Highgate Rise tp-11 Read online

  He had assured her that in all probability Clemency Shaw had been overcome by smoke long before any flames reached her. It was even possible she had not woken.

  Charlotte had been much comforted by it, and since he had already told her his progress was minimal, she had asked him no more. Instead she turned to her own business of the day, giving volleys of instructions to Gracie, who stood wide-eyed and fascinated in the kitchen doorway.

  Pitt stopped the hansom at Amos Lindsay’s house, paid him off, and walked up to the front door. It was opened by the black-haired manservant again and Pitt asked if he might speak with Dr. Shaw.

  “Dr. Shaw is out on call”-the briefest of hesitations-“sir.”

  “Is Mr. Lindsay at home?”

  “If you care to come in I shall inquire if he will receive you.” The manservant stood aside. “Who shall I say is calling?”

  Did he really not remember, or was he being deliberately condescending?

  “Inspector Thomas Pitt, of the Metropolitan Police,” he replied a little tartly.

  “Indeed.” The manservant bowed so slightly only the light moving across his glistening head determined it at all. “Will you be so good as to wait here? I shall return forthwith.” And without bothering to see if Pitt would do as he was bidden, he walked rapidly and almost silently towards the back of the house.

  Pitt had time to stare again around the hall with its fierce and exotic mixture of art and mementos. There were no paintings, nothing of the nature of European culture. The statuary was wooden or ivory, the lines alien, looking uneasy in the traditional dimensions of the room with its paneling and squared windows letting in the dull light of an October morning. The spears should have been held in dark hands, the headdresses moving, instead of pinned immobile against the very English oak. Pitt found himself wondering what an unimaginably different life Amos Lindsay had lived in countries so unlike anything Highgate or its residents could envision. What had he seen, and done; whom had he known? Was it something learned there which had prompted his political views which Pascoe so abhorred?

  His speculation was cut short by the manservant reappearing, regarding him with mild disapproval.

  “Mr. Lindsay will see you in his study, if you will come this way.” This time he omitted the “sir” altogether.

  In the study Amos Lindsay stood with his back to a brisk fire, his face pink under his marvelous white hair. He did not look in the least displeased to see Pitt.

  “Come in,” he said, ignoring the manservant, who withdrew soundlessly. “What can I do for you? Shaw’s out. No idea how long, can’t measure the sick. What can I add to your knowledge? I wish I knew something. It’s all very miserable.”

  Pitt glanced back towards the hallway and its relics. “You must have seen a good deal of violence at one time and another.” It was more an observation than a question. He thought of Great-Aunt Vespasia’s friend, Zenobia Gunne, who also had trekked into Africa, and sailed uncharted rivers and lived in strange villages, with people no European had seen before.

  Lindsay was watching him curiously. “I have,” he conceded. “But it never became ordinary to me, nor did I cease to find violent death shocking. When you live in another land, Mr. Pitt, no matter how strange it may seem at first, it is a very short time until its people become your own, and their grief and their laughter touches you as deeply. All the differences on earth are a shadow, compared with the sameness. And to tell you the truth, I have felt more akin to a black man dancing naked but for his paint, under the moon, or a yellow woman holding her frightened child, than I ever have to Josiah Hatch and his kind pontificating about the place of women and how it is God’s will that they should suffer in childbirth.” He pulled a face and his remarkably mobile features made it the more grotesque. “And a Christian doctor doesn’t interfere with it! Punishment of Eve, and all that. All right, I know he is in the majority here.” He looked straight at Pitt with eyes blue as the sky, and almost hidden by the folds of his lids, as if he were still screwing them up against some tropical sun.

  Pitt smiled. He thought quite possibly he would feel the same, had he ever been out of England.

  “Did you ever meet a lady named Zenobia Gunne on your travels-” He got no further because Lindsay’s face was full of light and incredulity.

  “Nobby Gunne! Of course I know her! Met her in a village in Ashanti once-way back in ’69. Wonderful woman! How on earth do you know her?” The happiness fled from his face and was replaced by alarm. “Dear God! She’s not been-”

  “No! No,” Pitt said hastily. “I met her through a relative of my sister-in-law. At least a few months ago she was in excellent health, and spirits.”

