by Anne Perry
Charlotte smiled smugly. “Oh yes. She was involved. In fact she lent me her carriage and footman for the final confrontation—” She let it hang in the air deliberately.
Emily glared at her.
Blithely Charlotte refilled the kettle and turned to the cupboard to find the pickle. She even thought of humming a little tune, but decided against it on the ground that she could not sing very well—and Emily could.
Emily began to drum her fingers on the scrubbed-clean wooden tabletop.
“A member of Parliament was found lashed to a lamppost on Westminster Bridge….” Charlotte began to recount the whole story, at first with relish, then with awe, and finally with horror and pity. When she had finished the meal was done and it was early afternoon.
Emily said very little, reaching her hands across the table to clasp Charlotte’s arm with her fingers. “You could have been killed!” she said angrily, but there were tears in her eyes. “You must never do such a mad thing again! I suppose whatever I think of to say to you, Thomas will already have said it? I trust he scolded you to within an inch of your life?”
“It was not necessary,” Charlotte said honestly. “I was quite aware of it all myself. Are you ready to go and see Aunt Vespasia?”
“Certainly. But you are not. You must change out of that very plain stuff dress and put on something more appealing.”
“To do the ironing?”
“Nonsense. You are coming with me. It will do you good. It is a lovely day and the drive will be excellent.”
Charlotte gave duty a brief thought, then submitted to temptation.
“Yes—if you wish. It will only take me a few moments to change. Gracie!” And she hurried out to find the maid and request her to prepare the children’s tea for their return and peel the vegetables for the main evening meal.
Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould lived in a spacious, fashionable house, and her door was opened by a maid in a crisp uniform with lace-trimmed cap and apron. She recognized Charlotte and Emily immediately and showed them in without the usual formalities of prevarication. There was no question as to whether they would be received. Her ladyship was not only very fond of them both, she was also acutely bored with the chatter of society and the endless minutiae of etiquette.
Vespasia was sitting in her private withdrawing room, very sparsely furnished by current standards of taste—no heavy oak tables, no overstuffed sofas and no fringes on the curtains. Instead it was reminiscent of a far earlier age, when Vespasia herself was born, the high empire of Napoleon Bonaparte, before the Battle of Waterloo, the clean lines of the Georgian era and the austerity of a long, desperate war for survival. One of her uncles had died in Nelson’s navy at Trafalgar. Now even the Iron Duke was dead and Wellington a name in history books, and those who fought in the Crimea forty years later were old men now.
Vespasia was sitting upright on a hard-backed Chippendale chair, her dove-gray gown high at the neck, touched with French lace, and four ropes of pearls hanging almost to her waist. She did not bother with the pretense of indifference. Her smile was full of delight.
“Emily, my dear. How very well you look. I’m so pleased you have come. You shall tell me everything you enjoyed. The tedious parts you may omit, no doubt they were just the same as when I was there and it is quite unnecessary that any of us should endure them again. Charlotte, you will live through it all a second time and ask all the pertinent questions. Come, sit down.”
They both went to her, kissed her in turn, then took the places she indicated.
“Agatha,” she commanded the maid. “You will bring tea. Cucumber sandwiches, if you please—and then have Cook make some fresh scones with—I think—raspberry jam, and of course cream.”
“Yes, my lady.” Agatha nodded obediently.
“In an hour and a half,” Vespasia added. “We have much to hear.”
Whether they would stay so long was not open to argument, nor if any other chance caller should be admitted. Lady Vespasia was not at home to anyone else.
“You may begin,” Vespasia said, her eyes bright with a mixture of anticipation and laughter.
Nearly two hours later the tea table was empty and Emily finally could think of nothing else whatever to add.
“And now what are you going to do?” Vespasia inquired with interest.
Emily looked down at the carpet. “I don’t know. I suppose I could become involved in good works of some sort. I could be patron of the local committee for the care of fallen women!”
“I doubt it,” Charlotte said dryly. “You are not Lady Ashworth anymore. You’d have to be an ordinary member.”
Emily made a face at her. “I have no intention of becoming either. I don’t mind the fallen women—it’s the committee members I cannot abide. I want a proper cause, something to do better than pontificate on the state of others. You never did answer me properly when I asked you what Thomas was doing at the moment.”
“Indeed.” Vespasia looked at Charlotte hopefully also. “What is he doing? I trust he is not in Whitechapel? The newspapers are being very critical of the police at the moment. Last year they were loud in their praises, and all blame went to the mobs in Trafalgar Square in the riots. Now the boot is on the other foot, and they are calling for Sir Charles Warren’s resignation.”
Emily shivered. “I imagine they are frightened—I think I should be if I lived in that sort of area. They criticize everyone—even the Queen. People are saying she does not appear enough, and the Prince of Wales is far too light-minded and spends too much money. And of course the Duke of Clarence behaves like an ass—but if his father lives as long as the Queen, poor Clarence will be in a bath chair before he sees the throne.”
“That is not a satisfactory excuse.” Vespasia’s lips moved in the tiniest smile, then she turned to Charlotte again. “You have not told us if Thomas is working on this Whitechapel affair.”
