Highgate Rise tp-11 Page 6

  Charlotte parted from Emily at her own door after a brief hug, and heard the carriage clatter away as she went up the scrubbed steps into the hall. It smelled warm and clean; the sounds of the street were muffled almost to silence. She stood still for a moment. She could just hear Gracie chopping something on a board in the kitchen, and singing to herself. She felt an overwhelming sense of safety, and then gratitude. It was hers, all of it. She did not have to share it with anyone except her own family. No one would put up the rent or threaten her with eviction. There was running water in the kitchen, the range burned hot, and in the parlor and bedrooms there were fires. Sewage ran away unseen, and the garden was sweet with grass and flowers.

  It was very easy to live here every day and forget the uncounted people who had no place warm enough, free of filth and smells, where they could be safe and have privacy enough for dignity.

  Clemency Shaw must have been a most unusual woman to have cared so much for those in tenements and slums. In fact she was remarkable even to have known of their existence. Most well-bred women knew only what they were told, or read in such parts of the newspapers or periodicals as were considered suitable. Charlotte herself had not had any idea until Pitt had shown her the very edges of an utterly different world, and to begin with she had hated him for it.

  Then she’d felt angry. There was a horrible irony that Clemency Shaw should be murdered by the destruction of her home, and whoever had caused it, Charlotte intended to find and expose, and their sordid and greedy motives with them. If Clemency Shaw’s life could not bring attention to the evil of slum profiteers, then Charlotte would do all in her power to see that her death did.

  Emily was bent on a similar purpose, but for slightly different reasons, and in an utterly different fashion. She entered the hallway of her spacious and extremely elegant house in a swirl of skirts and petticoats and flung off her hat, rearranging her hair to look even more casually flattering, fair tendrils curling on her neck and cheeks, and composed her face into an expression of tenderness touched with grief.

  Her new husband was already at home, which she knew from the identity of the footman who had opened the door for her. Had Jack been out, Arthur would have been with him.

  She pushed open the withdrawing room doors and made a dramatic entrance.

  He was sitting by the fire with a tea tray on the low table and his feet up on the stool. The crumpets were already gone; there was only a ring of butter on the plate.

  He smiled with warmth when he heard her and stood up courteously. Then he saw the expression on her face and suddenly his pleasure turned to concern.

  “Emily-what is it? Is something wrong with Charlotte? Is she ill-is it Thomas?”

  “No-no.” She flew to his arms and put her head on his shoulder, partly so he would not meet her eyes. She was not entirely sure how far she could deceive Jack successfully. He was too much like her; he also had survived on his charm and very considerable good looks and he was aware of all the tricks and how to perform them. And it was also because she found herself still very much in love with him, and it was a most comfortable feeling. But she had better explain herself before he became alarmed. “No, Charlotte is perfectly well. But Thomas is engaged on a case which distresses her deeply-and I find I feel the same. A woman was burned to death-a brave and very good woman who was fighting to expose a vicious social evil. Great-Aunt Vespasia is most upset as well.” Now she could abandon subterfuge and face him squarely.

  “Jack, I feel we should do what we can to help-”

  He smoothed her hair gently, kissed her, then with wide eyes and barely the beginning of a smile, met her gaze.

  “Oh yes? And how shall we do that?”

  She made a rapid change of tactics. Drama was not going to win. She smiled back. “I’m not sure-” She bit her lip.

  “What do you think?”

  “What social evil?” he said guardedly. He knew Emily better than she realized.

  “Slum owners who charge exorbitant rents for filthy and crowded tenements-Clemency Shaw wanted to make them answerable to public opinion by not being able to be anonymous behind rent collectors and companies and things.”

  He was silent for so long she began to wonder if he had heard her.

  “Jack?”

  “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes we will-but together. You cannot do anything alone, Emily. We shall be threatening some very powerful people-there are millions of pounds-you’d be surprised how many fortunes are seated in St. Giles and the Devil’s Acre-and the misery there.”