  “Thank heaven!” Lindsay waved at Pitt to sit down. “Now what can we do about Stephen Shaw, poor devil? This is a very ugly situation.” He poked at the fire vigorously, then replaced the fire iron set and sat down in the other chair. “He was extremely fond of Clemency, you know. Not a great passion-if it ever was, it had long passed-but he liked her, liked her deeply. And it is not given to many men to like their wives. She was a woman of rare intelligence, you know?” He raised his eyebrows and his small vivid eyes searched Pitt’s countenance.

  Pitt thought of Charlotte. Immediately her face filled his mind, and he was overwhelmed with how much he also liked his wife. The friendship was in its own way as precious as the love, and perhaps a greater gift, something born of time and sharing, of small jokes well understood, of helping each other through anxiety or sorrow, seeing the weaknesses and the strengths and caring for both.

  But if for Stephen Shaw the passion had gone, and he was a passionate man, then could it have been kindled elsewhere? Would friendship, however deep, survive that whirlwind of hunger? He wanted to believe so; instinctively he had liked Shaw.

  But the woman, whoever she was-she would not feel such constraints. Indeed she might seethe with jealousy, and the fact that Shaw still liked and admired his wife might make that frail outer control snap-and result in murder.

  Lindsay was staring at him, waiting for a reponse more tangible than the thoughtful expression on his face.

  “Indeed,” Pitt said aloud, looking up again. “It would be natural if he found it hard at present to think of who might hold him in such enmity, or feel they had enough to gain from either his death or his wife’s. But since you know him well, you may be able to give more suggestions, unpleasant as it would be. At least we might exclude some people …”

  He left the sentence hanging in the air, hoping it would be unnecessary to press any further.

  Lindsay was too intelligent to need or wish for any more prompting. His eyes wandered over the relics here in the room. Perhaps he was thinking of other lands, other peoples with the same passions, less colored and confused by the masks of civilization.

  “Stephen has certainly made enemies,” he said quietly. “People of strong convictions usually do, especially if they are as articulate about them as he is. I am afraid he has little patience with fools, and even less with hypocrites-of which this society provides a great many, in one form or another.” He shook his head. A coal settled in the fire with a shower of sparks. “The more we think we are sophisticated sometimes the sillier we get-and certainly the more idle people there are with nothing to fill their minds except making moral rules for everyone else, the more hypocrisy there is as to who keeps them and who doesn’t.”

  Pitt envisioned a savage society in the sun on vast plains with the flat-topped trees he had seen in paintings, and grass huts, drum music and imprisoning heat-a culture that had not changed since memory’s record began. What had Lindsay done there, how had he lived? Had he taken an African wife, and loved her? What had brought him back to Highgate on the outskirts of London and the heart of the Empire with its white gloves, carriages, engraved calling cards, gas lamps, maids in starched aprons, little old ladies, portraits of bishops, stained-glass windows-and murder?

  “Whom in particular may he have offended?” He looked
at Lindsay curiously.

  Lindsay’s face was suddenly wreathed in smiles. “Good heavens, man-everyone. Celeste and Angeline think he failed to treat Theophilus with proper attention, and that if he had not, the old fool would still be alive-”

  “And would he?”

  Lindsay’s eyebrows shot up. “God knows. I doubt it. What can you do for an apoplectic seizure? He couldn’t sit ’round the clock with him.”

  “Who else?”

  “Alfred Lutterworth thinks Flora is enamored of him-which she may well be. She’s in and out of the house often enough, and sees Stephen on her own, out of normal surgery hours. She may imagine other people don’t know-but they most certainly do. Lutterworth thinks Stephen is seducing her with an eye to the money, of which there is a very great deal.” The bland look of slight amusement on his face made Pitt think that the idea of Shaw murdering his wife because she stood in the way of such a marriage had not crossed his mind. His weathered face, so lined it reflected every expression, was touched with pity and a shadow of something like contempt, without its cruelty-but there was no fear in it.

