Highgate Rise

9

CHARLOTTE HAD RECOUNTED to Pitt at least the salient points of her experiences searching for the ownership of the buildings in Lisbon Street, and when she made the shattering discovery not only that it was the Worlingham family themselves, but that Clemency had learned it several months before she died, she poured it all out to him the moment she arrived home. She saw his coat in the hall and without even taking off her hat she raced down the corridor to the kitchen.

“Thomas. Thomas—Lisbon Street was owned by Bishop Worlingham himself! Now the family takes all the rents. Clemency discovered it. She knew!”

“What?” He stared at her, half turned in his seat, his eyes wide.

“Bishop Worlingham owned Lisbon Street,” she said again. “All those slums and gin houses were his! Now they belong to the rest of the family—and Clemency discovered it. That’s why she felt so awful.” She sat down in a heap in the chair opposite him, skirts awry, and leaned across the table towards him. “That’s probably why she worked so hard at undoing it all. Just think how she must have felt.” She closed her eyes and put her head in her hands, elbows on the table. “Oh!”

“Poor Clemency,” Pitt said very quietly. “What a very remarkable woman. I wish I could have known her.”

“So do I,” Charlotte agreed through her fingers. “Why do we so often get to know about people only when it’s too late?”

It was a question to which she expected no answer. They both knew that they would have had no occasion to know of Clemency Shaw had she not been murdered, and it required no words to convey their understanding.

It was another half hour before she even remembered to tell him that Jack was seriously considering standing for Parliament.

“Really?” His voice rose in surprise and he looked at her carefully to make sure she was not making some obscure joke.

“Oh yes—I think it’s excellent. He ought to do something or they’ll both be bored to pieces.” She grinned. “We cannot meddle in all your cases.”

He let out a snort and refrained from comment. But there was a sense of deep comfort in him, experiences and emotions shared, horror, exultation, pity, anger, at times fear, all the multitude of feelings that are roused by terrible events, common purpose, and the unique bond that comes of sharing.

Consequently, when he joined Murdo at the Highgate Police Station the next day there were several things he had to tell him, most of which only added to Murdo’s growing anxiety about Flora Lutterworth. He thought of their few brief and rather stilted conversations, the hot silences, the clumsiness he felt standing there in her magnificent house, his boots shining like huge wedges of coal, his uniform buttons so obviously marking him out as a policeman, an intruder of the most unwelcome sort. And always her face came back burning across his mind, wide-eyed, fair-skinned with that wonderful color in her cheeks, so proud and full of courage. Surely she must be one of the most beautiful women he could ever see? But there was far more than beauty to her; there was spirit and gentleness. She was so very alive, it was as if she could smell winds and flowers he only imagined, see beyond his everyday horizons into a brighter, more important world, hear melodies of which he only knew the beat.

And yet he also knew she was afraid. He longed to protect her, and was agonizingly aware than he could not. He did not understand the nature of what threatened her, only that it was connected with Clemency Shaw’s death, and now with Lindsay’s as well.

And with a part of him he refused even to listen to, in spite of its still, cold voice in his brain, he was also aware that her role in it might not be entirely innocent. He would not even think that she was personally involved, perhaps actually to blame. But he had heard the rumors, seen the looks and blushes and the secrecy; he knew there was a special relationship between Flora and Stephen Shaw, one so definite that her father was furious about it, yet she felt it so precious to her she was prepared to brave his anger and defy him.

Murdo was confused. He had never felt jealousy of this muddled nature before, at once so sure she had done nothing shameful, and yet unable to deny to himself that there was a real and deep emotion inside her towards Shaw.

And of course the alternative fear was large; perhaps it was its very size which blocked out the other even more hideous thought—that Alfred Lutterworth was responsible for the attempts on Shaw’s life. There were two possible reasons for this, both quite believable, and both ruinous.

The one he refused to think was that Shaw had dishonored Flora, or even knew of some fearful shame in her life, perhaps an illegitimate child, or worse, an abortion; and Lutterworth had tried to kill him when somehow he had learned of it—to keep him silent. He could hardly hope for a fine marriage for her if such a thing were known—in fact no marriage at all would be possible. She would grow old alone, rich, excluded, whispered about and forever an object of pity or contempt.

At the thought of it Murdo was ready to kill Shaw himself. His fists were clenched so tight his nails, short as they were, bit into the flesh of his palms. That thought must be cast out, obliterated from his mind. What betrayal that he would let it enter—even for an instant.

He hated himself even for having thought it. Shaw was pestering her; she was young and very lovely. He lusted after her, and she was too innocent to see how vile he was. That was far more like it. And of course there was her father’s money. Shaw had already spent all his wife’s money—and there was extraordinary evidence for that. Inspector Pitt had found out just yesterday that Clemency Shaw’s money was all gone. Yes—that made perfect sense—Shaw was after Flora’s money!

And Alfred Lutterworth had a great deal of money. That thought was also wretched. Murdo was a constable, and likely to remain so for a long time; he was only twenty-four. He earned enough to keep himself in something like decency, he ate three times a day and had a pleasant room and clean clothes, but it was as far from the splendor of Alfred Lutterworth’s house as Lutterworth’s was in turn from what Murdo imagined of the Queen’s castle at Windsor. And Lutterworth might as well cast eyes upon one of the princesses as Murdo upon Flora.

It was with a finality of despair that he forced the last thought, the one prompted by Inspector Pitt’s wife’s discovery of the ownership of some of the worst slum tenements by old Bishop Worlingham. Murdo was not so very amazed. He had long known that some outwardly respectable people could have very ugly secrets, especially where money was concerned. But what Pitt had not mentioned was that if Mrs. Shaw, poor lady, had discovered who owned those particular houses, she might also have discovered who owned several others. Pitt had mentioned members of Parliament, titled families, even justices of the courts. Had he not also thought of retired industrialists who wanted to enter society and needed a good continuing income, and might not be too particular as to where their money was invested?

Alfred Lutterworth might well have been in every bit as much danger from Clemency Shaw as the Worlinghams were—in fact more. Clemency might protect her own—it appeared she had. But why should she protect Lutterworth? He had every reason to kill her—and if Lindsay had guessed this, to kill him too.

That is, if he owned slum property too. And how could they ever find that out? They could hardly trace the ownership of every piece of rotten plaster and sagging timber in London, every blind alley, open drain and crumbling pile of masonry, every wretched home of cold and frightened people. He knew because he had tried. He blushed hot at the memory of it; it was a kind of betrayal that he had let the thought take root in his mind and had asked questions about Lutterworth’s finances, the source of his income and if it could involve rents. But it was not as easy as he had imagined. Money came from companies, but what did those companies do? Time had been short, and he had no official instructions to give his questions the force of law.

Nothing had been resolved; he was simply uncertain and appallingly conscious of his guilt. Nothing he could even imagine doing would remove the ache of fear and imagination at the back of his mind.

