essays-although that has nothing to do with Mrs. Shaw either-but the doctor approved it.”
“That’s hardly a passion to kindle a funeral pyre like that,” Pitt said bitterly. “No, Murdo. We don’t know very much. But dear God-we’re going to find out.” He swung around and walked back towards the fire chief, who was now directing his men to saving the houses in the immediate vicinity.
“Have you any idea if it was set the same way?” Pitt shouted.
The fire chief turned a filthy, miserable face to him.
“Probably. It went up very quick. Two people called us-one saw it from the street at the front, towards the town, the other down towards Holly Village and half at the back. That’s at least two places. From the speed of it I daresay there was more.”
“But you got the servants out? How? Why not Lindsay and Shaw? Were the fires all in the main house?”
“Looks like it. Although by the time we got here it was spread pretty well all over. Got one man badly burned and another with a broken leg getting the servants out.”
“Where are they now?”
“Dunno. Some feller in a nightshirt and cassock was running ’round trying to help, and getting in the way. Good-hearted, I suppose-but a damn nuisance. Woman with ’im ’ad more sense. ’Nother couple over off to the side, looked white as ghosts-woman weeping-but they brought blankets. ’Bin too busy to watch ’em when they’re safe out. Now, I’ll answer your questions tomorrer-”
“Did you get the horse out?” Pitt did not know why he asked it, except some dim memory of terrified animals in another fire long ago in his youth.
“Horse?” The fire chief frowned. “What horse?”
“The doctor’s horse-for his trap.”
“Charlie!” the fire chief yelled at a soaked and filthy man who was walking a few yards away, limping badly. “Charlie!”
“Sir?” Charlie stopped and came over towards them, his eyebrows scorched, his eyes red-rimmed and exhausted.
“You were ’round the back-did you get the horse?”
“Weren’t no ’orse, sir. I looked special. Can’t bear a good animal burnt.”
“Yes there was,” Pitt argued. “Dr. Shaw has a trap, for his calls-”
“No trap neither, sir.” Charlie was adamant. “Stable was still standing when I got there. No ’orse and no trap. Either they was kept somewhere else-or they’re out.”
Out! Was it possible Shaw was not here at all, that once again the fire had not caught him? In all this fearful pyre could only Amos Lindsay be dead?
Who would know? Who could he ask? He turned around in the red night, still loud with the crackling of sparks and the roar and boom of flame. He could see, at the far edge of the tangle of engines, horses, water buckets, ladders, and weary and injured men, the two black figures of Josiah and Prudence Hatch, a little apart from each other, huddled in a private and separate misery. The cassocked figure of Clitheridge was striding along, skirts flying, a flask in his outstretched hand, and Lally was rewrapping a blanket around the shoulders of a tiny kitchen girl who was shuddering so violently Pitt could see it even through the smoke and the melee. Lindsay’s manservant with the polished hair stood alone, stupefied, like a person upright in his sleep.
Pitt skirted around the horses and buckets and the men still working, and started towards the far side. He was off the opposite pavement and in the middle of the road when he heard the clatter of hooves and looked automatically up the street towards Highgate center to see who it was. There was no purpose in more fire engines now-and anyway there was no sound of bells.
It was a trap, horse almost at a gallop, wheels racing and jumping in their speed and recklessness. Pitt knew long before he saw him that it was Shaw, and he felt an intense relief, followed the instant after by a new darkness. If Shaw was alive, then it was still possible he had set both fires, first to kill Clemency, now to kill Lindsay. Why Lindsay? Perhaps in the few days he had stayed with Lindsay, Shaw had betrayed himself by a word, an expression, even something unsaid when it should have been? It was a sickening thought, and yet honesty could not dismiss it.
“Pitt!” Shaw almost fell off the step of the trap and took no trouble even to tie the rein, leaving the horse to go where it would. He grabbed Pitt by the arm, almost swinging him offhis feet. “Pitt! For God’s sake, what’s happened? Where’s Amos? Where are the staff?” His face was so gaunt with horror it was impossible not to be moved by it.
