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?mfortable 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?”