He saw Flora’s face in his heart’s eye and all the pain and the shame she would feel burned through him till he could hardly bear it. He was even glad to hear Pitt’s footsteps return and to be told their duty for the morning. Part of him was still outraged that they sent an outsider—did they think Highgate’s own men were incompetent? And part of him was immensely grateful that the responsibility was not theirs. This was a very ugly case, and the resolution seemed as far off now as it had when they were standing in the wet street staring at the smoldering remains of Shaw’s house, long before the taper was struck to set Lindsay’s alight.

“Yes sir?” he said automatically as Pitt came around the corner and into the foyer where he was standing. “Where to, sir?”

“Mr. Alfred Lutterworth’s, I think,” Pitt barely hesitated on his way out. He had been to the local superintendent, as a matter of courtesy, and on the small chance that something had occurred that Murdo did not know about, some thread worth following.

But the superintendent had looked at him with his habitual disfavor and reported with some satisfaction another fire, in Kentish town, a possible lead on the arsonist he personally was sure was the guilty party in all cases, and rather a negative report on house insurance and the unlikelihood of either Shaw or Lindsay being involved in fire for the purposes of fraud.

“Well I hardly imagined Lindsay burned himself to death to claim the insurance!” Pitt had snapped back.

“No sir,” the superintendent had said coldly, his eyes wide. “Neither did we. But then we are confident the fires were all set by the arsonist in Kentish Town—sir.”

“Indeed.” Pitt had been noncommittal. “Odd there were only two houses that were occupied.”

“Well he didn’t know Shaw’s was—did he?” the superintendent had said irritably. “Shaw was out, and everyone thought Mrs. Shaw was too. She only canceled at the last minute.”

“The only people who thought Mrs. Shaw was out were the people who knew her,” Pitt had said with satisfaction.

The superintendent had glared at him and returned to his desk, leaving Pitt to go out of the door in silence.

Now he was ready to go and probe and watch and listen to people, where his true art lay. He had days ago given up expecting things to tell him anything. Murdo’s heart sank, but there was no escaping duty. He followed Pitt and caught up with him, and together they walked along the damp, leaf-scattered footpath towards the Lutterworths’ house.

They were admitted by the maid and shown into the morning room, where there was a brisk fire burning and a bowl of tawny chrysanthemums on the heavy Tudor dresser. Neither of them sat, although it was nearly quarter of an hour before Lutterworth appeared, closely followed by Flora, dressed in a dark blue stuff gown and looking pale but composed. She glanced at Murdo only once, and her eyes flickered away immediately, a faint, self-conscious flush on her cheeks.

Murdo remained in a bitterly painful silence. He longed to help her; he wanted to hit out at someone—Shaw, Lutterworth for allowing all this to happen and not protecting her, and Pitt for forging blindly ahead with his duty, regardless of the chaos it caused.

For an instant he hated Pitt for not hurting as much as he did, as if he were oblivious of pain; then he looked sideways for just a moment at him, and realized his error. Pitt’s face was tense; there were shadows under his eyes and the fine lines in his skin were all weary and conscious of realms of suffering past and to come, and of his inability to heal it.

Murdo let out his breath in a sigh, and kept silent.

Lutterworth faced them across the expensive Turkish carpet. None of them sat.

“Well, what is it now?” he demanded. “I know nowt I ’aven’t told you. I’ve no idea why anyone killed poor old Lindsay, unless it was Shaw, because the old man saw through ’im and ’ad to be silenced. Or it were that daft Pascoe, because ’e thought as Lindsay were an anarchist.

“Take that Orse.” He pointed to a fine figurine on the mantel shelf. “Bought that wi’ me first big year’s profit, when the mill started to do well. Got a fine consignment o’ cloth and sold it ourselves—in the Cape. Turned a pretty penny, did that. Got the ’orse to remind me o’ me early days when me and Ellen, that’s Flora’s mother”—he took a deep breath and let it out slowly to give himself time to regain his composure—“when me and Ellen went courtin’. Didn’t ’ave no carriage. We used to ride an ’orse like that—’er up in front o’ me, an me be’ind wi’ me arms ’round ’er. Them was good days. Every time I look at that ’orse I think o’ them—like I could still see the sunlight through the trees on the dry earth and smell the ’orse’s warm body and the ’ay in the wind, an’ see the blossom in the ’edges like fallen snow, sweet as ’oney, and my Ellen’s ’air brighter’n a peeled chestnut—an’ ’ear’er laugh.”

He stood motionless, enveloped in the past. No one wanted to be the first to invade with the ugliness and immediacy of the present.

It was Pitt who broke the spell, and with words Murdo had not foreseen.

“What past do you think Mr. Lindsay recalled in his African artifacts, Mr. Lutterworth?”

“I don’t know.” Lutterworth smiled ruefully. “ ’Is wife, mebbe. That’s what most men remember.”

“His wife!” Pitt was startled. “I didn’t know Lindsay was married.”

“No—well, no reason why you should.” Lutterworth looked faintly sorry. “ ’E didn’t tell everyone. She died a long time ago—twenty years or more. Reckon as that’s why ’e came ’ome. Not that ’e said so, mind.”

“Were there any children?”

“Several, I think.”

“Where are they? They’ve not come forward. His will didn’t mention any.”

“It wouldn’t. They’re in Africa.”

“That wouldn’t stop them inheriting.”

“What—an ’ouse in ’Ighgate and a few books and mementos of Africa!” Lutterworth was smiling at some deep inner satisfaction.

“Why not?” Pitt demanded. “There were a great many books, some on anthropology must be worth a great deal.”

“Not to them.” Lutterworth’s lips smiled grimly.

“Why not? And there’s the house!”

“Not much use to a black man who lives in a jungle.” Lutterworth looked at Pitt with dour satisfaction, savoring the surprise on his face. “That’s it—Lindsay’s wife was African, beautiful woman, black as your ’at. I saw a picture of ’er once. He showed me. I was talking about my Ellen, an’ ’e showed me. Never saw a gentler face in me life. Couldn’t pronounce ’er name, even when ’e said it slow, but ’e told me it meant some kind o’ river bird.”

“Did anyone else know about her?”

“No idea. He may have told Shaw. I suppose you ’aven’t arrested him yet?”

“Papa!” Flora spoke for the first time, a cry of protest torn out in spite of herself.

“An’ I’ll not ’ave a word about it from you, my girl,” Lutterworth said fiercely. “ ’E’s done enough damage to you already. Your name’s a byword ’round ’ere, runnin’ after ’im like a lovesick parlormaid.”

Flora blushed scarlet and fumbled for words to defend herself, and found none.

Murdo was in an agony of impotence. Had Lutterworth glanced at him he would have been startled by the fury in his eyes, but he was occupied with the irresponsibility he saw in his daughter.

