Highgate Rise

11

IT HAD TAKEN Murdo two days of anxiety and doubt, lurching hope and black despair before he found an excuse to call on Flora Lutterworth. And it took him at least half an hour to wash, shave and dress himself in immaculately clean clothes, pressed to perfection, his buttons polished—he hated his buttons because they made his rank so obvious, but since they were inescapable, they had better be clean and bright.

He had thought of going quite frankly to express his admiration for her, then blushed scarlet as he imagined how she would laugh at him for his presumption. And then she would be thoroughly annoyed that a policeman, of all the miserable trades—and not even a senior one—should dare to think of such a thing, let alone express it. He had lain awake burning with shame over that.

No, the only way was to find some professional excuse, and then in the course of speaking to her, slip in that she had his deepest admiration, and then retreat with as much grace as possible.

So at twenty-five minutes past nine he knocked on the door of the Lutterworth house. When the maid answered, he asked if he might see Miss Flora Lutterworth, to seek her aid in an official matter.

He tripped over the step on the way in, and was sure the maid was giggling at his clumsiness. He was angry and blushing at the same time and already wished he had not come. It was doomed to failure. He was making a fool of himself and she would only despise him.

“If you’ll wait in the morning room, I’ll see if Miss Lutterworth’ll see you,” the maid said, smoothing her white starched apron over her hips. She thought he was very agreeable, nice eyes and very clean-looking, not like some she could name, but she wasn’t for having him get above himself. But when he had finished with Miss Flora, she would make sure it was she who showed him out. She wouldn’t mind if he asked her to take a walk in the park on her half day off.

“Thank you.” He stood in the middle of the carpet, twisting his helmet in his hands, and waited while she went. For a wild moment he thought of simply leaving, but his feet stayed leadenly on the floor and while his mind took flight and was halfway back to the station, his body remained, one moment hot, the next cold, in the Lutterworths’ elegant morning room.

Flora came in looking flushed and devastatingly pretty, her eyes shining. She was dressed in a deep rose-pink which was quite the most distinguished and becoming gown he had ever seen. His heart beat so hard he felt sure the shaking of his body must be visible to her, and his mouth was completely dry.

“Good morning, Constable Murdo,” she said sweetly.

“G—good morning, ma’am.” His voice croaked and squeaked alternatively. She must think him a complete fool. He drew in a deep breath, and then let it out without speaking.

“What can I do for you, Constable?” She sat down in the largest chair and her skirts billowed around her. She gazed at him most disconcertingly.

“Ah—” He found it easier to look away. “Er, ma’am—” He fixed his eyes on the carpet and the prepared words carne out in a rush. “Is it possible, ma’am, that some young gentleman, who admired you very much, might have misunderstood your visits to Dr. Shaw, and become very jealous—ma’am?” He dared not look up at her. She must see through this ruse, which had sounded so plausible alone in his room. Now it was horribly transparent.

“I don’t think so, Constable Murdo,” she said after considering it for a moment. “I really don’t know of any young gentlemen who have such powerful feelings about me that they would entertain such … jealousy. It doesn’t seem likely.”

Without thinking he looked up at her and spoke. “Oh yes, ma’am—if a gentleman had kept your company, socially of course, and met you a number of times, he might well be moved to—to such passions—that—” He felt himself blushing furiously, but unable to move his eyes from hers.

“Do you think so?” she said innocently. She lowered her eyes demurely. “That would suppose him to be in love with me, Constable—to quite an intense degree. Surely you don’t believe that is so?”

He plunged in—he would never in his wildest dreams have a better opportunity. “I don’t know whether it is, ma’am—but it would be very easy to believe. If it is not so now, it will be—There are bound to be many gentlemen who would give everything they possessed to have the chance to earn your affections. I mean—er—” She was looking at him with a most curious smile, half interested and half amused. He knew he had betrayed himself and felt as if there were nothing in the world he wanted so much as to run away, and yet his feet were rooted to the floor.

Her smiled widened. “How very charming of you, Constable,” she said softly. “You say it as if you really believed I were quite beautiful and exciting. It is certainly the nicest thing anyone has told me for as long as I can remember.”

He had no idea what to say, no idea at all. He simply smiled back at her and felt happy and ridiculous.

“I cannot think of anyone who might entertain such emotions that they could have harmed Dr. Shaw on my account,”she went on, sitting up very straight. “I am sure I have not encouraged anyone. But of course the matter is very serious, I know. I promise you I shall think about it hard, and then I shall tell you.”

“May I call in a few days’ time to learn what you have to say?” he asked.

The corners of her mouth curled up in a tiny smile.

“I think, if you don’t mind, Constable, I would rather discuss it somewhere where Papa will not overhear us. He does tend to misunderstand me at times—only in my best interest, of course. Perhaps you would be good enough to take a short walk with me along Bromwich Walk? The weather is still most pleasant and it would not be disagreeable. If you would meet me at the parsonage end, the day after tomorrow, we might walk up to Highgate, and perhaps find a lemonade stall to refresh ourselves?”

“I—” His voice would hardly obey him, his heart was so high in his throat and there was a curious, singing happiness all through his veins. “I’m sure that would be most—” He wanted to say “marvelous” but it was much too forward. “Most satisfactory, ma’am.” He should get that silly smile off his face, but it would not go.

“I’m so glad,” she said, rising to her feet and passing so close to him he could smell the scent of flowers and hear the soft rustle of the fabric of her skirts. “Good day, Constable Murdo.”

He gulped and swallowed hard. “G-good day, Miss Lutterworth.”

“An artist’s model?” Micah Drummond’s eyes widened and there was laughter in them, and a wry appreciation. “Maude Dalgetty was that Maude!”

Now it was Pitt’s turn to be startled. “You know of her?”

“Certainly.” Drummond was standing by the window in his office, the autumn sunlight strearning in, making bright patterns on the carpet. “She was one of the great beauties—of a certain sort, of course.” His smile widened. “Perhaps not quite your generation, Pitt. But believe me, any young gentleman who attended the music halls and bought the odd artistic postcard knew the face—and other attributes—of Maude Racine. She was more than just handsome; there was a kind of generosity in her, a warmth. I’m delighted to hear she married someone who loves her and found a respectable domestic life. I imagine it was what she always wanted, after the fun was over and it came time to leave the boards.”

Pitt found himself smiling too. He had liked Maude Dalgetty, and she had been a friend of Clemency Shaw.

“And you have ruled her out?” Drummond pursued. “Not that I can imagine Maude caring passionately enough about her reputation to kill anyone to preserve it. There was never anything of the hypocrite in her in the old days. Are you equally sure about the husband—John Dalgetty? No evasions, Pitt!”

Pitt leaned against the mantel shelf and faced Drummond squarely.

“Absolutely,” he said without a flicker. “Dalgetty believes passionately in total freedom of speech. That is what the idiotic affair in the field was about. No censorship, everything open and public, say and write what you please, all the new and daring ideas you can think of. The people who matter most to him wouldn’t cut him because his wife was on the stage and posed for pictures without certain of her clothes.”

