by Anne Perry
And yet he also knew she was afraid. He longed to protect her, and was agonizingly aware than he could not. He did not understand the nature of what threatened her, only that it was connected with Clemency Shaw’s death, and now with Lindsay’s as well.
And with a part of him he refused even to listen to, in spite of its still, cold voice in his brain, he was also aware that her role in it might not be entirely innocent. He would not even think that she was personally involved, perhaps actually to blame. But he had heard the rumors, seen the looks and blushes and the secrecy; he knew there was a special relationship between Flora and Stephen Shaw, one so definite that her father was furious about it, yet she felt it so precious to her she was prepared to brave his anger and defy him.
Murdo was confused. He had never felt jealousy of this muddled nature before, at once so sure she had done nothing shameful, and yet unable to deny to himself that there was a real and deep emotion inside her towards Shaw.
And of course the alternative fear was large; perhaps it was its very size which blocked out the other even more hideous thought—that Alfred Lutterworth was responsible for the attempts on Shaw’s life. There were two possible reasons for this, both quite believable, and both ruinous.
The one he refused to think was that Shaw had dishonored Flora, or even knew of some fearful shame in her life, perhaps an illegitimate child, or worse, an abortion; and Lutterworth had tried to kill him when somehow he had learned of it—to keep him silent. He could hardly hope for a fine marriage for her if such a thing were known—in fact no marriage at all would be possible. She would grow old alone, rich, excluded, whispered about and forever an object of pity or contempt.
At the thought of it Murdo was ready to kill Shaw himself. His fists were clenched so tight his nails, short as they were, bit into the flesh of his palms. That thought must be cast out, obliterated from his mind. What betrayal that he would let it enter—even for an instant.
He hated himself even for having thought it. Shaw was pestering her; she was young and very lovely. He lusted after her, and she was too innocent to see how vile he was. That was far more like it. And of course there was her father’s money. Shaw had already spent all his wife’s money—and there was extraordinary evidence for that. Inspector Pitt had found out just yesterday that Clemency Shaw’s money was all gone. Yes—that made perfect sense—Shaw was after Flora’s money!
And Alfred Lutterworth had a great deal of money. That thought was also wretched. Murdo was a constable, and likely to remain so for a long time; he was only twenty-four. He earned enough to keep himself in something like decency, he ate three times a day and had a pleasant room and clean clothes, but it was as far from the splendor of Alfred Lutterworth’s house as Lutterworth’s was in turn from what Murdo imagined of the Queen’s castle at Windsor. And Lutterworth might as well cast eyes upon one of the princesses as Murdo upon Flora.
It was with a finality of despair that he forced the last thought, the one prompted by Inspector Pitt’s wife’s discovery of the ownership of some of the worst slum tenements by old Bishop Worlingham. Murdo was not so very amazed. He had long known that some outwardly respectable people could have very ugly secrets, especially where money was concerned. But what Pitt had not mentioned was that if Mrs. Shaw, poor lady, had discovered who owned those particular houses, she might also have discovered who owned several others. Pitt had mentioned members of Parliament, titled families, even justices of the courts. Had he not also thought of retired industrialists who wanted to enter society and needed a good continuing income, and might not be too particular as to where their money was invested?
Alfred Lutterworth might well have been in every bit as much danger from Clemency Shaw as the Worlinghams were—in fact more. Clemency might protect her own—it appeared she had. But why should she protect Lutterworth? He had every reason to kill her—and if Lindsay had guessed this, to kill him too.
That is, if he owned slum property too. And how could they ever find that out? They could hardly trace the ownership of every piece of rotten plaster and sagging timber in London, every blind alley, open drain and crumbling pile of masonry, every wretched home of cold and frightened people. He knew because he had tried. He blushed hot at the memory of it; it was a kind of betrayal that he had let the thought take root in his mind and had asked questions about Lutterworth’s finances, the source of his income and if it could involve rents. But it was not as easy as he had imagined. Money came from companies, but what did those companies do? Time had been short, and he had no official instructions to give his questions the force of law.