“Well what do you want wi’ me?” he snapped at Pitt. “Not to hear about Amos Lindsay’s dead wife—poor devil.”

“No,” Pitt agreed. “Actually I came to ask you about what properties you own in the city.”

“What?” Lutterworth was so utterly taken aback it was hard not to believe he was as startled as he seemed. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about, man? What property?”

“Housing, to be exact.” Pitt was watching him closely, but even Murdo who cared more intensely about this case than about anything else he could remember, did not see a flicker of fear or comprehension in Lutterworth’s face.

“I own this ’ouse, lock, stock and barrel, and the ground it stands on.” Lutterworth unconsciously stiffened a fraction and pulled his shoulders straighter. “And I own a couple o’ rows o’ terraced ’ouses outside o’ Manchester. Built ’em for my workers, I did. And good ’ouses they are, solid as the earth beneath ’em. Don’t let water, chimneys don’t smoke, privies in every back garden, an’ a standpipe to every one of ’em. Can’t say fairer than that.”

“And that’s all the property you own, Mr. Lutterworth?” Pitt’s voice was lighter, a thread of relief in it already. “Could you prove that?”

“I could if I were minded to.” Lutterworth was eyeing him curiously, his hands pushed deep into his pockets. “But why should I?”

“Because the cause of Mrs. Shaw’s murder, and Mr. Lindsay’s, may lie in the ownership of property in London,” Pitt replied, glancing for less than a second at Flora, and away again.

“Balderdash!” Lutterworth said briskly. “If you ask me, Shaw killed ’is wife so ’e could be free to come after my Flora, and then ’e killed Lindsay because Lindsay knew what ’e was up to. Give ’imself away somehow—bragging, I shouldn’t wonder, and went too far. Well ’e’ll damn well not marry Flora—for my money, or anything else. I won’t let ’er—and ’e’ll not wait till I’m gone for ’er, I’ll be bound.”

“Papa!” Flora would not be hushed anymore, by discretion or filial duty or even the embarrassment which flamed scarlet up her cheeks now. “You are saying wicked things which are quite untrue.”

“I’ll not have argument.” He rounded on her, his own color high. “Can you tell me you haven’t been seeing ’im, sneaking in and out of his house when you thought no one was looking?”

She was on the verge of tears and Murdo tensed as if to step forward, but Pitt shot him a stony glare, his face tight.

Murdo longed to save her so desperately his body ached with the fierceness of his effort to control himself, but he had no idea what to say or do. It all had a dreadful inevitability, like a stone that has already started falling and must complete its journey.

“It was not illicit.” She chose her words carefully, doing her best to ignore Pitt and Murdo standing like intrusive furniture in the room, and all her attention was focused on her father. “It was … was just—private.”

Lutterworth’s face was distorted with pain as well as fury. She was the one person left in the world he loved, and she had betrayed herself, and so wounded him where he could not bear it.

“Secret!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the back of the armchair beside him. “Decent women don’t creep in the back door o’ men’s houses to see them in secret. Was Mrs. Shaw there? Was she? And don’t lie to me, girl. Was she in the room with you—all the time?”

Flora’s voice was a whisper, so strained it was barely heard.

“No.”

“O’ course she wasn’t!” He threw out the words in a mixture of anguish because they were true and a desperate kind of triumph that at least she had not lied. “I know that. I know she’d gone out because half Highgate knows it. But I’ll tell you this, my girl—I don’t care what Highgate says, or all London society either—they can call you anything they can lay their tongues to. I’ll not let you marry Shaw—and that’s final.”

“I don’t want to marry him!” The tears were running down her face now. Her hand flew to her mouth and she bit her teeth on her finger as if the physical pain relieved her distress. “He’s my doctor!”

“He’s my doctor too.” Lutterworth had not yet understood the change in her. “I don’t go creeping in at the back door after him. I go to him openly, like an honest man.”

“You don’t have the same complaint as I do.” Her voice was choked with tears and she refused to look at any of them, least of all Murdo. “He allowed me to go whenever I was in pain—and he—”

“Pain?” Lutterworth was horrified, all his anger drained away, leaving him pale and frightened. “What sort of pain? What’s wrong with you?” Already he moved towards her as if she were about to collapse. “Flora? Flora, what is it? We’ll get the best doctors in England. Why didn’t you tell me, girl?”

She turned away from him, hunching her shoulders. “It’s not an illness. It’s just—please let me be! Leave me a little decency. Do I have to detail my most private discomforts in front of policemen?”

Lutterworth had forgotten Pitt and Murdo. Now he swung around, ready to attack them for their crassness, then only just in time remembered that it was he who had demanded the explanation of her, not they.

“I have no property in London, Mr. Pitt, and if you want me to prove it to you I daresay I can.” His face set hard and he balanced squarely on his feet. “My finances are open to you whenever you care to look at them. My daughter has nothing to tell you about her relationship with her doctor. It is a perfectly correct matter, but it is private, and is privileged to remain so. It is only decent.” He met Pitt’s eyes defiantly. “I am sure you would not wish your wife’s medical condition to be the subject of other men’s conversation. I know nothing further with which I can help you. I wish you good day.” And he stepped over and rang the bell to have the maid show them out.

Pitt dispatched Murdo to question Shaw’s previous servants again. The butler was recovering slowly and so was able to speak more lucidly. He might recall some details which he had been too shocked and in too much pain to think of before. Also Lindsay’s manservant might be more forthcoming on a second or third attempt. Pitt most especially wanted to know what the man knew of Lindsay’s last two days before the fire. Something, a word or an act, must have precipitated it. All the pieces gathered from one place and another might point to an answer.

Pitt himself returned to the boardinghouse, where he intended to wait for Shaw as long as might be necessary, and question the man until he learned some answers, however long that took, and however brutal it required him to be.

The landlady was getting used to people coming to the door and asking for Dr. Shaw, and to several of them requesting to sit in the parlor and wait for him to return. She treated Pitt with sympathy, having forgotten who he was, and regarding him as one of the doctor’s patients, in need of a gentle word and a hot cup of tea.

He accepted both with a slight twinge of conscience, and warmed himself in front of the fire for twenty minutes until Shaw came in in a whirl of activity, setting his bag down on the chair by the desk, his stick up against the wall, having forgotten to put it in the hall stand, his hat on top of the desk and his coat where the landlady was waiting to take it from him. She picked up the rest of his apparel, scarf, gloves, hat and stick, and took them all out as if it were her custom and her pleasure. It seemed she had already developed a certain fondness for him even in these few days.

Shaw faced Pitt with some surprise, a guardedness in his eyes, but no dislike.

“ ’Morning Pitt, what is it now? Have you discovered something?” He stood near the center of the room, hands in his pockets, and yet giving the appearance of being so balanced on his feet that he was ready for some intense action, only waiting to know what it might be. “Well, what is it, man? What have you learned?”

