Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [143]
She recalled his face to mind easily, the strength in him, and the conviction. Yes—if he believed it to be right, she had no doubt he would. He was quite capable of exercising his powers. If ever a man had the courage of his convictions it was Stephen Shaw.
But did he believe it was right—or could ever be? No, surely not. Not even a violent or insane person? Or someone with a painful and incurable disease?
She had no idea if he was treating such a person. Pitt must have thought of all this too—surely?
She had resolved nothing when some thirty minutes later Shaw burst in, half throwing his case into the corner and flinging his jacket over the back of the chair. He swung around, startled to see her, but his expression lit with delight and he made no pretense of indifference.
“Mrs. Pitt! What fortune brings you back here again so soon? Have you discovered something?” There was humor in his eyes, and a little anxiety, but nothing disguised his liking for her.
“I have just been visiting the Misses Worlingham,” she answered, and saw the instant appreciation of all that that meant in his face. “I was not especially welcome,” she said in answer to his unspoken question. “In fact Mrs. Clitheridge, who called at the same time, has taken a strong dislike to me. But as a result of certain conversation that took place, several other thoughts come to my mind.”
“Indeed? And what are they? I see Mrs. Turner gave you some tea. Is there any left? I am as dry as one of poor Amos’s wooden gods.” He reached for the pot and lifted it experimentally. It was obvious from the weight that there was considerable liquid left in it. “Ah—good.” He poured out her used cup in the slop bowl, rinsed it from the hot water jug, and proceeded to pour himself some tea. “What did Celeste and Angeline say that sparked these new ideas? I must admit, the thought intrigues me.”
“Well, there is always money,” she began slowly. “The Worlinghams have a great deal of money, which Clemency must have inherited, along with Prudence, when Theophilus died.
He met her eyes with total candor, even a black laughter without a shred of rancor at her for the suggestion.
“And you think I might have murdered poor Clem to get my hands on it?” he asked. “I assure you, there isn’t a penny left—she gave it all away.” He moved restlessly around the room, poking at a cushion, setting a book straight on a shelf so it did not stand out from the rest. “When her will is probated you will see that for the last few months she had been obliged to me even for a dress allowance. I promise you, Mrs. Pitt, I shall inherit nothing from the Worlingham estate except a couple of dressmakers’ bills and a milliner’s account. Which I shall be happy to settle.”
“Given it all away?” Charlotte affected surprise. Pitt had already told her that Clemency had given her money away.
“All of it,” he repeated. “Mostly to societies for slum clearance, help to the extremely poor, housing improvement, sanitation, and of course the battle to get the law changed to make ownership easily traceable. She went through thirty thousand pounds in less than a year. She just gave it away until there was no more.” His face was illuminated with a kind of pride and a fierce gentleness.
Charlotte asked the next question without even stopping to weigh it. She had to know, and it seemed so easy and natural to ask.
“Did she tell you why? I mean, did she tell you where the Worlingham money came from?”
His mouth curled downward and his eyes were full of bitter laughter.
“Where the old bastard got it from? Oh, yes—when she discovered it she was devastated.” He walked over and stood with his back to the mantel. “I remember the night