preserve it, and counts the privilege of battle the only reward.”
Murdo looked nonplussed.
Pitt struggled with memory of
“Was your distress due to Mrs. Shaw’s death?” Pitt asked. “Or other concerns as well? You spoke of evil-a general sense-”
“That was quite appalling.” Pascoe’s face looked drained, as if he were totally contused and overcome by events. “But there are other things as well.” He shook his head a little and frowned. “I know I keep returning to John Dalgetty, but his attitude towards deriding the old values and breaking them down in order to build new …” He looked at Pitt. “I don’t condemn all new ideas, not at all. But so many of the things he advocates are destructive.”
Pitt did not reply, knowing there was no good response and choosing to listen.
Pascoe’s eyes wrinkled up. “He questions all the foundations we have built up over centuries, he casts doubt on the very origin of man and God, he makes the young believe they are invulnerable to the evil of false ideals, the corrosion of cynicism and irresponsibility-and at the same time strips them of the armor of faith. They want to break up and change things without thought. They think they can have things without laboring for them.” He bit his lip and scowled. “What can we do, Mr. Pitt? I have lain awake in the night and wrestled with it, and I know less now than when I started.”
He stood up and walked towards the window, then swung around and came back again.
“I have been to him, of course, pleaded with him to withhold some of the publications he sells, asked him not to praise some of the works he does, especially this Fabian political philosophy. But to no avail.” He waved his hands. “All he says is that information is sacred and all men must have the right to hear and judge for themselves what they believe-and similarly, everyone must be free to put forward any ideas they please, be they true or false, good or evil, creative or destructive. And nothing I say dissuades him. And of course Shaw encourages him with his ideas of what is humorous, when it is really at other people’s expense.”
Murdo was unused to such passion over ideas. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“The thing is,” Pascoe continued intently, “people do not always know when he is joking. Take that wretched business of Lindsay. I am profoundly grieved he is dead-and I did not dislike him personally, you understand-but I felt he was deeply wrong to have written that monograph. There are foolish people, you know”-he searched Pitt’s face-“who believe this new nonsense about a political order which promises justice by taking away private property and paying everyone the same, regardless of how clever or how diligent they are. I don’t suppose you’ve read this miserable Irishman, George Bernard Shaw? He writes so divisively, as if he were trying to stir up contention and make people dissatisfied. He talks of people with large appetites and no dinner at one end, and at the other, people with large dinners and no appetites. And of course he is all for freedom of speech.” He laughed sharply. “He would be, wouldn’t he? He wants to be able to say anything he pleases himself. And Lindsay reported him.”
He stopped suddenly. “I’m sorry. I know nothing that can be of help to you, and I do not wish to speak ill of others when such an issue is at stake, especially the dead. I slept deeply until I was awoken by the fire bells, and poor Lindsay’s house was a bonfire in the sky.”
Pitt and Murdo left, each in his own thoughts as they stepped out of the shelter of the porch into the icy wind. All through an unfruitful visit to the Clitheridges they said nothing to each other. Lindsay’s manservant could give them no help as to the origin of the fire, only that he had woken when the smell of smoke had penetrated his quarters, at the back of the house, by which time the main building was burning fiercely and his attempts to rescue his master were hopeless. He had opened the connecting door to be met by a wall of flame, and even as he sat hunched in Clitheridge’s armchair, his face bore mute witness to the dedication of his efforts. His skin was red and wealed with blisters, his hands were bound in thin gauze and linen, and were useless to him.
“Dr. Shaw was ’round here early this morning to put balm on them and bind them for him,” Lally said with shining admiration in her eyes. “I don’t know how he can find the strength, after this new tragedy. He was so fond of Amos Lindsay, you know, apart from the sheer horror of it. I think he must be the strongest man I know.”
There had been a bleak look of defeat in Clitheridge’s face for an instant as she spoke, and Pitt had imagined a world of frustration, petty inadequacies and fear of other people’s raw emotion that must have been the vicar’s lot. He was not a man to whom passion came easily; rather the slow-burning, inner turmoil of repressed feelings, too much thought and too much uncertainty. In that instant he felt an overwhelming pity for him; and then turning and seeing Lally’s eager, self-critical face, for her also. She was drawn to Shaw in spite of herself, trying to explain it in acceptable terms of admiration for his virtues, and knowing it was immeasurably deeper than that and quite different.
They left having learned nothing that seemed of use, except Oliphant’s address, where they discovered that Shaw was out on a call.
At the Red Lion public house they ate hot steak and kidney pudding with a rich suet crust which was light as foam, and green vegetables, then a thick fruit pie and a glass of cider.
Murdo leaned back in his chair, his face flushed with physical well-being.
Pitt rose to his feet, to Murdo’s chagrin.
“The Misses Worlingham,” he announced. “By the way, do we know who reported the fire? It seems no one we know saw it till the engines were here, except Lindsay’s manservant, and he was too busy trying to get Lindsay out.”
“Yes sir, a man over in Holly Village was away from home in Holloway.” He flushed faintly as he searched for the right word. “An assignation. He saw the glow, and being in mind of the first fire he knew what it was and called the engine.” Reluctantly he followed Pitt out into the wind again. “Sir, what do you expect to learn from the Misses Worlingham?”
“I don’t know. Something about Shaw and Clemency, perhaps; or Theophilus’s death.”
“Do you think Theophilus was murdered?” Murdo’s voice changed and he faltered in his stride as the thought occurred to him. “Do you think Shaw killed him so his wife would inherit sooner? Then he killed his wife? That’s dreadful. But why Lindsay, sir? What had he to gain from that? Surely he wouldn’t have done it as a blind, just because it was-pointless.” The enormity of it made him shudder and nearly miss his footstep on the path.
“I doubt it,” Pitt replied, stretching his pace to keep warm and pulling his muffler tighter around his neck. It was cold enough to snow. “But he’s stayed with Lindsay for several days. Lindsay’s no fool. If Shaw made a mistake, betrayed himself in some way by a word, or an omission, Lindsay would have seen it and understood what it meant. He may have said nothing at the time, but Shaw, knowing his own guilt and fearing discovery, may have been frightened by the smallest thing, and acted immediately to protect himself.”
Murdo hunched his shoulders and his face tightened as the ugliness of the thought caught hold of his mind. He looked cold and miserable in spite of his burned face.
“Do you think so, sir?”
“I don’t know, but it’s possible. We can’t ignore it.”
“It’s brutal.”
“Burning people to death is brutal.” Pitt clenched his teeth against the wind stinging the flesh and creeping into every ill-covered corner of neck and wrist and ankle. “We’re not looking for a moderate or squeamish man-or woman.”
Murdo looked away, refusing to meet Pitt’s eyes or even guess his thoughts when he spoke of women and these crimes. “There must be other motives,” he said doggedly. “Shaw’s a doctor. He could have treated all kinds of diseases, deaths that someone wants hidden-or at least the way of it. What if someone else murdered Theophilus Worlingham?”
“Who?” Pitt asked.
“Mrs. Shaw? She would inherit.”
“And then burned herself to death-and Lindsay?” Pitt said sarcastically.
Murdo restrained an angry answer with difficulty. Pitt was his superior and he dared not be openly rude, but the unhappiness inside him wanted to lash out. Every time Pitt mentioned motive Flora’s face came back to his mind, flushed with anger, lovely, full of fire to defend Shaw.
Pitt’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“But you are right; there is a whole area of motive we haven’t even begun to uncover. God knows what ugly or tragic secrets. We’ve got to get Shaw to tell us.”
