Highgate Rise (47 page)

“Really—” Clitheridge looked pale and dithered between stepping forward and interrupting physically—and the more restrained action of simply remonstrating, and hoping Shaw’s better taste would prevail. “I mean—don’t you think—?”

“No I don’t,” Shaw said briskly. “I hate the pious whimperings about his being a pillar of the community, a Godfearing man and beloved of us all. Have you no honesty left in your souls? Can you stand here and say you all loved Amos Lindsay? Balderdash!”

There was an audible gasp of indrawn breath this time, and Clitheridge turned around desperately as if he were hoping some miraculous rescue might be at hand.

“Quinton Pascoe was afraid of him, and was horrified by
his writings. He would have had him censored, had he been able.”

There was a slight rustle and murmur as everyone swiveled to look at Pascoe, who turned bright pink. But before he could protest, Shaw went on.

“And Aunt Celeste and Aunt Angeline abhorred everything he stood for. They were—and still are—convinced that his Fabian views are unchristian and, if allowed to proliferate though society, will bring about the end of everything that is civilized and beneficial to mankind—or at any rate to that class of it to which we belong, which is all that matters to them, because it is all they know. It is all their sainted father ever allowed them to know.”

“You are drunk!” Celeste said in a furious whisper which carried right around the room.

“On the contrary, I am extremely sober,” he replied, looking up at the glass in his hand. “Even Theophilus’s best burgundy has not affected me—because I have not drunk enough of it. And as for his superb Port—I have not even touched it yet. The very least I owe poor Amos is to have my thoughts collected when I speak of him—although God knows I have enough provocation to get drunk. My wife, my best friend and my house have all been taken from me in the last few weeks. And even the police, with all their diligence, don’t seem to have the faintest idea by whom.”

“This is most undignified,” Prudence said very quietly, but still her voice carried so at least a dozen people heard her.

“You wanted to speak of Mr. Lindsay,” Oliphant prompted Shaw.

Shaw’s face changed. He lowered the glass and put it on the table.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me. This is not the time or the occasion for my losses. We are here to remember Amos—truly and vividly as the living man really was. We do him a hideous disservice to paint him in pastel colors and gloss over the failures, and the victories.”

“We should not speak ill of the dead, Stephen,” Angeline
said after clearing her throat. “It is most unchristian, and quite unnecessary. I am sure we were all very fond of Mr. Lindsay and thought only the best of him.”

“No you didn’t,” he contradicted her. “Did you know he married an African woman? Black as the ace of spades—and beautiful as the summer night. And he had children—but they are all still in Africa.”

“Really, Stephen—this is quite irresponsible!” Celeste stepped forward and took him firmly by the elbow. “The man is not here to defend himself—”

Shaw shook her loose, bumping her abruptly.

“God darnmit, he doesn’t need a defense!” he shouted. “Marrying an African is not a sin! He did have sins—plenty of them—” He flung his arms expressively. “When he was young he was violent, he drank too much, he took advantage of fools, especially rich ones, and he took women that most certainly weren’t his.” His face screwed up with intensity and his voice dropped. “But he also had compassion, after he’d learned pain himself: he was never a liar, nor a bigot.” He looked around at them all. “He never spread gossip and he could keep a secret to the grave. He had no pretensions and he knew a hypocrite when he saw one—and loathed all forms of cant.”

“I really think—” Clitheridge began, flapping his hands as if he would attract everyone’s attention away from Shaw. “Really—I—”

“You can pontificate all you like over everyone else.” Shaw’s voice was very loud now. “But Amos was my friend, and I shall speak of him as he really was. I’m sick of hearing platitudes and lies, sick and weary to my heart of it! You couldn’t even speak of poor Clem honestly. You mouthed a lot of pious phrases that meant nothing at all, said nothing of what she was really like. You made her sound as if she were a quiet, submissive, ignorant little woman who wore her life away being obedient, looking after me and doing useless good works among the parish poor. You made her seem colorless, cowardly of spirit and dull of mind. She wasn’t!” He was so furious now, and so torn by grief, that
his face was suffused with color, his eyes were bright and his whole body trembled. Even Celeste dared not interfere.

“That was nothing like Clem. She had more courage than all the rest of you put together—and more honesty!”

With difficulty Pitt tore his attention from Shaw and looked around at the other faces. Was there any one of them reflecting fear of what Shaw was going to say next? There was anxiety in Angeline’s face, and distaste in Celeste’s, but he could not see the dread that would have been there had they known of Clemency’s discovery.

There was nothing in Prudence’s profile either, and nothing in the half outline of Josiah except rigid contempt.

“God knows how she was born a Worlingham,” Shaw went on, his fist clenched tight, his body hunched as if waiting to explode into motion. “Old Theophilus was a pretentious, greedy old hypocrite—and a coward to the last—”

“How dare you!” Celeste was too angry to consider any vestige of propriety left. “Theophilus was a fine, upright man who lived honestly and charitably all his life. It is you who are greedy and a coward! If you had treated him properly, as you should have, both as his son-in-law and as his doctor, then he would probably be alive today!”

“Indeed he would,” Angeline added, her face quivering. “He was a noble man, and always did his duty.”

“He died groveling on the floor with fistfuls of money spread all around him, tens of thousands of pounds!” Shaw exploded at last. “If anybody killed him, it was probably whoever was blackmailing him!”

There was a stunned and appalled silence. For deafening seconds no one even drew breath. Then there was a shriek from Angeline, a stifled sob from Prudence.

“Dear heaven!” Lally spoke at last.

“What on earth are you saying?” Lutterworth demanded. “This is outrageous! Theophilus Worlingham was an outstanding man in the community, and you can have no possible grounds for saying such a thing! You didn’t find him, did you? Who says there was all this money? Perhaps he had a major purchase in mind.”

Shaw’s face was blazing with derision. “With seven thousand, four hundred and eighty-three pounds—in cash?”

“Perhaps he kept his money in the house?” Oliphant suggested quietly. “Some people do. He may have been counting it when he was taken by a seizure. It was a seizure he died of, wasn’t it?”

“Yes it was,” Shaw agreed. “But it was flung all over the room, and there were five notes clutched in his hand, thrust out before him as if he were trying to give it to someone. Everything indicated he hadn’t been alone.”

“That is a monstrous lie!” Celeste found her voice at last. “Quite wicked, and you know it! He was utterly alone, poor man. It was Clemency who found him, and called you.”

“Clem found him, and called me, certainly,” Shaw agreed. “But he was lying in his study, with the French doors open onto the garden—and who is to say she was the first person there? He was already almost cold when she arrived.”

“For God’s sake, man!” Josiah Hatch burst out. “You are speaking about your father-in-law—and the Misses Worlingham’s brother! Have you no decency left at all?”

“Decency!” Shaw turned on him. “There’s nothing indecent in speaking about death. He was lying on the floor, purple-faced, his eyes bulging out of his head, his body chill, and five hundred pounds in Treasury notes held so fast in his hand we couldn’t remove them to lay him out. What is indecent is where the bloody money came from!”

Everyone began to shift uncomfortably, half afraid to look at each other, and yet unable to help it. Eyes met eyes and then slid away again. Someone coughed.

“Blackmail?” someone said aloud. “Not Theophilus!”

A woman giggled nervously and her gloved hand flew to her mouth to suppress the sound.

There was a sharp sibilance of whispering, cut off instantly.

“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.