Highgate Rise

3

BECAUSE PITT had been sent for from the Bow Street station, and did not belong to Highgate, he reported the incident to his own superior officer, a man whom he both respected for his professional ability and liked for his candor and lack of pretension. Perhaps because Drummond was a gentleman by birth and had sufficient financial means not to have to concern himself with it, he did not feel the compulsion to prove his position.

He greeted Pitt with pleasure, interest quickening his lean face.

“Well?” he asked, standing up from his desk, not as a courtesy, which would have been absurd to a junior, even though he had offered Pitt considerable promotion. Pitt had declined it, because although he could dearly have used the money, he would have hated being behind a desk directing other men in the investigations. He wanted to see the people, watch faces, hear the inflections of a voice, the gestures and movements of the body. It was people who gave him both his pleasure and his pain, and the reality of his work. To give instructions to others and shuffle reports would rob him of the chance to exercise the real skills he possessed. To decline it had been Charlotte’s decision as well as his, made because she knew him well enough to understand his happiness, and prefer it to the extra salary. It was one of those rarely-spoken-of generosities which deepened his sense of sharing with her and the knowledge that her commitment was still one of love.

Micah Drummond was regarding him with curiosity.

“Arson,” Pitt replied. “I have looked through the physical evidence, such as it is, and there seems no doubt. There is too little left of the body to learn anything useful, but from the remains of the building the firemen say at least four separate fires were started, so whoever it was was determined to succeed.”

Drummond winced and his eyes reflected his distress.

“And you say it was a woman who was found?”

“There seems little doubt it was a Mrs. Clemency Shaw.” And he explained what they had learned from the brief investigations in the community of the immediate area, and from the Highgate police, including their natural inquiry into all the members of the small crowd which had turned out in the alarm and commotion to stand huddled in the background and stare. Perhaps among the sympathizers and offerers of help there had been one there to thrill at the glory of the flames and feel a vicarious power in their consuming destruction? Arsonists did not stay, but those touched with a certain madness did.

Drummond resumed his own seat behind his desk and waved Pitt to the most comfortable leather-upholstered chair opposite. It was an agreeable room, full of light and air from the large window. The walls were lined with bookshelves, except for the area around the fireplace, and the desk was polished oak, as beautiful as it was functional.

“Was it intended to have been the husband?” Drummond came straight to the point. “What do you know about him?”

Pitt tilted back in the chair and crossed his legs. “A doctor. An intelligent, articulate man, apparently open-minded and outspoken, but I haven’t found time to look into his medical reputation yet.”

“Your own feelings?” Drummond looked at him a little sideways.

Pitt smiled. “I liked the man, but then I’ve liked a few people who have committed murder, when desperate, frightened or injured enough. It would be so much easier if we could either like or dislike people and be decided about it; but I keep having to change my mind, and complicate my feelings by doing both at the same time in wildly differing proportions, as each new act and explanations for it emerge. It’s such hard work.” His smile broadened.

Drummond sighed and rolled his eyes upward in mock exasperation.

“A simple opinion, Pitt!”

“I should think he’s an excellent candidate for murder,” Pitt replied. “I can think of dozens of reasons why someone might want to silence a doctor, especially this one.”

“A medical secret?” Drummond raised his eyebrows high. “Surely doctors keep such confidences anyway? Are you thinking of something discovered inadvertently and not bound by such an ethical code? For example …?”

“There are many possibilities.” Pitt shrugged, choosing at random. “A contagious disease which he would be obliged to report—plague, yellow fever—”

“Rubbish,” Drummond interrupted. “Yellow fever in Highgate? And if that were so he would have reported it by now. Possibly a congenital disease such as syphilis, although that is unlikely. How about insanity? A man might well kill to keep that out of public knowledge, or even the knowledge of his immediate family, or prospective family, if he planned an advantageous marriage. Look into that, Pitt.”

“I will.”

Drummond warmed to the subject, leaning back a little in his chair and putting his elbows on the arms and his fingertips together in a steeple. “Maybe he knew of an illegitimate birth, or an abortion. For that matter maybe he performed one!”

“Why wait until now?” Pitt said reasonably. “If he’s just done it, it will be among the patients he’s visited in the last day or two; and anyway, why? If it was illegal he would be even less likely to speak of it, or make any record, than the woman. He has more to lose.”

“What about the husband or father?”

Pitt shook his head. “Unlikely. If he didn’t know about it beforehand, then he would probably be the one she was most anxious to keep it from. If he then discovered it, or learned it from her, the last way to keep it discreet would be to murder the doctor and cause all his affairs to be investigated by the police.”

“Come on, Pitt,” Drummond said dryly. “You know as well as I do that people in the grip of powerful emotions don’t think like that—or half our crimes of impulse would never be committed, probably three quarters. They don’t think; they feel—overwhelming rage, or fear, or simply contusion and a desire to lash out at someone and blame them for the pain they are suffering.”

“All right,” Pitt conceded, knowing he was right. “But I still think there are lots of other motives more probable. Shaw is a man of passionate convictions. I believe he would act on them, and devil take the consequences—”

“You do like him,” Drummond said again with a wry smile, and knowledge of some unspoken hurt in his own past.

No reply was called for.

“He may have knowledge of a crime,” Pitt said instead, following his own thoughts. “A death, perhaps of someone in terminal illness and great pain—”

“A merciful killing?” Drummond’s expression quickened. “Possible. And occurring to me as someone who likes him less and perhaps has a clearer view, he may have assisted in a killing for less unselfish reasons, and the principle mover has grown nervous lest his accomplice becomes careless, or more likely from your description of Shaw as a man with nerve and passion, blackmail him. That would be an excellent cause for murder.”

Pitt would like to have denied such a thought, but it was eminently logical, and to dismiss it would be ridiculous.

Drummond was watching him, his eyes curious.

“Perhaps,” Pitt agreed aloud, and saw a small smile curl Drummond’s lips. “But knowledge gained simply because of his professional skill is in my opinion more likely.”

“What about a purely personal motive?” Drummond asked. “Jealousy, greed, revenge? Could there be another woman, or another man in love with his wife? Didn’t you say he was expecting to be at home, and she not?”

“Yes.” Pitt’s mind was filled with all sorts of ugly possibilities, dark among them the Worlingham money, and the pretty face of Flora Lutterworth, whose father resented her frequent, private visits to Dr. Shaw.

“You need to have a great deal more.” Drummond stood up and walked over towards the window, his hands in his pockets. He turned to face Pitt. “The possibilities are numerous—either for the murder of the wife, which happened, or for the murder of Shaw, which may have been attempted. It could be a very long, sad job. Heaven knows what other sins and tragedies you’ll find—or what they will do to hide them. That’s what I hate about investigation—all the other lives we overturn on the way.” He poked his hands deeper into his pockets. “Where are you going to begin?”

“At the Highgate police station,” Pitt replied, standing up also. “He was the local police surgeon—”

“You omitted to mention that.”

Pitt smiled broadly. “Makes the knowledge without complicity look a trifle more likely, doesn’t it?”

“Granted,” Drummond said graciously. “Don’t get carried away with it. What then?”

“Go to the local hospital and see what they think of him there, and his colleagues.”

“You won’t get much.” Drummond shrugged. “They usually speak well of each other regardless. Imply that any one of them could have made an error, and they all close ranks like soldiers facing the enemy.”