Pitt wished he had something to tell him, for Shaw’s own sake, and because he felt so inadequate that he still had almost no idea who had started the fires or why, or even beyond question whether it was Shaw who was the intended victim or Clemency. He had begun by being sure it was Shaw; now with Charlotte’s conviction that it was Clemency’s activities to expose slum profiteers which had provoked it, his own certainty was shaken. But there was no point in lying; it was shabby and they both deserved better.

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything further.” He saw Shaw’s face tighten and a keenness die from his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he added unhappily. “The forensic evidence tells me nothing except that the fire was started in four separate places in your house and three in Mr. Lindsay’s, with some kind of fuel oil, probably ordinary lamp oil, poured onto the curtains in the downstairs rooms where it would catch quickly, climb upwards taking the whole window embrasure, and then any wooden furniture.”

Shaw frowned. “How did they get in? We’d have heard breaking glass. And I certainly didn’t leave any downstairs windows open.”

“It isn’t very difficult to cut glass,” Pitt pointed out. “You can do it silently if you stick a piece of paper over it with a little glue. In the criminal fraternity they call it ‘star glazing.’ Of course they use it to reach in and undo the catch rather than to pour in oil and drop a taper.”

“You think it was an ordinary thief turned assassin?” Shaw’s brows rose in incredulity. “Why, for heaven’s sake? It doesn’t make any sense!” There was disappointment in his face, primarily in Pitt for having thought of nothing better than this.

Pitt was stung. Even though Shaw might be the murderer himself, and he hated to acknowledge that thought, he still respected the man and wanted his good opinion in return.

“I don’t think it was an ordinary thief at all,” he said quickly. “I am simply saying that there is a very ordinary method of cutting glass without making a noise. Unfortunately, in the mass of shattered glass, bricks, rubble and timbers around it was impossible to say whether that was done or not. Everything was trodden on by the firemen or broken by falling masonry. If there was any cut glass rather than broken it was long since destroyed. Not that it would have told us anything, except that he came prepared in skills as well as materials—which is fairly obvious anyway.”

“So?” Shaw stared at him across the expanse of the worn, homely carpet and the comfortable chairs. “If you know nothing more, what are you here for? You haven’t come simply to tell me that.”

Pitt kept his temper with an effort and tried to order his thoughts.

“Something precipitated the fire in Amos Lindsay’s house,” he began levelly, fixing his eyes on Shaw’s, at the same time sitting down in one of the big easy chairs, letting Shaw know that he intended the discussion to be a long and detailed one. “You were staying with him for the few days preceding; whatever happened you may have noticed, something which you could now recall, if you tried.”

The skepticism vanished out of Shaw’s face and was replaced by thought, which quickly deepened into concentration. He sat down in the opposite chair and crossed his legs, regarding Pitt through narrowed eyes.

“You think it was Lindsay they meant to kill?” A flicker of emotion crossed his face with peculiar pain, half hope and a release from guilt, half a new darkness of unknown violence and forces not guessed at yet. “Not me?”

“I don’t know.” Pitt pulled his mouth into a grimace that had been intended as a wry smile but died before humor touched it. “There are several possibilities.” He took the wild risk of being honest. It crossed his mind to wonder what good an attempt at deception would do anyway. Shaw was neither gullible nor innocent enough to be taken in. “Possibly the first fire was meant for Mrs. Shaw, and the second was because either you or Lindsay had discovered who it was—or they feared you had—”

“I certainly haven’t!” Shaw interrupted. “If I had I’d have told you. For heaven’s sake, man, what do you—Oh!” His whole body sagged in the chair. “Of course—you have to suspect me. You’d be incompetent not to.” He said it as if he could not believe it himself, as if he were repeating a rather bad joke. “But why should I kill poor Amos? He was about the best friend I had.” Suddenly his voice faltered and he looked away to hide the emotion that filled his face. If he was acting, he was superb. But Pitt had known men before who killed someone they loved to save their own lives. He could not afford to spare Shaw the only answer that made sense.

“Because during the time you stayed with him you said or did something that betrayed yourself to him,” he replied. “And when you knew that he understood, you had to kill him because you could not trust him to keep silent—not forever, when it meant the noose for you.”

Shaw opened his mouth to protest, then the color drained from his skin as he realized how terribly rational it was. He could not sweep it away as preposterous, and the words fled before he began.

“Or the other possibilities,” Pitt continued, “are that you said something which led him to learn, or deduce, who it was—without his mentioning it to you. That person became aware that Lindsay knew—perhaps he made further inquiries, or even faced them with it—and to preserve themselves, they killed him.”

“What? For heaven’s sake.” Shaw sat upright, staring at Pitt. “If I had said anything at all that threw any light on it, he would have said so to me at the time, and then we should have reported it to you.”

“Would you.” Pitt said it with such heavy doubt that it was not a question. “Even if it concerned one of your patients? Or someone you had thought to be a close friend—or even family?” He did not need to add that Shaw was related in one degree or another to all the Worlinghams.

Shaw shifted his position in the chair, his strong, neat hands lying on the arms. Neither of them spoke, but remained staring at each other. Past conversations were recalled like living entities between them: Pitt’s struggle to get Shaw to reveal any medical knowledge that might point to motive; Shaw’s steady and unswerving refusal.

Finally Shaw spoke slowly, his voice soft and very carefully controlled.

“Do you think I could have told Amos anything I would not tell you?”

“I doubt you would tell him anything you considered a confidence,” Pitt answered frankly. “But you could have spoken to him far more than to me, you were a guest in his house, and you were friends.” He saw the pain flash across Shaw’s face again and found it hard to imagine it was not real. But emotions are very complex, and sometimes survival can cut across others that are very deep, the wrenching of which never ceases to hurt. “In ordinary speech, a word dropped in passing in the course of your day, an expression of success over a patient recovered, or relapsed, and then at another time mention of where you had been—any number of things, which added together gave him some insight. Perhaps it was not total, merely something he wanted to pursue—and in doing so forewarned the murderer that he knew.”

Shaw shivered and a spasm of distaste crossed his features.

“I think I liked Amos Lindsay as much as any man alive,” he said very quietly. “If I knew who had burned him to death, I should expose them to every punishment the law allows.” He looked away, as if to conceal the tenderness in his face. “He was a good man; wise, patient, honest not only with others but with himself, which is far rarer, generous in his means and his judgments. I never heard him make a hasty or ill-natured assessment of another man. And there wasn’t a shred of hypocrisy in him.”

