Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [137]
In the search surely she must have found others, if not before Worlingham’s, then afterwards? That had been the beginning of her total commitment to change the law, which would mean highly unwelcome attention to quite a number of people. Somerset Carlisle had mentioned aristocratic families, bankers, judges, diplomats, men in public life who could ill afford such a source of income to be common knowledge. And the lawyer with the smug face had been so sure his clients would exercise violence of their own sort to keep themselves anonymous he had been prepared to use threats.
But who had gone so far out of the ordinary social or financial avenues of power as to commit murder? Was there any way whatsoever they could learn? Visions floated into her mind of searching the figures of the criminal world for the arsonist, and trying to force him to confess his employer. It would be hopeless, but for a wild element of luck.
How would they ever know? Had Clemency been rash enough to confront him? Surely not. What would be the purpose?
And she had not exposed the Worlinghams, that much was certain. They could hardly be building the magnificent memorial window to him, and having the Archbishop of York dedicate it, were there the slightest breath of scandal around his name.
Had Theophilus known? Certainly Clemency had not told him because he had died long before she came anywhere near her conclusion, in fact before she became closely involved in the matter at all. Had he ever questioned where the family money came from, or had he simply been happy to accept its lavish bounty, smile, and leave everything well covered?
And Angeline and Celeste?
The carriage was already drawing up at the magnificent entrance. In a moment the footman would be opening the door and she would climb out and ascend the steps. She would have to have some excuse for calling. It was early; it would be unlikely for anyone else to be there. She was hardly a friend, merely the granddaughter of a past acquaintance, and an unfortunate reminder of murder and the police, and other such terrible secret evils.
The front door swung wide and the parlormaid looked at her with polite and chilly inquiry.
Charlotte did not even have a card to present!
She smiled charmingly.
“Good afternoon. I am continuing some of the work of the late Mrs. Shaw, and I should so much like to tell the Misses Worlingham how much I admired her. Are they receiving this afternoon?”
The parlormaid was too well trained to turn away someone who might present an oasis of interest in two extremely monotonous lives. The Misses Worlingham hardly ever went out, except to church. What they saw of the world was what came to their door.
Since there was no card, the parlormaid put down the silver card tray on the hall table and stepped back to allow Charlotte inside.
“If you would care to wait, ma’am, I shall inquire. Who shall I say is calling?”
“Mrs. Pitt. The Misses Worlingham are acquainted with my grandmother, Mrs. Ellison. We are all admirers of the family.” That was stretching the truth a great deal—the only one Charlotte admired in the slightest was Clemency—but that was indeed enough if spread fine to cover them all.
She was shown into the hall, with its marvelous tessellated floor and its dominating picture of the bishop, his pink face supremely confident, beaming with almost luminous satisfaction down at all who crossed his threshold. The other portraits receded into obscurity, acolytes, a congregation, not principals. Pity there was no portrait of Theophilus; she would like to have seen his face, made some judgment of him, the mouth, the eyes, seen some link between the bishop and his daughters. She imagined him as utterly unlike Shaw as possible, two men