  She smiled very slightly; the thought was ugly and there flashed through her mind the faces of people she had known in her days with George. She had accepted them easily then; it never occurred to her to wonder where their incomes were generated. Certain people simply had money; it was a state of affairs that had always existed. Now she was less innocent, and it was not a comfortable feeling.

  Jack Was still holding her. He brushed one finger gently over her forehead, pushing back a wisp of hair.

  “Still want to go on?” he asked.

  She was startled how clearly he had understood her thoughts, and the twinges of both guilt and apprehension they had aroused.

  “Of course.” She did not move; it was extremely pleasant remaining in his arms. “There is no possible way to retreat now. What should I say to Great-Aunt Vespasia, or Charlotte-and more important, what should I say to myself?”

  His smile widened and he kissed her gently, and then gradually with passion.

  When she thought about money again, it was a faraway thing to be dealt with another day, real and important then, but for now there were other, better things.

  3

  Because Pitt had been sent for from the Bow Street station, and did not belong to Highgate, he reported the incident to his own superior officer, a man whom he both respected for his professional ability and liked for his candor and lack of pretension. Perhaps because Drummond was a gentleman by birth and had sufficient financial means not to have to concern himself with it, he did not feel the compulsion to prove his position.

  He greeted Pitt with pleasure, interest quickening his lean face.

  “Well?” he asked, standing up from his desk, not as a courtesy, which would have been absurd to a junior, even though he had offered Pitt considerable promotion. Pitt had declined it, because although he could dearly have used the money, he would have hated being behind a desk directing other men in the investigations. He wanted to see the people, watch faces, hear the inflections of a voice, the gestures and movements of the body. It was people who gave him both his pleasure and his pain, and the reality of his work. To give instructions to others and shuffle reports would rob him of the chance to exercise the real skills he possessed. To decline it had been Charlotte’s decision as well as his, made because she knew him well enough to understand his happiness, and prefer it to the extra salary. It was one of those rarely-spoken-of generosities which deepened his sense of sharing with her and the knowledge that her commitment was still one of love.

  Micah Drummond was regarding him with curiosity.

  “Arson,” Pitt replied. “I have looked through the physical evidence, such as it is, and there seems no doubt. There is too little left of the body to learn anything useful, but from the remains of the building the firemen say at least four separate fires were started, so whoever it was was determined to succeed.”

  Drummond winced and his eyes reflected his distress.

  “And you say it was a woman who was found?”

  “There seems little doubt it was a Mrs. Clemency Shaw.” And he explained what they had learned from the brief investigations in the community of the immediate area, and from the Highgate police, including their natural inquiry into all the members of the small crowd which had turned out in the alarm and commotion to stand huddled in the background and stare. Perhaps among the sympathizers and offerers of help there had been one there to thrill at the glory of the flames and feel a vicarious power
in their consuming destruction? Arsonists did not stay, but those touched with a certain madness did.

  Drummond resumed his own seat behind his desk and waved Pitt to the most comfortable leather-upholstered chair opposite. It was an agreeable room, full of light and air from the large window. The walls were lined with bookshelves, except for the area around the fireplace, and the desk was polished oak, as beautiful as it was functional.

  “Was it intended to have been the husband?” Drummond came straight to the point. “What do you know about him?”

  Pitt tilted back in the chair and crossed his legs. “A doctor. An intelligent, articulate man, apparently open-minded and outspoken, but I haven’t found time to look into his medical reputation yet.”

  “Your own feelings?” Drummond looked at him a little sideways.

  Pitt smiled. “I liked the man, but then I’ve liked a few people who have committed murder, when desperate, frightened or injured enough. It would be so much easier if we could either like or dislike people and be decided about it; but I keep having to change my mind, and complicate my feelings by doing both at the same time in wildly differing proportions, as each new act and explanations for it emerge. It’s such hard work.” His smile broadened.

