with the words of the Twenty-third Psalm, “Wickedness has been entertained, and invited to take up its abode with us,” he went on.
“Do you know by whom, Mr. Hatch?” It was surely a futile question, and yet Pitt felt impelled to ask it. Murdo behind him, silent until now, shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
Hatch looked around in surprise. “God forgive him and give him peace, by Lindsay himself. He spread dark ideas of revolution and anarchy, overthrow of the order of things as they are. He wanted some new society where individual ownership of property was done away and men were no longer rewarded according to their ability and effort but given a common wage regardless. It would do away with self-reliance, diligence, industry and responsibility-all the virtues which have made the Empire great and the nation the envy of all the Christian world.” His face was pinched with anger at the distortion, and grief for all that would be lost. “And John Dalgetty published them-to his dishonor-but he is a foolish man forever pursuing what he imagines is justice and a kind of freedom of the mind that has become all important to him, consuming all his better judgment. In his frenzy he deludes others.”
He looked at Pitt. “Poor Pascoe has done all he can to dissuade him, and then to prevent him by public opinion, and even the law; but he is puny against the tide of inquisitiveness and disobedience in mankind and the passion for novelty-always novelty.” His body was clenched under his clothes, aching with tension. “Novelty at any price! New sciences, a new social order, new art-we are insatiable. The minute we have seen a thing, we want to cast it aside and find something else. We worship freedom as if it were some infinite good. But you cannot escape morality-freedom from the consequence of your acts is the great delusion at the core of all this”-he flung his hand out-“this frenzy for newness-and for irresponsibility. We have been from the first a race that hungers for forbidden knowledge and would eat the fruit of sin and death. God commanded our first parents to abstain, and they would not. What chance has poor Quinton Pascoe?”
His face tightened and a look of defeat washed his whole countenance with pain. “And Stephen in his arrogance upheld Dalgetty and made mock of Pascoe and his attempts to protect the weak and the sensitive from the cruder expressions of ideas that could only injure and frighten at bestand at worst deprave. Mockery of the truth, of all man’s past aspirations to higher good, is one of the Evil One’s most fearsome weapons, and God help him, Stephen has been more than willing to use it.”
“Josiah-I think you speak too harshly,” Prudence protested. “I know Stephen speaks foolishly at times, but there is no cruelty in him-”
He turned around to her, his face grim, his eyes burning. “You know him very little, my dear. You see only the best. That is to your credit-and it is what I intend shall continue, but be counseled by me: I have heard him say much that I shall never repeat to you, which has been both cruel and degraded. He has a contempt for the virtues which you most admire.”
“Oh, Josiah, are you sure? Could you not perhaps have misunderstood him? He has an unfortunate sense of humor at times-and-”
“I could not!” He was absolute. “I am perfectly capable of telling when he is attempting to be amusing and when he means what he says, however superficially he covers it with lightness. The essence of mockery, Prudence, is that it should make good people laugh at what they would otherwise have taken seriously and loved-to make moral purity, labor, hope, and belief in people, seem ridiculous to them-things of jest to be derided.”
Prudence opened her mouth to refute what he was saying; then recalling some other knowledge, some fact until then secondary, she colored with embarrassment and looked down at the floor. Pitt was aware of her misery as if she had touched him, but he had no idea what caused it. She wanted to defend Shaw, but why? Affection, simple compassion because she believed his suffering to be genuine, or some other reason unguessed by him yet? And what held her back?
“I regret we cannot help you,” Hatch said civilly, but he could not mask the exhaustion in his voice, nor the shock in his eyes. He was on the point of collapse, and it was nearly four in the morning.
Pitt gave up. “Thank you for your time now, and your courtesy. We will not keep you up longer. Good night, sir-Mrs. Hatch.”
Outside the night was black and the wind whined in the darkness, glaring red over towards the ruins of Amos Lindsay’s house. The street was still full of fire engines, and firemen were walking the horses up and down to keep them from chilling.
“Go home,” Pitt said to Murdo, stamping his feet on the ice around the pavement. “Get a few hours’ sleep and I’ll see you at the station at ten.”
“Yes sir. Do you think Shaw did it himself, sir? To cover the murder of his wife?”
Pitt looked at Murdo’s scorched and miserable face. He knew what he was thinking.
“Over Flora Lutterworth? Possibly. She’s a handsome girl, and can expect a lot of money. But I doubt Flora had any part in it. Now go home and sleep-and get that hand attended to. If that blister breaks and you get it dirty, God knows what infection you could get. Good night, Murdo.”
“Good night, sir.” And Murdo turned and made his way hastily across the road and past the firemen up towards Highgate.
It took Pitt nearly half an hour to find a cab, and then he only succeeded because some late-night junketer had failed to pay his fare and the cabby was standing on the pavement calling after him instead of making a hasty return to his own bed. He grumbled, and asked for extra, but since Bloomsbury was more or less on his way, he weighed exhaustion against profit and came out on the side of profit.
Charlotte came flying down the stairs almost before Pitt had the door shut, a shawl caught half around her shoulders and no slippers on. She stared at him, waiting for the answer.
“Amos Lindsay’s dead,” he said, taking off his boots and moving frozen toes inside his socks. Really he ought to put his socks in the kitchen to dry out. “Shaw was out on a call again. He got back soon after we arrived.” His coat fell off the hook behind him and landed in a heap on the floor. He was too tired to care. “The servants are all right.”
She hesitated only a moment, absorbing the knowledge. Then she came down the rest of the stairs and put her arms around him, her head against his shoulder. There was no need to talk now; all she could think of was relief, and how cold he was, and dirty, and tired. She wanted to hold him and ease out the horror, make him warm again and let him sleep, as if he had been a child.
“The bed’s warm,” she said at last.
“I’m covered in smut and the smell of smoke,” he answered, stroking her hair.
“I’ll wash the sheets,” she said without moving.
“You’ll have to soak them,” he warned.
“I know. What time do you have to go back?”
“I told Murdo ten o’clock.”
“Then don’t stand here shivering.” She stood back and held out her hand.
Silently he followed her upstairs and as soon as his outer clothes were off, fell gratefully into the warm sheets and held her close to him. Within minutes he was asleep.
Pitt slept late and when he woke Charlotte was already up. He dressed quickly and was downstairs for hot water to shave within five minutes and at the breakfast table in ten to share the meal with his children. This was a rare pleasure, since he was too often gone when they ate.
“Good morning, Jemima,” he said formally. “Good morning, Daniel.”
“Good morning, Papa,” they replied as he sat down. Daniel stopped eating his porridge, spoon in the air, a drop of milk on his chin. His face was soft and the features still barely formed. His baby teeth were even and perfectly formed. He had Pitt’s dark curls-unlike Jemima, two years older, who had her mother’s auburn coloring, but her hair had to be tied in rags all night if it were to curl.
“Eat your porridge,” Jemima ordered him, taking another spoonful of her own. She was inquisitive, bossy, fiercely protective of him, and seldom stopped talking. “You’ll get cold in school if you don’t!”
Pitt hid a smile, wondering where she had picked up that piece of information.
Daniel obeyed. He had learned in his four years of life that it was a lot easier in the long run than arguing, and his nature was not quarrelsome or assertive, except over issues that mattered, like who had how much pudding, or that the wooden fire engine was his, not hers, and that since he was the boy he had the right to walk on the outside. And the hoop was also his-and the stick that went with it.
She was agreeable to most of these, except walking on the outside-she was older, and taller, and therefore it