He looked back at Pitt, his eyes direct and urgent. “He hated cant, and wasn’t afraid to show it for what it was. Dear God, how I’m going to miss him. He was the only man around here I could talk to for hours on end about any subject under the sun—new ideas in medicine, old ideas in art, political theory, social order and change.” He smiled suddenly, a luminous expression full of joy as fragile as sunlight. “A good wine or cheese, a beautiful woman, the opera, even a good horse—other religions, other people’s customs—and not be afraid to say exactly what I thought.”

He slid down a little in his chair and put his hands together, fingertips to fingertips. “Couldn’t do that with anyone else here. Clitheridge is such a complete fool he can’t express an opinion on anything.” He let his breath out in a snort. “He’s terrified of offending. Josiah has opinions on everything, mostly old Bishop Worlingham’s. He wanted to take the cloth, you know.” He looked at Pitt quizzically, to see what he made of the idea, whether he understood. “Studied under the old bastard, took everything he said as holy writ, adopted his entire philosophy, like a suit of clothes ready-made. I must say it fitted him to the quarter inch.” He pulled a face. “But he was the only son, and his father had a flourishing business and he demanded poor Josiah take it over when he fell ill. The mother and sisters were dependent; there was nothing else he could do.”

He sighed, still watching Pitt. “But he never lost the passion for the church. When he dies his ghost will come back to haunt us dressed in miter and robes, or perhaps a Dominican habit. He considers all argument heresy.

“Pascoe’s a nice enough old fossil, but his ideas are wrapped in the romance of the Middle Ages, or more accurately the age of King Arthur, Lancelot, the Song of Roland, and other beautiful but unlikely epics. Dalgetty’s full of ideas, but such a crusader for liberality of thought I find myself taking the opposing view simply to bring him back to some sort of moderation. Maude has more sense. Have you met her? Excellent woman.” His mouth twitched at the corners as if at last he had found something that truly pleased him, something without shadow. “She used to be an artist’s model, you know—in her youth. Magnificent body, and not coy about it. That was all before she met Dalgetty and became respectable—which I think her soul always was. But she’s never lost her sense of proportion or humor, or turned her nose up at her old friends. She still goes back to Mile End now and again, taking them gifts.”

Pitt was stunned, not only at the fact, but that Shaw should know, and now be telling him.

Shaw was watching him, laughing inwardly at the surprise in his face.

“Does Dalgetty know?” Pitt asked after a moment or two.

“Oh certainly. And he doesn’t care in the slightest, to his eternal credit. Of course he couldn’t spread it around, for her sake. She very much wants to be the respectable woman she appears. And if Highgate society knew they’d crucify her. Which would be their loss. She’s worth any ten of them. Funnily enough, Josiah, for all his narrow limits, knows that. He admires her as if she were a plaster saint. Some part of his judgment must be good after all.”

“And how did you find out about her modeling?” Pitt asked, his mind scrambling after explanations, trying to fit this new piece in to make sense of all the rest, and failing. Was it conceivable Dalgetty had tried to kill Shaw to keep this secret? He hardly seemed like a man who cared so desperately for social status—he did enough to jeopardize it quite deliberately with his liberal reviews. And yet that was fashionable in certain literary quarters—not the same thing as posing naked for young men to paint, and all the world to see. Could he love his wife so much he would murder to keep the respectability she enjoyed?

“By accident.” Shaw was watching him with bright, amused eyes. “I was making a medical call on an artist on hard times, and he tried to pay me with a painting of Maude. I didn’t take it, but I would like to have. Apart from the irony of it, it was damned good—but someone would have seen it. My heaven, she was a handsome woman. Still is, for that matter.”

“Does Dalgetty know that you know this?” Pitt was curious whether he would believe the answer, either way.

“I’ve no idea,” Shaw replied with apparent candor. “Maude does—I told her.”

“And was she distressed?”

“A trifle embarrassed at first; then she saw the humor of it, and knew that I’d not tell anyone.”

“You told me,” Pitt pointed out.

“You are hardly Highgate society.” Shaw was equally blunt, but there was no cruelty in his face. Highgate society was not something he admired, nor did he consider exclusion from it to be any disadvantage. “And I judge you not to be a man who would ruin her reputation for no reason but malice—or a loose tongue.”

Pitt smiled in spite of himself. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said with undisguised irony. “Now if you would turn your attention to the few days you were staying at Mr. Lindsay’s house, especially the last forty-eight hours before the fire. Can you remember any conversations you had with him about the first fire, about Mrs. Shaw, or about anyone who could possibly be connected with a reason to kill her, or you?”

Shaw pulled a bleak face and the humor died from his eyes.

“That covers just about everyone, since I haven’t any idea why anyone should hate me enough to burn me to death. Of course I’ve quarreled with people now and again—who hasn’t? But no sane person bears grudges over a difference of opinion.”

“I don’t mean a general philosophy, Doctor.” Pitt held him to the point. The answer might lie in his memory. Something had triggered in a murderer’s mind the need to protect himself—or herself—so violenüy that the person had risked exposure by killing again. “Recall which patients you saw those last few days; you must have notes if you can’t remember. What times did you come and go, when did you eat? What did you say to each other at table? Think!”

Shaw slumped in his chair and his face became lost in an effort of concentration. Pitt did not interrupt or prompt him.

“I remember Clitheridge came on the Thursday,” Shaw said at last. “Early in the evening, just as we were about to dine. I had been out to see a man with stones. He was in great pain. I knew they would pass in time, but I wished there was more I could do to ease him. I came home very tired—the last thing I wanted was a lot of platitudes from the vicar. I’m afraid I was rude to him. He intends well, but he never gets to the point; he goes ’round and ’round things without saying what he means. I’ve begun to wonder if he really does mean anything, or if he thinks in the same idiotic homilies he speaks. Perhaps he’s empty, and there’s no one inside?” He sniffed. “Poor Lally.”

Pitt allowed him to resume in his own time.

“Amos was civil to him.” Shaw continued after a moment. “I suppose he picked up my errors and omissions rather often, especially in the last few weeks.” Again the deep pain suffused his face, and Pitt felt like an intruder sitting so close to him. Shaw drew a deep breath. “Clitheridge went off as soon as he had satisfied his duty. I don’t remember that we talked about anything in particular. I wasn’t really listening. But I do remember the next day, the day before the fire, that both Pascoe and Dalgetty called, because Amos told me about it over dinner. It was about that damn monograph, of course. Dalgetty wanted him to do another, longer one on the new social order, all wrapped ’round in the essential message that freedom to explore the mind is the most sacred thing of all, and knowledge itself is the holiest thing, and every man’s God-given right.” He leaned forward a little again, his eyes searching Pitt’s face, trying to deduce his reaction. Apparently he saw nothing but interest, and continued more quietly.

“Of course Pascoe told him he was irresponsible, that he was undermining the fabric of Christianity and feeding dangerous and frightening ideas to people who did not want them and would not know what to do with them. He seemed to have got the idea that Amos was propagating seeds of revolution and anarchy. Which had an element of truth. I think Dalgetty was interested in the Fabian Society and its ideas on public ownership of the means of production, and more or less equal remuneration for all work”—he laughed sharply—“with the exception of unique minds, of course-by which I gather they mean philosophers and artists.”