Nothing had been resolved; he was simply uncertain and appallingly conscious of his guilt. Nothing he could even imagine doing would remove the ache of fear and imagination at the back of his mind.
He saw Flora’s face in his heart’s eye and all the pain and the shame she would feel burned through him till he could hardly bear it. He was even glad to hear Pitt’s footsteps return and to be told their duty for the morning. Part of him was still outraged that they sent an outsider—did they think Highgate’s own men were incompetent? And part of him was immensely grateful that the responsibility was not theirs. This was a very ugly case, and the resolution seemed as far off now as it had when they were standing in the wet street staring at the smoldering remains of Shaw’s house, long before the taper was struck to set Lindsay’s alight.
“Yes sir?” he said automatically as Pitt came around the corner and into the foyer where he was standing. “Where to, sir?”
“Mr. Alfred Lutterworth’s, I think,” Pitt barely hesitated on his way out. He had been to the local superintendent, as a matter of courtesy, and on the small chance that something had occurred that Murdo did not know about, some thread worth following.
But the superintendent had looked at him with his habitual disfavor and reported with some satisfaction another fire, in Kentish town, a possible lead on the arsonist he personally was sure was the guilty party in all cases, and rather a negative report on house insurance and the unlikelihood of either Shaw or Lindsay being involved in fire for the purposes of fraud.
“Well I hardly imagined Lindsay burned himself to death to claim the insurance!” Pitt had snapped back.
“No sir,” the superintendent had said coldly, his eyes wide. “Neither did we. But then we are confident the fires were all set by the arsonist in Kentish Town—sir.”
“Indeed.” Pitt had been noncommittal. “Odd there were only two houses that were occupied.”
“Well he didn’t know Shaw’s was—did he?” the superintendent had said irritably. “Shaw was out, and everyone thought Mrs. Shaw was too. She only canceled at the last minute.”
“The only people who thought Mrs. Shaw was out were the people who knew her,” Pitt had said with satisfaction.
The superintendent had glared at him and returned to his desk, leaving Pitt to go out of the door in silence.
Now he was ready to go and probe and watch and listen to people, where his true art lay. He had days ago given up expecting things to tell him anything. Murdo’s heart sank, but there was no escaping duty. He followed Pitt and caught up with him, and together they walked along the damp, leaf-scattered footpath towards the Lutterworths’ house.
They were admitted by the maid and shown into the morning room, where there was a brisk fire burning and a bowl of tawny chrysanthemums on the heavy Tudor dresser. Neither of them sat, although it was nearly quarter of an hour before Lutterworth appeared, closely followed by Flora, dressed in a dark blue stuff gown and looking pale but composed. She glanced at Murdo only once, and her eyes flickered away immediately, a faint, self-conscious flush on her cheeks.
Murdo remained in a bitterly painful silence. He longed to help her; he wanted to hit out at someone—Shaw, Lutterworth for allowing all this to happen and not protecting her, and Pitt for forging blindly ahead with his duty, regardless of the chaos it caused.
For an instant he hated Pitt for not hurting as much a
s he did, as if he were oblivious of pain; then he looked sideways for just a moment at him, and realized his error. Pitt’s face was tense; there were shadows under his eyes and the fine lines in his skin were all weary and conscious of realms of suffering past and to come, and of his inability to heal it.
Murdo let out his breath in a sigh, and kept silent.
Lutterworth faced them across the expensive Turkish carpet. None of them sat.
“Well, what is it now?” he demanded. “I know nowt I ’aven’t told you. I’ve no idea why anyone killed poor old Lindsay, unless it was Shaw, because the old man saw through ’im and ’ad to be silenced. Or it were that daft Pascoe, because ’e thought as Lindsay were an anarchist.