  Drummond sighed and rolled his eyes upward in mock exasperation.

  “A simple opinion, Pitt!”

  “I should think he’s an excellent candidate for murder,” Pitt replied. “I can think of dozens of reasons why someone might want to silence a doctor, especially this one.”

  “A medical secret?” Drummond raised his eyebrows high. “Surely doctors keep such confidences anyway? Are you thinking of something discovered inadvertently and not bound by such an ethical code? For example …?”

  “There are many possibilities.” Pitt shrugged, choosing at random. “A contagious disease which he would be obliged to report-plague, yellow fever-”

  “Rubbish,” Drummond interrupted. “Yellow fever in Highgate? And if that were so he would have reported it by now. Possibly a congenital disease such as syphilis, although that is unlikely. How about insanity? A man might well kill to keep that out of public knowledge, or even the knowledge of his immediate family, or prospective family, if he planned an advantageous marriage. Look into that, Pitt.”

  “I will.”

  Drummond warmed to the subject, leaning back a little in his chair and putting his elbows on the arms and his fingertips together in a steeple. “Maybe he knew of an illegitimate birth, or an abortion. For that matter maybe he performed one!”

  “Why wait until now?” Pitt said reasonably. “If he’s just done it, it will be among the patients he’s visited in the last day or two; and anyway, why? If it was illegal he would be even less likely to speak of it, or make any record, than the woman. He has more to lose.”

  “What about the husband or father?”

  Pitt shook his head. “Unlikely. If he didn’t know about it beforehand, then he would probably be the one she was most anxious to keep it from. If he then discovered it, or learned it from her, the last way to keep it discreet would be to murder the doctor and cause all his affairs to be investigated by the police.”

  “Come on, Pitt,” Drummond said dryly. “You know as well as I do that people in the grip of powerful emotions don’t think like that-or half our crimes of impulse would never be committed, probably three quarters. They don’t think; they feel-overwhelming rage, or fear, or simply contusion and a desire to lash out at someone and blame them for the pain they are suffering.”

  “All right,” Pitt conceded, knowing he was right. “But I still think there are lots of other motives more probable. Shaw is a man of passionate convictions. I believe he would act on them, and devil take the consequences-”

  “You do like him,” Drummond said again with a wry smile, and knowledge of some unspoken hurt in his own past.

  No reply was called for.

  “He may have knowledge of a crime,” Pitt said instead, following his own thoughts. “A death, perhaps of someone in terminal illness and great pain-”

  “A merciful killing?” Drummond’s expression quickened. “Possible. And occurring to me as someone who likes him less and perhaps has a clearer view, he may have assisted in a killing for less unselfish reasons, and the principle mover has grown nervous lest his accomplice becomes careless, or more likely from your description of Shaw as a man with nerve and passion, blackmail him. That would be an excellent cause for murder.”

  Pitt would like to have denied such a thought, but it was eminently logical, and to dismiss it would be ridiculous.

  Drummond was watching him, his eyes curious.

  “Perhaps,” Pitt agreed aloud, and saw a small smile curl Drummond’s lips. “But knowledge gained simply because of his professional skill is in my opinion more likely.”

  “What about a purely personal motive?” Drummond asked. “Jealousy, greed, revenge? Could there be another woman, or another man in love with his wife? Didn’t you say he was expecting to be at home, and she not?”

  “Yes.” Pitt’s mind was filled with all sorts of ugly possibilities, dark among them the Worlingham money, and the pretty face of Flora Lutterworth, whose father resented her frequent, private visits to Dr. Shaw.

  “You need to have a great deal more.” Drummond stood up and walked over towards the window, his hands in his pockets. He turned to face Pitt. “The possibilities are numerous-either for the murder of the wife, which happened, or for the murder of Shaw, which may have been attempted. It could be a very long, sad job. Heaven knows what other sins and tragedies you’ll find-or what they will do to hide them. That’s what I hate about investigation-all the other lives we overturn on the way.” He poked his hands deeper into his pockets. “Where are you going to begin?”