Pitt was compelled to smile as well. “Was Lindsay interested in such ideas?” he asked.

“Interested, yes—in agreement, I doubt. But he did approve of their beliefs in appropriation of capital wealth that perpetuates the extreme differences between the propertied classes and the workers.”

“Did he quarrel with Pascoe?” It seemed a remote motive, but he could not leave it unmentioned.

“Yes—but I think it was more flash than heat. Pascoe is a born crusader; he’s always tilting at something—mostly windmills. If it hadn’t been poor Amos, it would have been someone else.”

The faint flicker of motive receded. “Were there any other callers, so far as you know?”

“Only Oliphant, the curate. He came to see me. He made it seem like a general call out of concern for my welfare, and I expect it was. He’s a decent chap; I find myself liking him more each time I see him. Never really noticed him before this, but most of the parishioners speak well of him.”

“ ‘He made it seem,’ ” Pitt prompted.

“Oh—well, he asked several questions about Clemency and her charity work on slum ownership. He wanted to know if she’d said anything to me about what she’d accomplished. Well of course she did. Not every day, just now and again. Actually she managed very little. There are some extremely powerful people who own most of the worst—and most profitable—streets. Financiers, industrialists, members of society, old families—”

“Did she mention any to you that you might have repeated to Oliphant, and thus Lindsay?” Pitt jumped at the thought, slender as it was, and Charlotte’s face came to his mind, eyes bright, chin determined as she set out to trace Clemency’s steps.

Shaw smiled bleakly. “I honestly don’t remember, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying much attention. I tried to be civil because he was so earnest and he obviously cared, but I thought he was wasting his time—and mine.” He drew his brows together. “Do you really think Clemency was actually a threat to someone? She hadn’t a dog in hell’s chance of getting a law passed to disclose who profited out of slum tenements, you know. The worst she could have done would be to get herself sued for slander by some outraged industrialist—”

“Which you would not have liked,” Pitt pointed out quietly. “It would have cost you all you possess, including your reputation, and presumably your livelihood.”

Shaw laughed harshly. “Touché, Inspector. That may look like a perfect motive for me—but if you think she’d have done that, and left me exposed, you didn’t know Clem. She wasn’t a foolish woman and she understood money and reputation.” His eyes were bright with a sad humor close to tears. “Far better than anyone will know now. You won’t understand how much I miss her—and why should I try to explain? I stopped being in love with her long ago—but I think I liked Clem better than anyone else I’ve ever known—even Amos. She and Maude were good friends. She knew all about the modeling—and didn’t give a damn.” He stood up slowly, as if his body ached.

“I’m sorry, Pitt. I have no idea who killed Clem—or Amos, but if I did I should tell you immediately—in the middle of the night, if that’s when it occurred to me. Now get out of here and go and dig somewhere else. I’ve got to eat something, and then go out on more calls. The sick can’t wait.”

The following morning Pitt was disturbed by a loud banging on his front door so urgent he dropped his toast and marmalade and swung up from the kitchen chair and along the hallway in half a dozen strides. In his mind the horror of fire was already gaping at him, nightmarish, and he had a sick premonition that this time it would be the lodging house, and the gentle curate, who found the right words to touch grief, would be in the ashes. It hurt him almost intolerably.

He yanked the door open and saw Murdo standing on the step, damp and miserable in the predawn light. The gas lamp a little beyond him to the left gave him the remnants of a halo in the mist.

“I’m sorry sir, but I thought I should tell you—just in case it has to do with it—sir,” he said wretchedly. His words were unexplained, but apparently made sense to him.

“What are you talking about?” Pitt demanded, beginning to hope it was not fire after all.

“The fight, sir.” Murdo shifted from one foot to the other, patently wishing he had not come. What had begun as a good idea now seemed a very bad one. “Mr. Pascoe and Mr. Dalgetty. Mrs. Dalgetty told the station sergeant last night, but I only just learned of it half an hour ago. Seems they didn’t take it serious—”

“What fight?” Pitt pulled his coat off the hook by the door. “If they fought last night couldn’t it have waited till after breakfast?” He scowled. “What do you mean, fight? Did they hurt each other?” He found the idea absurd and faintly amusing. “Does it really matter? They are always quarreling—it seems to be part of their way of life. It seems to give them a kind of validity.”

“No sir.” Murdo looked even more miserable. “They’re planning to fight this morning—at dawn, sir.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Pitt snapped. “Who on earth is going to get out of a warm bed at dawn and plan to have a quarrel? Somebody’s having a very ill considered joke at your expense.” He turned to hang up his coat again.

“No sir,” Murdo said stolidly. “They already had the quarrel, yesterday. The fight is this morning at sunrise—in the field between Highgate Road and the cemetery—with swords.”

Pitt grasped for one more wild instant at the concept of a joke, saw in Murdo’s face that it was not, and lost his temper.

“Hell’s teeth!” he said furiously. “We’ve got two houses in ruins, charred bodies of two brave, kind people—others injured and terrified—and two bloody idiots want to fight a duel over some damnable piece of paper.” He snatched the coat back again and pushed Murdo off the step onto the pavement, slamming the door. The cab Murdo had come in was only a few yards away. “Come on!” Pitt yanked the door open and climbed in. “Highgate Road!” he shouted. “I’ll show these two prancing fools what a real fight is! I’ll arrest them for disturbing the Queen’s peace!”

Murdo scrambled in beside him, falling sideways as the cab jerked into motion and only just catching the door as it swung away. “I don’t suppose they’ll hurt each other,” he said lamely.

“Pity.” Pitt was totally without sympathy. “Serve them both right if they were skewered like puddings!” And he rode the rest of the way in furious silence, Murdo not daring to make any further suggestions.

Eventually the cab came to an abrupt halt and Pitt threw open the door and jumped out, leaving the fare to Murdo to pay, and set off across the path through the field, Highgate Road to his left and the wall of the magnificent cemetery to his right. Three hundred yards ahead of him, paced out on the grass, their figures squat in the distance, were five people.

The solid figure of Quinton Pascoe was standing, feet a little apart, a cape slung over one shoulder, the cold, early sun, clear as springwater, on his shock of white hair. In front of him the dew was heavy on the bent heads of the grass, giving the leaves a strange hint of turquoise as the light refracted.

No more than half a dozen yards away, John Dalgetty, dark-headed, his back to the sun, the shadow masking his face, stood with one arm thrown back and a long object raised as if he were about to charge. Pitt thought at first it was a walking stick. The whole thing was palpably ridiculous. He started to run towards them as fast as his long legs would carry him.

