case than about anything else he could remember, did not see a flicker of fear or comprehension in Lutterworth’s face.
“I own this ’ouse, lock, stock and barrel, and the ground it stands on.” Lutterworth unconsciously stiffened a fraction and pulled his shoulders straighter. “And I own a couple o’ rows o’ terraced ’ouses outside o’ Manchester. Built ’em for my workers, I did. And good ’ouses they are, solid as the earth beneath ’em. Don’t let water, chimneys don’t smoke, privies in every back garden, an’ a standpipe to every one of ’em. Can’t say fairer than that.”
“And that’s all the property you own, Mr. Lutterworth?” Pitt’s voice was lighter, a thread of relief in it already. “Could you prove that?”
“I could if I were minded to.” Lutterworth was eyeing him curiously, his hands pushed deep into his pockets. “But why should I?”
“Because the cause of Mrs. Shaw’s murder, and Mr. Lindsay’s, may lie in the ownership of property in London,” Pitt replied, glancing for less than a second at Flora, and away again.
“Balderdash!” Lutterworth said briskly. “If you ask me, Shaw killed ’is wife so ’e could be free to come after my Flora, and then ’e killed Lindsay because Lindsay knew what ’e was up to. Give ’imself away somehow-bragging, I shouldn’t wonder, and went too far. Well ’e’ll damn well not marry Flora-for my money, or anything else. I won’t let ’er-and ’e’ll not wait till I’m gone for ’er, I’ll be bound.”
“Papa!” Flora would not be hushed anymore, by discretion or filial duty or even the embarrassment which flamed scarlet up her cheeks now. “You are saying wicked things which are quite untrue.”
“I’ll not have argument.” He rounded on her, his own color high. “Can you tell me you haven’t been seeing ’im, sneaking in and out of his house when you thought no one was looking?”
She was on the verge of tears and Murdo tensed as if to step forward, but Pitt shot him a stony glare, his face tight.
Murdo longed to save her so desperately his body ached with the fierceness of his effort to control himself, but he had no idea what to say or do. It all had a dreadful inevitability, like a stone that has already started falling and must complete its journey.
“It was not illicit.” She chose her words carefully, doing her best to ignore Pitt and Murdo standing like intrusive furniture in the room, and all her attention was focused on her father. “It was … was just-private.”
Lutterworth’s face was distorted with pain as well as fury. She was the one person left in the world he loved, and she had betrayed herself, and so wounded him where he could not bear it.
“Secret!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the back of the armchair beside him. “Decent women don’t creep in the back door o’ men’s houses to see them in secret. Was Mrs. Shaw there? Was she? And don’t lie to me, girl. Was she in the room with you-all the time?”
Flora’s voice was a whisper, so strained it was barely heard.
“No.”
“O’ course she wasn’t!” He threw out the words in a mixture of anguish because they were true and a desperate kind of triumph that at least she had not lied. “I know that. I know she’d gone out because half Highgate knows it. But I’ll tell you this, my girl-I don’t care what Highgate says, or all London society either-they can call you anything they can lay their tongues to. I’ll not let you marry Shaw-and that’s final.”
“I don’t want to marry him!” The tears were running down her face now. Her hand flew to her mouth and she bit her teeth on her finger as if the physical pain relieved her distress. “He’s my doctor!”
“He’s my doctor too.” Lutterworth had not yet understood the change in her. “I don’t go creeping in at the back door after him. I go to him openly, like an honest man.”
“You don’t have the same complaint as I do.” Her voice was choked with tears and she refused to look at any of them, least of all Murdo. “He allowed me to go whenever I was in pain-and he-”
“Pain?” Lutterworth was horrified, all his anger drained away, leaving him pale and frightened. “What sort of pain? What’s wrong with you?” Already he moved towards her as if she were about to collapse. “Flora? Flora, what is it? We’ll get the best doctors in England. Why didn’t you tell me, girl?”
She turned away from him, hunching her shoulders. “It’s not an illness. It’s just-please let me be! Leave me a little decency. Do I have to detail my most private discomforts in front of policemen?”
