Anne Perry - Highgate Rise

The Worlingham window must be costing a very considerable amount of money, and according to the family, part of the purpose of it was to show the great regard in which the whole of Highgate had held the bishop. Therefore it was to be funded with public money, collected from the parish, and any other people whose remembrance of him was so clear that they wished to contribute.

Who had organized that? Celeste? Angeline? No-it had been Josiah Hatch. Of course, it would be a man. They would hardly leave such a public and financial matter to elderly ladies. And it would be more seemly if it did not come from one of the immediate family. That left the two grandsons-in-law-Hatch and Shaw. Hatch was a church sidesman, and had a reverence for the bishop that exceeded even that of his daughters. He was the old bishop’s true spiritual heir.

Anyway, the idea of Stephen Shaw working on such a scheme was ludicrous. He had disliked the bishop strongly in his lifetime, and now on learning of the true source of his wealth, he whose daily work took him to the victims of such greed, despised him with a passion.

Pitt wondered what Shaw had said to Hatch, when Hatch asked him for a contribution. That must have been a rich moment: Hatch holding out his hand for money for a memorial window depicting the bishop as a saint; and Shaw newly aware that the bishop’s fortune came from the wretchedness of thousands, even the exploitation and death of many-and his wife had just given away every penny she inherited to right at least a fraction of the wrongs.

Had Shaw kept his temper-and a still tongue?

Pitt looked again across the crowd at that passionate, dynamic face with its ruthless honesty.

Surely not?

Shaw was banging the table, his glass high in his other hand.

Gradually the buzz of conversation died and everyone turned towards him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a clear, ringing voice. “We are met here today, at the kind invitation of Miss Celeste and Miss Angeline Worlingham, to honor our departed friend, Amos Lindsay. It is appropriate that we say a few words about him, to remember him as he was.”

There was a faintly uncomfortable shifting of weight in the room, a creaking of whalebone stays, the faint rattle of taffeta, someone’s shoes squeaking, an exhalation of breath.

“The vicar spoke of him in church,” Shaw went on, his voice a little louder. “He praised his virtues, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he praised a list of virtues which it is customary to attribute to the dead, and no one ever argues and says, ‘Well, no, actually, he wasn’t like that at all.’ ” He raised his glass a little higher. “But I am! I want us to drink in remembrance of the man as he really was, not some hygienic, dehumanized plaster replica of him, robbed of all his weaknesses, and so of all his triumphs.”

“Really-” Clitheridge looked pale and dithered between stepping forward and interrupting physically-and the more restrained action of simply remonstrating, and hoping Shaw’s better taste would prevail. “I mean-don’t you think-?”

“No I don’t,” Shaw said briskly. “I hate the pious whimperings about his being a pillar of the community, a Godfearing man and beloved of us all. Have you no honesty left in your souls? Can you stand here and say you all loved Amos Lindsay? Balderdash!”

There was an audible gasp of indrawn breath this time, and Clitheridge turned around desperately as if he were hoping some miraculous rescue might be at hand.

“Quinton Pascoe was afraid of him, and was horrified by his writings. He would have had him censored, had he been able.”

There was a slight rustle and murmur as everyone swiveled to look at Pascoe, who turned bright pink. But before he could protest, Shaw went on.

“And Aunt Celeste and Aunt Angeline abhorred everything he stood for. They were-and still are-convinced that his Fabian views are unchristian and, if allowed to proliferate though society, will bring about the end of everything that is civilized and beneficial to mankind-or at any rate to that class of it to which we belong, which is all that matters to them, because it is all they know. It is all their sainted father ever allowed them to know.”

“You are drunk!” Celeste said in a furious whisper which carried right around the room.

“On the contrary, I am extremely sober,” he replied, looking up at the glass in his hand. “Even Theophilus’s best burgundy has not affected me-because I have not drunk enough of it. And as for his superb Port-I have not even touched it yet. The very least I owe poor Amos is to have my thoughts collected when I speak of him-although God knows I have enough provocation to get drunk. My wife, my best friend and my house have all been taken from me in the last few weeks. And even the police, with all their diligence, don’t seem to have the faintest idea by whom.”

“This is most undignified,” Prudence said very quietly, but still her voice carried so at least a dozen people heard her.

“You wanted to speak of Mr. Lindsay,” Oliphant prompted Shaw.

Shaw’s face changed. He lowered the glass and put it on the table.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me. This is not the time or the occasion for my losses. We are here to remember Amos-truly and vividly as the living man really was. We do him a hideous disservice to paint him in pastel colors and gloss over the failures, and the victories.”

“We should not speak ill of the dead, Stephen,” Angeline said after clearing her throat. “It is most unchristian, and quite unnecessary. I am sure we were all very fond of Mr. Lindsay and thought only the best of him.”

“No you didn’t,” he contradicted her. “Did you know he married an African woman? Black as the ace of spades-and beautiful as the summer night. And he had children-but they are all still in Africa.”

“Really, Stephen-this is quite irresponsible!” Celeste stepped forward and took him firmly by the elbow. “The man is not here to defend himself-”

Shaw shook her loose, bumping her abruptly.

“God darnmit, he doesn’t need a defense!” he shouted. “Marrying an African is not a sin! He did have sins-plenty of them-” He flung his arms expressively. “When he was young he was violent, he drank too much, he took advantage of fools, especially rich ones, and he took women that most certainly weren’t his.” His face screwed up with intensity and his voice dropped. “But he also had compassion, after he’d learned pain himself: he was never a liar, nor a bigot.” He looked around at them all. “He never spread gossip and he could keep a secret to the grave. He had no pretensions and he knew a hypocrite when he saw one-and loathed all forms of cant.”

“I really think-” Clitheridge began, flapping his hands as if he would attract everyone’s attention away from Shaw. “Really-I-”

“You can pontificate all you like over everyone else.” Shaw’s voice was very loud now. “But Amos was my friend, and I shall speak of him as he really was. I’m sick of hearing platitudes and lies, sick and weary to my heart of it! You couldn’t even speak of poor Clem honestly. You mouthed a lot of pious phrases that meant nothing at all, said nothing of what she was really like. You made her sound as if she were a quiet, submissive, ignorant little woman who wore her life away being obedient, looking after me and doing useless good works among the parish poor. You made her seem colorless, cowardly of spirit and dull of mind. She wasn’t!” He was so furious now, and so torn by grief, that his face was suffused with color, his eyes were bright and his whole body trembled. Even Celeste dared not interfere.

“That was nothing like Clem. She had more courage than all the rest of you put together-and more honesty!”