by Anne Perry
But Mr. Boddy was of an entirely different mettle than those they had dealt with to date. He was smooth, quite certain of his own safety from suit of any kind, and his calm, unctuous face did not flicker when he explained with barely civil condescension that yes, he handled affairs of property and rent for certain clients but he was not at liberty to name them nor give any particulars whatsoever. Yes, most certainly Mrs. Shaw had called upon him with similar questions, and he had been equally unable to answer her. He was profoundly grieved that she should have met so tragic a fate—his eyes remained chill and expressionless—please accept his sincerest condolences, but the facts remained.
This was a murder inquiry, Jack explained. He was acting on behalf of persons, whom he also was unable to name, and would Mr. Boddy prefer it if the police came and asked these questions?
Mr. Boddy did not take kindly to threats. Was Jack aware that the persons who owned these properties were among the most powerful in the City, and had friends they could call upon, if need be, to protect their interests? Some of these said people had high positions and were able to give, or to withhold, favors, which might make a considerable difference to the agreeability of one’s life and the prospect of one’s future advancement in profession, finance or society.
Jack raised his eyebrows and asked with very slight surprise if Mr. Boddy was telling him that these people to whom he was referring were so embarrassed by their ownership of the property in question that they were prepared to damage the reputation or interests of anyone who might inquire.
“You must assume whatever you will, Mr. Radley,” Boddy replied with a tight smile. “I am not answerable for your situation, I have discharged my duty towards you. Now I have further clients to see. Good day to you.”
And with that they were obliged to depart with no more than the company name, which they had already gleaned from the management. No names were given and no principals—the matter was not described in any way, except by the rather amorphous threat.
“Odious little person,” Aunt Vespasia replied when they told her. “But what we might have expected. If he were to repeat names to any Tom, Dick and Harry who came to the door, he would not have lasted long as lawyer to the kind of people who own such properties.” She had already ordered tea and they were sitting around the fire in her withdrawing room, thawing out from the chill both of the weather outside and of their disappointment at having met, at least for the time being, what seemed to be a dead end. Even Gracie was permitted, on this occasion, to sit with them and to take tea, but she said nothing at all. Instead she stared with huge eyes at the paintings on the walls, the delicate furniture with its satin-smooth surfaces, and when she dared, at Vespasia herself, who was sitting upright, her silver hair coiled immaculately on the crown of her head, great pearl drops in her ears, ecru-colored French lace at her throat and in long ruffles over her thin, tapered hands, bright with diamonds. Gracie had never seen anyone so splendid in all her life, and to be sitting in her house taking tea with her was probably the most memorable thing she would ever do.
“But he did say he’d seen Clemency,” Charlotte pointed out. “He didn’t make the slightest attempt to conceal it. He was as bold as brass, and twice as smooth. He probably told whoever owns it that she had been there, and what she meant to do. I would dearly like to have hit him as hard as I could.”
“Impractical,” Emily said, biting her lip. “But so would I, preferably with an exceedingly sharp umbrella point. But how can we find who owns this company? Surely there must be a way?”
“Perhaps Thomas could,” Vespasia suggested, frowning slightly. “Commerce is not something with which I have any familiarity. It is at times like these I regret my lack of knowledge of certain aspects of society. Charlotte?”
“I don’t know whether he could.” She was sharply reminded of the previous evening. “But he doesn’t think there is any purpose. He is quite convinced that Dr. Shaw is the intended victim, not Clemency.”
“He may well be right,” Vespasia conceded. “It does not alter the fact that Clemency was fighting a battle in which we believe intensely, and that since she is dead there is no one else, so far as we know. The abuse is intolerable, for the wretchedness of its victims, and for the abysmal humbug. Nothing irks my temper like hypocrisy. I should like to rip the masks off these sanctimonious faces, for the sheer pleasure of doing it.”
“We are with you,” Jack said instantly. “I didn’t know I had it in me to be so angry, but at the moment I find it hard to think of much else.”
