Highgate Rise tp-11

by Anne Perry

  “They might well,” Drummond agreed. “Other than that you are left with some as yet unnamed slum profiteer who was threatened by Clemency’s uncovering work. I suppose you have looked into who else’s tenements she was interested in? What about Lutterworth? You said he’s socially ambitious-especially for Flora-and wants to leave his trade roots behind and marry her into society? Slum profiteering wouldn’t help that.” He pulled a sour face. “Although I’m not sure it would entirely hurt it either. A good few of the aristocracy made their money in highly questionable ways.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Pitt agreed. “But they do it discreetly. Vice they will overlook, vulgarity they may accept-with reluctance, if there is enough money attached-but indiscretion never.”

  “You’re getting very cynical, Pitt.” Drummond was smiling as he said it.

  Pitt shrugged. “All I can find out about Lutterworth is that his money was in the north, and he sold nearly all his interests. There never was any in London that I can trace.”

  “What about the political aspect?” Drummond would not give up yet. “Could Clemency have been murdered because of some other connection with Dalgetty and his Fabian tracts-and Lindsay the same?”

  “I haven’t traced any connection.” Pitt screwed up his face. “But certainly Clemency knew Lindsay, and they liked each other. But since they are both dead, it is impossible to know what they spoke about, unless Shaw knows and can be persuaded to tell us. And since both houses are burnt to the ground, there are no papers to find.”

  “You might have to go and speak to some of the other members of the society-”

  “I will, if it comes to that; but today I’m going to Lindsay’s funeral. And perhaps I can discover what Clemency did on her last day or two alive, who she spoke to and what happened that made someone so angry or so frightened that they killed her.”

  “Report to me afterwards, will you? I want to know.”

  “Yes sir. Now I must leave, or I shall be late. I hate funerals. I hate them most of all when I look around the faces of the mourners and think that one of them murdered him-or her.”

  Charlotte also was preparing to attend the funeral, but she was startled to have received a hand-addressed note from Emily to say that not only would she and Jack attend, and for convenience would pick Charlotte up in their carriage at ten o’clock, but that Great-Aunt Vespasia also would come. No explanation was given, nor when they arrived, since it was now five minutes past nine, would there be any opportunity to decline the arrangements or ask for any alternative.

  “Thank heaven at least Mama and Grandmama are remaining at home.” Charlotte folded the note and put it 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, th
ey 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?”

  “Yes I was.” She stretched the truth a fraction. “And I am very sorry he is gone.”

  “Indeed.” He was instantly sober again. “It’s a sad and stupid waste.”

  Further conversation was made impossible by the press of people desiring to leave the church, and Charlotte nodded politely and excused herself, leaving him to resume his contemplation.

  At least half the mourners followed the coffin out into the sharp, sunny graveyard where the wet earth was dug and the ground was already sprinkled over with fallen leaves, gold and bronze on the green of the grass.

  Aunt Vespasia, dressed in deep lavender (she refused to wear black), stood next to Charlotte, her chin high, her shoulders square, her hand gripping fiercely her silver-handled cane. She loathed it, but she was obliged to lean on it for support as Clitheridge droned on about the inevitability of death and the frailty of man.

  “Fool,” she said under her breath. “Why on earth do vicars imagine God cannot be spoken to in simple language and needs everything explained to Him in at least three different ways? I always imagine God as the last person to be impressed by long words or to be deceived by specious excuses. For heaven’s sake, He made us. He knows perfectly well that we are fragile, stupid, glorious, grubby and brave.” She poked her stick into the ground viciously. “And He certainly does not want these fanfaronades. Get on with it, man! Inter the poor creature and let us go and speak well of him in some comfort!”

  Charlotte closed her eyes, wincing in case someone had heard. Vespasia’s voice was not loud, but it was piercingly clear with immaculate enunciation. She heard a very soft “Here, here” behind her and involuntarily turned. She met Stephen Shaw’s level blue eyes, bright with pain, and belying the smile on his lips.

  She turned back to the grave again immediately, and saw Lally Clitheridge’s look of steel-hard jealousy, but it aroused more pity in her than anger. Had she been married to Hector Clitheridge there would certainly have been moments when she too might have dreamed wild, impermissible dreams, and hated anyone who broke their fantastic surface, however ridiculous or slight.

  Clitheridge was still wittering on, as if he could not bear to let the moment go, as though delaying the final replacing of the earth somehow extended a part of Amos Lindsay.

  Oliphant was restive, moving his weight from one foot to the other, conscious of the grief and the indignity of it.

  At the far end of the grave Alfred Lutterworth stood bareheaded, the wind ruffling his ring of white hair, and close beside him, her hand on his arm, Flora looked young and very pretty. The wind had put a touch of color into her cheeks, and the anxiety seemed to have gone from her expression. Even while Charlotte watched she saw Lutterworth place his hand over hers and tighten it a fraction.

  Over her shoulder to the left, at the edge of the graveyard, Constable Murdo stood as upright as a sentry on duty, his buttons shining in the sun. Presumably he was here to observe everyone, but Charlotte never saw his gaze waver from Flora. For all that he seemed to observe, she might have been the only person present.

  She saw Pitt only for a moment, a lean shadow somewhere near the vestry, trailing the ends of a muffler in the breeze. He turned towards her and smiled. Perhaps he had known she would come. For the space of an instant the crowd disappeared and there was no one else there. It was as if he had touched her. Then he turned and went on towards the yew hedge and the shadows. She knew he would be watching everything, expressions, gestures, whose eyes met whose, who spoke, who avoided speaking. She wondered if anything she had learned and told him was any use at all.

  Maude Dalgetty was standing near the head of the grave. She was a little plumper than in her heyday, and the lines were quite clear in her face, but were all upward, generous and marked by humor. She was still a beauty, and perhaps always would be. In repose, as she was now, there was nothing sour in her features, nothing that spoke of regret.

  Beside her, John Dalgetty stood very straight, avoiding even the slightest glance to where Quinton Pascoe stood equally rigid, doing his duty by a man he had liked but quarreled with fiercely. It was the attitude of a soldier at the grave of a fallen enemy. Dalgetty’s was the pose of a soldier also, but he was mourning a warrior in a mutual cause. Never once in the service did they acknowledge each other.

  Josiah Hatch was bareheaded, as were all the men, and looked pinched as if the wind bit into his bones. Prudence was not with him; neither were the Worlingham sisters. They still held to the belief that ladies did not attend the church funeral or the gravesi
de.

  At last Clitheridge wound to a close, and the gravediggers began to replace the earth.

  “Thank God,” Shaw said behind Charlotte. “You are coming to the funeral luncheon, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” Charlotte accepted.

  Vespasia turned around very slowly and regarded Shaw with cool interest.

  He bowed. “Good morning, Lady Cuinrning-Gould. It is most gracious of you to come, especially on a day so late in the season when the wind is sharp. I am sure Amos would have appreciated it.”

  Vespasia’s eyes flickered very slightly with an amusement almost invisible.

  “Are you?”

  He understood, and as always the candor was on his tongue instantly.

  “You came because of Clemency.” He had known he was right, but he saw it in her face. “It is not pity which brings you here, and you are right, the dead are beyond our emotions. It is anger. You are still determined to learn who killed her, and why.”

  “How perceptive of you,” Vespasia agreed. “I am.”

  All the light vanished from his face, the frail humor like sunlight through snow. “So am I.”

  “Then we had better proceed to the funerary meal.” She lifted her hand very slightly and immediately he offered her his arm. “Thank you,” she accepted, and, her hat almost sweeping his shoulder in its magnificent arc, she sailed down the path towards her waiting carriage.