“There’ll be something to read between the lines.” Pitt knew what Drummond meant, but there was always the turn of a phrase, the overcompensation, the excessive fairness that betrayed layers of meaning and emotion beneath, conflicts of judgment or old desires. “Then I’ll see his servants. They may have direct evidence, although that would be a lot to hope for. But they may also have seen or heard something that will lead to a lie, an inconsistency, an act concealed, someone where they should not have been.” As he said it he thought of all the past frailties he had unearthed, foolishness and petty spites that had little or nothing to do with the crime, yet had broken old relationships, forged new ones, hurt and contused and changed. There were occasions when he hated the sheer intrusion of investigation. But the alternative was worse.

“Keep me advised, Pitt.” Drummond was watching him, perhaps guessing his thoughts. “I want to know.”

“Yes sir, I will.”

Drummond smiled at the unusual formality, then nodded a dismissal, and Pitt left, going downstairs and out of the front doors to the pavement of Bow Street, where he caught a hansom north to Highgate. It was an extravagance, but the force would pay. He sat back inside the cab and stretched out his legs as far as possible. It was an agreeable feeling bowling along, not thinking of the cost.

The cab took him through the tangle of streets up from the river, across High Holborn to the Grey’s Inn Road, north through Bloomsbury and Kentish Town into Highgate.

At the police station he found Murdo waiting for him impatiently, having already sifted through all the police reports of the last two years and separating all those in which Shaw had played a significant part. Now he stood in the middle of the room, uncarpeted, furnished with a wooden table and three hard-backed chairs. His fair hair was ruffled and his tunic undone at the neck. He was keen to acquit himself well, and in truth the case touched him deeply, but at the back of his mind was the knowledge that when it was all over Pitt would return to Bow Street. He would be left here in Highgate to resume working with his local colleagues, who were at present still acutely conscious of an outsider, and stung by resentment that it had been considered necessary.

“There they are, sir,” he said as soon as Pitt was in the door. “All the cases he had the slightest to do with that could amount to anything, even those of disturbing the Queen’s peace.” He pointed his finger to one of the piles. “That’s those. A few bloody noses, a broken rib and one broken foot where a carriage wheel went over it, and there was a fight afterwards between the man with the foot and the coachman. Can’t see anybody but a madman murdering him over that.”

“Neither can I,” Pitt agreed. “And I don’t think we’re dealing with a madman. Fire was too well set, four lots of curtains, and all away from the servants’ quarters, none of the windows overlooked by a footman or a maid up late, all rooms that would normally be closed after the master and mistress had gone to bed, no hallways or landings which might be seen by a servant checking doors were locked or a maid fetching a late cup of tea for someone. No, Murdo, I think our man with the oil and the matches is sane enough.”

Murdo shivered and his face lost a little of its color. “It’s a very ugly thing, Mr. Pitt. Someone must have felt a great passion to do it.”

“And I doubt we’ll find him in this lot.” Pitt picked up the larger pile which Murdo had sorted for him. “Unless it’s a death Shaw knew something very odd about. By the way, did you look into the demise of the late Theophilus Worlingham yet?”

“Oh, yes sir.” Murdo was eager now. Obviously it was a task he had performed well and was waiting to recount it.

Pitt raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Murdo launched into his account, and Pitt sat down behind the desk, crossing his legs.

“Very sudden,” Murdo began, still standing and hunching his shoulders a trifle in dramatic concentration. “He had always been a man of great physical energy and excellent health, what you might call a ‘muscular Christian’ I believe—” He colored slightly at his own audacity in using such a term about his superiors, and because it was an expression he had only heard twice before. “His vigor was a matter of some pride to him,” he added as explanation, as the thought suddenly occurred to him that Pitt might be unfamiliar with the term.

Pitt nodded and hid his smile.

Murdo relaxed. “He fell ill with what they took to be a slight chill. No one worried unduly, although apparently Mr. Worlingham himself was irritated that he should be no stronger than most. Dr. Shaw called upon him and prescribed aromatic oils to inhale to reduce the congestion, and a light diet, which did not please him at all, and that he should remain in bed—and give up smoking cigars, which also annoyed him very much. He made no comment as to a mustard plaster—” Murdo screwed up his face in surprise and shook his head. “That’s what my mam always used on us. Anyway, he got no better, but Shaw didn’t call again. And three days later his daughter Clemency, the one who was murdered, visited and found him dead in his study, which is on the ground floor of his house, and the French doors open. He was lying stretched out on the carpet and according to the bobby as was called out, with a terrible look on his face.”

“Why were the police sent for?” Pitt asked. After all, it was ostensibly a family tragedy. Death was hardly a rarity.

Murdo did not need to glance at his notes. “Oh—because o’ the terrible look on his face, the French doors being open, and there was a great amount of money in the house, even twenty pounds in Treasury notes clutched in his hand, and they couldn’t unlock his fingers of it!” Murdo’s face was pink with triumph. He waited for Pitt’s reaction.

“How very curious.” Pitt gave it generously. “And it was Clemency Shaw who found him?”

“Yes sir!”

“Did anyone know whether any money was missing?”

“No sir, that’s what’s so peculiar. He had drawn out seven thousand, four hundred and eighty-three pounds from the bank.” Murdo’s face was pale again and a little pinched at the thought of such a fortune. It would have bought him a house and kept him in comfort till middle age if he never earned another penny. “It was all there! In Treasury notes, tied up in bundles in the desk drawer, which wasn’t even locked. It takes a lot of explaining, sir.”

“It does indeed,” Pitt said with feeling. “One can only presume he intended to make a very large purchase, in cash, or to pay a debt of extraordinary size, which he did not wish to do in a more usual manner with a draft. But why—I have no idea.”

“Do you suppose his daughter knew, sir—I mean, Mrs. Shaw?”

“Possibly,” Pitt conceded. “But didn’t Theophilus die at least two years ago?”

Murdo’s triumph faded. “Yes sir, two years and three months.”

“And what was the cause on the death certificate?”

“An apoplectic seizure, sir.”

“Who signed it?”

“Not Shaw.” Murdo shook his head fractionally. “He was the first on the scene, naturally, since Theophilus was his father-in-law, and it was his wife who found him. But just because of that, he called in someone else to confirm his opinion and sign the certificate.”

“Very circumspect,” Pitt agreed wryly. “There was a great deal of money in the estate, I believe. The amount withdrawn was only a small part of his total possessions. That’s another thing you might look into, the precise degree and disposition of the Worlingham fortune.”

“Yes sir, I will immediately.”

Pitt held up his hand. “What about these other cases Shaw was involved with? Do you know about any of them?”

“Only three firsthand, sir; and none of them is anything out of the way. One was old Mr. Freemantle, who got a bit tiddley at the mayor’s Christmas dinner party and got into a quarrel with Mr. Tiplady and pushed him down the steps of the Red Lion.” He tried to keep his expression respectful, and failed.

“Ah—” Pitt let out his breath in a sigh of satisfaction. “And Shaw was called to attend to the resulting injuries?”