“But she would care,” Drummond argued. “Didn’t you say she works in the parish, attends church and is part of an extremely respectable community?”

“Yes I did.” Pitt put his hands in his pockets. One of Emily’s silk handkerchiefs was in his breast pocket and he had folded it to show slightly. Drummond’s eyes had caught it, and it gave him a slow satisfaction which more than made up for the cold, early ride on the public omnibus, so he could add a few more pence to the economy for Charlotte’s holiday.

“But the only person who knew,” he went on, “so far as I am aware, was Shaw—and, I presume, Clemency. And Clemency was her friend—and Shaw wouldn’t tell anyone.” Then a flash of memory returned. “Except in a fit of anger because Josiah Hatch thinks Maude is the finest woman he’s ever met.” His eyes widened. “And he’s such a rigid creature—with all the old bishop’s ideas about the purity and virtue of women, and of course their duties as the guardians of the sanctity of the home as an island from the vile realities of the outer world. I can well imagine Shaw giving the lie to that, as a piece of cant he couldn’t abide. But I still think he wouldn’t actually betray her—simply tell.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Drummond pursed his lips. “No reason to suspect Pascoe—no motive we know of. You’ve ruled out Prudence Hatch, because Shaw would never betray her medical secrets.” Drummond’s eyes were bright. “Please convey my compliments to Charlotte.” He slid down a little in his chair and rested his feet on the desk. “The vicar is an ass, you say, but you know of no quarrel with Shaw, except that his wife is titillated by the man’s virility—hardly enough to drive a clergyman to multiple arson and murder. You don’t think Mrs. Clitheridge could be so besotted with Shaw, and have been rejected, to the point where she tried to murder him in fury?” He was watching Pitt’s expression as he spoke. “All right—no. Nor, I assume, would she have killed Mrs. Shaw in jealousy. No—I thought not. What about Lutterworth, over his daughter?”

“Possible,” Pitt conceded doubtfully. Lutterworth’s broad, powerful face came back to his mind, and the expression of rage in it when he mentioned Shaw’s name, and Flora’s. There was no question he loved his daughter profoundly, and had the depth of emotion and the determination of character to carry through such an act, if he thought there were justification. “Yes, he is possible. Or he was—I think he knows now that Flora’s connection with the doctor was purely a medical one.”

“Then why the sneaking in and out instead of going to the usual surgery?” Drummond persisted.

“Because of the nature of her complaint. It is personal, and she is highly sensitive about it, didn’t want anyone else to know. Not difficult to understand.”

Drummond, who had a wife and daughters himself, did not need to make further comment.

“Who does that leave?”

“Hatch—but he and Shaw have quarreled over one thing or another for years, and you don’t kill someone suddenly over a basic difference in temperament and philosophy. Or the elderly Worlingham sisters—if they really believed that he was responsible for Theophilus’s death—”

“And do they?” Drummond only half believed it, and it was obvious in his face. “Would they really feel so strongly about it? Seems more likely to me they might have killed him to keep him quiet over the real source of the Worlingham money. That I could believe.”

“Shaw says Clemency didn’t tell them,” Pitt replied, although it seemed far more likely to him also. “But perhaps he didn’t know she had. She might have done it the night before she died. I need to find what precipitated the first murder. Something happened that day—or the day immediately before—that frightened or angered someone beyond enduring. Something changed the situation so drastically that what had been at the worst difficult, but maybe not even that, suddenly became so threatening or so intolerably unjust to them, they exploded into murder—”

“What did happen that day?” Drummond was watching him closely.

“I don’t know,” Pitt confessed. “I’ve been concentrating on Shaw, and he won’t tell me anything. Of course, it is still possible he killed Clemency himself, set the fire before he left, and killed Amos Lindsay because somehow he had betrayed himself by a word, or an omission, and Lindsay knew what he’d done. They were friends—but I don’t believe Lindsay would have kept silent once he was sure Shaw was guilty.” It was a peculiarly repugnant thought, but honesty compelled that he allow it.

Drummond saw the reluctance in him.

“Not the first time you’ve liked a murderer, Pitt—nor I, for that matter. Life would be a great deal easier at times, if we could like all the heroes and dislike all the villains. Or personally I’d settle for simply not pitying the villains as much as I do the victims half the time.”

“I can’t always tell the difference.” Pitt smiled sadly. “I’ve known murderers I’ve felt were victims as much as anyone in the whole affair. And if it turns out to be Angeline and Celeste, I may well this time too. The old bishop filled their lives, dominated them from childhood, laid out for them exactly the kind of women he expected them to be, and made it virtually impossible for them to be anything else. I gather he drove away all suitors and kept Celeste to be his intellectual companion, and Angeline to be his housekeeper and hostess when necessary. By the time he died they were far too old to marry, and totally dependent on his views, his social status and his money. If Clemency, in her outrage, threatened to destroy everything on which their fives were built, and faced them not only with old age in total public disgrace but a negation of everything they believed in and which justified the past, it is not hard to understand why they might have conspired to kill her. To them she was not only a mortal threat but a traitor to her family. They might consider her ultimate disloyalty to be a sin that warranted death.”

“They might well,” Drummond agreed. “Other than that you are left with some as yet unnamed slum profiteer who was threatened by Clemency’s uncovering work. I suppose you have looked into who else’s tenements she was interested in? What about Lutterworth? You said he’s socially ambitious—especially for Flora—and wants to leave his trade roots behind and marry her into society? Slum profiteering wouldn’t help that.” He pulled a sour face. “Although I’m not sure it would entirely hurt it either. A good few of the aristocracy made their money in highly questionable ways.”

“Undoubtedly,” Pitt agreed. “But they do it discreetly. Vice they will overlook, vulgarity they may accept—with reluctance, if there is enough money attached—but indiscretion never.”

“You’re getting very cynical, Pitt.” Drummond was smiling as he said it.

Pitt shrugged. “All I can find out about Lutterworth is that his money was in the north, and he sold nearly all his interests. There never was any in London that I can trace.”

“What about the political aspect?” Drummond would not give up yet. “Could Clemency have been murdered because of some other connection with Dalgetty and his Fabian tracts—and Lindsay the same?”

“I haven’t traced any connection.” Pitt screwed up his face. “But certainly Clemency knew Lindsay, and they liked each other. But since they are both dead, it is impossible to know what they spoke about, unless Shaw knows and can be persuaded to tell us. And since both houses are burnt to the ground, there are no papers to find.”

“You might have to go and speak to some of the other members of the society—”

“I will, if it comes to that; but today I’m going to Lindsay’s funeral. And perhaps I can discover what Clemency did on her last day or two alive, who she spoke to and what happened that made someone so angry or so frightened that they killed her.”

“Report to me afterwards, will you? I want to know.”

