Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [145]
His face softened again, and for a moment the full magnitude of his hurt was naked.
“I should like it very much if you did. I shall speak the eulogy. The whole affair will be awful—Clitheridge will behave like a fool, he always does when anything real is involved. Lally will probably have to pick up the pieces. Oliphant will be as good as he is allowed to be, and Josiah will be the same pompous, blind ass he always is. I shall loathe every moment of it. I will almost certainly quarrel with Josiah because I can’t help it. The more sycophantic he is about the damn bishop the angrier I shall be, and the more I shall want to shout from the pulpit what an obscene old sinner he was—and not even decent sins of passion or appetite—just cold, complacent greed and the love of dominion over other people.”
Without thinking she put out her hand and touched his arm.
“But you won’t.”
He smiled reluctantly and stood immobile lest she move.
“I shall try to behave like the model mourner and friend-even if it chokes me. Josiah and I have had enough quarreling—but he does tempt me sorely. He lives in a totally spurious world and I can’t bear his cant! I know better, Charlotte. I hate lies; they rob us of the real good by covering it over with so many coats of sickening excuses and evasions until what was really beautiful, brave, or clean, is distorted and devalued.” His voice shook with the intensity of his feeling. “I hate hypocrites! And the church seems to spawn them like abscesses, eating away at real virtue—like Matthew Oliphant’s.”
She was a little embarrassed; his emotion was so transparent and she could feel the vitality of him under her hand as if he filled the room.
She moved away carefully, not to break the moment.
“Then I shall see you at the funeral tomorrow. We shall both behave properly—however hard it is for us. I shall not quarrel with Mrs. Clitheridge, although I should dearly like to, and you will not tell Josiah what you think of the bishop. We shall simply mourn a good friend who died before his time.” And without looking at him again she walked very straight-backed and very gracefully to the parlor door, and out into the hallway.
11
IT HAD TAKEN Murdo two days of anxiety and doubt, lurching hope and black despair before he found an excuse to call on Flora Lutterworth. And it took him at least half an hour to wash, shave and dress himself in immaculately clean clothes, pressed to perfection, his buttons polished—he hated his buttons because they made his rank so obvious, but since they were inescapable, they had better be clean and bright.
He had thought of going quite frankly to express his admiration for her, then blushed scarlet as he imagined how she would laugh at him for his presumption. And then she would be thoroughly annoyed that a policeman, of all the miserable trades—and not even a senior one—should dare to think of such a thing, let alone express it. He had lain awake burning with shame over that.
No, the only way was to find some professional excuse, and then in the course of speaking to her, slip in that she had his deepest admiration, and then retreat with as much grace as possible.
So at twenty-five minutes past nine he knocked on the door of the Lutterworth house. When the maid answered, he asked if he might see Miss Flora Lutterworth, to seek her aid in an official matter.
He tripped over the step on the way in, and was sure the maid was giggling at his clumsiness. He was angry and blushing at the same time and already wished he had not come. It was doomed to failure. He was making a fool of himself and she would only despise him.
“If you’ll wait in the morning room, I’ll see if Miss Lutterworth’ll see you,” the maid said, smoothing her white starched apron over her hips. She thought he was very agreeable, nice eyes and very clean-looking, not like some she could name, but she wasn’t for having him get above himself. But when he had finished with Miss Flora, she would make sure it was she who showed