“Hector?” Lally’s voice was clear.
Clitheridge looked red-faced and utterly wretched. Some force beyond himself seemed to propel him forward to where Shaw stood at the head of the table, Celeste a little behind him and to his right, white to the lips and shaking with rage.
“Ahem!” Clitheridge cleared his throat. “Ahem-I-er …” He looked around wildly for rescue, and found none. He looked at Lally once more, his face now scarlet, and gave up. “I-er-I am afraid I was the one with-with, er- Theophilus when he died-er, at least shortly before. He-er-” He cleared his throat violently again as if he had some obstruction in it. “He-er-he sent a message for me to come to him-with one of the-er-choirboys who had-er-” He looked imploringly at Lally, and met implacable resolve. He gasped for air, and continued in abysmal misery. “I read the message and went over to his house straightaway-it sounded most urgent. I-er-I found him in a state of great excitement, quite unlike anything I had ever seen.” He shut his eyes and his voice rose to a squeak as he relived the utter horror of it. “He was beside himself. He kept spluttering and choking and waving his hands in the air. There were piles of Treasury notes on his desk. I could not even hazard a guess how much money. He was frantic. He looked very unwell and I implored him to allow me to send for the doctor, but he would not hear of it. I am not sure he even grasped what I was saying. He kept on insisting he had a sin to confess.” Clitheridge’s eyes were rolling like a frightened horse and he looked everywhere but at the Worlinghams. The sweat broke out on his brow and lip and his hands were wringing each other so hard his knuckles were white.
“He kept on thrusting the money at me and begging me to take it-for the church-for the poor-for anything. And he wanted me to hear his confession …” His voice trailed away, too agonized at the memory to find words anymore, as if his throat had closed.
“Lies!” Celeste said loudly. “Absolute lies! Theophilus never had anything to be ashamed of. He must have been having a seizure, and you misunderstood everything. Why in heaven’s name didn’t you call the doctor yourself, you fool!”
Clitheridge found his tongue again. “He was not having a seizure,” he said indignantly. “He was lunging after me, trying to grasp hold of me and force me to take the money, all of it! There were thousands of pounds! And he wanted me to hear his confession. I was-I was mortified with embarrassment. I have never seen anything so-so-so horrifying in my life.”
“What in God’s name did you do?” Lutterworth demanded.
“I-er-” Clitheridge swallowed convulsively. “I–I ran! I simply fled out of that ghastly room, through the French windows-and across the garden-all the way back to the vicarage.”
“And told Lally, who promptly covered up for you-as usual,” Shaw finished. “Leaving Theophilus to fall into a seizure and die all by himself-clutching the money. Very Christian!” Still, honesty moderated contempt. “Not that you could have saved him-”
Clitheridge had collapsed within himself, guilty, hideously embarrassed and overcome with failure. Only Lally took any notice of him, and she patted him absently as she would a child.
“But all the money-?” Prudence demanded. She was confused and appalled. “What was all the money for? It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t keep money at home. And what happened to it?”
“I put it back in the bank, where it came from,” Shaw answered her.
Angeline was on the edge of tears.
“But what was it for? Why would poor Theophilus take all his money out of the bank? Did he really mean to give it all to the church? How noble of him! How like him!” She swallowed hard. “How like Papa too! Stephen-you should have done as he wished. It was very wrong of you to put it back in the bank. Of course I understand why-so Prudence and Clemency could inherit it all, not just the house and the investments-but it was still very wrong of you.”
“God Almighty!” Shaw shouted. “You idiot woman! Theophilus wanted to give it to the church to buy his salvation! It was blood money! It came from slum tenements-every penny of it wrung out of the poor, the keepers of brothels, the distilling in gin mills, the masters of sweatshops and the sellers of opium in narrow little dormitories where addicts lie in rows and smoke themselves into oblivion. That’s where the Worlingham money comes from. The old bishop bled every drop of it out of Lisbon Street, and God knows how many others like it-and built this damn great palace of complacency for himself and his family.”
