briefly and accepted Vespasia’s offer of a seat. They all stared at him, aware that he bore extraordinary news, but they could only guess at its nature.

Vespasia’s silver-gray eyes dared him to indulge in histrionics. Words of caution were superfluous.

“You may begin,” she informed him.

“The company which owns the buildings is in turn owned by another company.” He told the story without embroidery, just the bare details that were required in order for it to make sense, looking from one to another of them, including Gracie, so that she might feel equally involved. “I called upon certain people who owe me favors, or will wish for my goodwill in the future, and managed to learn the names of the holders of stock in this second company. There is only one of them still alive—in fact only one has been alive for several years. Even when the company was formed in 1873, from the remnants of another similar company, and that apparently in the same way from an even earlier one, even in 1873 the other holders of stock were either absent from the country indefinitely or of such age and state of health as to be incapable of active interest.”

Vespasia fixed him firmly with her level, penetrating gaze, but he had no guilt of unnecessary drama, and he continued in his own pace.

“This one person who was active and who signed all necessary documents I succeeded in visiting. She is an elderly lady, unmarried, and therefore always mistress of her own property, such as it is, and only acts as go-between, holding shares in name but hardly in any act. Her income is sufficient to keep her in some form of comfort, but certainly not luxury. It was obvious as soon as I was through the door that the bulk of the money, which will amount to several thousands each year, was going somewhere else.”

Jack shifted in his chair and Emily drew in her breath expectantly.

“I told her who I was.” Carlisle blushed faintly. “She was extremely impressed. The government, especially when expressed as Her Majesty’s instrument for ruling her people, and the church, are the two fixed and immutable forces for good in this lady’s world.”

Charlotte made a leap of imagination. “You are not saying that the person for whom she acts is a member of Parliament, are you?”

Vespasia stiffened.

Emily leaned forward, waiting.

Jack drew in his breath, and Charlotte had her hands clenched in her lap.

Carlisle smiled broadly, showing excellent teeth. “No, but you are almost right. He is—or was—a most distinguished member of the church—in fact, Bishop Augustus Worlingham!”

Emily gasped. Even Vespasia gave a little squeak of amazement.

“What?” Charlotte was incredulous, then she began to laugh a little hysterically, wild, absurd humor welling up inside her, black as the charred ruins of Shaw’s house. She could scarcely grasp the horror Clemency must have felt when she came this far. And surely she had? She had found this innocent, befuddled old lady who had funneled the slum rents, the waves of misery and sin, into her own family coffers to make the bishop’s house warm and rich, and to buy the roasts and wine she and her sister ate, to clothe them in silk and be waited upon by servants.

No wonder Clemency spent all her inheritance, hundreds of pounds at a time, uncounted, to right his wrongs.

Had Theophilus known? What about Angeline and Celeste? Did they know where the family money came from, even while they sought donations from the people of Highgate to build a stained-glass window to their bishop’s memory?

She imagined what Shaw would make of this when he knew. And surely one day he would? It would become public knowledge when Clemency’s murderer was tried—then she stopped. But if the owner were Bishop Worlingham—he was long dead, ten years ago—and Theophilus too. The income was Clemency’s—and for Prudence, Angeline and Celeste. Would they really murder their sister and niece to protect their family money? Surely Clemency would not have revealed the truth? Would she?

Or would she? Had they had a fearful quarrel and she had told them precisely the cost of their comfort, and that she meant to fight for a law to expose all such men as the bishop to the public obloquy and disgust they deserved?

Yes—it was not inconceivable Celeste at least might kill to prevent that. Her whole life had been used up caring for the bishop. She had denied herself husband and children in order to stay at his side and obey his every command, write out his letters and sermons, look up his references, play the piano for his relaxation, read aloud to him when his eyes were tired, always his gracious and unpaid servant. It was a total sacrifice of her own will, all her choices eaten up in his. She must justify it—he must remain worthy of such a gift, or her life became ridiculous, a thing thrown away for no cause.

