ownership of every piece of rotten plaster and sagging timber in London, every blind alley, open drain and crumbling pile of masonry, every wretched home of cold and frightened people. He knew because he had tried. He blushed hot at the memory of it; it was a kind of betrayal that he had let the thought take root in his mind and had asked questions about Lutterworth’s finances, the source of his income and if it could involve rents. But it was not as easy as he had imagined. Money came from companies, but what did those companies do? Time had been short, and he had no official instructions to give his questions the force of law.
Nothing had been resolved; he was simply uncertain and appallingly conscious of his guilt. Nothing he could even imagine doing would remove the ache of fear and imagination at the back of his mind.
He saw Flora’s face in his heart’s eye and all the pain and the shame she would feel burned through him till he could hardly bear it. He was even glad to hear Pitt’s footsteps return and to be told their duty for the morning. Part of him was still outraged that they sent an outsider-did they think Highgate’s own men were incompetent? And part of him was immensely grateful that the responsibility was not theirs. This was a very ugly case, and the resolution seemed as far off now as it had when they were standing in the wet street staring at the smoldering remains of Shaw’s house, long before the taper was struck to set Lindsay’s alight.
“Yes sir?” he said automatically as Pitt came around the corner and into the foyer where he was standing. “Where to, sir?”
“Mr. Alfred Lutterworth’s, I think,” Pitt barely hesitated on his way out. He had been to the local superintendent, as a matter of courtesy, and on the small chance that something had occurred that Murdo did not know about, some thread worth following.
But the superintendent had looked at him with his habitual disfavor and reported with some satisfaction another fire, in Kentish town, a possible lead on the arsonist he personally was sure was the guilty party in all cases, and rather a negative report on house insurance and the unlikelihood of either Shaw or Lindsay being involved in fire for the purposes of fraud.
“Well I hardly imagined Lindsay burned himself to death to claim the insurance!” Pitt had snapped back.
“No sir,” the superintendent had said coldly, his eyes wide. “Neither did we. But then we are confident the fires were all set by the arsonist in Kentish Town-sir.”
“Indeed.” Pitt had been noncommittal. “Odd there were only two houses that were occupied.”
“Well he didn’t know Shaw’s was-did he?” the superintendent had said irritably. “Shaw was out, and everyone thought Mrs. Shaw was too. She only canceled at the last minute.”
“The only people who thought Mrs. Shaw was out were the people who knew her,” Pitt had said with satisfaction.
The superintendent had glared at him and returned to his desk, leaving Pitt to go out of the door in silence.
Now he was ready to go and probe and watch and listen to people, where his true art lay. He had days ago given up expecting things to tell him anything. Murdo’s heart sank, but there was no escaping duty. He followed Pitt and caught up with him, and together they walked along the damp, leaf-scattered footpath towards the Lutterworths’ house.
They were admitted by the maid and shown into the morning room, where there was a brisk fire burning and a bowl of tawny chrysanthemums on the heavy Tudor dresser. Neither of them sat, although it was nearly quarter of an hour before Lutterworth appeared, closely followed by Flora, dressed in a dark blue stuff gown and looking pale but composed. She glanced at Murdo only once, and her eyes flickered away immediately, a faint, self- conscious flush on her cheeks.
Murdo remained in a bitterly painful silence. He longed to help her; he wanted to hit out at someone-Shaw, Lutterworth for allowing all this to happen and not protecting her, and Pitt for forging blindly ahead with his duty, regardless of the chaos it caused.
For an instant he hated Pitt for not hurting as much as he did, as if he were oblivious of pain; then he looked sideways for just a moment at him, and realized his error. Pitt’s face was tense; there were shadows under his eyes and the fine lines in his skin were all weary and conscious of realms of suffering past and to come, and of his inability to heal it.
Murdo let out his breath in a sigh, and kept silent.
Lutterworth faced them across the expensive Turkish carpet. None of them sat.