Angeline held both her hands to her mouth, knuckles white, tears running down her face. Celeste did not even look at her. They were quite separate in their overwhelming shock and the ruin of their world. She stood strong-faced, staring into some distance beyond everyone present, hatred and an immense, intolerable anger hardening inside her.
“Theophilus knew it,” Shaw went on relentlessly. “And in the end when he thought he was dying it terrified the hell out of him. He tried to give it back-and it was too late. I didn’t know it then-I didn’t even know that ass Clitheridge had been there, or what the money was for. I simply put it in the bank because it was Theophilus’s, and shouldn’t be left lying around. I only discovered where it came from when Clemency did-and told me. She gave it all away in shame-and to make whatever reparation she could-”
“That’s a lie! Satan speaks in your mouth!” Josiah Hatch lunged forward, his face scarlet, his hands outstretched like talons to grip Shaw by the throat and choke the life out of him, and stop his terrible words forever. “You blasphemer! You deserve to die-I don’t know why God has not struck you down. Except that He uses us poor men to do His work.” Already he had carried Shaw to the ground with the fierceness of his attack and his own despair.
Pitt charged through the crowd, which was standing motionless and aghast. He thrust them aside, men and women alike, and grasped at Hatch’s shoulders, trying to pull him back, but Hatch had the strength of devotion, even martyrdom if need be.
Pitt was shouting at him, but he knew even as he did so that Hatch could not hear him.
“You devil!” Hatch spoke from between his teeth. “You blasphemer! If I let you live you’ll soil every clean and pure thing. You’ll spew up your filthy ideas over all the good work that has been done-plant seeds of doubt where there used to be faith. You’ll tell your obscene lies about the bishop and make people laugh at him, deride him where they used to revere him.” He was weeping as he spoke, his hands still scrabbling at Shaw’s throat, his hair fallen forward over his brow, his face purple. “It is better that one man should die than a whole people wither in unbelief. You must be cast out-you pollute and destroy. You should be thrown into the sea-with a millstone ’round your neck. Better you’d never been born than drag other people down to hell with you.”
Pitt hit him as hard as he could across the side of the head, and after a brief moment of convulsing, wild arms flailing and his mouth working without sound, Josiah Hatch fell to the ground and lay still, his eyes closed, his hands clasped like claws.
Jack Radley pushed his way from the side of the room and came to Pitt’s aid, bending over Hatch and holding him.
Celeste fainted and Oliphant eased her to the ground.
Angeline was weeping like a child, lost, alone and utterly bereft.
Prudence was frozen as if all life had left her.
“Get Constable Murdo!” Pitt ordered.
No one moved.
Pitt jerked up to repeat his command, and saw out of the corner of his eye Emily going towards the hallway and the front door, where Murdo was patrolling.
At last life returned to the assembly. Taffeta rustled, whalebone creaked, there was a sighing of breath and the women moved a little closer to the men.
Shaw climbed to his feet, white-faced, his eyes like holes in his head. Everyone turned away, except Charlotte. She moved towards him. He was shaking. He did not even attempt to straighten his clothes. His hair was standing out in tufts, his necktie was under one ear and his collar was torn. His jacket was dusty and one sleeve was ripped from the armhole, and there were deep scratches on his face.
“It was Josiah!” His voice was husky in his bruised throat. “Josiah killed Clem-and Amos. He wanted to kill me.” He looked strained and there was contusion in his eyes.
“Yes,” she agreed, her voice soft and very level. “He wanted to kill you all the time. Lindsay and Clem were only mistakes-because you were out of the house. Although perhaps he didn’t mind if he got Amos as well-he had no reason to suppose he was out, as he did with Clemency.”
“But why?” He looked hurt, like a child who has been struck for no reason. “We quarreled, but it wasn’t