Standing well back were two gentlemen in black frock coats, a little apart from each other. Presumably they were acting as seconds. Another man, who had taken his coat off—for no apparent reason, it was a distinctly chilly morning-was standing in shirtsleeves and shouting first at Pascoe, then at Dalgetty. His voice came to Pitt across the distance, but not his words.

With a flourish Pascoe swung his cloak around his arm and threw it onto the ground in a heap, regardless of the damp. His second rushed to pick it up and held it in front of him, rather like a shield.

Dalgetty, who had no cloak, chose to keep his coat on. He flourished the stick, or whatever it was, again, and let out a cry of “Liberty!” and lunged forward at a run.

“Honor!” Pascoe shouted back, and brandishing something long and pale in his hand, ran forward as well. They met with a clash in the middle and Dalgetty slipped as his polished boots failed to take purchase on the wet grass.

Pascoe turned swiftly and only just missed spearing him through the chest. Instead he succeeded in tearing a long piece from Dalgetty’s jacket and thoroughly enraging him. Dalgetty wielded what Pitt could now see was a sword stick, and dealt Pascoe a nasty blow across the shoulders.

“Stop it!” Pitt bellowed as loudly as his lungs would bear. He was running towards them, but he was still a hundred and fifty yards away, and no one paid him the slightest attention. “Stop it at once!”

Pascoe was startled, not by Pitt but by the blow, which must have hurt considerably. He stepped back a pace, shouted, “In the name of chivalry!” and swiped sideways with his ancient and very blunt sword, possibly an ill-cared-for relic of Waterloo, or some such battle.

Dalgetty, with a modern sword stick, sharp as a needle, parried the blow so fiercely the neglected metal broke off halfway up and flew in an arc, catching him across the cheek and opening up a scarlet weal which spurted blood down his coat front.

“You antiquated old fool!” he spluttered, startled and extremely angry. “You fossilized bigot! No man stands in the path of progress! A medieval mind like you won’t stop one single good idea whose time has come! Think you can imprison the imagination of man in your old-fashioned ideas! Rubbish!” He swung his broken sword high in the air so wildly the singing sound of it was audible to Pitt even above the rasping of his own breath and the thud of his feet. It missed Pascoe by an inch, and clipped a tuft off the top of his silver head and sent it flying like thistledown.

Pitt tore off his coat and threw it over Dalgetty.

“Stop it!” he roared, and caught him across the chest with his shoulder, sending them both to the ground. The broken sword stick went flying bright in the sun to fall, end down, quivering in the ground a dozen yards away.

Pitt picked himself up and disregarded Dalgetty totally. He did not bother to straighten his clothes and dust off the earth and grass. He faced a shaken, weaponless and very startled Pascoe.

By this time Murdo had dealt with the cab driver and run across the field to join them. He stood aghast at the spectacle, helpless to know what do to.

Pitt glared at Pascoe.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he demanded at the top of his voice. “Two people are dead already, God knows who did it, or why—and you are out here trying to murder each other over some idiotic monograph that nobody will read anyway! I should charge you both with assault with a deadly weapon!”

Pascoe was deeply affronted. Blood was seeping through the tear across the shoulder of his shirt and he was clearly in some pain.

“You cannot possibly do that!” his voice was high and loud.”It was a gentieman’s difference of opinion!” He jerked his hand up wildly. “Dalgetty is a desecrator of values, a man without judgment or discretion. He propagates the vulgar and destructive and what he imagines to be the cause of freedom, but which is actually license, indiscipline and the victory of the ugly and the dangerous.” He waved both arms, nearly decapitating Murdo, who had moved closer. “But I do not lay any charge against him. He attacked me with my full permission—so you cannot arrest him.” He stopped with some triumph and stared at Pitt out of bright round eyes.

Dalgetty climbed awkwardly to his feet, fighting his way out of Pitt’s coat, his cheek streaming blood.

“Neither do I lay charge against Mr. Pascoe,” he said, reaching for a handkerchief. “He is a misguided and ignorant old fool who wants to ban any idea that didn’t begin in the Middle Ages. He will stop any freedom of ideas, any flight of the imagination, any discovery of anything new whatsoever. He would keep us believing the earth is flat and the sun revolves around it. But I do not charge him with attacking me—we attacked each other. You are merely a bystander who chose to interfere in something which is none of your affair. You owe us an apology, sir!”

Pitt was livid. But he knew that without a complaint he could not make an arrest that would be prosecuted.

“On the contrary,” he said with sudden freezing contempt. “You owe me a considerable gratitude that I prevented you from injuring each other seriously, even fatally. If you can scramble your wits together long enough, think what that would have done to your cause—not to mention your lives from now on.”

The possibility, which clearly had not occurred to either of them, stopped the next outburst before it began, and when one of the seconds stepped forward nervously, Pitt opened his mouth to round on him for his utter irresponsibility.

But before he could continue on his tirade the other second shouted out and swung around, pointing where across the field from the Highgate direction were rapidly advancing five figures, strung out a dozen yards from each other. The first was obviously, even at that distance, the vigorous, arm-swinging Stephen Shaw, black bag in his hand, coattails flying. Behind him loped the ungainly but surprisingly rapid figure of Hector Clitheridge, and running after him, waving and calling out, his wife, Eulalia. Separated by a slightly longer space was a grim figure with scarf and hat which Pitt guessed to be Josiah Hatch, but he was too distant to distinguish features. And presumably the woman behind him, just breaking into a run, was Prudence.

“Thank God,” one of the seconds gasped. “The doctor—”

“And why in God’s name didn’t you call him before you began, you incompetent ass?” Pitt shouted at him. “If you are going to second in a duel, at least do it properly! It could have meant the difference between a man living or dying!”

The man was stung at last by the injustice of it, and the thoroughgoing fear that Pitt was right.

“Because my principal forbade me,” he retaliated, pulling himself up very straight.

“I’ll wager he did,” Pitt agreed, looking at Dalgetty, now dripping blood freely and very pasty-faced; then at Pascoe holding his arm limply and beginning to shake from cold and shock. “Knew damned well he’d prevent this piece of idiocy!”

As he spoke Shaw came to a halt beside them, staring from one to the other of the two injured men, then at Pitt.

“Is there a crime?” he said briskly. “Is any of this palaver”—he waved his hands, dropping the bag to the ground—“needed for evidence?”

“Not unless they want to sue each other,” Pitt said disgustedly. He could not even charge them with disturbing the peace, since they were out in the middle of a field and no one else was even aware of their having left their beds. The rest of Highgate was presumably taking its breakfast quietly in its dining rooms, pouring its tea, reading the morning papers and totally unaffected.

Shaw looked at the two participants and made the instant decision that Dalgetty was in the more urgent need of help, since he seemed to be suffering from shock whereas Pascoe was merely in pain, and accordingly began his work. He had done no more than open his bag when Clitheridge arrived, acutely distressed and embarrassed.

