glanced at Murdo to make sure he did the same.
“Are you going to remain here with Mr. Lindsay?” Eulalia inquired solicitously of Shaw. “I assure you, you would be most welcome at the parsonage, if you wish. And you could remain as long as suited you-until … er, of course you will purchase another house-”
“Not yet, my dear, not yet,” Clitheridge said in a loud whisper. “First we must, er, organize-deal with the-er, spiritual-”
“Nonsense!” she hissed back at him. “The poor man has to sleep somewhere. One cannot deal with emotions until one has accommodated the creature.”
“It is the other way ’round, Lally!” He was getting cross. “Please allow me-”
“Thank you.” Shaw interrupted, swinging around from the small table where he had been fingering an ornament. “I shall remain with Amos. But I am sensible of your kindness-and you are perfectly correct, Eulalia, as always. One can grieve far more adequately in some physical comfort. There is no advantage whatsoever in having to worry about where to sleep or what to eat.”
Clitheridge bridled, but offered no demur; the opposition was far too much for him.
He was saved from further argument by the manservant’s reappearance to announce yet more callers.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hatch, sir.” There was no question as to whether they should be received. Pitt was curious.
“Of course.” Lindsay nodded.
The couple who were admitted a moment later were soberly, even starkly dressed, she in total black, he in a winged collar, black tie and high-buttoned suit of indeterminate dark shade. His face was composed in extreme gravity, tight-lipped, pale, and his eyes brilliant with contained emotion. It was a countenance that caught Pitt’s attention with its intensity as passionate as Shaw’s, and yet by every innate inclination different-guarded and inward of thought where Shaw was rash and quickly expressive; abstemious and melancholy where Shaw was full of vitality and a wild humor; and yet the possibilities of depth were the same, the power of emotion.
But it was Mrs. Hatch who came forward first, ignoring everyone else and going straight to Shaw, which seemed to be what he expected. He put both arms around her and held her.
“My dear Prudence.”
“Oh, Stephen, this is quite dreadful.” She accepted his embrace without hesitation. “How can it have happened? I was sure Clemency was in London with the Bosinneys. At least thank God you were not there!”
Shaw said nothing. For once he had no answer.
There was an uncomfortable silence as if others who felt the emotions less deeply were embarrassed by their exclusion and would rather not have witnessed them.
“Mrs. Shaw’s sister,” Murdo whispered, leaning closer to Pitt. “Both ladies are daughters of the late Theophilus Worlingham.”
Pitt had never heard of Theophilus Worlingham, but apparently he was a person of some repute from the awe in Murdo’s voice.
Josiah Hatch cleared his throat to draw the episode to a conclusion. Proprieties must be observed, and he had become aware of the shadowy figures of Pitt and Murdo in the unlit corner of the room, not part of the event, and yet intrusively present.
“We must comfort ourselves with faith,” he continued. He looked sideways at Clitheridge. “I am sure the vicar has already spoken words of strength to you.” It sounded almost like a charge, as if he were not sure at all. “This is a time when we call upon our inner resources and remember that God is with us, even in the valley of the shadow, and His will shall be done.”
It was a statement at once banal and unarguable, and yet he was painfully sincere.
As if catching some honesty in the man, Shaw pushed Prudence away gently and answered him.
“Thank you, Josiah. It is a relief to me to know you will be there to sustain Prudence.”
“Of course,” Hatch agreed. “It is a man’s godly duty to support women through their times of grief and affliction. They are naturally weaker, and more sensitive to such things. It is their gentleness and the purity of their minds which make them so perfectly suited to motherhood and the nurturing of tender youth, so we must thank God for it. I remember dear Bishop Worlingham saying so much to that effect when I was a young man.”
He did not look at any of them, but to some distance of his own memory. “I shall never cease to be grateful for the time in my youth I spent with him.” A spasm of pain crossed his face. “My own father’s refusal to allow me to enter the church was almost offset by that great man’s tutelage of me in the ways of the spirit and the path of true Christianity.”
He looked at his wife. “Your grandfather, my dear, was as close to a saint as we are like to see in this poor world. He is very sadly missed-sadly indeed. He would have known precisely how to deal with a loss like this, what to say to each of us to explain divine wisdom so we should all be at peace with it.”
“Indeed-indeed,” Clitheridge said inadequately.
Hatch looked at Lindsay. “Before your time, sir, which is your misfortune. Bishop Augustus Worlingham was quite remarkable, a great Christian gentleman and benefactor to uncounted men and women, both materially and spiritually. His influence was incalculable.” He leaned forward a fraction, his face creased with earnestness. “No one can say how many are now following a righteous path because of his life here on this earth. I know of dozens myself.” He stared at Lindsay. “The Misses Wycombe, all three of them, went to nurse the sick entirely on his inspiration, and Mr. Bartford took the cloth and set up a mission in Africa. No one can measure the domestic happiness resulting from his counsel on the proper place and duties of women in the home. A far wider area than merely Highgate has been blessed by his life …”
Lindsay looked nonplussed, but did not interrupt. Perhaps he could think of nothing adequate to say.
Shaw clenched his teeth and looked at the ceiling.
Mrs. Hatch bit her lip and glanced nervously at Shaw.
Hatch plunged on, a new eagerness in his voice, his eyes bright. “No doubt you have heard of the window we are dedicating to him in St. Anne’s Church? It is planned already and we need only a little more money. It is a representation of the bishop himself, as the prophet Jeremiah, teaching the people from the Old Testament; with angels at his shoulders.”
Shaw’s jaw clenched, and he refrained from saying anything with apparent difficulty.
“Yes-yes, I heard,” Lindsay said hastily. He was patently embarrassed. He glanced at Shaw, now moving as if he could barely contain the pent-up energy inside him. “I am sure it will be a beautiful window, and much admired.”
“That is hardly the point,” Hatch said sharply, his mouth puckering with anger. “Beauty is not at issue, my dear sir. It is the upliftment of souls. It is the saving of lives from sin and ignorance, it is to remind the faithful what journey it is we make, and to what end.” He shook his head a little as if to rid himself of the immediacy of the very solid materiality around him. “Bishop Worlingham was a righteous man, with a great understanding of the order of things, our place in God’s purpose. We permit his influence to be lost at our peril. This window will be a monument to him, towards which people will raise their eyes every Sunday, and through which God’s holy light will pour in upon them.”
“For heaven’s sake, man, the light would come through whatever window you put in the wall,” Shaw snapped at last. “In fact you’d get most of it if you stood outside in the graveyard in the fresh air.”
“I was speaking figuratively,” Hatch replied with suppressed fury in his eyes. “Must you see everything in such earthbound terms? At least in this terrible time of bereavement, lift your soul to eternal things.” He blinked fiercely, his lips white and his voice trembling. “God knows, this is dreadful enough.”
The momentary quarrel vanished and grief replaced anger. Shaw stood motionless, the first time he had been totally still since Pitt had arrived.
“Yes-I-” He could not bring himself to apologize. “Yes, of course. The police are here. It was arson.”
“What?” Hatch was aghast. The blood fled from his face and he swayed a little on his feet. Lindsay moved towards him in case he should fall. Prudence swung back and held out her arms, then the meaning of what Shaw had said struck her and she also stood appalled.
“Arson! You mean someone set fire to the house intentionally?”
“That is right.”
“So it was”-she swallowed, composing herself with difficulty-“murder.”
“Yes.” Shaw put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, my dear. But that is what the police are here for.”