“Yes sir. Mr. Freemantle fell over by hisself and had to be helped home. I reckon if he’d been a less important gentleman he’d ’ave cooled off the night in a cell! Mr. Tiplady had a few bruises and a nasty cut on his head, bled all over the place and gave them all a fright. Looked as white as a ghost, he did. Sobered him up better than a bucket of cold water!” His lips curled up in a smile of immeasurable satisfaction and his eyes danced. Then full memory returned and the light died. “Filthy temper the next day. Came in here shouting and carrying on, blamed Dr. Shaw for the headache he had, said he hadn’t been properly treated, but I reckon he was just furious ’cause we’d all seen him make a right fool of hisself on the town hall steps. Dr. Shaw told him to take more water with it next time, and go home till he’d slept it off.”

Pitt did not bother to pursue it. A man does not murder a doctor because the doctor speaks rather plainly about his debauchery and the consequent embarrassments.

“And the others?”

“Mr. Parkinson, Obadiah Parkinson, that is, got robbed up Swan’s Lane one evening. That’s up by the cemetery,” he added in case Pitt did not know. “He was hit rather hard and the bobby that found him called Dr. Shaw, but there’s nothing in that. He just took a good look at him, then said it was concussion and took him home in his own trap. Mr. Parkinson was very obliged.”

Pitt put the two files aside and picked up the third.

“Death of the Armitage boy,” Murdo said. “Very sad indeed, that. Dray horse took fright at something and bolted. Young Albert was killed instantly. Very sad. He was a good lad, and not more than fourteen.”

Pitt thanked him and dispatched him to go and pursue the Worlingham money, then he began to read the rest of the files on the desk in front of him. They were all similar cases, some tragic, some carrying an element of farce, pomposity exposed by the frailties of the flesh. Perhaps domestic tragedy lay behind some of the reports of bruising and broken bones, it was even possible that some of the autopsies which read as pneumonia or heart failure concealed a darker cause, an act of violence; but there was nothing in the notes here in front of him to indicate it. If Shaw had seen something he had not reported it in any official channel. There were seven deaths in all, and even on a second and third reading, Pitt could find nothing suspicious in any of them.

Finally he abandoned it, and after informing the desk sergeant of his intention, he stepped out into the rapidly chilling afternoon air and walked briskly to the St. Pancras Infirmary, glancing briefly across the road at the Smallpox Hospital, then climbed the steps to the wide front entrance. He was already inside when he remembered to straighten his jacket, polish his boots on the backs of his trouser legs, transfer half the collected string, wax, coins, folded pieces of paper and Emily’s silk handkerchief from one pocket to the other to balance the bulges a trifle, his fingers hesitating on the handkerchief’s exquisite texture just a second longer than necessary. Then he put his tie a little nearer center and ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it conspicuously worse. Then he marched to the superintendent’s office and rapped sharply on the door.

It was opened by a young man with fair hair and a narrow, anxious face.

“Yes?” he said, peering at Pitt.

Pitt produced his card, an extravagance which always gave him a tingle of pleasure.

“Inspector Thomas Pitt, Bow Street Police,” the young man read aloud with alarm. “Good gracious. What can you possibly want here? There is nothing amiss, I assure you, nothing at all. Everything is in most excellent order.” He had no intention of allowing Pitt in. They remained standing in the doorway.

“I did not doubt it,” Pitt soothed him. “I have come to make some confidential inquiries about a doctor who I believe has worked here—”

“All our doctors are fine men.” The protest was instant. “If there has been any impropriety—”

“None that I know of,” Pitt interrupted. Drammond was right, it was going to be exceedingly difficult to elicit anything but panicky mutual defense. “There has been a most serious threat against his life.” That was true, in essence if not precisely the way he implied it. “You may be able to help us discover who is responsible.”

“Against his life? Oh, dear me, how monstrous. No one here would dream of such a thing. We save lives.” The young man picked nervously at his tie, which was apparently in danger of throttling him.

“You must occasionally have failures,” Pitt pointed out.

“Well—well, of course. We cannot work miracles. That would be quite unreasonable. But I assure you—”

“Yes—yes!” Pitt cut across him. “May I speak with the governor?”

The man bridled. “If you must! But I assure you we have no knowledge of such a threat, or we should have informed the police. The superintendent is a very busy man, very busy indeed.”

“I am impressed,” Pitt lied. “However if this person succeeds in carrying out his threat, and murders the doctor in question, as well as his current victim, then your superintendent will be even busier, because there will be fewer physicians to do the work …” He allowed the train of thought to tail off as the man in front of him was alternately pink with annoyance and then white with horror.

However, the harassed superintendent, a lugubrious man with long mustaches and receding hair, could tell Pitt nothing about Shaw that advanced his knowledge. He was far more agreeable than Pitt expected, having no sense of his own importance, only of the magnitude of the task before him in battling disease for which he knew no cure; ignorance that swamped the small inroads of literacy; and a perception of cleanliness where there was too little pure water, too many people, no sanitation and frequently no outlet to a sewer, drains overflowed and rats were everywhere. If the Queen’s consort could die of typhoid carried by poor drains, living in his own palace, what struggle was there to be waged in the houses of the ordinary, and the poor, let alone the slums of the destitute?

He escorted Pitt into his small, untidy office, which smelled faintly of soap and paper. The window was very small, and both gas lamps were lit and made a slight hissing sound. He invited Pitt to sit down.

“Nothing,” he said regretfully. “Shaw is a damn good doctor, sometimes gifted. Seen him sit up all day and all night and all the next day with a sick man, and weep when he loses a mother and child.” A smile spread across his lantern face. “And seen him bawl out a pompous old fool for wasting his time.” He sighed. “And worse than that to a man who could have fed his children on milk and fruit, and didn’t. Poor little beggars were twisted up with rickets. Never seen a man so furious as Shaw that day. He was shaking with passion and white to the lips.” He took a deep breath and tilted back in his chair and looked at Pitt with surprisingly sharp eyes. “I like the man. I’m damned sorry about his wife. Is that why you’re here—because you think the fire was meant for him?”

“It seems possible,” Pitt replied. “Did he have any deep differences of opinion with his colleagues, that you know of?”

“Ha!” The superintendent barked out his laughter. “Ha! If you can ask that you don’t know Shaw. Of course he did—with everyone: colleagues, nurses, administrative staff—me.” His eyes were alive with a dark amusement. “And I knew of them all—I should imagine everyone within earshot did. He doesn’t know the meaning of discretion—at least where his temper is concerned.” He slid down off the tilt of his chair and sat up straight, looking at Pitt more intently. “I don’t mean on medical matters, of course. He’s closer than an oyster with a confidence. Never betrayed a secret even in consultation for another opinion. I doubt he’s ever spoken a word of gossip in his life. But got a temper like an Indian curry when he sees injustice or humbug.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “He’s not always right—but when he’s proved wrong he’ll usually come ’round, albeit not immediately.”

“Is he well liked?”

The superintendent smiled at Pitt. “I’ll not insult you with a generous fiction. Those who like him, like him very much. I am one of them. But there are a good few he’s offended with what they consider uncalled-for brusqueness or frankness when it amounts to rudeness, interference or undermining their position.” His gaunt, good-humored face showed the tolerance of years of battles and defeats. “There are many men who don’t care to be proved wrong and shown a better way, especially in front of others. And the harder and longer they stick to their first position, the bigger fools they look when they finally have to back away from it and turn around.” His smile grew broader. “And Shaw is frequently less than tactful in the way he goes about it. His wit is often quicker than his perception of people’s feelings. More than once I’ve seen him set the room laughing at someone’s expense, and known from the look on a man’s face that he’d pay for it dearly one day. Few men care to be the butt of a joke; they’d rather be struck in the face than laughed at.”

