parish.”
Lally’s face softened. “There’s been no Albert buried in this parish, child; not in more than a year. And believe me, I mark every burial. It is part of my Christian duty, as well as my wish. Are you sure it is here in Highgate?”
Gracie did not look at Charlotte, but she was acutely conscious of her a foot or two away.
“Oh, yes ma’am,” she replied earnestly. “I’m sure that’s wot they said. Per’aps if you would just tell us the names o’ the other ladies as ’elps them as is in trouble, we could ask an’ mebbe they’d know, like?” She smiled appealingly, putting to the front of her mind their purpose in having come; it was, after all, the greater loyalty. This must be what detecting involved, learning facts people were reluctant to tell you.
Lally was won over, in spite of herself. Still ignoring Charlotte she directed her answer to Gracie.
“Of course. Mrs. Hatch may be able to assist you, or Mrs. Dalgetty, or Mrs. Simpson, Mrs. Braithwaite or Miss Crombie. Would you like their addresses?”
“Oh, yes ma’am, if you’d be so good?”
“Of course.” Lally fished in her reticule for a piece of paper, and failed to find a pencil.
Charlotte produced one and handed it to her. She took it in silence, wrote for several moments, then gave the slip to Gracie, who took it, still without looking at Charlotte, and held on to it tightly. She thanked Lally with a slight curtsey.
“That’s ever so kind of you, ma’am.”
“Not at all,” Lally said generously. Then her expression clouded over again and she looked at Charlotte. “Good day, Mrs. Pitt. I hope you are successful.” She passed back the pencil. “Now if you will excuse me I have several vases of flowers to finish and then some calls to make.” And she turned her back on them and began furiously poking daisies into the rolled-up wire mesh in the vase, sticking them in at all angles.
Side by side Charlotte and Gracie left, eyes downcast until they were outside. Then immediately Gracie pushed the paper at Charlotte with a glow of triumph.
Charlotte took it and read it. “You did expertly, Gracie,” she said sincerely. “I couldn’t have managed without you!”
Gracie flushed with pleasure. “What does it say, ma’am? I carsn’t read that kind o’ writin’.”
Charlotte looked at the sprawling cursive script. “It is exactly what we want,” she answered approvingly. “The names and addresses of several of the women who might know where Clemency Shaw began her work. We shall start immediately with Maude Dalgetty. I rather liked her manner at the funeral. I think she may be a sensible woman and generous spirited. She was a friend of Clemency’s and so, I expect, inclined to help us.”
And so it proved. Maude Dalgetty was both sensible and desirous to help. She welcomed them into a withdrawing room full of sunlight and bowls of late roses. The room had a graciousness of proportion and was elegantly furnished, although many of the pieces were beginning to show wear. There were little knots and gaps in some of the fringes around lamps and the sashes on the curtains, and some of the crystals were missing from the chandelier. But the warmth was unmistakable. The books were used-here was one open on the side table. There was a large sewing basket with mending and embroidery clearly visible. The painting above the mantelpiece was a portrait of Maude herself, probably done a dozen years earlier, sitting in a garden on a summer day, the light on her skin and hair. She certainly had been a remarkable beauty, and much of it was left, even if a little more amply proportioned.
Two cats lay curled up together in a single ball of fur by the fire, sound asleep.
“How may I help you?” Maude said as soon as they were in. She paid no less attention to Gracie than to Charlotte. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
It was, strictly speaking, too early for such a thing, but Charlotte judged it was sincerely offered and since she was thirsty and had eaten no lunch, and she imagined Gracie was the same, she accepted.
Maude ordered it from the maid, then inquired again how she might help.