“Yes sir. Now I must leave, or I shall be late. I hate funerals. I hate them most of all when I look around the faces of the mourners and think that one of them murdered him—or her.”

Charlotte also was preparing to attend the funeral, but she was startled to have received a hand-addressed note from Emily to say that not only would she and Jack attend, and for convenience would pick Charlotte up in their carriage at ten o’clock, but that Great-Aunt Vespasia also would come. No explanation was given, nor when they arrived, since it was now five minutes past nine, would there be any opportunity to decline the arrangements or ask for any alternative.

“Thank heaven at least Mama and Grandmama are remaining at home.” Charlotte folded the note and put it in her sewing basket, where Pitt would not find it, simply as a matter of habit. Of course he would ultimately know they had all attended, but there was no way she would be able to pretend to Pitt it was a matter of personal grief, although she had liked Lindsay. They were going because they were curious, and still felt they could discover something of meaning about Lindsay’s death, and Clemency’s. And that Pitt might not approve of.

Perhaps Emily knew something already? She and Jack had said they would probe the political questions, and Jack had made some contact with the Liberal party with a view to standing for Parliament when a vacant seat arose that would accept him as a candidate. And if he were truly serious about continuing Clemency’s work, he might also have met with the Fabians and others with strong socialist beliefs—not, of course, that they had the slightest chance of returning a member to the House. But ideas were necessary, whether to argue for or against.

She was busy dressing her hair and unconsciously trying to make the very best of her appearance. She did not realize till she had been there half an hour and was still not entirely satisfied, just what an effort she was making. She blushed at her own vanity, and foolishness, and dismissed the wrenching thoughts of Stephen Shaw from her mind.

“Gracie!”

Gracie materialized from the landing, a duster in her hand, her face bright.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Would you like to come to Mr. Lindsay’s funeral with me?”

“Oh yes, ma’am! When is it, ma’am?”

“In about quarter of an hour—at least that is when we shall be leaving. Mrs. Radley is taking us in her carriage.”

Gracie’s face fell and she had to swallow hard on the sudden lump in her throat.

“I ’aven’t finished me work, ma’am. There’s still the stairs to do, and Miss Jemima’s room. The dust settles jus’ the same though she in’t there right now. An’ I in’t changed proper. Me black dress in’t pressed right—”

“That dress is dark enough.” Charlotte looked at Gracie’s ordinary gray stuff working dress. It was quite drab enough for mourning. Really, one day when she could afford it she should get her a nice bright blue one. “And you can forget the housework. It’ll not go away—you can do it tomorrow; it’ll all be the same in the end.”

“Are you sure, ma’am?” Gracie had never been told to forget dusting before, and her eyes were like stars at the thought of just letting it wait—and instead going off on another expedition of detecting.

“Yes I’m sure,” Charlotte replied. “Now go and do your hair and find your coat. We mustn’t be late.”

“Oh yes, ma’am. I will this minute, ma’am.” And before Charlotte could add anything she was gone, her feet clattering up the attic stairs to her room.

Emily arrived precisely when she said she would, bursting in in a wildly elegant black gown cut in the latest lines, decorated with jet beading and not entirely suitable for a funeral, in that although the lace neckline was so high as to be almost to the ears, the main fabric of the dress was definitely a trifle fine, showing the pearliness of skin in an unmistakable gleam more fit for a soiree than a church. Her hat was very rakish, in spite of the veil, and her color was beautifully high in her cheeks. It was not difficult to believe that Emily was a new bride.

Charlotte was so happy for her she found it hard to disapprove, sensible though that would have been, and appropriate.

Jack was a couple of steps behind, immaculately dressed as always, and perhaps a little easier now about his tailor’s bills. But there was also a new confidence about him too, not built solely on charm and the need to please, but upon some inner happiness that required no second person’s approbation. Charlotte thought at first it was a reflection of his relationship with Emily. Then as soon as he spoke, she realized it was deeper than that; it was a purpose within himself, a thing radiating outward.

He kissed Charlotte lightly on the cheek.

“I have met with the Parliamentary party and I think they will accept me as a candidate!” he said with a broad smile. “As soon as a suitable by-election occurs I shall stand.”

“Congratulations,” Charlotte said with a great bubble of happiness welling up inside her. “We shall do everything we can to help you to succeed.” She looked at Emily and saw the intense satisfaction in her face also, and the gleam of pride. “Absolutely everything. Even holding my tongue, should it be the last resort. Now we must go to Amos Lindsay’s funeral. I think it is part of our cause. I don’t know why, but I am convinced he died in connection with Clemency’s death.”

“Of course,” Emily agreed. “It doesn’t make any sense otherwise. The same person must have killed both of them. I still think it is politics. Clemency ruffled a great many feathers. The more I investigate what she was doing, and planning to do, the more I discover how fierce was her determination and how many people could be smeared with the taint of very dirty money indeed. Are you sure the Worlingham sisters did not know what she was doing?”

“No—not absolutely,” Charlotte confessed. “I don’t think so. But Celeste is a better actress than Angeline, whom I find very hard to think guilty, she seems so transparent, and so unworldly—even ineffectual. I can’t think of her being efficient enough, or coolheaded enough, to have planned and laid those fires.”

But Celeste would,” Emily pressed. “After all, they have more to lose than anyone.”

“Except Shaw,” Jack pointed out. “Clemency was giving away the Worlingham money hand over fist. As it happens she had given all her share away before she died—but you have only Shaw’s word for it that he knew that. He may have thought little of what she was doing and killed her to stop her while there was still some left, and only learned afterwards that he was too late.”

Charlotte turned to look at him. It was an extremely ugly thought which she had not until this moment seen, but it was undeniable. No one else knew what Clemency had been doing; there had been only Shaw’s own word for it that he had known all along. Perhaps he hadn’t? Perhaps he had found out only a day or two before Clemency’s death, and it was that discovery which suddenly presented him with the prospect of losing his extremely œmfortable position both financially, for certain, and socially, if she should make it public. It was a very good motive for murder indeed.

She said nothing, a chilling, rather sick feeling inside her.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said gently. “But it had to be considered.”

Charlotte swallowed hard and found it difficult. Shaw’s fair, intense and blazingly honest face was before her inner eye. She was surprised how much it hurt.

“Gracie is corning with us.” She looked away from them towards the door, as if the business of going were urgent and must be attended to. “I think she deserves to.”

“Of course,” Emily agreed. “I wish I thought we should really learn something—but all I can reasonably hope for is a strong instinct. Although we might manage to ask some pertinent questions at the funerary dinner afterwards. Are you invited?”

“I think so.” Charlotte remembered very clearly Shaw’s invitation, and his wish that she should be there, one person with whom he could feel an identity of candor. She thrust it from her mind. “Come on, or we shall be late!”