Pitt tried to make his voice casual, and knew immediately that it was a wasted effort. “Anyone in particular?”

“Not enough to set fire to the man’s house,” the superintendent replied, looking at Pitt wide-eyed and candid.

There was no point in fencing with the man and Pitt did not insult him by trying. “The names of those most offended?” he asked. “It will be something at least to eliminate them now. The house is gutted and Mrs. Shaw is dead. Someone set the fires.”

The superintendent’s face lost its humor as if it had been wiped away with a sponge, and somberness replaced it. He made no struggle.

“Fennady couldn’t abide him,” he replied, leaning back and beginning what was obviously a catalogue, but there was still more comprehension than judgment in his voice. “They quarreled over everything from the state of the monarchy to the state of the drains, and all issues between. And Nimmons. Nimmons is an old man with old ideas which he had no inclination to change. Shaw taught him some better ways, but unfortunately he did it in front of the patient, who promptly transferred his custom, bringing his very large family with him.”

“Tactless,” Pitt agreed.

“His middle name.” The superintendent sighed. “But he saved the man’s life. And there’s Henshaw—he’s young and full of new ideas, and Shaw can’t be bothered with them either, says they are untried and too risky. The man’s as contrary as an army mule at times. Henshaw lost his temper, but I don’t think he really bears any resentment. That’s all I can give you.”

“No tact, no discretion with his colleagues, but how about impropriety with his patients?” Pitt was not yet ready to give up.

“Shaw?” The superintendent’s eyebrows rose. “Damn your realism, but I suppose you have to. Not that I know of, but he’s a charming and vigorous man. Not impossible some woman imagined more than there was.”

He was interrupted by a sharp tap on the door.

“Come in,” he said with a glance of apology at Pitt.

The same fair young man who had so disapproved of Pitt poked his head around the door with a look of equal distaste on his face.

“Mr. Marchant is here, sir.” He ignored Pitt very pointedly. “From the town hall,” he added for good measure.

“Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes,” the superintendent replied without any haste.

“From the town hall,” the young man repeated. “It is important—sir.”

“So is this,” the superintendent said very distinctly, without shifting his position at all. “Man’s life might hang on it.” Then he smiled lugubriously at the double meaning. “And the longer you stand there, Spooner, the longer it will be before I am finished here and can come and see Marchant! Get out man, and deliver the message!”

Spooner withdrew with umbrage, closing the door as sharply as he dared.

The superintendent turned to Pitt again with a slight shake of his head.

“Shaw …” Pitt prompted.

“Not impossible some woman fell in love with him,” the superintendent resumed, shaking his head. “It happens. Odd relationship, doctor and patient, so personal, and yet so practical and in some ways remote. Wouldn’t be the first time it has got out of hand, or been misunderstood by a husband, or a father.” He pushed out his lip. “It’s no secret Alfred Lutterworth thinks his daughter sees a damned sight too much of Shaw, and insists on doing it alone, and won’t discuss what passes between them, or what her ailment might be. Handsome girl, and great expectations. Old Lutterworth made a fortune in cotton. Don’t know if anyone else has his eyes on her. Don’t live in Highgate myself.”

“Thank you, sir,” Pitt said sincerely. “You’ve given me a great deal of your time, and been some help at least in eliminating certain possibilities.”

“I don’t envy you your job,” the superintendent replied. “I thought mine was hard, but I fear yours will be harder. Good day to you.”

When Pitt left the hospital the autumn evening was dark and the gas lamps were already lit. It was now October, and a few early leaves crunched under his feet as he strode towards the intersection where he could get a cab. The air had a clarity and sharpness that promised frost in a week or two. The stars shone in pinpricks of light infinitely far away, flickering and sparkling in the cold. Out here in Highgate there was no fog from the river, no smoke in the air from factories or densely packed houses huddled back-to-back. He could smell the wind blowing off the fields and hear a dog barking in the distance. One day he must take Charlotte and the children for a week in the country. She had not been away from Bloomsbury for a long time. She would love it. He began to think of small economies he could make, ways he could save enough for it to be possible, and the expression on her face when he could tell her. He would keep it to himself until he was sure.

He strode out along the footpath and was so lost in thought that the first cab passed him by and was over the rise in the hill and disappearing before he realized it.

In the morning he returned to Highgate to see if Murdo had discovered anything of interest, but he was already out hot on the scent, and had left only the briefest notes to that effect. Pitt thanked the desk sergeant, who still grudged him his interference in a local matter which he believed they could well have handled themselves. Pitt left and went back to the hospital to speak to the Shaws’ butler.

The man was propped up in bed looking haggard, his eyes deep socketed with shock and pain, his face unshaved and his left arm bound in bandages. There were raw grazes on his face and one scab beginning to form. It was unnecessary for the doctor to tell Pitt that the man had been badly burned.

Pitt stood by the bedside and in spite of the fact that it was blood, carbolic, sweat and the faint odor of chloroform that he could smell in the air, the sharp stench of smoke and wet cinders came back to him as if he had stood by the ruined house only a few minutes since, and then seen the charred wreck of Clemency Shaw’s body lying on a stretcher in the morgue, barely recognizable as human. The anger inside him knotted his stomach and his chest till he found it hard to form the words in his mouth or force the breath to make speech.

“Mr. Burdin?”

The butler opened his eyes and looked at Pitt with no interest.

“Mr. Burdin, I am Inspector Pitt of the Metropolitan Police. I have come to Highgate to find out who set the fire that burned Dr. Shaw’s house—” He did not mention Clemency. Perhaps the man had not been told. This would be a cruel and unnecessary shock. He should be informed with gentleness, by someone prepared to stay with him, perhaps even to treat his grief if it worsened his condition.

“I don’t know,” Burdin said hoarsely, his lungs still seared by the smoke. “I saw nothing, heard nothing till Jenny started screaming out. Jenny’s the housemaid. Her bedroom’s nearest the main house.”

“We did not imagine you had seen the fires started.” Pitt tried to sound reassuring. “Or that you knew anything obvious. But there may have been something which, on reflection, could be of importance—perhaps when put together with other things. May I ask you some questions?” It was a polite fiction to seek permission, but the man was badly shocked, and in pain.

“Of course.” Burdin’s voice dropped to a croak. “But I’ve already been thinking, turning it over and over in my mind.” His face furrowed now with renewed effort. “But I don’t remember anything different at all—not a thing. Everything was just as—” The breath caught in his throat and he began to cough as the raw lining hurt anew.

Pitt was confused for a moment, panic growing inside him as the man’s face suffused with blood as he struggled for air, tears streaming down his cheeks. He stared around for help, and there was none. Then he saw water on the table in the corner and reached for it, tipping it into a cup clumsily in his haste. He clasped Burdin around the shoulders and eased him up and put the cup to his lips. At first he choked on it, spluttering it over himself, then at last enough trickled down his burning throat and cooled it. The pain was eased and he lay back, exhausted. It would be cruel and pointless to require him to speak again. But the questions must be asked.

“Don’t speak,” Pitt said firmly. “Turn your hand palm up if the answer is yes, and down if it is no.”