Perhaps Pitt was right, and it was close to home, the heart as well as the act in Highgate all the time.

They were all watching her, seeing in her eyes her racing thoughts and in the shadows across her face the plunges from anger to pity to dawning realization.

“Bishop Augustus Worlingham,” Somerset Carlisle repeated, letting each syllable fall with full value. “The whole of Lisbon Street was owned, very tortuously and with extreme secrecy, by the ‘good’ bishop, and when he died, inherited by Theophilus, Celeste and Angeline. I presume he provided for his daughters so generously because they had spent their lives as his servants, and certainly they would have no other means of support and it would be beyond any expectation, reasonable or unreasonable, that they might marry at that point—or would wish to by then. I looked up his will, by the way. Two thirds went to Theophilus, the other third, plus the house, which is worth a great deal of course, to the sisters. That would be more than enough to keep them in better than comfort for the rest of their lives.”

“Then Theophilus must have had a fortune,” Emily said with surprise.

“He inherited one,” Carlisle agreed. “But he lived extremely well, according to what I heard; ate well, had one of the finest cellars in London, and collected paintings, some of which he donated to local museums and other institutions. All the same, he left a very handsome sum indeed to each of his daughters when he died unexpectedly.”

“So Clemency had a great deal of money,” Vespasia said, almost to herself. “Until she began to give it away. Do we know when that was?” She looked at Jack, then at Carlisle.

“The lawyer would not say when she was there,” Jack replied, his lips tightening at remembrance of his frustration and the lawyer’s bland, supercilious face.

“Her fight to get some alteration in the disclosure of ownership began about six months ago,” Carlisle said somberly. “And she made her first large donation to a charitable shelter for the poor at about the same time. I would hazard a guess that that is when she discovered her grandfather was the owner she had sought.”

“Poor Clemency.” Charlotte remembered the sad trail of sick women and children, gaunt and hopeless men which she herself had followed from Shaw’s patient list in Highgate, down through worse and worse houses and tenements till she at last found Bessie Jones huddled in one corner of an overcrowded and filthy room. Clemency had followed the same course, seen the same wretched faces, the illness and the resignation. And then she had started upwards towards the owners, as they had done.

“We must not let the fight die with her,” Jack said, sitting a little more upright in his chair.” Worlingham may be dead, but there are scores, perhaps hundreds of others. She knew that, and she would have given her life to exposing them—” He stopped. “And I still think she may have died because of it. We were warned specifically that there are powerful people who could make us, if we are discreet and withdraw, or break us if we persist. Obviously Worlingham himself did not kill her, but one of the other owners may well have. They have a great deal to lose—and I don’t imagine Clemency paid any heed to threats. There was too much passion in her, and revulsion for her own inheritance. Nothing but death would have stopped her.”

“What can we do?” Emily looked at Vespasia, then at Carlisle.

Carlisle’s face was very grave and he drew his brows down in thought.

“I’m not sure. The forces against it are very large; they are vested interests, a great deal of money. Lots of powerful families may not be sure where all their income originates. Nor will they be in any haste to embarrass their friends.”

“We need a voice in Parliament,” Vespasia said with decision. “I know we have one.” She glanced at Carlisle. “We need more. We need someone new, who will address this matter in particular. Jack—you are doing nothing whatever but enjoying yourself. Your honeymoon is over. It is time you were useful.”

Jack stared at her as if she had risen out of the ground in front of him. Their eyes met, hers steady silver-gray and absolutely unflinching, his dark gray-blue, long-lashed and wide in total incredulity. Then gradually the amazement passed into the beginning of an idea. His hands tightened on the arm of his chair. Still his gaze never left hers, nor did hers waver for a second.

No one else moved or made the tiniest sound. Emily all but held her breath.

“Yes,” Jack said at last. “What an excellent idea. Where do I begin?”