The funeral was a bright, windy affair with more than two hundred people packing the small church for the formal, very stilted service conducted by Clitheridge. Only the organ music was faultless, flowing in rich, throbbing waves over the solemn heads and engulfing them in the comfort of a momentary unity while they sang. The sun streamed through the stained-glass windows in a glory of color falling like jewels on the floor and across the rigid backs and heads and all the variegated textures of black.

Upon leaving’Charlotte noticed a man of unusual appearance sitting close to the back, with his chin in the air and seemingly more interested in the ceiling than the other mourners. It was not that his features were particularly startling so much as the intelligence and humor in his expression, irreverent as it was. His hair was fiercely bright auburn and although he was sitting, he appeared to be quite a slight man. She certainly had not seen him before, and she hesitated out of curiosity.

“Is there something about me which troubles you, ma’am?” he asked, swiveling suddenly around to face her, and speaking with a distinctly Irish voice.

She collected her wits with an effort and replied with aplomb.

“Not in the least, sir. Any man as intent upon heaven as you deserves to be left to his contemplation—”

“It was not heaven, ma’am,” he said indignantly. “It was the ceiling that had my attention.” Then he realized she knew that as well as he, and had been irking him on purpose, and his face relaxed into a charming smile.

“George Bernard Shaw, ma’am. I was a friend of Amos Lindsay’s. And were you also?”

“Yes I was.” She stretched the truth a fraction. “And I am very sorry he is gone.”

“Indeed.” He was instantly sober again. “It’s a sad and stupid waste.”

Further conversation was made impossible by the press of people desiring to leave the church, and Charlotte nodded politely and excused herself, leaving him to resume his contemplation.

At least half the mourners followed the coffin out into the sharp, sunny graveyard where the wet earth was dug and the ground was already sprinkled over with fallen leaves, gold and bronze on the green of the grass.

Aunt Vespasia, dressed in deep lavender (she refused to wear black), stood next to Charlotte, her chin high, her shoulders square, her hand gripping fiercely her silver-handled cane. She loathed it, but she was obliged to lean on it for support as Clitheridge droned on about the inevitability of death and the frailty of man.

“Fool,” she said under her breath. “Why on earth do vicars imagine God cannot be spoken to in simple language and needs everything explained to Him in at least three different ways? I always imagine God as the last person to be impressed by long words or to be deceived by specious excuses. For heaven’s sake, He made us. He knows perfectly well that we are fragile, stupid, glorious, grubby and brave.” She poked her stick into the ground viciously. “And He certainly does not want these fanfaronades. Get on with it, man! Inter the poor creature and let us go and speak well of him in some comfort!”

Charlotte closed her eyes, wincing in case someone had heard. Vespasia’s voice was not loud, but it was piercingly clear with immaculate enunciation. She heard a very soft “Here, here” behind her and involuntarily turned. She met Stephen Shaw’s level blue eyes, bright with pain, and belying the smile on his lips.

She turned back to the grave again immediately, and saw Lally Clitheridge’s look of steel-hard jealousy, but it aroused more pity in her than anger. Had she been married to Hector Clitheridge there would certainly have been moments when she too might have dreamed wild, impermissible dreams, and hated anyone who broke their fantastic surface, however ridiculous or slight.

Clitheridge was still wittering on, as if he could not bear to let the moment go, as though delaying the final replacing of the earth somehow extended a part of Amos Lindsay.

Oliphant was restive, moving his weight from one foot to the other, conscious of the grief and the indignity of it.

At the far end of the grave Alfred Lutterworth stood bareheaded, the wind ruffling his ring of white hair, and close beside him, her hand on his arm, Flora looked young and very pretty. The wind had put a touch of color into her cheeks, and the anxiety seemed to have gone from her expression. Even while Charlotte watched she saw Lutterworth place his hand over hers and tighten it a fraction.

Over her shoulder to the left, at the edge of the graveyard, Constable Murdo stood as upright as a sentry on duty, his buttons shining in the sun. Presumably he was here to observe everyone, but Charlotte never saw his gaze waver from Flora. For all that he seemed to observe, she might have been the only person present.

She saw Pitt only for a moment, a lean shadow somewhere near the vestry, trailing the ends of a muffler in the breeze. He turned towards her and smiled. Perhaps he had known she would come. For the space of an instant the crowd disappeared and there was no one else there. It was as if he had touched her. Then he turned and went on towards the yew hedge and the shadows. She knew he would be watching everything, expressions, gestures, whose eyes met whose, who spoke, who avoided speaking. She wondered if anything she had learned and told him was any use at all.

Maude Dalgetty was standing near the head of the grave. She was a little plumper than in her heyday, and the lines were quite clear in her face, but were all upward, generous and marked by humor. She was still a beauty, and perhaps always would be. In repose, as she was now, there was nothing sour in her features, nothing that spoke of regret.

Beside her, John Dalgetty stood very straight, avoiding even the slightest glance to where Quinton Pascoe stood equally rigid, doing his duty by a man he had liked but quarreled with fiercely. It was the attitude of a soldier at the grave of a fallen enemy. Dalgetty’s was the pose of a soldier also, but he was mourning a warrior in a mutual cause. Never once in the service did they acknowledge each other.

Josiah Hatch was bareheaded, as were all the men, and looked pinched as if the wind bit into his bones. Prudence was not with him; neither were the Worlingham sisters. They still held to the belief that ladies did not attend the church funeral or the graveside.

At last Clitheridge wound to a close, and the gravediggers began to replace the earth.

“Thank God,” Shaw said behind Charlotte. “You are coming to the funeral luncheon, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Charlotte accepted.

Vespasia turned around very slowly and regarded Shaw with cool interest.

He bowed. “Good morning, Lady Cuinrning-Gould. It is most gracious of you to come, especially on a day so late in the season when the wind is sharp. I am sure Amos would have appreciated it.”

Vespasia’s eyes flickered very slightly with an amusement almost invisible.

“Are you?”

He understood, and as always the candor was on his tongue instantly.

“You came because of Clemency.” He had known he was right, but he saw it in her face. “It is not pity which brings you here, and you are right, the dead are beyond our emotions. It is anger. You are still determined to learn who killed her, and why.”

“How perceptive of you,” Vespasia agreed. “I am.”

All the light vanished from his face, the frail humor like sunlight through snow. “So am I.”

“Then we had better proceed to the funerary meal.” She lifted her hand very slightly and immediately he offered her his arm. “Thank you,” she accepted, and, her hat almost sweeping his shoulder in its magnificent arc, she sailed down the path towards her waiting carriage.

As had been done for Clemency, this gathering was held in the Worlingham house also, from very mixed motives. It was impossible to do it, as would have been customary, in Lindsay’s own home, since it was a mere jumble of scarred beams resting at violent angles amid the heaps of burned and broken brick. His dearest friend, Shaw, was in no better a position. He could hardly offer to hold it in Mrs. Turner’s lodging house. It was not large enough and was occupied by several other people who could not be expected to have their house disrupted for such an event.

