Unseemly haste. Most unseemly. And it’s not even as if she were bettering herself. Stupid girl. That I could understand, at least. But Jack Radley! Who on earth are the Radleys? I ask you!”
Charlotte ignored the whole matter. She was confident Jack Radley would flatter the old lady and she would melt like butter on a hot crumpet. It was simply not worth trying to argue the point now. And of course whatever Emily had brought her from Europe she would criticize, but she would be pleased all the same, and show it off relentlessly.
As if aware of Charlotte’s well-controlled temper the old lady swiveled around and glared at her over the top of her eyeglasses.
“And what are you doing with yourself these days, miss? Still meddling in your husband’s affairs? If there is anything in the world that is totally and inexcusably vulgar, it is curiosity about other people’s domestic tragedies. I told you at the time no good would come of it.” Again she snorted spitefully and settled back a little in her seat. “Detective, indeed!”
“I am not involved in Thomas’s present case, Grandmama.” Charlotte took a fifth cucumber sandwich and ate it with relish. They really were delicious, thin as wafers, and sweet and crisp.
“Good,” the old woman said with satisfaction. “You eat too much. It is unladylike. You have lost all the refinement of manner you used to have. I blame you, Caroline! You should never have allowed this to happen. If she had been my daughter she would not have been permitted to marry beneath her!”
Caroline had long ago ceased to defend herself from such remarks, and she did not wish to quarrel, even though she was provoked. In fact it gave her a certain satisfaction to catch her mother-in-law’s beady eyes and smile sweetly back at her, and see the irritation in them.
“Unfortunately I had not your skill,” she said gently. “I managed very well with Emily-but Charlotte defeated me.”
The old lady was temporarily beaten. “Hah!” she said, at a loss for words.
Charlotte hid her smile, and took another sip of tea.
“Given up meddling, have you?” The old lady renewed the attack. “Emily will be disappointed!”
Charlotte sipped her tea again.
“All cutpurses and thieves, I suppose,” Grandmama continued. “Been demoted, has he?”
Finally Charlotte was drawn, in spite of her resolution.
“No. It is arson and murder. A very respectable woman has been burned to death in Highgate. In fact her grandfather was a bishop,” she added with something unpleasantly like triumph.
The old lady looked at her guardedly. “What bishop would that be? Sounds unlikely to me.”
“Bishop Worlingham,” Charlotte replied immediately.
“Bishop Worlingham! Augustus Worlingham?” The old lady’s eyes snapped sharp with interest; she leaned forward in her chair and thumped her black walking stick on the ground. “Answer me, girl! Augustus Worlingham?”
“I imagine so.” Charlotte could not remember Pitt having mentioned the bishop’s Christian name. “There surely cannot be two.”
“Don’t be impertinent!” But the old lady was too excited to be more than cursorily critical. “I used to know his daughters, Celeste and Angeline. So they still live in Highgate. Well why not? Very fortunate area. I should go and call upon them, convey my condolences upon their loss.”
“You can’t!” Caroline was appalled. “You’ve never mentioned them before-you cannot have called upon them in years!”
“And is that any cause not to comfort them now in their distress?” the old lady demanded, eyebrows high, searching for reason in an unreasonable house. “I shall go this very afternoon. It is quite early. You may accompany me if you wish.” She hauled herself to her feet. “As long as you do not in any circumstances display a vulgar curiosity.” And she stumped past the tea trolley and out of the withdrawing room without so much as glancing behind her to see what reaction her remarks had provoked.
Charlotte looked at her mother, undecided whether to declare herself or not. The idea of meeting people so close to Clemency Shaw was strongly appealing, even though she believed the person who had connived her death, whoever had lit the taper, was someone threatened by her work to expose slum profiteers to the public knowledge.
Caroline drew in her breath, then her expression of incredulity turned rapidly through contemplation to shamefaced interest.
“Ah-” She breathed in and out again slowly. “I really don’t think we should permit her to go alone, do you? I have no idea what she might say.” She bit her lip to suppress a smile. “And curiosity is so vulgar.”
“Perfectly terrible,” Charlotte agreed, rising to her feet and clasping her reticule, ready for departure.
They made the considerable ride to Highgate in close to silence. Once Charlotte asked the old lady if she could inform them of her acquaintance with the Worlingham sisters, and anything about their present situation, but the reply was scant, and in a tone that discouraged further inquiry.
“They were neither prettier nor plainer than most,” the old lady said, as if the question had been fatuous. “I never heard any scandal about them-which may mean they were virtuous, or merely that no opportunity for misbehavior offered itself. They were the daughters of a bishop, after all.”
“I was not seeking scandal.” Charlotte was irritated by the implication. “I simply wondered what nature of people they were.”
“Bereaved,” came the reply. “That is why I am calling upon them. I suspect you of mere curiosity, which is a character failing of a most distasteful sort. I hope you will not embarrass me when we are there?”
Charlotte gasped at the sheer effrontery of it. She knew perfectly well the old lady had not called on the Worlinghams in thirty years, and assuredly would not now had Clemency died in a more ordinary fashion. For once a suitably stinging reply eluded her, and she rode the remainder of the journey in silence.
The Worlingham house in Fitzroy Park, Highgate, was imposing from the outside, solid with ornate door and windows, and large enough to accommodate a very considerable family and full staff of indoor servants.
Inside, when they were admitted by a statuesque parlormaid, it was even more opulent, if now a little shabby in various places. Charlotte, well behind her mother and grandmother, had opportunity to glance around with a more lingering eye. The hall was unusually large, paneled in oak, and hung with portraits of varying age, but no plates underneath to tell their names. An instant suspicion crossed Charlotte’s mind that they were not ancestral Worlinghams at all, merely dressing to awe a visitor. In the place of honor where the main light shone on it was by far the largest portrait, that of an elderly gentleman in very current dress. His broad face was pink fleshed, his silver hair grew far back on his sloping forehead and curled up over his ears, forming an almost luminous aureole around his head. His eyes were blue under heavy lids, and his chin was wide; but his most remarkable feature was the benign, complacent and supremely confident smile on his lips. Under this the plate was legible even as Charlotte walked past it to the morning room door. BISHOP AUGUSTUS T. WORLINGHAM.
The maid departed to inquire whether they would be received, and Grandmama bent herself stiffly to sit in one of the chairs, staring around at the room critically. The pictures here were gloomy landscapes, framed samplers with such mottoes as “Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,” in cross-stitch; “The price of a good woman is above rubies,” framed in wood; and “God sees all,” with an eye in satin and stem stitches.
Caroline pulled a face.
Charlotte imagined the two sisters as girls sitting on a sabbath afternoon in silence, carefully sewing such things, all fingers and thumbs, hating every moment of it, wondering how long until tea when Papa would read the Scriptures to them; they would answer dutifully, and then after prayers be released to go to bed.
Grandmama cleared her throat and looked with disfavor at an enormous glass case filled with stuffed and mounted birds.
The antimacassars were stitched in brown upon linen, and all a trifle crooked.
The parlormaid returned to say that the Misses Worlingham would be charmed to receive them, and accordingly they followed her back across the hall and into the cavernous withdrawing room hung with five chandeliers. Only two of these were lit, and the parquet wooden floors were strewn with an assortment of Oriental rugs of several different shades and designs, all a fraction paler where the pile had been worn with constant tread, from the door to the sofa and chairs, and to a distinct patch in front of the fire, as if someone had habitually stood there. Charlotte remembered with an odd mixture of anger and loss how her father had stood in front of the fire in winter, warming himself, oblivious of the fact that he was keeping it from everyone else. The late Bishop