A very slight smile touched Vespasia’s lips and she regarded him with considerable approval. He seemed unaware of it, but it gave Emily a feeling of warmth that startled her, and she realized how much it mattered to her that Vespasia should think well of him. She found herself smiling back.
Charlotte thought of Pitt still struggling with Shaw’s patients, seeking for the one piece of knowledge that was so hideous it had led to two murders, and might lead to more, until Shaw himself was dead. But she still felt it was Clemency that had been meant to die in that first fire, and the second was merely to cover it. The murderer in act might be any one of dozens of arsonists for hire, but the murderer in spirit was whoever owned those fearful, rotting, teeming tenements in Lisbon Street, and was afraid of the public embarrassment Clemency would expose him to when she succeeded in her quest.
“We don’t know how to find who owns a company.” She set her cup down and stared at Vespasia. “But surely Mr. Carlisle will—or he will know someone else who does. If necessary we must hire someone.”
“I will speak to him,” Vespasia agreed. “I think he will see that the matter is of some urgency. He may be persuaded to set aside other tasks and pursue this.”
And so he did, and the following evening reported to them, again in Vespasia’s withdrawing room. He looked startled and a little confused when he was shown in by the footman. His usual wry humor was sharp in his eyes, but there was a smoothness in his face as if surprise had ironed out the customary lines deep around his mouth.
He gave the greetings of courtesy briefly and accepted Vespasia’s offer of a seat. They all stared at him, aware that he bore extraordinary news, but they could only guess at its nature.
Vespasia’s silver-gray eyes dared him to indulge in histrionics. Words of caution were superfluous.
“You may begin,” she informed him.
“The company which owns the buildings is in turn owned by another company.” He told the story without embroidery, just the bare details that were required in order for it to make sense, looking from one to another of them, including Gracie, so that she might feel equally involved. “I called upon certain people who owe me favors, or will wish for my goodwill in the future, and managed to learn the names of the holders of stock in this second company. There is only one of them still alive—in fact only one has been alive for several years. Even when the company was formed in 1873, from the remnants of another similar company, and that apparently in the same way from an even earlier one, even in 1873 the other holders of stock were either absent from the country indefinitely or of such age and state of health as to be incapable of active interest.”
Vespasia fixed him firmly with her level, penetrating gaze, but he had no guilt of unnecessary drama, and he continued in his own pace.
“This one person who was active and who signed all necessary documents I succeeded in visiting. She is an elderly lady, unmarried, and therefore always mistress of her own property, such as it is, and only acts as go-between, holding shares in name but hardly in any act. Her income is sufficient to keep her in some form of comfort, but certainly not luxury. It was obvious as soon as I was through the door that the bulk of the money, which will amount to several thousands each year, was going somewhere else.”
Jack shifted in his chair and Emily drew in her breath expectantly.
“I told her who I was.” Carlisle blushed faintly. “She was extremely impressed. The government, especially when
expressed as Her Majesty’s instrument for ruling her people, and the church, are the two fixed and immutable forces for good in this lady’s world.”
Charlotte made a leap of imagination. “You are not saying that the person for whom she acts is a member of Parliament, are you?”
Vespasia stiffened.
Emily leaned forward, waiting.
Jack drew in his breath, and Charlotte had her hands clenched in her lap.
Carlisle smiled broadly, showing excellent teeth. “No, but you are almost right. He is—or was—a most distinguished member of the church—in fact, Bishop Augustus Worlingham!”
Emily gasped. Even Vespasia gave a little squeak of amazement.
“What?” Charlotte was incredulous, then she began to laugh a little hysterically, wild, absurd humor welling up inside her, black as the charred ruins of Shaw’s house. She could scarcely grasp the horror Clemency must have felt when she came this far. And surely she had? She had found this innocent, befuddled old lady who had funneled the slum rents, the waves of misery and sin, into her own family coffers to make the bishop’s house warm and rich, and to buy the roasts and wine she and her sister ate, to clothe them in silk and be waited upon by servants.