The choice rested between the Worlinghams’ and the vicarage. As soon as they realized that, Celeste and Angeline offered the use of their home, and of their servants to make all the necessary provisions. It was a matter of duty. They had not cared for Amos Lindsay, and cared still less for his opinions, but they were the bishop’s daughters, and the leaders of Christian society in Highgate. Position must come before personal feelings, especially towards the dead.

All this they made plain, in case anyone should mistakenly imagine they supported anything that Amos Lindsay had said or done.

They received everyone at the double doorway into the dining room, where the huge mahogany table was spread with every kind of baked meat and cold delicacy. The centerpiece was formed of lilies with a heavy, languorous perfume which instantly reminded Charlotte of somnolence, and eventually decay. The blinds were partially drawn, because today at least the house was in mourning, and black crepe was trailed suitably over pictures and texts on the walls, and around the newel posts of the stairs and over the door lintels.

The formal proceedings were very carefully laid out. It would have been impossible to seat everyone, and anyway since Shaw had invited extra people as the whim took him (including Pitt, to the deep indignation of the Worlingham sisters and the vicar), the servants did not know in advance how many there would be.

Therefore the food was set out so that people might be served by the butler and maids who were standing waiting discreetly just beyond the door, and then stand and speak with each other, commiserate, gossip and generally praise the dead until it should be time for a few prepared words, first by the vicar, then by Shaw as the departed’s closest friend. And of course they could partake of a few of the very best bottles of Port wine, or something a little lighter for the women. Claret was served with the meal.

“I don’t know how we are going to learn anything now,” Emily said with a frown of disappointment. “Everyone is doing precisely what one would expect. Clitheridge looks incompetent and harassed, his wife is trying to compensate for him all the time, while being aware of you and Dr. Shaw, and if looks had any effect your hair would have frizzled on your head and dropped out, and your dress would hang on your back in scorched rags.”

“Can you blame her?” Charlotte whispered back. “The vicar doesn’t exactly make one’s pulse race, does he.”

“Don’t be vulgar. No he doesn’t. I would rather have the good doctor any day—unless, of course, he murdered his wife.”

Charlotte had no effective answer for that, knowing it could be true, however much it hurt, so she turned around sharply and poked Emily in the ribs, as if by accident.

“Humph,” Emily said in total comprehension.

Flora Lutterworth was on her father’s arm, her veil drawn back so she might eat, and there was color in her cheeks and a faintly smug smile on her pretty mouth. Charlotte was curious to know what had caused it.

Across the room at the far side, Pitt saw it too, and had a very good idea it had something to do with Murdo. He considered it highly likely that Murdo would not find it so difficult to pursue Miss Lutterworth. In fact he might very well discover that it happened in spite of any ideas of his own, and it would all be much easier than he had feared.

Pitt was dressed unusually smartly for him. His collar was neat, his tie perfectly straight—at least so far—and he had nothing in his jacket pockets except a clean handkerchief (Emily’s silk one was only for show), a short pencil and a piece of folded paper so he might make notes if he wished. That was quite redundant, because he never did; it was something he thought an efficient policeman ought to have.

He realized Shaw had invited him precisely to annoy Angeline and Celeste. It was a way of establishing that although the function was held in the Worlingham house, this was Amos Lindsay’s funerary dinner, and he, Shaw, was the host and would invite whom he chose. To that end he stood at the head of the table, very square on his feet, and behaved as if the servants offering the baked meats and claret were his own. He welcomed the guests, especially Pitt. He did not glance once at the grim faces of Angeline and Celeste, who were in black bombazine and jet beads, standing behind him and a trifle to one side. They smiled guardedly at those they approved of, such as Josiah and Prudence Hatch, Quinton Pascoe, and Aunt Vespasia; nodded civilly to those they tolerated, like the Lutterworths, or Emily and Jack; and totally ignored those whose presence they knew to be a calculated affront, such as Pitt and Charlotte—although since they came separately and did not speak to each other, the sisters did not immediately connect them.

Pitt took his delicious cold game pie, jugged hare, and brown bread and butter and homemade pickle, liberally apportioned, and his glass of claret, finding them extraordinarily difficult to manage, and wandered around half overhearing conversations, and closely observing faces—those who were speaking, and more particularly those who were alone and unaware they were being observed.

What had been the precise course of events on the day or two before Clemency Shaw’s death? Some time earlier she had discovered the source of the Worlingham money, and spread and given away her own inheritance, almost entirely to relieve the distress of those who were the victims of appalling misery, either directly to assist them, or indirectly to fight the laws which presently enabled owners to take their excess profits so discreetly that their names were never known nor their public reputations smeared with their true behavior.

When had she shared this with Shaw? Or had he discovered it some way of his own, perhaps only when her money was gone, and they had had a furious quarrel? Or had he been wiser than that, and pretended to agree—No. If he had hidden his response, it must have been because he thought there was still a substantial majority of the money left—enough to be worth killing her to save.

He looked across the heads of two women talking, to where Shaw still stood at the head of the table, smiling and nodding, talking to Maude Dalgetty. He looked very tense; his shoulders were tight under the fabric of his black jacket, as if he longed to break into action, punch the air, stride backward and forward, do anything to use that wild anger inside him. Pitt found it hard to believe he would have contained his temper so well that Clemency, who must have known his every expression, inflection of voice, gesture, would not have understood the power of his rage, and thus at least some shadow of her own danger.

What must she have thought when Josiah Hatch announced that there was going to be a stained-glass window put in the church dedicated to the old bishop, and depicting him as one of the early Christian saints? What an intolerable irony. What self-control had enabled her to keep silent? And she had done so. It had been a public announcement, and if she had given even the slightest hint that she knew some hideous secret, as a member of the family she would have been listened to, even if not entirely believed.

Was it conceivable that everyone had kept silent about it—a conspiracy?

He looked around the room at the somber faces. All were suitably grim for the occasion: Clitheridge harassed and nervous; Lally smoothing things over, fussing around Shaw; Pascoe and Dalgetty studiously avoiding each other, but still padded out by bandages under their mourning clothes—Dalgetty’s cheek stitched and plastered. Matthew Oliphant was speaking quietly, a word of comfort, a gesture of warmth or reassurance; Josiah Hatch’s face was white except where the wind had whipped his cheeks; Prudence was more relaxed than earlier, her fear gone. Angeline and Celeste were quietly angry; the Lutterworths were still being socially patronized. No, he could not believe in a conspiracy among such disparate people. Too many of them had no interest in protecting the reputation of the Worlinghams. Dalgetty would have delighted in spreading such a richly ironic tale, the ultimate freedom to speak against the established order of things—even if only to infuriate Pascoe.

And Amos Lindsay, with his Fabian socialist sympathies, would surely have laughed loud and long, and made no secret of it at all.

No—assuredly nothing had been said when the window was announced. And all plans had gone ahead for it, money had been raised, the glass purchased and the artists and glaziers engaged. The Archbishop of York had been invited to dedicate it and all Highgate and half ecclesiastical north London would be there at the ceremony.

