“By accident.” Shaw was watching him with bright, amused eyes. “I was making a medical call on an artist on hard times, and he tried to pay me with a painting of Maude. I didn’t take it, but I would like to have. Apart from the irony of it, it was damned good-but someone would have seen it. My heaven, she was a handsome woman. Still is, for that matter.”
“Does Dalgetty know that you know this?” Pitt was curious whether he would believe the answer, either way.
“I’ve no idea,” Shaw replied with apparent candor. “Maude does-I told her.”
“And was she distressed?”
“A trifle embarrassed at first; then she saw the humor of it, and knew that I’d not tell anyone.”
“You told me,” Pitt pointed out.
“You are hardly Highgate society.” Shaw was equally blunt, but there was no cruelty in his face. Highgate society was not something he admired, nor did he consider exclusion from it to be any disadvantage. “And I judge you not to be a man who would ruin her reputation for no reason but malice-or a loose tongue.”
Pitt smiled in spite of himself. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said with undisguised irony. “Now if you would turn your attention to the few days you were staying at Mr. Lindsay’s house, especially the last forty-eight hours before the fire. Can you remember any conversations you had with him about the first fire, about Mrs. Shaw, or about anyone who could possibly be connected with a reason to kill her, or you?”
Shaw pulled a bleak face and the humor died from his eyes.
“That covers just about everyone, since I haven’t any idea why anyone should hate me enough to burn me to death. Of course I’ve quarreled with people now and again-who hasn’t? But no sane person bears grudges over a difference of opinion.”
“I don’t mean a general philosophy, Doctor.” Pitt held him to the point. The answer might lie in his memory. Something had triggered in a murderer’s mind the need to protect himself-or herself-so violenuy that the person had risked exposure by killing again. “Recall which patients you saw those last few days; you must have notes if you can’t remember. What times did you come and go, when did you eat? What did you say to each other at table? Think!”
Shaw slumped in his chair and his face became lost in an effort of concentration. Pitt did not interrupt or prompt him.
“I remember Clitheridge came on the Thursday,” Shaw said at last. “Early in the evening, just as we were about to dine. I had been out to see a man with stones. He was in great pain. I knew they would pass in time, but I wished there was more I could do to ease him. I came home very tired-the last thing I wanted was a lot of platitudes from the vicar. I’m afraid I was rude to him. He intends well, but he never gets to the point; he goes ’round and ’round things without saying what he means. I’ve begun to wonder if he really does mean anything, or if he thinks in the same idiotic homilies he speaks. Perhaps he’s empty, and there’s no one inside?” He sniffed. “Poor Lally.”
Pitt allowed him to resume in his own time.
“Amos was civil to him.” Shaw continued after a moment. “I suppose he picked up my errors and omissions rather often, especially in the last few weeks.” Again the deep pain suffused his face, and Pitt felt like an intruder sitting so close to him. Shaw drew a deep breath. “Clitheridge went off as soon as he had satisfied his duty. I don’t remember that we talked about anything in particular. I wasn’t really listening. But I do remember the next day, the day before the fire, that both Pascoe and Dalgetty called, because Amos told me about it over dinner. It was about that damn monograph, of course. Dalgetty wanted him to do another, longer one on the new social order, all wrapped ’round in the essential message that freedom to explore the mind is the most sacred thing of all, and knowledge itself is the holiest thing, and every man’s God-given right.” He leaned forward a little again, his eyes searching Pitt’s face, trying to deduce his reaction. Apparently he saw nothing but interest, and continued more quietly.
“Of course Pascoe told him he was irresponsible, that he was undermining the fabric of Christianity and feeding dangerous and frightening ideas to people who did not want them and would not know what to do with them. He seemed to have got the idea that Amos was propagating seeds of revolution and anarchy. Which had an element of truth. I think Dalgetty was interested in the Fabian Society and its ideas on public ownership of the means of production, and more or less equal remuneration for all work”-he laughed sharply-“with the exception of unique minds, of course-by which I gather they mean philosophers and artists.”