“No. He is in Highgate, but I know very little about the case,” Charlotte confessed. “In fact it has only just begun—”
“The very best place for us to become acquainted with it,” Emily said, her enthusiasm returning. “What is it?”
Charlotte looked at their expectant faces and wished she had more to tell.
“It was a fire,” she said bleakly. “A house was burned and a woman died in it. Her husband was out on a medical call—he is a doctor—and the servants’ wing was the last to be damaged and they were all rescued.”
“Is that all?” Emily was obviously disappointed.
“I told you it was only the very beginning,” Charlotte apologized. “Thomas came home reeking of smoke and with fine ash in his clothes. He looked drained of all energy and terribly sad. She was supposed to have gone out, but it was canceled at the last moment.”
“So it should have been the husband who was at home,” Vespasia concluded. “I assume it was arson, or Thomas would not have been called. Was the intended victim the husband—or was it he who set the fire?”
“It would seem that he was the intended victim,” Charlotte agreed. “With the best will in the world, I cannot see any way in which we could”—she smiled with a touch of self-mockery —“meddle.”
“Who was she?” Emily asked quietly. “Do you know anything about her?”
“No, nothing at all, except that people spoke well of her. But then they usually do of the dead. It is expected, even required.”
“That sounds totally vacuous,” Vespasia said wearily. “And tells neither Thomas nor us anything about her at all-only that her friends are conventional. What was her name?”
“Clemency Shaw.”
“Clemency Shaw?” Vespasia’s voice quickened with recognition. “That name is familiar, I believe. If it is the same person, then she is—was—indeed a good woman. Her death is a tragedy, and unless someone else takes over her work, a great many people will suffer.”
“Thomas said nothing of any work.” Charlotte was acutely interested herself now. “Perhaps he doesn’t know. Wha
t work was it?”
Emily sat forward in her chair, waiting eagerly.
“It may not be the same person,” Vespasia warned.
“But if it is?”
“Then she has begun a fight to get certain laws changed regarding the ownership of slum housing,” Vespasia answered gravely, her face expressing what she knew from her own experience of the near impossibility of overcoming such vested interests. “Many of the worst, where there is appalling overcrowding and no sanitation at all, are owned by people of wealth and social standing. If it were more readily known, some minimal standards might be enforced.”
“And who is in its way?” Emily was practical as always.
“I cannot give you a detailed answer,” Vespasia replied. “But if you are determined to pursue it, then we should go and visit Somerset Carlisle, who will be able to tell us.” Even as she spoke she was already rising to her feet and preparing to leave.
Charlotte caught Emily’s eye with a flash of amusement, and they also rose.
“What an excellent idea,” Charlotte agreed.
Emily hesitated only a moment. “Is it not an unsuitable time to call upon anyone, Aunt Vespasia?”
“Most unsuitable,” Vespasia agreed. “That is why it will do very well. We shall be highly unlikely to find anyone else there.” And without continuing the discussion she rang the bell for her maid to call Emily’s carriage so they might travel together.
Charlotte had a moment’s hesitation; she was not dressed well enough to call upon a member of Parliament. Usually for anything approaching such formality in the past she had borrowed a gown from Emily, or Aunt Vespasia herself, suitably made over to fit her, even if by strategic pins here and there. But she had known Somerset Carlisle for several years, and always in connection with some passionate cause when there was little thought of social niceties, only the matter in hand. Anyway, neither Emily nor Vespasia were taking the slightest notice of protests and if she did not catch them up she would be left behind, and she would have gone in her kitchen pinafore rather than that.
Somerset Carlisle was at home in his study working on papers of some political importance, and for anyone less than Vespasia his footman would politely have refused them entrance. However, he had an appreciation for the dramatic and a knowledge of his master’s past crusades in one cause or another, and he was quite aware that Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould had frequently been involved in them one way or another; indeed she was an effective ally for whom he had great regard.
Accordingly he conducted all three ladies to the study door and knocked before opening it and announcing their presence.
Somerset Carlisle was not young, nor yet middle-aged; quite possibly he never would be, but would pass directly from where he was now into a wiry and unmellowed old age. He was full of nervous energy, his winged eyebrows and thin, mercurial face never seemed completely in repose.
His study reflected his nature. It was full of books on all manner of subjects, both for his work and for his wide personal interests. The few spaces on the walls were crammed with paintings and curios, beautiful, and probably of financial value. The deep Georgian windows shed excellent light, and for winter or evening work there were several gas brackets both on the walls and pendant from the ceiling. A long-legged marmalade cat was stretched out in ecstatic sleep in the best chair in front of the fire. The desk itself was piled with papers in no imaginable sort of order.
Somerset Carlisle put his pen into the stand and rose to greet them with obvious delight, coming around the desk, knocking off a pile of letters and ignoring them completely as they cascaded to the floor. The cat did not stir.
He took the immaculately gloved hand that Vespasia offered him.