Pitt sipped his claret. It was extremely good. The old bishop must have laid down a remarkable cellar, as well as everything else. Ten years after his death, Theophilus’s share gone, and there was still this quality to draw on for an affair which was not really more than a duty for Celeste and Angeline.

The Worlingham window must be costing a very considerable amount of money, and according to the family, part of the purpose of it was to show the great regard in which the whole of Highgate had held the bishop. Therefore it was to be funded with public money, collected from the parish, and any other people whose remembrance of him was so clear that they wished to contribute.

Who had organized that? Celeste? Angeline? No—it had been Josiah Hatch. Of course, it would be a man. They would hardly leave such a public and financial matter to elderly ladies. And it would be more seemly if it did not come from one of the immediate family. That left the two grandsons-in-law—Hatch and Shaw. Hatch was a church sidesman, and had a reverence for the bishop that exceeded even that of his daughters. He was the old bishop’s true spiritual heir.

Anyway, the idea of Stephen Shaw working on such a scheme was ludicrous. He had disliked the bishop strongly in his lifetime, and now on learning of the true source of his wealth, he whose daily work took him to the victims of such greed, despised him with a passion.

Pitt wondered what Shaw had said to Hatch, when Hatch asked him for a contribution. That must have been a rich moment: Hatch holding out his hand for money for a memorial window depicting the bishop as a saint; and Shaw newly aware that the bishop’s fortune came from the wretchedness of thousands, even the exploitation and death of many—and his wife had just given away every penny she inherited to right at least a fraction of the wrongs.

Had Shaw kept his temper—and a still tongue?

Pitt looked again across the crowd at that passionate, dynamic face with its ruthless honesty.

Surely not?

Shaw was banging the table, his glass high in his other hand.

Gradually the buzz of conversation died and everyone turned towards him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a clear, ringing voice. “We are met here today, at the kind invitation of Miss Celeste and Miss Angeline Worlingham, to honor our departed friend, Amos Lindsay. It is appropriate that we say a few words about him, to remember him as he was.”

There was a faintly uncomfortable shifting of weight in the room, a creaking of whalebone stays, the faint rattle of taffeta, someone’s shoes squeaking, an exhalation of breath.

“The vicar spoke of him in church,” Shaw went on, his voice a little louder. “He praised his virtues, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he praised a list of virtues which it is customary to attribute to the dead, and no one ever argues and says, ‘Well, no, actually, he wasn’t like that at all.’ ” He raised his glass a little higher. “But I am! I want us to drink in remembrance of the man as he really was, not some hygienic, dehumanized plaster replica of him, robbed of all his weaknesses, and so of all his triumphs.”

“Really—” Clitheridge looked pale and dithered between stepping forward and interrupting physically—and the more restrained action of simply remonstrating, and hoping Shaw’s better taste would prevail. “I mean—don’t you think—?”

“No I don’t,” Shaw said briskly. “I hate the pious whimperings about his being a pillar of the community, a Godfearing man and beloved of us all. Have you no honesty left in your souls? Can you stand here and say you all loved Amos Lindsay? Balderdash!”

There was an audible gasp of indrawn breath this time, and Clitheridge turned around desperately as if he were hoping some miraculous rescue might be at hand.

“Quinton Pascoe was afraid of him, and was horrified by his writings. He would have had him censored, had he been able.”

There was a slight rustle and murmur as everyone swiveled to look at Pascoe, who turned bright pink. But before he could protest, Shaw went on.

“And Aunt Celeste and Aunt Angeline abhorred everything he stood for. They were—and still are—convinced that his Fabian views are unchristian and, if allowed to proliferate though society, will bring about the end of everything that is civilized and beneficial to mankind—or at any rate to that class of it to which we belong, which is all that matters to them, because it is all they know. It is all their sainted father ever allowed them to know.”

“You are drunk!” Celeste said in a furious whisper which carried right around the room.

“On the contrary, I am extremely sober,” he replied, looking up at the glass in his hand. “Even Theophilus’s best burgundy has not affected me—because I have not drunk enough of it. And as for his superb Port—I have not even touched it yet. The very least I owe poor Amos is to have my thoughts collected when I speak of him—although God knows I have enough provocation to get drunk. My wife, my best friend and my house have all been taken from me in the last few weeks. And even the police, with all their diligence, don’t seem to have the faintest idea by whom.”

“This is most undignified,” Prudence said very quietly, but still her voice carried so at least a dozen people heard her.

“You wanted to speak of Mr. Lindsay,” Oliphant prompted Shaw.

Shaw’s face changed. He lowered the glass and put it on the table.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me. This is not the time or the occasion for my losses. We are here to remember Amos—truly and vividly as the living man really was. We do him a hideous disservice to paint him in pastel colors and gloss over the failures, and the victories.”

“We should not speak ill of the dead, Stephen,” Angeline said after clearing her throat. “It is most unchristian, and quite unnecessary. I am sure we were all very fond of Mr. Lindsay and thought only the best of him.”

“No you didn’t,” he contradicted her. “Did you know he married an African woman? Black as the ace of spades—and beautiful as the summer night. And he had children—but they are all still in Africa.”

“Really, Stephen—this is quite irresponsible!” Celeste stepped forward and took him firmly by the elbow. “The man is not here to defend himself—”

Shaw shook her loose, bumping her abruptly.

“God darnmit, he doesn’t need a defense!” he shouted. “Marrying an African is not a sin! He did have sins—plenty of them—” He flung his arms expressively. “When he was young he was violent, he drank too much, he took advantage of fools, especially rich ones, and he took women that most certainly weren’t his.” His face screwed up with intensity and his voice dropped. “But he also had compassion, after he’d learned pain himself: he was never a liar, nor a bigot.” He looked around at them all. “He never spread gossip and he could keep a secret to the grave. He had no pretensions and he knew a hypocrite when he saw one—and loathed all forms of cant.”

“I really think—” Clitheridge began, flapping his hands as if he would attract everyone’s attention away from Shaw. “Really—I—”

“You can pontificate all you like over everyone else.” Shaw’s voice was very loud now. “But Amos was my friend, and I shall speak of him as he really was. I’m sick of hearing platitudes and lies, sick and weary to my heart of it! You couldn’t even speak of poor Clem honestly. You mouthed a lot of pious phrases that meant nothing at all, said nothing of what she was really like. You made her sound as if she were a quiet, submissive, ignorant little woman who wore her life away being obedient, looking after me and doing useless good works among the parish poor. You made her seem colorless, cowardly of spirit and dull of mind. She wasn’t!” He was so furious now, and so torn by grief, that his face was suffused with color, his eyes were bright and his whole body trembled. Even Celeste dared not interfere.

“That was nothing like Clem. She had more courage than all the rest of you put together—and more honesty!”