  “And of course Lally Clitheridge is appalled by his opinions,” Lindsay went on, his smile broadening. “And fascinated by his vitality. He is ten times the man poor old Hector is, or ever will be. Prudence Hatch is fond of him-and frightened of him-for some reason I haven’t discovered. Josiah can’t abide him for a dozen reasons that are inherent in his nature-and Stephen’s. Quinton Pascoe, who sells beautiful and romantic books, reviews them, and quite genuinely loves them, thinks Stephen is an irresponsible iconoclast-because he supports John Dalgetty and his avant-garde views of literature, or at least he supports his freedom to express them, regardless of whom they offend.”

  “Do they offend people?” Pitt asked, curious for himself as well as for any importance it might have. Surely no literary disapproval could be powerful enough to motivate murder? Ill temper, dislike, contempt, but surely only a madman kills over a matter of taste?

  “Grossly.” Lindsay noted Pitt’s skepticism and there was a light of irony in his own eyes. “You have to understand Pascoe and Dalgetty. Ideals, the expression of thought and the arts of creation and communication are their lives.” He shrugged. “But you asked me who hated Stephen from time to time-not who I thought would actually set fire to his house with the intent of burning him to death. If I knew anyone I thought would do that I should have told you long before you came to the door asking.”

  Pitt acknowledged it with a grimace, and was about to pursue the matter when the manservant reappeared to announce that Mr. Dalgetty had called to ask if Lindsay would receive him. Lindsay glanced at Pitt with a flash of amusement, then indicated his agreement.

  A moment later John Dalgetty came in, obviously having assumed Lindsay was alone. He launched into speech immediately, his voice ringing with enthusiasm. He was a dark man of medium stature and high, almost vertical forehead, fine eyes, and a shock of hair which was now receding a little. He was very casually dressed with a loose black cravat tied in what had probably been a bow when he set out that morning. Now it was merely a bundle. His jacket was overlong and loose, and the whole effect was extremely untidy, but had a certain panache.

  “Quite brilliant!” He waved his hands. “Just what Highgate needs-indeed the whole of London! Shake up some of these tired old ideas, make people think. That’s what matters, you know-freedom from the rigid, the orthodox that ossifies the faculties of invention and discovery.” He frowned, leaning a little forward in his urgency. “Man is a creature full of the power of the mind, if only we free it from the shackles of fear. Terrified of the new, quaking at the prospect of making a mistake. What do a few mistakes matter?” He hunched his shoulders high. “If in the end we discover and name some new truth? Cowards-that’s what we’re fast becoming. A nation of intellectual cowards-too timorous to undertake an adventure into unknown regions of thought or knowledge.” He swung one arm wide towards an Ashanti spear on the wall. “How would our Empire be if all our voyagers of the seas or explorers of the lands had been too afraid of anything new to circumnavigate the earth, or venture into the dark continents of Africa and India?” He poked his fingers at the floor. “Right here in England, that’s where! And the world”-he flung out his hand dramatically-“would belong to the French, or the Spanish, or God knows whom. And here we are leaving all the voyages of the mind to the Germans, or whomever, because we are afraid of treading on a few toes. Have you seen Pascoe? He’s practically foaming at the mouth because of your monograph on the wrongs of the ownership of the means of production! Of course it’s brilliant. Full of new ideas, new concepts of community and the proper division of wealth. I shall review it as widely as-oh-” Suddenly he noticed Pitt and his face fell with amazement, then as quickly filled with curiosity. “I beg your pardon, sir, I was unaware Mr. Lindsay had company. John Dalgetty.” He bowed very slightly. “Seller of rare books and reviewer of literature, and I hope, disseminator of ideas.”

  “Thomas Pitt,” Pitt replied. “Inspector of police, and I hope discoverer of truth, or at least a measurable portion of it-we will never know it all, but sometimes enough to assist what serves as justice.”