Charlotte hesitated. Sitting in this warm room looking at Maude’s intelligent face she was uncertain whether to risk telling her the truth rather than a concocted lie, however plausible. Then she recalled Clemency’s death, and Lindsay’s so soon after, and changed her mind. Wherever the heart of the murders lay, there were tentacles of it here. An unwitting word by even an innocent person might provoke more violence. It was one of the ugliest changes in the aftermath of murder that instinctive trusts disappeared. One looked for betrayal and suspected every answer of being a lie, every careless or angry word of hiding greed or hatred, every guarded comment of concealing envy.
“Gracie has recently heard that an aunt of hers in this locality has been widowed,” she explained. “She fears she may be in straitened circumstances, perhaps even to the degree of being put out on the street.”
Maude’s face showed immediate concern but she did not interrupt.
“If she has fallen on the care of the parish then perhaps you know what has become of her?” Charlotte tried to put the urgency into her voice that she would have felt had it been true, and saw the compassion in Maude’s eyes, and hated herself for the duplicity. She hurried on to cover it in speech. “And if you do not, then someone else may? I believe that the late Mrs. Shaw concerned herself greatly with such cases?” She felt her cheeks burn. This was the kind of deception she most despised.
Maude tightened her lips and blinked several times to control the very obvious grief that flooded her face.
“Indeed she did,” she said gently. “But if she had any record of whom she helped it will have been destroyed when the house was burned.” She turned to Gracie, since it was Gracie whose aunt they were speaking of. “The only other person likely to know would be the curate, Matthew Oliphant. I think she confided in him and he gave her counsel, and possibly even help. She spoke very little of her work, but I know she felt more deeply about it as time passed. Most of it was not within the parish, you know? I am not at all sure she would have been directly involved with a local loss. You might be better advised to ask Mrs. Hatch, or perhaps Mrs. Wetherell.”
The maid returned with tea and the most delicious sandwiches, made with the thinnest of bread and tomato cut into minute cubes so there was nothing squashy in them and no stringy skins to embarrass the eater. For several minutes Charlotte abandoned the purpose of her visit and simply enjoyed them. Gracie, who had never even seen anything so fine, let alone tasted it, was absolutely spellbound.
It was early afternoon and becoming overcast when Percival drew up the carriage outside the lodging house where Matthew Oliphant lived. He handed down Charlotte, and then Gracie, and watched them walk up the path and knock on the door before he returned to the carriage seat and prepared to wait.
The door was opened by a maid who advised them that Mr. Oliphant was in the sitting room and would no doubt receive them, since he seemed to receive everyone.
They reached the sitting room, an impersonal place furnished with extreme conservatism, armchairs with antimacassars, a portrait of the Queen over the mantel and one of Mr. Gladstone on the far wall, several samplers of religious texts, three stuffed birds under glass, an arrangement of dried flowers, a stuffed weasel in a case, and two aspidistras. They reminded Charlotte immediately of the sort of things that had been left over after everyone else had taken what they liked. She could not imagine the person who would willingly have selected these. Certainly not Matthew Oliphant, with his humorous, imaginative face, rising in his chair to greet them, leaving his Bible open on the table; nor Stephen Shaw, busy writing at the rolltop desk by the window. He stood up also when he saw Charlotte, surprise and pleasure in his face.
“Mrs. Pitt, how charming to see you.” He came towards her, his hand extended. He glanced at Gracie, who was standing well back, smitten with shyness now they were dealing with gentlemen.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Shaw,” Charlotte replied, hastily concealing her chagrin. How could she question the curate with Shaw himself present? Her whole plan of action would have to be changed. “This is Gracie, my maid-” She could think of no explanation for her presence, so she did not try.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Oliphant.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt. If-if you wish to be alone with the doctor, I can quite easily excuse myself. My room is not cold; I can pursue my studies there.”
Charlotte knew from the temperature of the hallway that that was almost certainly a fiction.
“Not at all, Mr. Oliphant. Please remain. This is your home and I should be most uncomfortable to have driven you away from the fire.”
“What may I do for you, Mrs. Pitt?” Shaw asked, frowning at her in grave concern. “I hope you are as well as you seem? And your maid?”