“What on earth has happened?” he demanded. “Is somebody hurt?”

“Of course somebody’s hurt, you fool!” Shaw said furiously. “Here, hold him up.” He gestured at Dalgetty, who was covered in blood and was beginning to look as if he might buckle at the knees.

Clitheridge obeyed gladly, his face flooding with relief at some definite task he could turn himself to. He grasped Dalgetty, who rather awkwardly leaned against him.

“What happened?” Clitheridge made one more effort to understand, because it was his spiritual duty. “Has there been an accident?”

Lally had reached them now and her mind seized the situation immediately.

“Oh, how stupid,” she said in exasperation. “I never thought you’d be so very childish—and now you’ve really hurt each other. And does that prove which of you is right? It only proves you are both extremely stubborn. Which all Highgate knew anyway.” She swung around to Shaw, her face very slightly flushed. “What can I do to be of assistance, Doctor?” By that time Josiah Hatch had also reached them, but she disregarded him. “Do you need linen?” She peered in his bag, then at the extent of the bloodstains, which were increasing with every minute. “How about water? Brandy?”

“Nobody’s going to pass out,” he said sharply, glaring at Dalgetty. “For heaven’s sake put him down!” he ordered Clitheridge, who was bearing most of Dalgetty’s weight now. “Yes, please, Lally—get some more linen. I’d better tie some of this up before we move them. I’ve got enough alcohol to disinfect.”

Prudence Hatch arrived breathlessly, gasping as she came to a halt. “This is awful! What on earth possessed you?” she demanded. “As if we haven’t enough grief.”

“A man who believes in his principles is sometimes obliged to fight in order to preserve them,” Josiah said grimly. “The price of virtue is eternal vigilance.”

“That is freedom,” his wife corrected him.

“What?” he demanded, his brows drawing down sharply.

“The price of freedom is eternal vigilance,” she replied. “You said virtue.” Without being told she was taking a piece of clean cloth out of Shaw’s bag, unfolding it and soaking it in clean spirit from one of his bottles. “Sit down!” she commanded Pascoe smartly, and as soon as he did, she began to clean away the torn outer clothing and then the blood till she could see the ragged tear in the flesh. Then she held the pad of cloth to it and pushed firmly.

He winced and let out a squeak as the spirit hit the open wound, but no one took any notice of him.

“Freedom and virtue are not the same thing at all,” Hatch argued with profound feeling, his face intent, his eyes alight. To him the issue obviously far outweighed the ephemeral abrasions of the encounter. “That is precisely what Mr. Pascoe risked his life to defend!”

“Balderdash!” Shaw snapped. “Virtue isn’t in any danger—and prancing about on the heath with swords certainly isn’t going to defend anything at all.”

“There is no legal way to prevent the pernicious views and the dangerous and degrading ideas he propagates,” Pascoe shouted across Prudence’s instructions, his lips white with pain.

Lally was already setting off again towards the road on her errand. Her upright figure, shoulders back, was well on its way.

“There should be.” Hatch shook his head. “It is part of our modern sickness that we admire everything new, regardless of its merit.” His voice rose a little and he chopped his hands in the air. “We get hold of any new thought, rush to print any idea that overturns and makes mock of the past, the values that have served our forefathers and upon which we have built our nation and carried the faith of Christ to other lands and peoples.” His shoulders were hunched with the intensity of his emotion. “Mr. Pascoe is one of the few men in our time who has the courage and the vision to fight, however futilely, against the tide of man’s own intellectual arrogance, his indiscriminate greed for everything new without thought as to its value, or the result of our espousing it.”

“This is not the place for a sermon, Josiah.” Shaw was busy working on Dalgetty’s cheek and did not even look up at him. Murdo was assisting him with considerable competence. “Especially the arrant rubbish you’re talking,” he went on. “Half these old ideas you’re rehearsing are fossilized walls of cant and hypocrisy protecting a lot of rogues from the light of day. It’s long past time a few questions were asked and a few shoddy pretenses shown for what they are.”

Hatch was so pale he might have been the one wounded. He looked at Shaw’s back with a loathing so intense it was unnerving that Shaw was oblivious of it.

“You would have every beautiful and virtuous thing stripped naked and paraded for the lewd and the ignorant to soil—and yet at the same time you would not protect the innocent from the mockery and the godless innovations of those who have no values, but constant titillation and endless lust of the mind. You are a destroyer, Stephen, a man whose eyes see only the futile and whose hand holds only the worthless.”

Shaw’s fingers stopped, the swab motionless, a white blob half soaked with scarlet. Dalgetty was still shaking. Maude Dalgetty had appeared from somewhere while no one was watching the path across the field.

Shaw faced Hatch. There was dangerous temper in every line of his face and the energy built up in the muscles of his body till he seemed ready to break into some violent motion.

“It would give me great pleasure,” he said almost between his teeth, “to meet you here myself, tomorrow at dawn, and knock you senseless. But I don’t settle my arguments that way. It decides nothing. I shall show you what a fool you are by stripping away the layers of pretense, the lies and the illusions—”

Pitt was aware of Prudence, frozen, her face ashen pale, her eyes fixed on Shaw’s lips as if he were about to pronounce the name of some mortal illness whose diagnosis she had long dreaded.

Maude Dalgetty, on the other hand, looked only a little impatient. There was no fear in her at all. And John Dalgetty, half lying on the ground, looked aware only of his own pain and the predicament he had got himself into. He looked at his wife with a definite anxiety, but it was obvious he was nervous of her anger, not for her safety or for Shaw in temper ruining her long-woven reputation.

Pitt had seen all he needed. Dalgetty had no fear of Shaw—Prudence was terrified.

“The whited sepulchers—” Shaw said viciously, two spots of color high on his cheeks. “The—”

“This is not the time,” Pitt interrupted, putting himself physically between them. “There’s more than enough blood spilled already—and enough pain. Doctor, get on with treating your patients. Mr. Hatch, perhaps you would be good enough to go back to the street and fetch some conveyance so we can carry Mr. Pascoe and Mr. Dalgetty back to their respective homes. If you want to pursue the quarrel on the merits or necessities for censorship, then do it at a more fortunate time—and in a more civilized manner.”

For a moment he thought neither of them was going to take any notice of him. They stood glaring at each other with the violence of feeling as ugly as that between Pascoe and Dalgetty. Then slowly Shaw relaxed, and as if Hatch had suddenly ceased to be of any importance, turned his back on him and bent down to Dalgetty’s wound again.

Hatch, his face like gray granite, his eyes blazing, swiveled on his heel, tearing up the grass, and marched along the footpath back towards the road.

Maude Dalgetty went, not to her husband, with whom she was obviously out of patience, but to Prudence Hatch, and gently put her arm around her.