Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [151]
But Celeste would,” Emily pressed. “After all, they have more to lose than anyone.”
“Except Shaw,” Jack pointed out. “Clemency was giving away the Worlingham money hand over fist. As it happens she had given all her share away before she died—but you have only Shaw’s word for it that he knew that. He may have thought little of what she was doing and killed her to stop her while there was still some left, and only learned afterwards that he was too late.”
Charlotte turned to look at him. It was an extremely ugly thought which she had not until this moment seen, but it was undeniable. No one else knew what Clemency had been doing; there had been only Shaw’s own word for it that he had known all along. Perhaps he hadn’t? Perhaps he had found out only a day or two before Clemency’s death, and it was that discovery which suddenly presented him with the prospect of losing his extremely œmfortable position both financially, for certain, and socially, if she should make it public. It was a very good motive for murder indeed.
She said nothing, a chilling, rather sick feeling inside her.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said gently. “But it had to be considered.”
Charlotte swallowed hard and found it difficult. Shaw’s fair, intense and blazingly honest face was before her inner eye. She was surprised how much it hurt.
“Gracie is corning with us.” She looked away from them towards the door, as if the business of going were urgent and must be attended to. “I think she deserves to.”
“Of course,” Emily agreed. “I wish I thought we should really learn something—but all I can reasonably hope for is a strong instinct. Although we might manage to ask some pertinent questions at the funerary dinner afterwards. Are you invited?”
“I think so.” Charlotte remembered very clearly Shaw’s invitation, and his wish that she should be there, one person with whom he could feel an identity of candor. She thrust it from her mind. “Come on, or we shall be late!”
The funeral was a bright, windy affair with more than two hundred people packing the small church for the formal, very stilted service conducted by Clitheridge. Only the organ music was faultless, flowing in rich, throbbing waves over the solemn heads and engulfing them in the comfort of a momentary unity while they sang. The sun streamed through the stained-glass windows in a glory of color falling like jewels on the floor and across the rigid backs and heads and all the variegated textures of black.
Upon leaving’Charlotte noticed a man of unusual appearance sitting close to the back, with his chin in the air and seemingly more interested in the ceiling than the other mourners. It was not that his features were particularly startling so much as the intelligence and humor in his expression, irreverent as it was. His hair was fiercely bright auburn and although he was sitting, he appeared to be quite a slight man. She certainly had not seen him before, and she hesitated out of curiosity.
“Is there something about me which troubles you, ma’am?” he asked, swiveling suddenly around to face her, and speaking with a distinctly Irish voice.
She collected her wits with an effort and replied with aplomb.
“Not in the least, sir. Any man as intent upon heaven as you deserves to be left to his contemplation—”
“It was not heaven, ma’am,” he said indignantly. “It was the ceiling that had my attention.” Then he realized she knew that as well as he, and had been irking him on purpose, and his face relaxed into a charming smile.
“George Bernard Shaw, ma’am. I was a friend of Amos Lindsay’s. And were you also?”
“Yes I was.” She stretched the truth a fraction. “And I am very sorry he is gone.”
“Indeed.” He was instantly sober again. “It’s a sad and stupid waste.”
Further conversation was made impossible by the press of people desiring to leave the church, and Charlotte nodded politely and excused herself, leaving him to resume his contemplation.
At least half the mourners followed the coffin out into the sharp, sunny graveyard where the wet