With difficulty Pitt tore his attention from Shaw and looked around at the other faces. Was there any one of them reflecting fear of what Shaw was going to say next? There was anxiety in Angeline’s face, and distaste in Celeste’s, but he could not see the dread that would have been there had they known of Clemency’s discovery.

There was nothing in Prudence’s profile either, and nothing in the half outline of Josiah except rigid contempt.

“God knows how she was born a Worlingham,” Shaw went on, his fist clenched tight, his body hunched as if waiting to explode into motion. “Old Theophilus was a pretentious, greedy old hypocrite—and a coward to the last—”

“How dare you!” Celeste was too angry to consider any vestige of propriety left. “Theophilus was a fine, upright man who lived honestly and charitably all his life. It is you who are greedy and a coward! If you had treated him properly, as you should have, both as his son-in-law and as his doctor, then he would probably be alive today!”

“Indeed he would,” Angeline added, her face quivering. “He was a noble man, and always did his duty.”

“He died groveling on the floor with fistfuls of money spread all around him, tens of thousands of pounds!” Shaw exploded at last. “If anybody killed him, it was probably whoever was blackmailing him!”

There was a stunned and appalled silence. For deafening seconds no one even drew breath. Then there was a shriek from Angeline, a stifled sob from Prudence.

“Dear heaven!” Lally spoke at last.

“What on earth are you saying?” Lutterworth demanded. “This is outrageous! Theophilus Worlingham was an outstanding man in the community, and you can have no possible grounds for saying such a thing! You didn’t find him, did you? Who says there was all this money? Perhaps he had a major purchase in mind.”

Shaw’s face was blazing with derision. “With seven thousand, four hundred and eighty-three pounds—in cash?”

“Perhaps he kept his money in the house?” Oliphant suggested quietly. “Some people do. He may have been counting it when he was taken by a seizure. It was a seizure he died of, wasn’t it?”

“Yes it was,” Shaw agreed. “But it was flung all over the room, and there were five notes clutched in his hand, thrust out before him as if he were trying to give it to someone. Everything indicated he hadn’t been alone.”

“That is a monstrous lie!” Celeste found her voice at last. “Quite wicked, and you know it! He was utterly alone, poor man. It was Clemency who found him, and called you.”

“Clem found him, and called me, certainly,” Shaw agreed. “But he was lying in his study, with the French doors open onto the garden—and who is to say she was the first person there? He was already almost cold when she arrived.”

“For God’s sake, man!” Josiah Hatch burst out. “You are speaking about your father-in-law—and the Misses Worlingham’s brother! Have you no decency left at all?”

“Decency!” Shaw turned on him. “There’s nothing indecent in speaking about death. He was lying on the floor, purple-faced, his eyes bulging out of his head, his body chill, and five hundred pounds in Treasury notes held so fast in his hand we couldn’t remove them to lay him out. What is indecent is where the bloody money came from!”

Everyone began to shift uncomfortably, half afraid to look at each other, and yet unable to help it. Eyes met eyes and then slid away again. Someone coughed.

“Blackmail?” someone said aloud. “Not Theophilus!”

A woman giggled nervously and her gloved hand flew to her mouth to suppress the sound.

There was a sharp sibilance of whispering, cut off instantly.

“Hector?” Lally’s voice was clear.

Clitheridge looked red-faced and utterly wretched. Some force beyond himself seemed to propel him forward to where Shaw stood at the head of the table, Celeste a little behind him and to his right, white to the lips and shaking with rage.

“Ahem!” Clitheridge cleared his throat. “Ahem—I—er …” He looked around wildly for rescue, and found none. He looked at Lally once more, his face now scarlet, and gave up. “I—er—I am afraid I was the one with—with, er—Theophilus when he died—er, at least shortly before. He—er—” He cleared his throat violently again as if he had some obstruction in it. “He—er—he sent a message for me to come to him—with one of the—er—choirboys who had—er—” He looked imploringly at Lally, and met implacable resolve. He gasped for air, and continued in abysmal misery. “I read the message and went over to his house straightaway—it sounded most urgent. I—er—I found him in a state of great excitement, quite unlike anything I had ever seen.” He shut his eyes and his voice rose to a squeak as he relived the utter horror of it. “He was beside himself. He kept spluttering and choking and waving his hands in the air. There were piles of Treasury notes on his desk. I could not even hazard a guess how much money. He was frantic. He looked very unwell and I implored him to allow me to send for the doctor, but he would not hear of it. I am not sure he even grasped what I was saying. He kept on insisting he had a sin to confess.” Clitheridge’s eyes were rolling like a frightened horse and he looked everywhere but at the Worlinghams. The sweat broke out on his brow and lip and his hands were wringing each other so hard his knuckles were white.

“He kept on thrusting the money at me and begging me to take it—for the church—for the poor—for anything. And he wanted me to hear his confession …” His voice trailed away, too agonized at the memory to find words anymore, as if his throat had closed.

“Lies!” Celeste said loudly. “Absolute lies! Theophilus never had anything to be ashamed of. He must have been having a seizure, and you misunderstood everything. Why in heaven’s name didn’t you call the doctor yourself, you fool!”

Clitheridge found his tongue again. “He was not having a seizure,” he said indignantly. “He was lunging after me, trying to grasp hold of me and force me to take the money, all of it! There were thousands of pounds! And he wanted me to hear his confession. I was—I was mortified with embarrassment. I have never seen anything so—so—so horrifying in my life.”

“What in God’s name did you do?” Lutterworth demanded.

“I—er—” Clitheridge swallowed convulsively. “I—I ran! I simply fled out of that ghastly room, through the French windows—and across the garden—all the way back to the vicarage.”

“And told Lally, who promptly covered up for you—as usual,” Shaw finished. “Leaving Theophilus to fall into a seizure and die all by himself—clutching the money. Very Christian!” Still, honesty moderated contempt. “Not that you could have saved him—”

Clitheridge had collapsed within himself, guilty, hideously embarrassed and overcome with failure. Only Lally took any notice of him, and she patted him absently as she would a child.

“But all the money—?” Prudence demanded. She was confused and appalled. “What was all the money for? It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t keep money at home. And what happened to it?”

“I put it back in the bank, where it came from,” Shaw answered her.

Angeline was on the edge of tears.

“But what was it for? Why would poor Theophilus take all his money out of the bank? Did he really mean to give it all to the church? How noble of him! How like him!” She swallowed hard. “How like Papa too! Stephen—you should have done as he wished. It was very wrong of you to put it back in the bank. Of course I understand why—so Prudence and Clemency could inherit it all, not just the house and the investments—but it was still very wrong of you.”

“God Almighty!” Shaw shouted. “You idiot woman! Theophilus wanted to give it to the church to buy his salvation! It was blood money! It came from slum tenements—every penny of it wrung out of the poor, the keepers of brothels, the distilling in gin mills, the masters of sweatshops and the sellers of opium in narrow little dormitories where addicts lie in rows and smoke themselves into oblivion. That’s where the Worlingham money comes from. The old bishop bled every drop of it out of Lisbon Street, and God knows how many others like it—and built this damn great palace of complacency for himself and his family.”

