Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [125]
“Of course Pascoe told him he was irresponsible, that he was undermining the fabric of Christianity and feeding dangerous and frightening ideas to people who did not want them and would not know what to do with them. He seemed to have got the idea that Amos was propagating seeds of revolution and anarchy. Which had an element of truth. I think Dalgetty was interested in the Fabian Society and its ideas on public ownership of the means of production, and more or less equal remuneration for all work”—he laughed sharply—“with the exception of unique minds, of course-by which I gather they mean philosophers and artists.”
Pitt was compelled to smile as well. “Was Lindsay interested in such ideas?” he asked.
“Interested, yes—in agreement, I doubt. But he did approve of their beliefs in appropriation of capital wealth that perpetuates the extreme differences between the propertied classes and the workers.”
“Did he quarrel with Pascoe?” It seemed a remote motive, but he could not leave it unmentioned.
“Yes—but I think it was more flash than heat. Pascoe is a born crusader; he’s always tilting at something—mostly windmills. If it hadn’t been poor Amos, it would have been someone else.”
The faint flicker of motive receded. “Were there any other callers, so far as you know?”
“Only Oliphant, the curate. He came to see me. He made it seem like a general call out of concern for my welfare, and I expect it was. He’s a decent chap; I find myself liking him more each time I see him. Never really noticed him before this, but most of the parishioners speak well of him.”
“ ‘He made it seem,’ ” Pitt prompted.
“Oh—well, he asked several questions about Clemency and her charity work on slum ownership. He wanted to know if she’d said anything to me about what she’d accomplished. Well of course she did. Not every day, just now and again. Actually she managed very little. There are some extremely powerful people who own most of the worst—and most profitable—streets. Financiers, industrialists, members of society, old families—”
“Did she mention any to you that you might have repeated to Oliphant, and thus Lindsay?” Pitt jumped at the thought, slender as it was, and Charlotte’s face came to his mind, eyes bright, chin determined as she set out to trace Clemency’s steps.
Shaw smiled bleakly. “I honestly don’t remember, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying much attention. I tried to be civil because he was so earnest and he obviously cared, but I thought he was wasting his time—and mine.” He drew his brows together. “Do you really think Clemency was actually a threat to someone? She hadn’t a dog in hell’s chance of getting a law passed to disclose who profited out of slum tenements, you know. The worst she could have done would be to get herself sued for slander by some outraged industrialist—”
“Which you would not have liked,” Pitt pointed out quietly. “It would have cost you all you possess, including your reputation, and presumably your livelihood.”
Shaw laughed harshly. “Touché, Inspector. That may look like a perfect motive for me—but if you think she’d have done that, and left me exposed, you didn’t know Clem. She wasn’t a foolish woman and she understood money and reputation.” His eyes were bright with a sad humor close to tears. “Far better than anyone will know now. You won’t understand how much I miss her—and why should I try to explain? I stopped being in love with her long ago—but I think I liked Clem better than anyone else I’ve ever known—even Amos. She and Maude were good friends. She knew all about the modeling—and didn’t give a damn.” He stood up slowly, as if his body ached.
“I’m sorry, Pitt. I have no idea who killed Clem—or Amos, but if I did I should tell you immediately—in the middle of the night, if that’s when it occurred to me. Now get out of here and go and dig somewhere else. I’ve got to eat something, and then go out on more calls. The sick can’t wait.”
The following morning Pitt was disturbed by a loud banging on his front door so urgent he dropped his toast and marmalade and swung up from the kitchen