or on the stairs.”
“Where did they start?” Shaw was curious now and unable to remain standing on the spot. He began to move about, first to one table, then another, automatically straightening things, compulsively making them tidier.
Pitt stood where he was, near the sofa.
“The fire chief says it was in the curtains,” he replied. “In every case.”
Shaw’s face showed skepticism, quick and even now with a vestige of humor and critical perception which must normally be characteristic in him. “How does he know that? There wasn’t much”-he swallowed-“left of my home.”
“Pattern of the burning,” Pitt answered gravely. “What was completely consumed, what was damaged but still partially standing; and where rubble and glass falls shows to some extent where the heat was greatest first.”
Shaw shook himself impatiently. “Yes, of course. Stupid question. I’m sorry.” He passed a strong, well-shaped hand over his brow, pushing straight fair hair out of his way. “What do you want from me?”
“What time were you called out, sir, and by whom?” He was half aware of Murdo by the door, pencil and notebook in hand.
“I didn’t look at the clock,” Shaw answered. “About quarter past eleven. Mrs. Wolcott was in childbirth-her husband went to a neighbor’s with a telephone.”
“Where do they live?”
“Over in Kentish Town.” He had an excellent voice with clear diction and a timbre that was unique and remarkably pleasing. “I took the trap and drove. I was there all night until the child was delivered. I was on the way home about five o’clock when the police met me-and told me what had happened-and that Clemency was dead.”
Pitt had seen many people in the first hours of loss; it had often been his duty to bear the news. It never failed to distress him.
“It’s ironic,” Shaw continued, not looking at anyone. “She had intended to go out with Maude Dalgetty and spend the night with friends in Kensington. It was canceled at the last moment. And Mrs. Wolcott was not due for another week. I should have been at home, and Clemency away.” He did not add the obvious conclusion. It hung in the silent room. Lindsay stood somber and motionless. Murdo glanced at Pitt and his thoughts were naked for a moment in his face. Pitt knew them already.
“Who was aware that Mrs. Shaw had changed her mind, sir?” he asked.
Shaw met his eyes. “No one but Maude Dalgetty and myself,” he replied. “And I assume John Dalgetty. I don’t know who else they told. But they didn’t know about Mrs. Wolcott. No one did.”
Lindsay was standing beside him. He put his hand on Shaw’s shoulder in a steadying gesture of friendship. “You have a distinctive trap, Stephen. Whoever it was may have seen you leave and supposed the house empty.”
“Then why burn it?” Shaw said grimly.
Lindsay tightened his grip. “God knows! Why do pyromaniacs do anything? Hatred of those who have more than they? A sense of power-to watch the flames? I don’t know.”
Pitt would not bother to ask whether the home was insured, or for how much; it would be easier and more accurate to inquire through the insurance companies-and less offensive.
There was a knock on the door and the manservant reappeared.
“Yes?” Lindsay said irritably.
“The vicar and his wife have called to convey their condolences to Dr. Shaw, sir, and to offer comfort. Shall I ask them to wait?”
Lindsay turned to Pitt, not for his permission, of course, but to see if he had finished any painful questioning and might now retreat.
Pitt hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether there was anything further he could learn from Shaw now, or if in common humanity he should allow whatever religious comfort there might be and defer his own questions. Perhaps he would actually learn more of Shaw by watching him with those who knew him and had known his wife.
“Inspector?” Lindsay pressed him.
“Of course,” Pitt conceded, although from the expression of defiance and something close to alarm in Shaw’s face, he doubted the vicar’s religious comfort was what he presently desired.
Lindsay nodded and the manservant withdrew, a moment later ushering in a mild, very earnest man in clerical garb. He looked as if he had been athletic in his youth, but now in his forties had become a little lax. There was too much diffidence in him for good looks, but there was nothing of malice or arrogance in his regular features and rather indecisive mouth. His surface attempt at calm masked a deep nervousness, and the occasion was obviously far from being his element.
He was accompanied by a woman with a plain, intelligent face, a little too heavy of eyebrow and strong of nose to be appealing to most people, but a good-natured mouth. In contrast to her husband she projected an intense energy, and it was all directed towards Shaw. She barely saw Lindsay or Pitt, and made no accommodation to them in her manner. Murdo was invisible.
“Ah … hem-” The vicar was plainly confused to see the police still there. He had prepared what he was going to say, and now it did not fit the circumstances and he had nothing else in reserve. “Ah … Reverend Hector Clitheridge.” He introduced himself awkwardly. “My wife, Eulalia.” He indicated the woman beside him, waving his hand, thick wristed and with white cuffs a size too large.
Then he turned to Shaw and his expression altered. He was apparently laboring under some difficulty. He wavered between natural distaste and alarm, and hard-won resolution.
“My dear Shaw, how can I say how sorry I am for this tragedy.” He took half a step forward. “Quite appalling. In the midst of life we are in death. How fragile is human existence in this vale of tears. Suddenly we are struck down. How may we comfort you?”
“Not with platitudes, dammit!” Shaw said tartly.
“Yes, well-I’m sure …” Clitheridge floundered, his face pink.
“People only say some things so often because they are true, Dr. Shaw,” Mrs. Clitheridge said with an eager smile, her eyes on Shaw’s face. “How else can we express our feelings for you, and our desire to offer consolation.”
“Yes quite-quite,” Clitheridge added unnecessarily. “I will take care of any-any, er … arrangements you care to-er … Of course it is soon-er …” He tailed off, looking at the floor.
“Thank you,” Shaw cut across. “I’ll let you know.”
“Of course. Of course.” Clitheridge was patently relieved.
“In the meantime, dear doctor …” Mrs. Clitheridge took a step forward, her eyes bright, her back very straight under her dark bombazine, as if she were approaching something exciting and a little dangerous. “In the meantime, we offer you our condolences, and please feel you may call upon us for anything at all, any task that you would prefer not to perform yourself. My time is yours.”
Shaw looked across at her and the ghost of a smile touched his face. “Thank you, Eulalia. I am sure you mean it kindly.”
The blush deepened in her face, but she said no more. The use of her Christian name was a familiarity, particularly in front of such social inferiors as the police. Pitt thought from the lift of Shaw’s brows that even now he had done it deliberately, an automatic instinct to sweep away pretense.
For a moment Pitt saw them all in a different light, six people in a room, all concerned with the violent death of a woman very close to them, trying to find comfort for themselves and each other, and they observed all the social niceties, masked all the simplicity of real emotion with talk of letters and rituals. And the old habits and reactions were there too: Clitheridge’s reliance on quoting predictable Scriptures, Eulalia’s stepping in for him. Something in her was wakened to a sharper life by Shaw’s personality, and it both pleased and disturbed her. Duty won. Perhaps duty always won.
From Shaw’s tight body and restless movements none of it reached more than a surface, intellectual humor in him. The ache underneath he would bear utterly alone-unless Lindsay had some frank expression that could bridge the gulf.
Pitt stepped back out of the center of the floor and stood next to the patterned curtains, watching. He
