“You are wasting your time, Mrs. Pitt,” he said very quietly. It was not in the tone of a criticism, but rather of regret, as if he had said exactly the same words before, for the same reasons-and not been believed then either. It was as if Clemency were in the room with them, a benign ghost whom they both liked. There was no sense of intrusion, simply a treasured presence who did not resent their moments of friendship, not even the warmth in the touch of his hand on Charlotte’s arm, his closeness to her as he bade her good-bye, nor the quick, soft brightness of his eyes as he watched her departing figure down the front steps and up into the carriage, helped by Vespasia’s footman. He remained in the hallway, straight-backed, long after the carriage had turned the corner before eventually he closed the door and returned to the dining room.
Charlotte had instructed the coachman to drive to the Worlingham house. It did sound unlikely that either Celeste or Angeline would have attempted to kill Shaw, however derelict they believed him to have been in the matter of Theophilus’s death. And yet Clemency, and thus Shaw, had inherited a great deal of money because of it. It was a motive which could not be disregarded. And the more she thought of it, the more did it seem the only sensible alternative if it were not some powerful owner of tenements who feared the exposure she might bring. Was that realistic? Who else’s name had she uncovered, apart from her own grandfather’s?
In the search surely she must have found others, if not before Worlingham’s, then afterwards? That had been the beginning of her total commitment to change the law, which would mean highly unwelcome attention to quite a number of people. Somerset Carlisle had mentioned aristocratic families, bankers, judges, diplomats, men in public life who could ill afford such a source of income to be common knowledge. And the lawyer with the smug face had been so sure his clients would exercise violence of their own sort to keep themselves anonymous he had been prepared to use threats.
But who had gone so far out of the ordinary social or financial avenues of power as to commit murder? Was there any way whatsoever they could learn? Visions floated into her mind of searching the figures of the criminal world for the arsonist, and trying to force him to confess his employer. It would be hopeless, but for a wild element of luck.
How would they ever know? Had Clemency been rash enough to confront him? Surely not. What would be the purpose?
And she had not exposed the Worlinghams, that much was certain. They could hardly be building the magnificent memorial window to him, and having the Archbishop of York dedicate it, were there the slightest breath of scandal around his name.
Had Theophilus known? Certainly Clemency had not told him because he had died long before she came anywhere near her conclusion, in fact before she became closely involved in the matter at all. Had he ever questioned where the family money came from, or had he simply been happy to accept its lavish bounty, smile, and leave everything well covered?
And Angeline and Celeste?
The carriage was already drawing up at the magnificent entrance. In a moment the footman would be opening the door and she would climb out and ascend the steps. She would have to have some excuse for calling. It was early; it would be unlikely for anyone else to be there. She was hardly a friend, merely the granddaughter of a past acquaintance, and an unfortunate reminder of murder and the police, and other such terrible secret evils.
The front door swung wide and the parlormaid looked at her with polite and chilly inquiry.
Charlotte did not even have a card to present!
She smiled charmingly.
“Good afternoon. I am continuing some of the work of the late Mrs. Shaw, and I should so much like to tell the Misses Worlingham how much I admired her. Are they receiving this afternoon?”
The parlormaid was too well trained to turn away someone who might present an oasis of interest in two extremely monotonous lives. The Misses Worlingham hardly ever went out, except to church. What they saw of the world was what came to their door.
Since there was no card, the parlormaid put down the silver card tray on the hall table and stepped back to allow Charlotte inside.
“If you would care to wait, ma’am, I shall inquire. Who shall I say is calling?”
“Mrs. Pitt. The Misses Worlingham are acquainted with my grandmother, Mrs. Ellison. We are all admirers of the family.” That was stretching the truth a great deal-the only one Charlotte admired in the slightest was Clemency-but that was indeed enough if spread fine to cover them all.
She was shown into the hall, with its marvelous tessellated floor and its dominating picture of the bishop, his pink face supremely confident, beaming with almost luminous satisfaction down at all who crossed his threshold. The other portraits receded into obscurity, acolytes, a congregation, not principals. Pity there was no portrait of Theophilus; she would like to have seen his face, made some judgment of him, the mouth, the eyes, seen some link between the bishop and his daughters. She imagined him as utterly unlike Shaw as possible, two men unintelligible to each other by the very cast of their natures.
The parlormaid returned and told Charlotte that she would be received-a shade coolly, from her demeanor.
Angeline and Celeste were in the withdrawing room in very much the same postures as they had been when she had called with Caroline and Grandmama. They were wearing afternoon gowns in black similar to the ones they had worn then, good quality, a little strained at the seams, decorated with beads and, in Angeline’s case, black feathers also, very discreetly. Celeste wore jet earrings and a necklace, very long, dangling over her rather handsome bosom and winking in the light, its facets turning as she breathed.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt,” she said with a formal nod of her head. “It is kind of you to come to tell us how much you admired poor Clemency. But I thought you expressed yourself very fully on the subject when you were here before. And I may remind you, you were under some misapprehension as to her work for the less fortunate.”
“I am sure it was a mistake, dear,” Angeline put in hastily. “Mrs Pitt will not have meant to distress us or cause anxiety.” She smiled at Charlotte. “Will you?”
“There is nothing I have learned of Mrs. Shaw which could make you anything but profoundly proud of her,” Charlotte replied, looking very levelly at Angeline and watching her face for the slightest flicker of knowledge.
“Learned?” Angeline was confused, but that was the only emotion Charlotte could identify in her bland features.
“Oh yes,” she answered, accepting the seat which was only half offered, and sitting herself down comfortably well in the back of the lush, tasseled and brocaded cushions. She had no intention of leaving until she had said all she could think of and watched their reactions minutely. This house had been bought and furnished with agony. The old bishop had known it; had Theophilus? And far more recently and more to the point, had these two innocent- looking sisters? Was it conceivable Clemency had come home in her desperate distress when she first learned beyond doubt where her inheritance had been made, and faced them with it? And if she had, what would they have done?
Perhaps fire, secretly and in the night, burning to its terrible conclusion, when they were safely back in their own beds, was just the weapon they might choose. It was horrible to think of, close, like suffocation, and terrifying as the change from mildness to hatred in a face you have known all your life.
Had these women, who had given the whole of their lives, wasted their youth and their mature womanhood pandering to their father, killed to protect that same reputation-and their own comfort in a community they had led for over half a century? It was not inconceivable.
“I heard so well of her from other people,” Charlotte went on, her voice sounding gushing in her ears, artificial and a little too highly pitched. Was she foolish to have come here alone? No-that was stupid. It was the middle of the day, and Aunt Vespasia’s coachman and footman were outside.
But did they know that?
Yes of course they did. They would hardly imagine she had walked here.
But she might have come on the public omnibus. She frequently traveled on it.
“Which other people?” Celeste said with raised eyebrows. “I hardly thought poor Clemency was known outside the parish.”
“Oh indeed she was.” Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to sound normal. Her hands were shaking, so she clasped them together, digging her nails into her palms. “Mr. Somerset Carlisle spoke of her in the highest terms possible-he is a noted member of Parliament, you know. And Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould also. In