Pitt put out his hand to steady him. “The servants are all right, but I’m afraid Lindsay was not brought out. I’m sorry.”
“No! No!” The cry was torn from Shaw and he plunged forward, bumping into people, knocking them aside in his headlong race towards the flames.
After a moment’s stupefaction Pitt ran after him, leaping a water hose and accidentally sending a fireman flying. He caught Shaw so close to the building the heat was immense and the roaring of the flames seemed almost around them. He brought him to the ground, driving the wind out of him.
“You can’t do anything!” he shouted above the din. “You’ll only get killed yourself!”
Shaw coughed and struggled to get up. “Amos is in there!” His voice was close to hysteria. “I’ve got to-” Then he stopped, on his hands and knees facing the blaze, and realization came to him at last that it was utterly futile. Something inside him collapsed and he made no resistance when Pitt pulled him to his feet.
“Come back, or you’ll get burned,” Pitt said gently.
“What?” Shaw was still staring at the violence of the flames. They were so close the heat was hurting their skin, and the brightness made him screw up his eyes, but he seemed only peripherally aware of it.
“Come back!” Pitt shouted as a beam fell in with a crash and an explosion of sparks. Without thinking he took Shaw by the arms and pulled him as if he had been a frightened animal. For a moment he was afraid Shaw was going to fall over, then at last he obeyed, stumbling a little, careless if he hurt himself.
Pitt wanted to say something of comfort, but what was there? Amos Lindsay was dead, the one man who had seemed to understand Shaw and not be offended by his abrasiveness, who saw beyond the words to the mind and its intent. It was Shaw’s second terrible bereavement in less than two weeks. There was nothing to say that would not be fatuous and offensive, only betraying a complete failure to understand anything of his true pain. Silence at least did not intrude, but it left Pitt feeling helpless and inadequate.
Clitheridge was floundering over towards them, a look of dedication and terror on his face. He obviously had not the faintest idea what to say or do, except that he was determined not to flinch from his duty. At the last moment he was saved by events. The horse in the trap took flight as a piece of burning debris shot past it and it reared up and twisted around.
That at least was something Clitheridge understood. He abandoned Shaw, for whom he could do nothing and whose grief appalled and embarrassed him, and reached instead for the horse, holding the rein close to its head and throwing all his considerable weight against the momentum of its lunge.
“Whoa! Steady-steady now. It’s all right-steady, girl. Hold hard!” And miraculously for once he was completely successful. The animal stopped and stood still, shuddering and rolling its eyes. “Steady,” he said again, full of relief, and began to lead it across the road, away from the roar and heat, and away from Shaw.
“The servants.” At last Shaw spoke. He twisted around on one foot and swayed a little. “What about the servants? Where are they? Are they hurt?”
“Not seriously,” Pitt replied. “They’ll be all right.”
Clitheridge was still across the street with the horse and trap, leading it away, but Oliphant the curate was coming towards them, his thin face lit by the glare from the flames, his figure gawky in a coat whose shoulders were too big. He stopped in front of them and his voice was quiet and certain.
“Dr. Shaw; I lodge with Mrs. Turner up on West Hill. She has other rooms and you’d be welcome to stay there as long as you choose. There is nothing you can do here, and I think a strong cup of tea, some hot water to wash in, and then sleep would help you to face tomorrow.”
Shaw opened his mouth to argue, then realized that Oliphant had not offered facile words of comfort. He had offered practical help and reminded him that there was another day ahead, and regardless of pain or shock, there would be duties, things to do that would be useful and have meaning.
“I-” He struggled for the practical. “I have no-nothing-it is all gone-again-”
“Of course,” Oliphant agreed. “I have an extra nightshirt you are welcome to, and a razor, soap, a clean shirt.