Burdin smiled weakly and turned his palm up.

“Good. Did anyone call on the doctor at his house that day, other than his surgery appointments?”

Palm up.

“Tradesmen or business?”

Palm down.

“Personal acquaintance?”

Palm on its side.

“Family?”

Palm up.

“The Worlingham sisters?”

Palm down, very definitely.

“Mr. or Mrs. Hatch?”

Palm up.

“Mrs. Hatch?”

Palm down.

“Mr. Hatch? Was there a quarrel, raised voices, unpleasantness?” Although Pitt could think of nothing that could aggravate a temperamental difference into murder.

Burdin shrugged fractionally and turned his hand on its side.

“Not more than usual?” Pitt guessed.

Burdin smiled and there was a flicker of something like humor in his eyes, but again he shrugged. He did not know.

“Anyone else call?”

Palm up.

“Local person?”

Palm up and raised a little.

“Very local? Mr. Lindsay?”

Burdin’s face relaxed in a smile, the palm remained up.

“Anyone else that you know of?”

Palm down.

He thought of asking if there was any mail that might be unusual or of interest, but what would such a thing be? How could anyone recognize it?

“Did Dr. Shaw seem anxious or disturbed about anything that day?”

The palm was down, but indecisive, hovering above the bed cover.

Pitt took a guess, drawn from what he had observed of Shaw’s temperament. “Angry? Was he angry about something?”

The palm came up quickly.

“Thank you, Mr. Burdin. If you think of anything else, comments, a letter, unusual arrangements, please tell the hospital and write it down for me. I shall come immediately. I hope you recover quickly.”

Burdin smiled and closed his eyes. Even that small effort had tired him.

Pitt left, angry himself at so much physical pain, and helpless because he could do nothing for it, and he had learned little he felt of use. He imagined Shaw and Hatch probably quarreled fairly regularly, simply because their natures were utterly different. They would almost certainly perceive any issue with opposite views.

The Shaws’ cook was in a far less serious state of health, and he left the hospital and took a hansom for the short ride down Highgate Hill and through Holloway to the Seven Sisters Road and the house of her relatives, which Murdo had given him. It was small, neat and shabby, exactly what he expected, and he was permitted in only with reluctance and after considerable argument.

He found the cook sitting up in bed in the best bedroom, wrapped around more against the indecency of being visited by a strange man than to prevent any chill. She had been burned on one arm and had lost some of her hair, giving her a lopsided, plucked look which had it been less tragic would have been funny. As it was Pitt had difficulty in maintaining a perfectly sober expression.

The niece, bustling with offense, remained obtrusively present every moment of the time.

“Mrs. Babbage?” Pitt began. All cooks were given the courtesy title of “Mrs.” whether they were married or not.

She looked at him with alarm and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a shriek.

“I mean you no harm, Mrs. Babbage—”

“Who are you? What do you want? I don’t know you.” She craned upwards as if his mere presence threatened her with some physical danger.

He sat down quickly on a small bedroom chair just behind him and tried to be disarming. She was obviously still in an extreme state of shock, emotional if not from her injuries which appeared to be relatively slight.

“I am Inspector Pitt,” he said, introducing himself, avoiding the word police. He knew how respectable servants hated even an association with crime as tenuous as the presence of the police. “It is my duty to do what I can to discover how the fire started.”

“Not in my kitchen!” she said so loudly it startled her niece, who drew her breath in in a loud gasp. “Don’t you go accusing me, or Doris! I know how to tend a stove. Never had so much as a coal fall out, I ’aven’t; never mind burnin’ down an ’ole ’ouse.”

“We know that, Mrs. Babbage,” he said soothingly. “It did not begin in the kitchen.”

She looked a trifle mollified, but still her eyes were wide and wary and she twisted a rag of a handkerchief around and around in her fingers till the flesh of them was red with the friction. She was afraid to believe him, suspecting a trap.

“It was begun deliberately, in the curtains of four different ground-floor rooms,” he elaborated.

“Nobody would do such a thing,” she whispered, winding the handkerchief even more tightly. “What do you come to me for?”

“Because you might have seen something odd that day, noticed someone unusual hanging around—” Even as he said it he knew it was hopeless. She was too shocked to recall anything, and he himself did not believe it had been a tramp or a casual vagrant. It was too careful; it spoke of a deep hatred, or insatiable greed, or fear of some intolerable loss. It came back to his mind again with renewed force: what did Stephen Shaw know—and about whom?

“I didn’t see nothin’.” She began to weep, dabbing at her eyes, her voice rising again. “I mind me own business. I don’t ask no questions an’ I don’t listen be’ind no doors. An’ I don’t give meself airs to think things about the master nor the mistress—”

“Oh?” Pitt said instantly. “That’s very commendable. I suppose some cooks do?”

“ ’Course they do.”

“Really? Like what, for example?” He endeavored to look puzzled. “If you were that sort, what may you have wondered?”

She drew herself up in virtue and glared at him over the top of her large hand, wrapped around with the sodden handkerchief.

“Well, if I were that sort—which I in’t—I might ’ave wondered why we let one of the maids go, when there weren’t nothin’ wrong wiv ’er, and why we ’aven’t ’ad salmon like we used to, nor a good leg o’ pork neither—an’ I might ’ave asked Burdin why we ’aven’t ’ad a decent case o’ claret come inter the ’ouse in six months.”

“But of course you didn’t,” Pitt said judiciously, hiding the shadow of a smile. “Dr. Shaw is very fortunate to have such a discreet cook in his household.”

“Oh, I don’t know as I can cook for ’im anymore!” She started sniffing again violently. “Jenny’s given ’er notice an’ as soon as she’s fit she’ll go back ’ome ter Somerset where she comes from. An’ Doris in’t no more’n a chit of a thing—thirteen mebbe. An’ poor Mr. Burdin’s so bad who can say if ’e’ll ever be the same again? No, I got ter be in a respectable ’ouse, for me nerves.”

There was no purpose in arguing with her, and for the time being Shaw had no need of servants—there was no house for them to live in or to wait upon. And apart from that, Pitt’s mind was racing with the very interesting fact that the Shaws had apparently reduced their standard of living recently, to the degree that the cook had noticed it and it had set her mind wondering.

He stood up, wished her well, thanked the niece, and took his departure. Next he went in search of Jenny and Doris, neither of whom were burned more than superficially and more suffering from shock and fright and some considerable pain, but not in danger of relapse, as might be the case with Burdin.

He found them in the parsonage, in the care of Lally Clitheridge, who needed no explanation of his call.

But even after careful questioning they could tell him nothing of use. They had seen no one unusual in the neighborhood; the house had been exactly as it was at any other time. It had been a very ordinary day until they were roused, Jenny by the smell of smoke as she lay awake, thinking of some matter she blushed to recall and would not name, and Doris by Jenny’s screams.

He thanked them and went out as dusk was falling and walked briskly southwards to Woodsome Road and the home of the woman who came in daily to do the heavy work, a Mrs. Colter. It was a small house but the windows were clean and the step scrubbed so immaculately he avoided putting his boots on it out of respect.

The door was opened by a big, comfortable woman with a broad-cheeked face, an ample bosom, and an apron tied tightly around her waist, the pocket stuffed full of odds and ends and her hair trailing out of a hasty knot on the back of her neck.

