Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [65]
“Or Flora Lutterworth, for that matter,” Charlotte added. “And perhaps it is not unrequited. Flora will have a great deal of money when her father dies.”
“And you think the Worlingham money is not sufficient for Dr. Shaw, and he has eyes on Lutterworth’s as well?” Vespasia asked.
Charlotte thought of her conversation with Stephen Shaw, of the energy in him, the humor, the intense feeling of inner honesty that still lingered with her. It was a painful idea. And she did not wish to think Clemency Shaw had spent her life married to such a man. And surely she would have known.
“No,” she said aloud. “I believe it may all have to do with Clemency’s work against slum owners. But Thomas thinks it is here in Highgate, and that really it was Dr. Shaw himself who was the intended victim. So naturally I shall observe all I can, and tell him of it, whether I can see any sense in it or not.”
“Very proper of you.” Now Vespasia did not even attempt to hide her amusement. “Perhaps it was Shaw himself who killed his wife—I imagine Thomas has thought of that, even if you have not.”
“Why should I not think of it also?” Charlotte said briskly, but under her breath.
“Because you like him, my dear; and I believe your feeling is more than returned. Good afternoon, Dr. Shaw.” As she spoke Shaw had come back and was standing in front of them, courteous to Vespasia, but his attention principally upon Charlotte.
Aware of Vespasia’s remarks, Charlotte found herself coloring, her cheeks hot.
“Lady Cumming-Gould.” He inclined his head politely. “I appreciate your coming. I’m sure Clemency would have been pleased.” He winced as if saying her name aloud had touched a nerve. “You are one of the few here who have not come out of curiosity, the social desire to be seen, or sheer greed for the best repast the Worlinghams have laid out since Theophilus died.”
Amos Lindsay materialized at Shaw’s elbow. “Really, Stephen, sometimes you do yourself less than justice in expressing your thoughts. A great many people are here for more commendable reasons.” His words were directed not to curbing Shaw but to excusing him to Vespasia and Charlotte.
“Nevertheless we must eat,” Shaw said rather ungraciously. “Mrs. Pitt—may I offer you a slice of pheasant in aspic? It looks repulsive, but I am assured it is delicious.”
“No thank you,” Charlotte declined rather crisply. “I do not feel any compulsion to eat, or indeed any desire.”
“I apologize,” he said immediately, and his smile was so unforced she found her anger evaporated. She felt for his distress, whatever the nature of his love for Clemency. This was a time of grief for him when he would probably far rather have been alone than standing being polite to a crowd of people of widely varying emotions, from family bereavement, in Prudence, right to social obligation like Alfred Lutterworth, or even vulgar curiosity, as was ill-hidden on the faces of several people whose names Charlotte did not know. And it was even possible one of them might be Clemency’s murderer.
“There is no need,” she said, answering his smile. “You have every cause to find us intrusive and extremely trying. It is we who should apologize.”
He reached out his hand as if he would have touched her, so much more immediate a communication than words. Then he remembered at the last moment that it was inappropriate, and withdrew, but she felt almost as if he had, the desire was so plain in his eyes. It was a gesture of both gratitude and understanding. For an instant he had not been alone.
“You are very gracious, Mrs. Pitt,” he said aloud. “Lady Cumming-Gould, may I offer you anything, or are you also less than hungry?”
Vespasia gave him her goblet. “You may bring me another glass of claret,” she answered graciously. “I imagine it has been in the cellar since the bishop’s time. It is excellent.”
“With pleasure.” He took the goblet and withdrew.
He was replaced within moments by Celeste