No wonder Clemency spent all her inheritance, hundreds of pounds at a time, uncounted, to right his wrongs.
Had Theophilus known? What about Angeline and Celeste? Did they know where the family money came from, even while they sought donations from the people of Highgate to build a stained-glass window to their bishop’s memory?
She imagined what Shaw would make of this when he knew. And surely one day he would? It would become public knowledge when Clemency’s murderer was tried—then she stopped. But if the owner were Bishop Worlingham—he was long dead, ten years ago—and Theophilus too. The income was Clemency’s—and for Prudence, Angeline and Celeste. Would they really murder their sister and niece to protect their family money? Surely Clemency would not have revealed the truth? Would she?
Or would she? Had they had a fearful quarrel and she had told them precisely the cost of their comfort, and that she meant to fight for a law to expose all such men as the bishop to the public obloquy and disgust they deserved?
Yes—it was not inconceivable Celeste at least might kill to prevent that. Her whole life had been used up caring for the bishop. She had denied herself husband and children in order to stay at his side and obey his every command, write out his letters and sermons, look up his references, play the piano for his relaxation, read aloud to him when his eyes were tired, always his gracious and unpaid servant. It was a total sacrifice of her own will, all her choices eaten up in his. She must justify it—he must remain worthy of such a gift, or her life became ridiculous, a thing thrown away for no cause.
Perhaps Pitt was right, and it was close to home, the heart as well as the act in Highgate all the time.
They were all watching her, seeing in her eyes her racing thoughts and in the shadows across her face the plunges from anger to pity to dawning realization.
“Bishop Augustus Worlingham,” Somerset Carlisle repeated, letting each syllable fall with full value. “The whole of Lisbon Street was owned, very tortuously and with extreme secrecy, by the ‘good’ bishop, and when he died, inherited by Theophilus, Celeste and Angeline. I presume he provided for his daughters so generously because they had spent their lives as his servants, and certainly they would have no other means of support and it would be beyond any expectation, reasonable or unreasonable, that they might marry at that point—or would wish to by then. I looked up his will, by the way. Two thirds went to Theophilus, the other third, plus the house, which is worth a great deal of course, to the sisters. That would be more than enough to keep them in better than comfort for the rest of their lives.”
“Then Theophilus must have had a fortune,” Emily said with surprise.
“He inherited one,” Carlisle agreed. “But he lived extremely well, according to what I heard; ate well, had one of the finest cellars in London, and collected paintings, some of which he donated to local museums and other institutions. All the same, he left a very handsome sum indeed to each of his daughters when he died unexpectedly.”
“So Clemency had a great deal of money,” Vespasia said, almost to herself. “Until she began to give it away. Do we know when that was?” She looked at Jack, then at Carlisle.
“The lawyer would not say when she was there,” Jack replied, his lips tightening at remembrance of his frustration and the lawyer’s bland, supercilious face.
“Her fight to get some alteration in the disclosure of ownership began about six months ago,” Carlisle said somberly. “And she made her first large donation to a charitable shelter for the poor at about the same time. I would hazard a guess that that is when she discovered her grandfather was the owner she had sought.”
“Poor Clemency.” Charlotte remembered the sad trail of sick women and children, gaunt and hopeless men which she herself had followed from Shaw’s patient list in Highgate, down through worse and worse houses and tenements till she at last found Bessie Jones huddled in one corner of an overcrowded and filthy room. Clemency had followed the same course, seen the same wretched faces, the illness and the resignation. And then she had started upwards towards the owners, as they had done.
“We must not let the fight die with her,” Jack said, sitting a little more upright in his chair.” Worlingham may be dead, but there are scores, perhaps hundreds of others. She knew that, and she would have given her life to exposing them—” He stopped. “And I still think she may have died because of it. We were warned specifically that there are powerful people who could make us, if we are discreet and withdraw, or break us if we persist. Obviously Worlingham himself did not kill her, but one of the other owners may well have. They have a great deal to lose—and I don’t imagine Clemency paid any heed to threats. There was too much passion in her, and revulsion for her own inheritance. Nothing but death would have stopped her.”