Angeline held both her hands to her mouth, knuckles white, tears running down her face. Celeste did not even look at her. They were quite separate in their overwhelming shock and the ruin of their world. She stood strong-faced, staring into some distance beyond everyone present, hatred and an immense, intolerable anger hardening inside her.

“Theophilus knew it,” Shaw went on relentlessly. “And in the end when he thought he was dying it terrified the hell out of him. He tried to give it back—and it was too late. I didn’t know it then—I didn’t even know that ass Clitheridge had been there, or what the money was for. I simply put it in the bank because it was Theophilus’s, and shouldn’t be left lying around. I only discovered where it came from when Clemency did—and told me. She gave it all away in shame—and to make whatever reparation she could—”

“That’s a lie! Satan speaks in your mouth!” Josiah Hatch lunged forward, his face scarlet, his hands outstretched like talons to grip Shaw by the throat and choke the life out of him, and stop his terrible words forever. “You blasphemer! You deserve to die—I don’t know why God has not struck you down. Except that He uses us poor men to do His work.” Already he had carried Shaw to the ground with the fierceness of his attack and his own despair.

Pitt charged through the crowd, which was standing motionless and aghast. He thrust them aside, men and women alike, and grasped at Hatch’s shoulders, trying to pull him back, but Hatch had the strength of devotion, even martyrdom if need be.

Pitt was shouting at him, but he knew even as he did so that Hatch could not hear him.

“You devil!” Hatch spoke from between his teeth. “You blasphemer! If I let you live you’ll soil every clean and pure thing. You’ll spew up your filthy ideas over all the good work that has been done—plant seeds of doubt where there used to be faith. You’ll tell your obscene lies about the bishop and make people laugh at him, deride him where they used to revere him.” He was weeping as he spoke, his hands still scrabbling at Shaw’s throat, his hair fallen forward over his brow, his face purple. “It is better that one man should die than a whole people wither in unbelief. You must be cast out—you pollute and destroy. You should be thrown into the sea—with a millstone ’round your neck. Better you’d never been born than drag other people down to hell with you.”

Pitt hit him as hard as he could across the side of the head, and after a brief moment of convulsing, wild arms flailing and his mouth working without sound, Josiah Hatch fell to the ground and lay still, his eyes closed, his hands clasped like claws.

Jack Radley pushed his way from the side of the room and came to Pitt’s aid, bending over Hatch and holding him.

Celeste fainted and Oliphant eased her to the ground.

Angeline was weeping like a child, lost, alone and utterly bereft.

Prudence was frozen as if all life had left her.

“Get Constable Murdo!” Pitt ordered.

No one moved.

Pitt jerked up to repeat his command, and saw out of the corner of his eye Emily going towards the hallway and the front door, where Murdo was patrolling.

At last life returned to the assembly. Taffeta rustled, whalebone creaked, there was a sighing of breath and the women moved a little closer to the men.

Shaw climbed to his feet, white-faced, his eyes like holes in his head. Everyone turned away, except Charlotte. She moved towards him. He was shaking. He did not even attempt to straighten his clothes. His hair was standing out in tufts, his necktie was under one ear and his collar was torn. His jacket was dusty and one sleeve was ripped from the armhole, and there were deep scratches on his face.

“It was Josiah!” His voice was husky in his bruised throat. “Josiah killed Clem—and Amos. He wanted to kill me.” He looked strained and there was contusion in his eyes.

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice soft and very level. “He wanted to kill you all the time. Lindsay and Clem were only mistakes—because you were out of the house. Although perhaps he didn’t mind if he got Amos as well—he had no reason to suppose he was out, as he did with Clemency.”

“But why?” He looked hurt, like a child who has been struck for no reason. “We quarreled, but it wasn’t serious—”

“Not for you.” She found it suddenly very painful to speak. She knew how deeply it would hurt him, and yet she could not evade it. “But you mocked him—”

“Good God, Charlotte—he asked for it! He was a hypocrite—all his values were absurd. He half worshiped old Worlingham, who was a greedy, vicious and thoroughly corrupt man, posing as a saint—and not only robbing people blind but robbing the destitute. Josiah spent his life praising and preaching lies.”

“But they were precious to him,” she repeated.

“Lies! Charlotte—they were lies!”

“I know that.” She held his gaze in an uncompromising stare, and saw the distress in his, the incomprehension, and the terrible depth of caring.

It was a bitter blow she was going to deal him, and yet it was the only way to healing, if he accepted it.

“But we all need our heroes, and our dreams—real or false. And before you destroy someone else’s dreams, if they have built their lives on them, you have to put something in their place. Before, Dr. Shaw.” She saw him wince at her formality. “Not afterwards. Then it is too late. Being an iconoclast, destroying false idols—or those you think are false—is great fun, and gives you a wonderful feeling of moral superiority. But there is a high price to speaking the truth. You are free to say what you choose—and probably this has to be so, if there is to be any growth of ideas at all—but you are responsible for what happens because you speak it.”

“Charlotte—”

“But you spoke it without thinking, or caring—and walked away.” She did not moderate her words at all. “You thought truth was enough. It isn’t. Josiah at least could not live with it—and perhaps you should have thought of that. You knew him well enough—you’ve been his brother-in-law for twenty years.”

“But—” Now there was no disguising any of his sudden, newfound pain. He cared intensely what she thought of him, and he could see the criticism in her face. He searched for approval, even a shred; understanding, a white, pure love of truth for its own sake. And he saw at last only what was there—the knowledge that with power comes responsibility.

“You had the power to see,” she said, moving a step away from him. “You had the words, the vision—and you knew you were stronger than he was. You destroyed his idols, without thinking what would happen to him without them.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but it was a cry of loneliness and the beginning of a new and bitter understanding. Slowly he turned away and looked at Josiah, who was now regaining his senses and being hauled to his feet by Pitt and Jack Radley. Somewhere in the hallway Emily was bringing Constable Murdo in, carrying handcuffs.

Shaw still could not face Angeline and Celeste, but he held out his hands to Prudence.

“I’m sorry,” he said very quietly. “I am truly sorry.”

She stood motionless for a moment, unable to decide. Then slowly she extended her hands to him, and he clasped them and held them.

Charlotte turned away and pushed between the crowd to find Great-Aunt Vespasia.

Vespasia sighed and took Charlotte’s arm.

“A very dangerous game—the ruin of dreams, however foolish,” she murmured. “Too often we think because we cannot see them that they do not have the power to destroy—and yet our lives are built upon them. Poor Hatch—such a deluded man, such false idols. And yet we cannot tear them down with impunity. Shaw has much to account for.”

“He knows,” Charlotte said quietly, raw with regret herself. “I told him so.”

Vespasia tightened her hand on Charlotte’s. There was no need for words.