Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [158]
Shaw’s face was blazing with derision. “With seven thousand, four hundred and eighty-three pounds—in cash?”
“Perhaps he kept his money in the house?” Oliphant suggested quietly. “Some people do. He may have been counting it when he was taken by a seizure. It was a seizure he died of, wasn’t it?”
“Yes it was,” Shaw agreed. “But it was flung all over the room, and there were five notes clutched in his hand, thrust out before him as if he were trying to give it to someone. Everything indicated he hadn’t been alone.”
“That is a monstrous lie!” Celeste found her voice at last. “Quite wicked, and you know it! He was utterly alone, poor man. It was Clemency who found him, and called you.”
“Clem found him, and called me, certainly,” Shaw agreed. “But he was lying in his study, with the French doors open onto the garden—and who is to say she was the first person there? He was already almost cold when she arrived.”
“For God’s sake, man!” Josiah Hatch burst out. “You are speaking about your father-in-law—and the Misses Worlingham’s brother! Have you no decency left at all?”
“Decency!” Shaw turned on him. “There’s nothing indecent in speaking about death. He was lying on the floor, purple-faced, his eyes bulging out of his head, his body chill, and five hundred pounds in Treasury notes held so fast in his hand we couldn’t remove them to lay him out. What is indecent is where the bloody money came from!”
Everyone began to shift uncomfortably, half afraid to look at each other, and yet unable to help it. Eyes met eyes and then slid away again. Someone coughed.
“Blackmail?” someone said aloud. “Not Theophilus!”
A woman giggled nervously and her gloved hand flew to her mouth to suppress the sound.
There was a sharp sibilance of whispering, cut off instantly.
“Hector?” Lally’s voice was clear.
Clitheridge looked red-faced and utterly wretched. Some force beyond himself seemed to propel him forward to where Shaw stood at the head of the table, Celeste a little behind him and to his right, white to the lips and shaking with rage.
“Ahem!” Clitheridge cleared his throat. “Ahem—I—er …” He looked around wildly for rescue, and found none. He looked at Lally once more, his face now scarlet, and gave up. “I—er—I am afraid I was the one with—with, er—Theophilus when he died—er, at least shortly before. He—er—” He cleared his throat violently again as if he had some obstruction in it. “He—er—he sent a message for me to come to him—with one of the—er—choirboys who had—er—” He looked imploringly at Lally, and met implacable resolve. He gasped for air, and continued in abysmal misery. “I read the message and went over to his house straightaway—it sounded most urgent. I—er—I found him in a state of great excitement, quite unlike anything I had ever seen.” He shut his eyes and his voice rose to a squeak as he relived the utter horror of it. “He was beside himself. He kept spluttering and choking and waving his hands in the air. There were piles of Treasury notes on his desk. I could not even hazard a guess how much money. He was frantic. He looked very unwell and I implored him to allow me to send for the doctor, but he would not hear of it. I am not sure he even grasped what I was saying. He kept on insisting he had a sin to confess.” Clitheridge’s eyes were rolling like a frightened horse and he looked everywhere but at the Worlinghams. The sweat broke out on his brow and lip and his hands were wringing each other so hard his knuckles were white.
“He kept on thrusting the money at me and begging me to take it—for the church—for the poor—for anything. And he wanted me to hear his confession …” His voice trailed away, too agonized at the memory to find words anymore, as if his throat had closed.
“Lies!” Celeste said loudly. “Absolute lies! Theophilus never had anything to be ashamed of. He must have been having a seizure,