“Take that Orse.” He pointed to a fine figurine on the mantel shelf. “Bought that wi’ me first big year’s profit, when the mill started to do well. Got a fine consignment o’ cloth and sold it ourselves—in the Cape. Turned a pretty penny, did that. Got the ’orse to remind me o’ me early days when me and Ellen, that’s Flora’s mother”—he took a deep breath and let it out slowly to give himself time to regain his composure—“when me and Ellen went courtin’. Didn’t ’ave no carriage. We used to ride an ’orse like that—’er up in front o’ me, an me be’ind wi’ me arms ’round ’er. Them was good days. Every time I look at that ’orse I think o’ them—like I could still see the sunlight through the trees on the dry earth and smell the ’orse’s warm body and the ’ay in the wind, an’ see the blossom in the ’edges like fallen snow, sweet as ’oney, and my Ellen’s ’air brighter’n a peeled chestnut—an’ ’ear’er laugh.”
He stood motionless, enveloped in the past. No one wanted to be the first to invade with the ugliness and immediacy of the present.
It was Pitt who broke the spell, and with words Murdo had not foreseen.
“What past do you think Mr. Lindsay recalled in his African artifacts, Mr. Lutterworth?”
“I don’t know.” Lutterworth smiled ruefully. “ ’Is wife, mebbe. That’s what most men remember.”
“His wife!” Pitt was startled. “I didn’t know Lindsay was married.”
“No—well, no reason why you should.” Lutterworth looked faintly sorry. “ ’E didn’t tell everyone. She died a long time ago—twenty years or more. Reckon as that’s why ’e came ’ome. Not that ’e said so, mind.”
“Were there any children?”
“Several, I think.”
“Where are they? They’ve not come forward. His will didn’t mention any.”
“It wouldn’t. They’re in Africa.”
“That wouldn’t stop them inheriting.”
“What—an ’ouse in ’Ighgate and a few books and mementos of Africa!” Lutterworth was smiling at some deep inner satisfaction.
“Why not?” Pitt demanded. “There were a great many books, some on anthropology must be worth a great deal.”
“Not to them.” Lutterworth’s lips smiled grimly.
“Why not? And there’s the house!”
“Not much use to a black man who lives in a jungle.” Lutterworth looked at Pitt with dour satisfaction, savoring the surprise on his face. “That’s it—Lindsay’s wife was African, beautiful woman, black as your ’at. I saw a picture of ’er once. He showed me. I was talking about my Ellen, an’ ’e showed me. Never saw a gentler face in me life. Couldn’t pronounce ’er name, even when ’e said it slow, but ’e told me it meant some kind o’ river bird.”
“Did anyone else know about her?”
“No idea. He may have told Shaw. I suppose you ’aven’t arrested him yet?”
“Papa!” Flora spoke for the first time, a cry of protest torn out in spite of herself.
“An’ I’ll not ’ave a word about it from you, my girl,” Lutterworth said fiercely. “ ’E’s done enough damage to you already. Your name’s a byword ’round ’ere, runnin’ after ’im like a lovesick parlormaid.”
Flora blushed scarlet and fumbled for words to defend herself, and found none.
Murdo was in an agony of impotence. Had Lutterworth glanced at him he would have been startled by the fury in his eyes, but he was occupied with the irresponsibility he saw in his daughter.
“Well what do you want wi’ me?” he snapped at Pitt. “Not to hear about Amos Lindsay’s dead wife—poor devil.”
“No,” Pitt agreed. “Actually I came to ask you about what properties you own in the city.”
“What?” Lutterworth was so utterly taken aback it was hard not to believe he was as startled as he seemed. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about, man? What property?”
“Housing, to be exact.” Pitt was watching him closely, but even Murdo who cared more intensely about this case than about anything else he could remember, did not see a flicker of fear or comprehension in Lutterworth’s face.
“I own this ’ouse, lock, stock and barrel, and the ground it stands on.” Lutterworth unconsciously stiffened a fraction and pulled his shoulders straighter. “And I own a couple o’ rows o’ terraced ’ouses outside o’ Manchester. Built ’em for my workers, I did. And good ’ouses they are, solid as the earth beneath ’em. Don’t let water, chimneys don’t smoke, privies in every back garden, an’ a standpipe to every one of ’em. Can’t say fairer than that.”
“And that’s all the property you own, Mr. Lutterworth?” Pitt’s voice was lighter, a thread of relief in it already. “Could you prove that?”
