Highgate Rise (10 page)

“All our doctors are fine men.” The protest was instant. “If there has been any impropriety—”

“None that I know of,” Pitt interrupted. Drammond was right, it was going to be exceedingly difficult to elicit anything
but panicky mutual defense. “There has been a most serious threat against his life.” That was true, in essence if not precisely the way he implied it. “You may be able to help us discover who is responsible.”

“Against his life? Oh, dear me, how monstrous. No one here would dream of such a thing. We save lives.” The young man picked nervously at his tie, which was apparently in danger of throttling him.

“You must occasionally have failures,” Pitt pointed out.

“Well—well, of course. We cannot work miracles. That would be quite unreasonable. But I assure you—”

“Yes—yes!” Pitt cut across him. “May I speak with the governor?”

The man bridled. “If you must! But I assure you we have no knowledge of such a threat, or we should have informed the police. The superintendent is a very busy man, very busy indeed.”

“I am impressed,” Pitt lied. “However if this person succeeds in carrying out his threat, and murders the doctor in question, as well as his current victim, then your superintendent will be even busier, because there will be fewer physicians to do the work …” He allowed the train of thought to tail off as the man in front of him was alternately pink with annoyance and then white with horror.

However, the harassed superintendent, a lugubrious man with long mustaches and receding hair, could tell Pitt nothing about Shaw that advanced his knowledge. He was far more agreeable than Pitt expected, having no sense of his own importance, only of the magnitude of the task before him in battling disease for which he knew no cure; ignorance that swamped the small inroads of literacy; and a perception of cleanliness where there was too little pure water, too many people, no sanitation and frequently no outlet to a sewer, drains overflowed and rats were everywhere. If the Queen’s consort could die of typhoid carried by poor drains, living in his own palace, what struggle was there to be waged in the houses of the ordinary, and the poor, let alone the slums of the destitute?

He escorted Pitt into his small, untidy office, which smelled faintly of soap and paper. The window was very small, and both gas lamps were lit and made a slight hissing sound. He invited Pitt to sit down.

“Nothing,” he said regretfully. “Shaw is a damn good doctor, sometimes gifted. Seen him sit up all day and all night and all the next day with a sick man, and weep when he loses a mother and child.” A smile spread across his lantern face. “And seen him bawl out a pompous old fool for wasting his time.” He sighed. “And worse than that to a man who could have fed his children on milk and fruit, and didn’t. Poor little beggars were twisted up with rickets. Never seen a man so furious as Shaw that day. He was shaking with passion and white to the lips.” He took a deep breath and tilted back in his chair and looked at Pitt with surprisingly sharp eyes. “I like the man. I’m damned sorry about his wife. Is that why you’re here—because you think the fire was meant for him?”

“It seems possible,” Pitt replied. “Did he have any deep differences of opinion with his colleagues, that you know of?”

“Ha!” The superintendent barked out his laughter. “Ha! If you can ask that you don’t know Shaw. Of course he did—with everyone: colleagues, nurses, administrative staff—me.” His eyes were alive with a dark amusement. “And I knew of them all—I should imagine everyone within earshot did. He doesn’t know the meaning of discretion—at least where his temper is concerned.” He slid down off the tilt of his chair and sat up straight, looking at Pitt more intently. “I don’t mean on medical matters, of course. He’s closer than an oyster with a confidence. Never betrayed a secret even in consultation for another opinion. I doubt he’s ever spoken a word of gossip in his life. But got a temper like an Indian curry when he sees injustice or humbug.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “He’s not always right—but when he’s proved wrong he’ll usually come ’round, albeit not immediately.”

“Is he well liked?”