“Who are you?” she said in surprise, but there was no ill nature in it. “I dunno you, do I?”

“Mrs. Colter?” Pitt removed his rather worn hat, now a little crooked in the crown.

“That’s me. It don’t tell me who you are!”

“Thomas Pitt, from the Metropolitan Police—”

“Oh—” Her eyes widened. “You’ll be about poor Dr. Shaw’s fire, then. What a terrible thing. She was a good woman, was Mrs. Shaw. I’m real grieved about that. Come in. I daresay you’re cold—an’ ’ungry, mebbe?”

Pitt stepped in, wiping his feet carefully on the mat before going onto the polished linoleum floor. He almost bent and took his boots off, as he would have done at home. A smell of rich stew assailed him, delicate with onions and the sweetness of fresh carrots and turnips.

“Yes,” he said with feeling. “Yes I am.”

“Well I don’t know as I can ’elp you.” She led the way back and he followed after. To sit in a room with that aroma, and not eat, would be very hard. Her generous figure strode ahead of him and into the small, scrubbed kitchen, a huge pot simmering on the back of the stove filling the air with steam and warmth. “But I’ll try,” she added.

“Thank you.” Pitt sat down on one of the chairs and wished she meant the stew, not information.

“They say it were deliberate,” she said, taking the lid off the pot and giving its contents a brisk stir with a wooden ladle. “Although ’ow anybody could bring theirselves to do such a thing I’m sure I don’t know.”

“You said ‘how,’ Mrs. Colter, not ‘why,’ ” Pitt observed, inhaling deeply and letting it out in a sigh. “You can think of reasons why?”

“In’t much meat in it,” she said dubiously. “Just a bit o’ skirt o’ mutton.”

“You have no ideas why, Mrs. Colter?”

“ ’Cos I in’t got the money for more, o’ course,” she said, looking at him as if he were simple, but still not unkindly.

Pitt blushed. He was well used enough to poverty not to have made such an idiotic remark, or one so condescending.

“I mean why anyone should set fire to Dr. and Mrs. Shaw’s house!”

“You want some?” She held up the ladle.

“Yes please, I would.”

“Lots o’ reasons.” She began to dish up a generous portion in a large basin. “Revenge, for one. There’s them as says ’e should’a looked after Mr. Theophilus Worlingham better’n ’e did. Although I always thought Mr. Theophilus would wind ’isself up into a fit and die one day. An’ ’e did. But then that don’t mean everyone sees it that way.” She put the bowl down in front of him and handed him a spoon to eat with. It was mostly potatoes, onions, carrots and a little sweet turnip with a few stray ends of meat, but it was hot and full of flavor.

“Thank you very much,” he said, accepting the bowl.

“Don’t think it’d ’ave much to do wiv it.” She dismissed the notion. “Mr. Lutterworth was fair furious with Dr. Shaw, on account of ’is daughter, Miss Flora, nippin’ ter see ’im all hours, discreet like, not through the reg’lar surgery. But Mrs. Shaw weren’t worried, so I don’t suppose there were nothin’ in it as there shouldn’t ’a bin. Leastways, not much. I think Dr. Shaw and Mrs. Shaw kept their own ways a lot. Good friends, like, but maybe not a lot more.”

“That’s very observant of you, Mrs. Colter,” Pitt said doubtfully.

“Need more salt?” she asked.

“No thank you; it’s perfect.”

“Not really.” She shook her head.

“Yes it is. It doesn’t need a thing added,” he assured her.

“Don’t take much ter see when people is used ter each other, and respects, but don’t mind if the other gets fond o’ someone else.”

“And Dr. and Mrs. Shaw were fond of someone else?” Pitt’s spoon stopped in midair, even the stew forgotten.

“Not as I know of. But Mrs. Shaw went off up to the city day after day, and ’e wished ’er well and never cared nor worried as who she went wiv; or that the vicar’s wife came all over unnecessary every time Dr. Shaw smiled at ’er.”

This time Pitt could not dismiss his amusement, and bent his head over the dish at least to conceal the worst of it.

“Indeed?” he said after another mouthful. “Do you think Dr. Shaw was aware of this?”

“Bless you, no. Blind as a bat, ’e is, to other people’s feelin’s o’ that nature. But Mrs. Shaw, she saw it, an’ I think she were kind o’ sorry for ’er. ’E’s a bit of a poor fish, the Reverend. Means well. But ’e’s no man, compared wi’ the doctor. Still,” she sighed, “that’s ow it is, in’t it?” She regarded his empty bowl. “You want some more?”

He considered the family she had to feed and pushed the plate away from him.

“No thank you, Mrs. Colter. That answered the need perfectly. Very fine flavor.”

She colored a little pink. She was unused to compliments, and pleased and awkward at the same time.

“It’s nuthin’ but ordinary.” She turned away to give it a fierce stir.

“Ordinary to you, maybe.” He rose from the table and pushed the chair back in, something he would not have bothered to do at home. “But I’m much obliged to you. Is there anything else you can think of that might have bearing on the fire?”

She shrugged. “There’s always the Worlingham money, I suppose. Though I don’t see ow. Don’t think the doctor cared that much about it, and they ain’t got no children, poor souls.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Colter. You’ve been most helpful.”

“Don’t see that I ’ave. Any fool could’a told you as much, but if it pleases you, then I’m glad. I ’ope you catch whoever done it.” She sniffed hard and turned her back to stir the pot again. “She were a fine woman, an’ I grieve sorely that she’s gorn—an’ in such an ’orrible way.”

“I will, Mrs. Colter,” he said rather recklessly, and then when he was out on the footpath in the sharp evening air, wished he had been more reserved. He had not the faintest idea who had crept around cutting the glass, pouring oil on curtains and lighting those fires.

In the morning he returned to Highgate immediately, turning the case over and over in his mind on the long journey. He had told Charlotte of the progress he had made, largely negative, because she had asked him. She had taken an interest in the case beyond his expectations, because as yet there was little human drama of the sort which usually engaged her emotions. She gave him no explanation, except that she was sorry for the dead woman. It was a fearful way to die.

He had assured her that in all probability Clemency Shaw had been overcome by smoke long before any flames reached her. It was even possible she had not woken.

Charlotte had been much comforted by it, and since he had already told her his progress was minimal, she had asked him no more. Instead she turned to her own business of the day, giving volleys of instructions to Gracie, who stood wide-eyed and fascinated in the kitchen doorway.

Pitt stopped the hansom at Amos Lindsay’s house, paid him off, and walked up to the front door. It was opened by the black-haired manservant again and Pitt asked if he might speak with Dr. Shaw.

“Dr. Shaw is out on call”—the briefest of hesitations—“sir.”

“Is Mr. Lindsay at home?”

“If you care to come in I shall inquire if he will receive you.” The manservant stood aside. “Who shall I say is calling?”

Did he really not remember, or was he being deliberately condescending?

“Inspector Thomas Pitt, of the Metropolitan Police,” he replied a little tartly.

“Indeed.” The manservant bowed so slightly only the light moving across his glistening head determined it at all. “Will you be so good as to wait here? I shall return forthwith.” And without bothering to see if Pitt would do as he was bidden, he walked rapidly and almost silently towards the back of the house.