“I could if I were minded to.” Lutterworth was eyeing him curiously, his hands pushed deep into his pockets. “But why should I?”
“Because the cause of Mrs. Shaw’s murder, and Mr. Lindsay’s, may lie in the ownership of property in London,” Pitt replied, glancing for less than a second at Flora, and away again.
“Balderdash!” Lutterworth said briskly. “If you ask me, Shaw killed ’is wife so ’e could be free to come after my Flora, and then ’e killed Lindsay because Lindsay knew what ’e was up to. Give ’imself away somehow—bragging, I shouldn’t wonder, and went too far. Well ’e’ll damn well not marry Flora—for my money, or anything else. I won’t let ’er—and ’e’ll not wait till I’m gone for ’er, I’ll be bound.”
“Papa!” Flora would not be hushed anymore, by discretion or filial duty or even the embarrassment which flamed scarlet up her cheeks now. “You are saying wicked things which are quite untrue.”
“I’ll not have argument.” He rounded on her, his own color high. “Can you tell me you haven’t been seeing ’im, sneaking in and out of his house when you thought no one was looking?”
She was on the verge of tears and Murdo tensed as if to step forward, but Pitt shot him a stony glare, his face tight.
Murdo longed to save her so desperately his body ached with the fierceness of his effort to control himself, but he had no idea what to say or do. It all had a dreadful inevitability, like a stone that has already started falling and must complete its journey.
“It was not illicit.” She chose her words carefully, doing her best to ignore Pitt and Murdo standing like intrusive furniture in the room, and all her attention was focused on her father. “It was … was just—private.”
Lutterworth’s face was distorted with pain as well as fury. She was the one person left in the world he loved, and she had betrayed herself, and so wounded him where he could not bear it.
“Secret!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the back of the armchair beside him. “Decent women don’t creep in the back door o’ men’s houses to see them in secret. Was Mrs. Shaw there? Was she? And don’t lie to me, girl. Was she in the room with you—all the time?”
Flora’s voice was a whisper, so strained it was barely heard.
“No.”
“O’ course she wasn’t!” He threw out the words in a mixture of anguish because they were true and a desperate kind of triumph that at least she had not lied. “I know that. I know she’d gone out because half Highgate knows it. But I’ll tell you this, my girl—I don’t care what Highgate says, or all London society
either—they can call you anything they can lay their tongues to. I’ll not let you marry Shaw—and that’s final.”
“I don’t want to marry him!” The tears were running down her face now. Her hand flew to her mouth and she bit her teeth on her finger as if the physical pain relieved her distress. “He’s my doctor!”
“He’s my doctor too.” Lutterworth had not yet understood the change in her. “I don’t go creeping in at the back door after him. I go to him openly, like an honest man.”
“You don’t have the same complaint as I do.” Her voice was choked with tears and she refused to look at any of them, least of all Murdo. “He allowed me to go whenever I was in pain—and he—”
“Pain?” Lutterworth was horrified, all his anger drained away, leaving him pale and frightened. “What sort of pain? What’s wrong with you?” Already he moved towards her as if she were about to collapse. “Flora? Flora, what is it? We’ll get the best doctors in England. Why didn’t you tell me, girl?”
She turned away from him, hunching her shoulders. “It’s not an illness. It’s just—please let me be! Leave me a little decency. Do I have to detail my most private discomforts in front of policemen?”
Lutterworth had forgotten Pitt and Murdo. Now he swung around, ready to attack them for their crassness, then only just in time remembered that it was he who had demanded the explanation of her, not they.
“I have no property in London, Mr. Pitt, and if you want me to prove it to you I daresay I can.” His face set hard and he balanced squarely on his feet. “My finances are open to you whenever you care to look at them. My daughter has nothing to tell you about her relationship with her doctor. It is a perfectly correct matter, but it is private, and is privileged to remain so. It is only decent.” He met Pitt’s eyes defiantly. “I am sure you would not wish your wife’s medical condition to be the subject of other men’s conversation. I know nothing further with which I can help you. I wish you good day.” And he stepped over and rang the bell to have the maid show them out.