  “Good gracious me.” Dalgetty laughed aloud, but there was considerable nervousness in it as well as humor. “A policeman with an extraordinary turn of phrase. Are you making fun of me, sir?”

  “Not at all,” Pitt replied sincerely. “The truth of a crime, its causes and its effects, are far beyond us to reach. But we may, if we are diligent and lucky, discover who committed it, and at least some portion of why.”

  “Oh-ah-yes, indeed. Very terrible.” Dalgetty drew his black brows down and shook his head a little. “A fine woman. Didn’t know her closely myself, always seemed to be busy with matters of her own, good works and so forth. But excellent reputation.” He looked at Pitt with something almost like a challenge. “Never heard a word against her from anyone. Great friend of my wife’s, always conversing with one another. Tragic loss. I wish I could help, but I know nothing at all, absolutely nothing.”

  Pitt was inclined to believe him, but he asked a few questions in case there was some small fact in among the enthusiasm and opinions. He learned nothing, and some fifteen minutes after Dalgetty departed, still muttering praises of the monograph, Stephen Shaw himself returned, full of energy, coming in like a gale, flinging doors open and leaving them swinging. But Pitt saw the shadows under his eyes and the strain in the lines around his mouth.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Shaw,” he said quietly. “I am sorry to intrude again, but there are many questions I need to ask.”

  “Of course.” Shaw absentmindedly straightened the Ashanti spear, and then moved to the bookcase and leveled a couple of volumes. “But I’ve already told you everything I can think of.”

  “Someone lit those fires deliberately, Dr. Shaw,” Pitt reminded him.

  Shaw winced and looked at Pitt. “I know that. If I had the faintest idea, don’t you think I’d tell you?”

  “What about your patients? Have you treated anyone for any disease that they might wish to conceal-”

  “For God’s sake, what?” Shaw stared at him, eyes wide. “If it were contagious I should report it, regardless of what they wished! If it were insanity I should have them committed!”

  “What about syphilis?”

  Shaw stopped in mid movement, his arms in the air. “Touche,” he said very quietly. “Both contagious and causing insanity in the end. And I should very probably keep silence. I certainly should not make it public.” A flicker of irony crossed his face. “It is not passed by shaking hands or sharing a glass of wine, nor is the insanity secret or homicidal.”

  “And have you treated any such cases?” Pitt smiled blandly, and had no intention of allowing Shaw to sidestep an answer.

  “If I had, I should not break a patient’s confidence now.” Shaw looked back at him with candor and complete defiance. “Nor will I discuss with you any other medical conf
idence I may have received-on any subject.”

  “Then we may be some considerable time discovering who murdered your wife, Dr. Shaw.” Pitt looked at him coolly. “But I will not stop trying, whatever I have to overturn to find the truth. Apart from the fact that it is my job-the more I hear of her, the more I believe she deserves it.”

  Shaw’s face paled and the muscles tightened in his neck and his mouth pulled thin as if he had been caught by some necessary inner pain, but he did not speak.

  Pitt knew he was wounding, and hated it, but to withhold now might make it worse in the close future.

  “And if, as seems probable, it was not your wife the murderer was after,” he went on, “but yourself, then he-or she-will very possibly try again. I assume you have considered that?”

  Shaw’s face was white.

  “I have, Mr. Pitt,” he said very quietly. “But I cannot break my code of medical ethics on that chance-even were it a certainty. To betray my patients would not necessarily save me-and it is not a bargain I am prepared to make. Whatever you learn, you will have to do it in some other way.”

  Pitt was not surprised. It was what he had expected of the man, and in spite of the frustration, he would have been at least in part disappointed had he received more.

  He glanced at Lindsay’s face, pink in the reflected firelight, and saw a deep affection in it and a certain wry satisfaction. He too would have suffered a loss had Shaw been willing to speak.

  “Then I had better continue with it in my own way,” Pitt accepted, standing a little straighter. “Good day, Mr. Lindsay, and thank you for your frankness. Good day, Dr. Shaw.”

  “Good day, sir,” Lindsay replied with unusual courtesy, and Shaw stood silent by the bookshelves.