Pitt had time to stare again around the hall with its fierce and exotic mixture of art and mementos. There were no paintings, nothing of the nature of European culture. The statuary was wooden or ivory, the lines alien, looking uneasy in the traditional dimensions of the room with its paneling and squared windows letting in the dull light of an October morning. The spears should have been held in dark hands, the headdresses moving, instead of pinned immobile against the very English oak. Pitt found himself wondering what an unimaginably different life Amos Lindsay had lived in countries so unlike anything Highgate or its residents could envision. What had he seen, and done; whom had he known? Was it something learned there which had prompted his political views which Pascoe so abhorred?

His speculation was cut short by the manservant reappearing, regarding him with mild disapproval.

“Mr. Lindsay will see you in his study, if you will come this way.” This time he omitted the “sir” altogether.

In the study Amos Lindsay stood with his back to a brisk fire, his face pink under his marvelous white hair. He did not look in the least displeased to see Pitt.

“Come in,” he said, ignoring the manservant, who withdrew soundlessly. “What can I do for you? Shaw’s out. No idea how long, can’t measure the sick. What can I add to your knowledge? I wish I knew something. It’s all very miserable.”

Pitt glanced back towards the hallway and its relics. “You must have seen a good deal of violence at one time and another.” It was more an observation than a question. He thought of Great-Aunt Vespasia’s friend, Zenobia Gunne, who also had trekked into Africa, and sailed uncharted rivers and lived in strange villages, with people no European had seen before.

Lindsay was watching him curiously. “I have,” he conceded. “But it never became ordinary to me, nor did I cease to find violent death shocking. When you live in another land, Mr. Pitt, no matter how strange it may seem at first, it is a very short time until its people become your own, and their grief and their laughter touches you as deeply. All the differences on earth are a shadow, compared with the sameness. And to tell you the truth, I have felt more akin to a black man dancing naked but for his paint, under the moon, or a yellow woman holding her frightened child, than I ever have to Josiah Hatch and his kind pontificating about the place of women and how it is God’s will that they should suffer in childbirth.” He pulled a face and his remarkably mobile features made it the more grotesque. “And a Christian doctor doesn’t interfere with it! Punishment of Eve, and all that. All right, I know he is in the majority here.” He looked straight at Pitt with eyes blue as the sky, and almost hidden by the folds of his lids, as if he were still screwing them up against some tropical sun.

Pitt smiled. He thought quite possibly he would feel the same, had he ever been out of England.

“Did you ever meet a lady named Zenobia Gunne on your travels—” He got no further because Lindsay’s face was full of light and incredulity.

“Nobby Gunne! Of course I know her! Met her in a village in Ashanti once—way back in ’69. Wonderful woman! How on earth do you know her?” The happiness fled from his face and was replaced by alarm. “Dear God! She’s not been—”

“No! No,” Pitt said hastily. “I met her through a relative of my sister-in-law. At least a few months ago she was in excellent health, and spirits.”

“Thank heaven!” Lindsay waved at Pitt to sit down. “Now what can we do about Stephen Shaw, poor devil? This is a very ugly situation.” He poked at the fire vigorously, then replaced the fire iron set and sat down in the other chair. “He was extremely fond of Clemency, you know. Not a great passion—if it ever was, it had long passed—but he liked her, liked her deeply. And it is not given to many men to like their wives. She was a woman of rare intelligence, you know?” He raised his eyebrows and his small vivid eyes searched Pitt’s countenance.

Pitt thought of Charlotte. Immediately her face filled his mind, and he was overwhelmed with how much he also liked his wife. The friendship was in its own way as precious as the love, and perhaps a greater gift, something born of time and sharing, of small jokes well understood, of helping each other through anxiety or sorrow, seeing the weaknesses and the strengths and caring for both.

But if for Stephen Shaw the passion had gone, and he was a passionate man, then could it have been kindled elsewhere? Would friendship, however deep, survive that whirlwind of hunger? He wanted to believe so; instinctively he had liked Shaw.

But the woman, whoever she was—she would not feel such constraints. Indeed she might seethe with jealousy, and the fact that Shaw still liked and admired his wife might make that frail outer control snap—and result in murder.

Lindsay was staring at him, waiting for a reponse more tangible than the thoughtful expression on his face.

“Indeed,” Pitt said aloud, looking up again. “It would be natural if he found it hard at present to think of who might hold him in such enmity, or feel they had enough to gain from either his death or his wife’s. But since you know him well, you may be able to give more suggestions, unpleasant as it would be. At least we might exclude some people …”

He left the sentence hanging in the air, hoping it would be unnecessary to press any further.

Lindsay was too intelligent to need or wish for any more prompting. His eyes wandered over the relics here in the room. Perhaps he was thinking of other lands, other peoples with the same passions, less colored and confused by the masks of civilization.

“Stephen has certainly made enemies,” he said quietly. “People of strong convictions usually do, especially if they are as articulate about them as he is. I am afraid he has little patience with fools, and even less with hypocrites—of which this society provides a great many, in one form or another.” He shook his head. A coal settled in the fire with a shower of sparks. “The more we think we are sophisticated sometimes the sillier we get—and certainly the more idle people there are with nothing to fill their minds except making moral rules for everyone else, the more hypocrisy there is as to who keeps them and who doesn’t.”

Pitt envisioned a savage society in the sun on vast plains with the flat-topped trees he had seen in paintings, and grass huts, drum music and imprisoning heat—a culture that had not changed since memory’s record began. What had Lindsay done there, how had he lived? Had he taken an African wife, and loved her? What had brought him back to Highgate on the outskirts of London and the heart of the Empire with its white gloves, carriages, engraved calling cards, gas lamps, maids in starched aprons, little old ladies, portraits of bishops, stained-glass windows—and murder?

“Whom in particular may he have offended?” He looked at Lindsay curiously.

Lindsay’s face was suddenly wreathed in smiles. “Good heavens, man—everyone. Celeste and Angeline think he failed to treat Theophilus with proper attention, and that if he had not, the old fool would still be alive—”

“And would he?”

Lindsay’s eyebrows shot up. “God knows. I doubt it. What can you do for an apoplectic seizure? He couldn’t sit ’round the clock with him.”

“Who else?”

“Alfred Lutterworth thinks Flora is enamored of him—which she may well be. She’s in and out of the house often enough, and sees Stephen on her own, out of normal surgery hours. She may imagine other people don’t know—but they most certainly do. Lutterworth thinks Stephen is seducing her with an eye to the money, of which there is a very great deal.” The bland look of slight amusement on his face made Pitt think that the idea of Shaw murdering his wife because she stood in the way of such a marriage had not crossed his mind. His weathered face, so lined it reflected every expression, was touched with pity and a shadow of something like contempt, without its cruelty—but there was no fear in it.

“And of course Lally Clitheridge is appalled by his opinions,” Lindsay went on, his smile broadening. “And fascinated by his vitality. He is ten times the man poor old Hector is, or ever will be. Prudence Hatch is fond of him—and frightened of him—for some reason I haven’t discovered. Josiah can’t abide him for a dozen reasons that are inherent in his nature—and Stephen’s. Quinton Pascoe, who sells beautiful and romantic books, reviews them, and quite genuinely loves them, thinks Stephen is an irresponsible iconoclast—because he supports John Dalgetty and his avant-garde views of literature, or at least he supports his freedom to express them, regardless of whom they offend.”