“What can we do?” Emily looked at Vespasia, then at Carlisle.
Carlisle’s face was very grave and he drew his brows down in thought.
“I’m not sure. The forces against it are very large; they are vested interests, a great deal of money. Lots of powerful families may not be sure where all their income originates. Nor will they be in any haste to embarrass their friends.”
“We need a voice in Parliament,” Vespasia said with decision. “I know we have one.” She glanced at Carlisle. “We need more. We need someone new, who will address this matter in particular. Jack—you are doing nothing whatever but enjoying yourself. Your honeymoon is over. It is time you were useful.”
Jack stared at her as if she had risen out of the ground in front of him. Their eyes met, hers steady silver-gray and absolutely unflinching, his dark gray-blue, long-lashed and wide in total incredulity. Then gradually the amazement passed into the beginning of an idea. His hands tightened on the arm of his chair. Still his gaze never left hers, nor did hers waver for a second.
No one else moved or made the tiniest sound. Emily all but held her breath.
“Yes,” Jack said at last. “What an excellent idea. Where do I begin?”
9
CHARLOTTE HAD RECOUNTED to Pitt at least the salient points of her experiences searching for the ownership of the buildings in Lisbon Street, and when she made the shattering discovery not only that it was the Worlingham family themselves, but that Clemency had learned it several months before she died, she poured it all out to him the moment she arrived home. She saw his coat in the hall and without even taking off her hat she raced down the corridor to the kitchen.
“Thomas. Thomas—Lisbon Street was owned by Bishop Worlingham himself! Now the family takes all the rents. Clemency discovered it. She knew!”
“What?” He stared at her, half turned in his seat, his eyes wide.
“Bishop Worlingham owned Lisbon Street,” she said again. “All those slums and gin houses were his! Now they belo
ng to the rest of the family—and Clemency discovered it. That’s why she felt so awful.” She sat down in a heap in the chair opposite him, skirts awry, and leaned across the table towards him. “That’s probably why she worked so hard at undoing it all. Just think how she must have felt.” She closed her eyes and put her head in her hands, elbows on the table. “Oh!”
“Poor Clemency,” Pitt said very quietly. “What a very remarkable woman. I wish I could have known her.”
“So do I,” Charlotte agreed through her fingers. “Why do we so often get to know about people only when it’s too late?”
It was a question to which she expected no answer. They both knew that they would have had no occasion to know of Clemency Shaw had she not been murdered, and it required no words to convey their understanding.
It was another half hour before she even remembered to tell him that Jack was seriously considering standing for Parliament.
“Really?” His voice rose in surprise and he looked at her carefully to make sure she was not making some obscure joke.
“Oh yes—I think it’s excellent. He ought to do something or they’ll both be bored to pieces.” She grinned. “We cannot meddle in all your cases.”
He let out a snort and refrained from comment. But there was a sense of deep comfort in him, experiences and emotions shared, horror, exultation, pity, anger, at times fear, all the multitude of feelings that are roused by terrible events, common purpose, and the unique bond that comes of sharing.
Consequently, when he joined Murdo at the Highgate Police Station the next day there were several things he had to tell him, most of which only added to Murdo’s growing anxiety about Flora Lutterworth. He thought of their few brief and rather stilted conversations, the hot silences, the clumsiness he felt standing there in her magnificent house, his boots shining like huge wedges of coal, his uniform buttons so obviously marking him out as a policeman, an intruder of the most unwelcome sort. And always her face came back burning across his mind, wide-eyed, fair-skinned with that wonderful color in her cheeks, so proud and full of courage. Surely she must be one of the most beautiful women he could ever see? But there was far more than beauty to her; there was spirit and gentleness. She was so very alive, it was as if she could smell winds and flowers he only imagined, see beyond his everyday horizons into a brighter, more important world, hear melodies of which he only knew the beat.