Lutterworth had forgotten Pitt and Murdo. Now he swung around, ready to attack them for their crassness, then only just in time remembered that it was he who had demanded the explanation of her, not they.
“I have no property in London, Mr. Pitt, and if you want me to prove it to you I daresay I can.” His face set hard and he balanced squarely on his feet. “My finances are open to you whenever you care to look at them. My daughter has nothing to tell you about her relationship with her doctor. It is a perfectly correct matter, but it is private, and is privileged to remain so. It is only decent.” He met Pitt’s eyes defiantly. “I am sure you would not wish your wife’s medical condition to be the subject of other men’s conversation. I know nothing further with which I can help you. I wish you good day.” And he stepped over and rang the bell to have the maid show them out.
Pitt dispatched Murdo to question Shaw’s previous servants again. The butler was recovering slowly and so was able to speak more lucidly. He might recall some details which he had been too shocked and in too much pain to think of before. Also Lindsay’s manservant might be more forthcoming on a second or third attempt. Pitt most especially wanted to know what the man knew of Lindsay’s last two days before the fire. Something, a word or an act, must have precipitated it. All the pieces gathered from one place and another might point to an answer.
Pitt himself returned to the boardinghouse, where he intended to wait for Shaw as long as might be necessary, and question the man until he learned some answers, however long that took, and however brutal it required him to be.
The landlady was getting used to people coming to the door and asking for Dr. Shaw, and to several of them requesting to sit in the parlor and wait for him to return. She treated Pitt with sympathy, having forgotten who he was, and regarding him as one of the doctor’s patients, in need of a gentle word and a hot cup of tea.
He accepted both with a slight twinge of conscience, and warmed himself in front of the fire for twenty minutes until Shaw came in in a whirl of activity, setting his bag down on the chair by the desk, his stick up against the wall, having forgotten to put it in the hall stand, his hat on top of the desk and his coat where the landlady was waiting to take it from him. She picked up the rest of his apparel, scarf, gloves, hat and stick, and took them all out as if it were her custom and her pleasure. It seemed she had already developed a certain fondness for him even in these few days.
Shaw faced Pitt with some surprise, a guardedness in his eyes, but no dislike.
“ ’Morning Pitt, what is it now? Have you discovered something?” He stood near the center of the room, hands in his pockets, and yet giving the appearance of being so balanced on his feet that he was ready for some intense action, only waiting to know what it might be. “Well, what is it, man? What have you learned?”
Pitt wished he had something to tell him, for Shaw’s own sake, and because he felt so inadequate that he still had almost no idea who had started the fires or why, or even beyond question whether it was Shaw who was the intended victim or Clemency. He had begun by being sure it was Shaw; now with Charlotte’s conviction that it was Clemency’s activities to expose slum profiteers which had provoked it, his own certainty was shaken. But there was no point in lying; it was shabby and they both deserved better.
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything further.” He saw Shaw’s face tighten and a keenness die from his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he added unhappily. “The forensic evidence tells me nothing except that the fire was started in four separate places in your house and three in Mr. Lindsay’s, with some kind of fuel oil, probably ordinary lamp oil, poured onto the curtains in the downstairs rooms where it would catch quickly, climb upwards taking the whole window embrasure, and then any wooden furniture.”
Shaw frowned. “How did they get in? We’d have heard breaking glass. And I certainly didn’t leave any downstairs windows open.”
“It isn’t very difficult to cut glass,” Pitt pointed out. “You can do it silently if you stick a piece of paper over it with a little glue. In the criminal fraternity they call it ‘star glazing.’ Of course they use it to reach in and undo the catch rather than to pour in oil and drop a taper.”
“You think it was an ordinary thief turned assassin?” Shaw’s brows rose in incredulity. “Why, for heaven’s sake? It doesn’t make any sense!” There was disappointment in his face, primarily in Pitt for having thought of nothing better than this.
Pitt was stung. Even though Shaw might be the murderer himself, and he hated to acknowledge that thought, he still respected the man and wanted his good opinion in return.
“I don’t think it was an ordinary thief at all,” he said quickly. “I am simply saying that there is a very ordinary
