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
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. “Touche,” 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