“Do they offend people?” Pitt asked, curious for himself as well as for any importance it might have. Surely no literary disapproval could be powerful enough to motivate murder? Ill temper, dislike, contempt, but surely only a madman kills over a matter of taste?

“Grossly.” Lindsay noted Pitt’s skepticism and there was a light of irony in his own eyes. “You have to understand Pascoe and Dalgetty. Ideals, the expression of thought and the arts of creation and communication are their lives.” He shrugged. “But you asked me who hated Stephen from time to time—not who I thought would actually set fire to his house with the intent of burning him to death. If I knew anyone I thought would do that I should have told you long before you came to the door asking.”

Pitt acknowledged it with a grimace, and was about to pursue the matter when the manservant reappeared to announce that Mr. Dalgetty had called to ask if Lindsay would receive him. Lindsay glanced at Pitt with a flash of amusement, then indicated his agreement.

A moment later John Dalgetty came in, obviously having assumed Lindsay was alone. He launched into speech immediately, his voice ringing with enthusiasm. He was a dark man of medium stature and high, almost vertical forehead, fine eyes, and a shock of hair which was now receding a little. He was very casually dressed with a loose black cravat tied in what had probably been a bow when he set out that morning. Now it was merely a bundle. His jacket was overlong and loose, and the whole effect was extremely untidy, but had a certain panache.

“Quite brilliant!” He waved his hands. “Just what Highgate needs—indeed the whole of London! Shake up some of these tired old ideas, make people think. That’s what matters, you know—freedom from the rigid, the orthodox that ossifies the faculties of invention and discovery.” He frowned, leaning a little forward in his urgency. “Man is a creature full of the power of the mind, if only we free it from the shackles of fear. Terrified of the new, quaking at the prospect of making a mistake. What do a few mistakes matter?” He hunched his shoulders high. “If in the end we discover and name some new truth? Cowards—that’s what we’re fast becoming. A nation of intellectual cowards—too timorous to undertake an adventure into unknown regions of thought or knowledge.” He swung one arm wide towards an Ashanti spear on the wall. “How would our Empire be if all our voyagers of the seas or explorers of the lands had been too afraid of anything new to circumnavigate the earth, or venture into the dark continents of Africa and India?” He poked his fingers at the floor. “Right here in England, that’s where! And the world”—he flung out his hand dramatically—“would belong to the French, or the Spanish, or God knows whom. And here we are leaving all the voyages of the mind to the Germans, or whomever, because we are afraid of treading on a few toes. Have you seen Pascoe? He’s practically foaming at the mouth because of your monograph on the wrongs of the ownership of the means of production! Of course it’s brilliant. Full of new ideas, new concepts of community and the proper division of wealth. I shall review it as widely as—oh—” Suddenly he noticed Pitt and his face fell with amazement, then as quickly filled with curiosity. “I beg your pardon, sir, I was unaware Mr. Lindsay had company. John Dalgetty.” He bowed very slightly. “Seller of rare books and reviewer of literature, and I hope, disseminator of ideas.”

“Thomas Pitt,” Pitt replied. “Inspector of police, and I hope discoverer of truth, or at least a measurable portion of it—we will never know it all, but sometimes enough to assist what serves as justice.”

“Good gracious me.” Dalgetty laughed aloud, but there was considerable nervousness in it as well as humor. “A policeman with an extraordinary turn of phrase. Are you making fun of me, sir?”

“Not at all,” Pitt replied sincerely. “The truth of a crime, its causes and its effects, are far beyond us to reach. But we may, if we are diligent and lucky, discover who committed it, and at least some portion of why.”

“Oh—ah—yes, indeed. Very terrible.” Dalgetty drew his black brows down and shook his head a little. “A fine woman. Didn’t know her closely myself, always seemed to be busy with matters of her own, good works and so forth. But excellent reputation.” He looked at Pitt with something almost like a challenge. “Never heard a word against her from anyone. Great friend of my wife’s, always conversing with one another. Tragic loss. I wish I could help, but I know nothing at all, absolutely nothing.”

Pitt was inclined to believe him, but he asked a few questions in case there was some small fact in among the enthusiasm and opinions. He learned nothing, and some fifteen minutes after Dalgetty departed, still muttering praises of the monograph, Stephen Shaw himself returned, full of energy, coming in like a gale, flinging doors open and leaving them swinging. But Pitt saw the shadows under his eyes and the strain in the lines around his mouth.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Shaw,” he said quietly. “I am sorry to intrude again, but there are many questions I need to ask.”

“Of course.” Shaw absentmindedly straightened the Ashanti spear, and then moved to the bookcase and leveled a couple of volumes. “But I’ve already told you everything I can think of.”

“Someone lit those fires deliberately, Dr. Shaw,” Pitt reminded him.

Shaw winced and looked at Pitt. “I know that. If I had the faintest idea, don’t you think I’d tell you?”

“What about your patients? Have you treated anyone for any disease that they might wish to conceal—”

“For God’s sake, what?” Shaw stared at him, eyes wide. “If it were contagious I should report it, regardless of what they wished! If it were insanity I should have them committed!”

“What about syphilis?”

Shaw stopped in mid movement, his arms in the air. “Touché,” he said very quietly. “Both contagious and causing insanity in the end. And I should very probably keep silence. I certainly should not make it public.” A flicker of irony crossed his face. “It is not passed by shaking hands or sharing a glass of wine, nor is the insanity secret or homicidal.”

“And have you treated any such cases?” Pitt smiled blandly, and had no intention of allowing Shaw to sidestep an answer.

“If I had, I should not break a patient’s confidence now.” Shaw looked back at him with candor and complete defiance. “Nor will I discuss with you any other medical confidence I may have received—on any subject.”

“Then we may be some considerable time discovering who murdered your wife, Dr. Shaw.” Pitt looked at him coolly. “But I will not stop trying, whatever I have to overturn to find the truth. Apart from the fact that it is my job—the more I hear of her, the more I believe she deserves it.”

Shaw’s face paled and the muscles tightened in his neck and his mouth pulled thin as if he had been caught by some necessary inner pain, but he did not speak.

Pitt knew he was wounding, and hated it, but to withhold now might make it worse in the close future.

“And if, as seems probable, it was not your wife the murderer was after,” he went on, “but yourself, then he—or she—will very possibly try again. I assume you have considered that?”

Shaw’s face was white.

“I have, Mr. Pitt,” he said very quietly. “But I cannot break my code of medical ethics on that chance—even were it a certainty. To betray my patients would not necessarily save me—and it is not a bargain I am prepared to make. Whatever you learn, you will have to do it in some other way.”

Pitt was not surprised. It was what he had expected of the man, and in spite of the frustration, he would have been at least in part disappointed had he received more.

He glanced at Lindsay’s face, pink in the reflected firelight, and saw a deep affection in it and a certain wry satisfaction. He too would have suffered a loss had Shaw been willing to speak.

“Then I had better continue with it in my own way,” Pitt accepted, standing a little straighter. “Good day, Mr. Lindsay, and thank you for your frankness. Good day, Dr. Shaw.”

“Good day, sir,” Lindsay replied with unusual courtesy, and Shaw stood silent by the bookshelves.

The manservant returned and showed him out into the autumn sunlight, thin and gold, and the wind scurrying dry leaves along the footpath. It took him half an hour’s brisk walk before he found a hansom to take him back into the city.