“Lady Cumming-Gould. How very nice to see you.” He met her eyes with a spark of humor. “No doubt you have some urgent injustice to fight, or you would not have come without warning. Lady Ashworth—and Mrs. Pitt—now I know something is afoot! Please sit down. I—” He looked around for some place of comfort to offer them, and failed. Gently he removed the cat and placed it on the seat of his own chair behind the desk. It stretched luxuriously and resettled itself.
Vespasia took the chair and Charlotte and Emily sat on the upright chairs opposite. Carlisle remained standing. No one bothered to correct him that Emily was now plain Mrs. Jack Radley. There was time enough for that later.
Vespasia came to the point quickly.
“A woman has died in a fire which was not accidental. We know little other than that, except that her name was Clemency Shaw—” She stopped, seeing the look of distress that had touched his face the moment she said the name. “You knew her?”
“Yes—mostly by repute,” he answered, his voice low, his eyes searching their faces, seeing the surprise and the heightened tension as he spoke. “I only met her twice. She was a quiet woman, still uncertain of how best to achieve her aims and unused to battling the intricacies of civil law, but there was an intense dedication in her and an honesty I admired very much. I believe she cared for the reforms she desired more than her own dignity or the opinions of her friends or acquaintances. I am truly grieved that she is dead. Have you no idea how it happened?” The last question he addressed to Charlotte. He had known Pitt for many years, in fact since he himself had been involved in a bizarre murder.
“It was arson,” she replied. “She was at home because a trip into town had been unexpectedly canceled, and her husband was out on a medical emergency. Otherwise he would have died, and not she.”
“So her death was accidental.” He made it almost a question, but not quite.
“Someone might have been watching and known.” Charlotte would not leave it so quickly. “What was she fighting for—what reforms? Who would want her to fail?”
Carlisle smiled bitterly. “Almost anyone who has invested in slum property and raked in exorbitant rents for letting it to whole families a room at a time, sometimes even two or three families.” He winced. “Or for sweatshops, gin mills, brothels, even opium dens. Very profitable indeed. You’d be surprised by some of the people who make money that way.”
“How did Mrs. Shaw threaten them?” Vespasia asked. “Precisely what did she wish to do about it? Or should I say, what did she have the slightest realistic prospect of doing?”
“She wanted to change the law so that owners could be easily traced, instead of hiding behind companies and lawyers so they are virtually anonymous.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to make some law as to occupancy and sanitation?” Emily asked reasonably.
Carlisle laughed. “If you limit occupancy all you would do is put even more people out into the street. And how would you police it?”
“Oh-”
“And you’d never get a law passed on sanitation.” His voice hardened. “People in power tend to believe that the poor have the sanitation they deserve, and if you gave them better, within a month they would have it back to its present state. It is easier for them to take their own luxury with a quiet conscience. Even so, to do anything about it would cost millions of pounds—”
“But each individual owner—” Emily argued. “They would have millions. At least over time—”
“Such a law would never be passed through Parliament.” He smiled as he said it, but there was anger in his eyes and his hands by his sides were tight. “You forget who votes for them.”
Again Emily said nothing. There were only two political parties with any chance of forming a government, and neither of them would espouse such a law easily, and no women had the franchise, the poor were ill organized and largely illiterate. The implication was too obvious.
Carlisle gave a little grunt that was almost a laugh. “That is why Mrs. Shaw was attempting to make it possible to discover without difficulty who owned such places. If it were public, social pressure would do a great deal that the law cannot.”
“But don’t social pressures come from the same people who vote?” Charlotte asked; then knew the moment she had said i
t that it was not so. Women did not vote, and subtle though it was, a very great deal of society was governed one way or another by women. Men might do all manner of things if they were sufficiently discreet, indulge tastes they would not acknowledge even to their fellows. But publicly and in the domestic tranquillity of their homes they would deplore such affronts to the fabric of a civilized people.
Carlisle saw the realization in her face and did not bother to explain.
“How perceptive of Mrs. Shaw,” Vespasia said quietly. “I imagine she made certain enemies?”
“There was some … apprehension,” he agreed. “But I don’t believe she had as yet succeeded well enough to cause actual anxiety.”
“Might she have, had she lived?” Charlotte asked with intense seriousness. She found herself regretting Clemency Shaw’s death not only with the impartial pity for any loss but because she could never meet her, and the more she heard, the more strongly she felt she would have liked her very much.
Carlisle considered for a moment before replying. It was not a time for empty compliments. He had known enough of political life and the power of financial interests, and had been close enough to several murders, not to dismiss the possibility that Clemency Shaw had been burned to death to keep her from continuing in a crusade, however unlikely it seemed that she would affect the course of law, or of public opinion.
Charlotte, Emily and Vespasia all waited in silence.
“Yes,” he said eventually. “She was a remarkable woman. She believed passionately in what she was doing, and that kind of honesty sometimes moves people where logic fails. There was no hypocrisy in her, no—” He frowned very slightly as he searched for precisely the words to convey the impression upon him of a woman he had met only twice, and yet who had marked him indelibly. “No sense that she was a woman seeking a cause to fight, or some worthy works to fill her time. There was nothing she wanted for herself; her whole heart was on easing the distress of those in filthy and overcrowded housing.”
He saw Vespasia wince and knew it was pity rather than distaste.