Pitt was compelled to smile as well. “Was Lindsay interested in such ideas?” he asked.
“Interested, yes-in agreement, I doubt. But he did approve of their beliefs in appropriation of capital wealth that perpetuates the extreme differences between the propertied classes and the workers.”
“Did he quarrel with Pascoe?” It seemed a remote motive, but he could not leave it unmentioned.
“Yes-but I think it was more flash than heat. Pascoe is a born crusader; he’s always tilting at something- mostly windmills. If it hadn’t been poor Amos, it would have been someone else.”
The faint flicker of motive receded. “Were there any other callers, so far as you know?”
“Only Oliphant, the curate. He came to see me. He made it seem like a general call out of concern for my welfare, and I expect it was. He’s a decent chap; I find myself liking him more each time I see him. Never really noticed him before this, but most of the parishioners speak well of him.”
“ ‘He made it seem,’ ” Pitt prompted.
“Oh-well, he asked several questions about Clemency and her charity work on slum ownership. He wanted to know if she’d said anything to me about what she’d accomplished. Well of course she did. Not every day, just now and again. Actually she managed very little. There are some extremely powerful people who own most of the worst-and most profitable-streets. Financiers, industrialists, members of society, old families-”
“Did she mention any to you that you might have repeated to Oliphant, and thus Lindsay?” Pitt jumped at the thought, slender as it was, and Charlotte’s face came to his mind, eyes bright, chin determined as she set out to trace Clemency’s steps.
Shaw smiled bleakly. “I honestly don’t remember, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying much attention. I tried to be civil because he was so earnest and he obviously cared, but I thought he was wasting his time-and mine.” He drew his brows together. “Do you really think Clemency was actually a threat to someone? She hadn’t a dog in hell’s chance of getting a law passed to disclose who profited out of slum tenements, you know. The worst she could have done would be to get herself sued for slander by some outraged industrialist-”
“Which you would not have liked,” Pitt pointed out quietly. “It would have cost you all you possess, including your reputation, and presumably your livelihood.”
Shaw laughed harshly. “Touche, Inspector. That may look like a perfect motive for me-but if you think she’d have done that, and left me exposed, you didn’t know Clem. She wasn’t a foolish woman and she understood money and reputation.” His eyes were bright with a sad humor close to tears. “Far better than anyone will know now. You won’t understand how much I miss her-and why should I try to explain? I stopped being in love with her long ago- but I think I liked Clem better than anyone else I’ve ever known-even Amos. She and Maude were good friends. She knew all about the modeling-and didn’t give a damn.” He stood up slowly, as if his body ached.
“I’m sorry, Pitt. I have no idea who killed Clem-or Amos, but if I did I should tell you immediately-in the middle of the night, if that’s when it occurred to me. Now get out of here and go and dig somewhere else. I’ve got to eat something, and then go out on more calls. The sick can’t wait.”
The following morning Pitt was disturbed by a loud banging on his front door so urgent he dropped his toast and marmalade and swung up from the kitchen chair and along the hallway in half a dozen strides. In his mind the horror of fire was already gaping at him, nightmarish, and he had a sick premonition that this time it would be the lodging house, and the gentle curate, who found the right words to touch grief, would be in the ashes. It hurt him almost intolerably.
He yanked the door open and saw Murdo standing on the step, damp and miserable in the predawn light. The gas lamp a little beyond him to the left gave him the remnants of a halo in the mist.
“I’m sorry sir, but I thought I should tell you-just in case it has to do with it-sir,” he said wretchedly. His words were unexplained, but apparently made sense to him.
“What are you talking about?” Pitt demanded, beginning to hope it was not fire after all.
“The fight, sir.” Murdo shifted from one foot to the other, patently wishing he had not come. What had begun as a good idea now seemed a very bad one. “Mr. Pascoe and Mr. Dalgetty. Mrs. Dalgetty told the station sergeant last night, but I only just learned of it half an hour ago. Seems they didn’t take it serious-”