  “At the Highgate police station,” Pitt replied, standing up also. “He was the local police surgeon-”

  “You omitted to mention that.”

  Pitt smiled broadly. “Makes the knowledge without complicity look a trifle more likely, doesn’t it?”

  “Granted,” Drummond said graciously. “Don’t get carried away with it. What then?”

  “Go to the local hospital and see what they think of him there, and his colleagues.”

  “You won’t get much.” Drummond shrugged. “They usually speak well of each other regardless. Imply that any one of them could have made an error, and they all close ranks like soldiers facing the enemy.”

  “There’ll be something to read between the lines.” Pitt knew what Drummond meant, but there was always the turn of a phrase, the overcompensation, the excessive fairness that betrayed layers of meaning and emotion beneath, conflicts of judgment or old desires. “Then I’ll see his servants. They may have direct evidence, although that would be a lot to hope for. But they may also have seen or heard something that will lead to a lie, an inconsistency, an act concealed, someone where they should not have been.” As he said it he thought of all the past frailties he had unearthed, foolishness and petty spites that had little or nothing to do with the crime, yet had broken old relationships, forged new ones, hurt and contused and changed. There were occasions when he hated the sheer intrusion of investigation. But the alternative was worse.

  “Keep me advised, Pitt.” Drummond was watching him, perhaps guessing his thoughts. “I want to know.”

  “Yes sir, I will.”

  Drummond smiled at the unusual formality, then nodded a dismissal, and Pitt left, going downstairs and out of the front doors to the pavement of Bow Street, where he caught a hansom north to Highgate. It was an extravagance, but the force would pay. He sat back inside the cab and stretched out his legs as far as possible. It was an agreeable feeling bowling along, not thinking of the cost.

  The cab took him through the tangle of streets up from the river, across High Holborn to the Grey’s Inn Road, north through Bloomsbury and Kentish Town into Highgate.

  At the police station he found Murdo waiting for him impatiently, hav
ing already sifted through all the police reports of the last two years and separating all those in which Shaw had played a significant part. Now he stood in the middle of the room, uncarpeted, furnished with a wooden table and three hard-backed chairs. His fair hair was ruffled and his tunic undone at the neck. He was keen to acquit himself well, and in truth the case touched him deeply, but at the back of his mind was the knowledge that when it was all over Pitt would return to Bow Street. He would be left here in Highgate to resume working with his local colleagues, who were at present still acutely conscious of an outsider, and stung by resentment that it had been considered necessary.

  “There they are, sir,” he said as soon as Pitt was in the door. “All the cases he had the slightest to do with that could amount to anything, even those of disturbing the Queen’s peace.” He pointed his finger to one of the piles. “That’s those. A few bloody noses, a broken rib and one broken foot where a carriage wheel went over it, and there was a fight afterwards between the man with the foot and the coachman. Can’t see anybody but a madman murdering him over that.”

  “Neither can I,” Pitt agreed. “And I don’t think we’re dealing with a madman. Fire was too well set, four lots of curtains, and all away from the servants’ quarters, none of the windows overlooked by a footman or a maid up late, all rooms that would normally be closed after the master and mistress had gone to bed, no hallways or landings which might be seen by a servant checking doors were locked or a maid fetching a late cup of tea for someone. No, Murdo, I think our man with the oil and the matches is sane enough.”

  Murdo shivered and his face lost a little of its color. “It’s a very ugly thing, Mr. Pitt. Someone must have felt a great passion to do it.”

  “And I doubt we’ll find him in this lot.” Pitt picked up the larger pile which Murdo had sorted for him. “Unless it’s a death Shaw knew something very odd about. By the way, did you look into the demise of the late Theophilus Worlingham yet?”

  “Oh, yes sir.” Murdo was eager now. Obviously it was a task he had performed well and was waiting to recount it.