“Well, what is it now?” he demanded. “I know nowt I ’aven’t told you. I’ve no idea why anyone killed poor old Lindsay, unless it was Shaw, because the old man saw through ’im and ’ad to be silenced. Or it were that daft Pascoe, because ’e thought as Lindsay were an anarchist.
“Take that Orse.” He pointed to a fine figurine on the mantel shelf. “Bought that wi’ me first big year’s profit, when the mill started to do well. Got a fine consignment o’ cloth and sold it ourselves-in the Cape. Turned a pretty penny, did that. Got the ’orse to remind me o’ me early days when me and Ellen, that’s Flora’s mother”-he took a deep breath and let it out slowly to give himself time to regain his composure-“when me and Ellen went courtin’. Didn’t ’ave no carriage. We used to ride an ’orse like that-’er up in front o’ me, an me be’ind wi’ me arms ’round ’er. Them was good days. Every time I look at that ’orse I think o’ them-like I could still see the sunlight through the trees on the dry earth and smell the ’orse’s warm body and the ’ay in the wind, an’ see the blossom in the ’edges like fallen snow, sweet as ’oney, and my Ellen’s ’air brighter’n a peeled chestnut-an’ ’ear’er laugh.”
He stood motionless, enveloped in the past. No one wanted to be the first to invade with the ugliness and immediacy of the present.
It was Pitt who broke the spell, and with words Murdo had not foreseen.
“What past do you think Mr. Lindsay recalled in his African artifacts, Mr. Lutterworth?”
“I don’t know.” Lutterworth smiled ruefully. “ ’Is wife, mebbe. That’s what most men remember.”
“His wife!” Pitt was startled. “I didn’t know Lindsay was married.”
“No-well, no reason why you should.” Lutterworth looked faintly sorry. “ ’E didn’t tell everyone. She died a long time ago-twenty years or more. Reckon as that’s why ’e came ’ome. Not that ’e said so, mind.”
“Were there any children?”
“Several, I think.”
“Where are they? They’ve not come forward. His will didn’t mention any.”
“It wouldn’t. They’re in Africa.”
“That wouldn’t stop them inheriting.”
“What-an ’ouse in ’Ighgate and a few books and mementos of Africa!” Lutterworth was smiling at some deep inner satisfaction.
“Why not?” Pitt demanded. “There were a great many books, some on anthropology must be worth a great deal.”
“Not to them.” Lutterworth’s lips smiled grimly.
“Why not? And there’s the house!”
“Not much use to a black man who lives in a jungle.” Lutterworth looked at Pitt with dour satisfaction, savoring the surprise on his face. “That’s it-Lindsay’s wife was African, beautiful woman, black as your ’at. I saw a picture of ’er once. He showed me. I was talking about my Ellen, an’ ’e showed me. Never saw a gentler face in me life. Couldn’t pronounce ’er name, even when ’e said it slow, but ’e told me it meant some kind o’ river bird.”
“Did anyone else know about her?”
“No idea. He may have told Shaw. I suppose you ’aven’t arrested him yet?”
“Papa!” Flora spoke for the first time, a cry of protest torn out in spite of herself.
“An’ I’ll not ’ave a word about it from you, my girl,” Lutterworth said fiercely. “ ’E’s done enough damage to you already. Your name’s a byword ’round ’ere, runnin’ after ’im like a lovesick parlormaid.”
Flora blushed scarlet and fumbled for words to defend herself, and found none.
Murdo was in an agony of impotence. Had Lutterworth glanced at him he would have been startled by the fury in his eyes, but he was occupied with the irresponsibility he saw in his daughter.
“Well what do you want wi’ me?” he snapped at Pitt. “Not to hear about Amos Lindsay’s dead wife-poor devil.”
“No,” Pitt agreed. “Actually I came to ask you about what properties you own in the city.”
“What?” Lutterworth was so utterly taken aback it was hard not to believe he was as startled as he seemed. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about, man? What property?”
“Housing, to be exact.” Pitt was watching him closely, but even Murdo who cared more intensely about this