The superintendent smiled at Pitt. “I’ll not insult you with a generous fiction. Those who like him, like him very much. I am one of them. But there are a good few he’s offended with what they consider uncalled-for brusqueness or frankness when it amounts to rudeness, interference or undermining their position.” His gaunt, good-humored face showed the tolerance of years of battles and defeats. “There are many men who don’t care to be proved wrong and shown a better way, especially in front of others. And the harder and longer they stick to their first position, the bigger fools they look when they finally have to back away from it and turn around.” His smile grew broader. “And Shaw is frequently less than tactful in the way he goes about it. His wit is often quicker than his perception of people’s feelings. More than once I’ve seen him set the room laughing at someone’s expense, and known from the look on a man’s face that he’d pay for it dearly one day. Few men care to be the butt of a joke; they’d rather be struck in the face than laughed at.”

Pitt tried to make his voice casual, and knew immediately that it was a wasted effort. “Anyone in particular?”

“Not enough to set fire to the man’s house,” the superintendent replied, looking at Pitt wide-eyed and candid.

There was no point in fencing with the man and Pitt did not insult him by trying. “The names of those most offended?” he asked. “It will be something at least to eliminate them now. The house is gutted and Mrs. Shaw is dead. Someone set the fires.”

The superintendent’s face lost its humor as if it had been wiped away with a sponge, and somberness replaced it. He made no struggle.

“Fennady couldn’t abide him,” he replied, leaning back and beginning what was obviously a catalogue, but there was still more comprehension than judgment in his voice. “They quarreled over everything from the state of the monarchy to the state of the drains, and all issues between. And Nimmons. Nimmons is an old man with old ideas which he had no inclination to change. Shaw taught him some better ways, but unfortunately he did it in front of the patient, who
promptly transferred his custom, bringing his very large family with him.”

“Tactless,” Pitt agreed.

“His middle name.” The superintendent sighed. “But he saved the man’s life. And there’s Henshaw—he’s young and full of new ideas, and Shaw can’t be bothered with them either, says they are untried and too risky. The man’s as contrary as an army mule at times. Henshaw lost his temper, but I don’t think he really bears any resentment. That’s all I can give you.”

“No tact, no discretion with his colleagues, but how about impropriety with his patients?” Pitt was not yet ready to give up.

“Shaw?” The superintendent’s eyebrows rose. “Damn your realism, but I suppose you have to. Not that I know of, but he’s a charming and vigorous man. Not impossible some woman imagined more than there was.”

He was interrupted by a sharp tap on the door.

“Come in,” he said with a glance of apology at Pitt.

The same fair young man who had so disapproved of Pitt poked his head around the door with a look of equal distaste on his face.

“Mr. Marchant is here, sir.” He ignored Pitt very pointedly. “From the town hall,” he added for good measure.

“Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes,” the superintendent replied without any haste.

“From the town hall,” the young man repeated. “It is important—sir.”

“So is this,” the superintendent said very distinctly, without shifting his position at all. “Man’s life might hang on it.” Then he smiled lugubriously at the double meaning. “And the longer you stand there, Spooner, the longer it will be before I am finished here and can come and see Marchant! Get out man, and deliver the message!”

Spooner withdrew with umbrage, closing the door as sharply as he dared.

The superintendent turned to Pitt again with a slight shake of his head.

“Shaw …” Pitt prompted.

“Not impossible some woman fell in love with him,” the superintendent resumed, shaking his head. “It happens. Odd relationship, doctor and patient, so personal, and yet so practical and in some ways remote. Wouldn’t be the first time it has got out of hand, or been misunderstood by a husband, or a father.” He pushed out his lip. “It’s no secret Alfred Lutterworth thinks his daughter sees a damned sight too much of Shaw, and insists on doing it alone, and won’t discuss what passes between them, or what her ailment might be. Handsome girl, and great expectations. Old Lutterworth made a fortune in cotton. Don’t know if anyone else has his eyes on her. Don’t live in Highgate myself.”

“Thank you, sir,” Pitt said sincerely. “You’ve given me a great deal of your time, and been some help at least in eliminating certain possibilities.”

“I don’t envy you your job,” the superintendent replied. “I thought mine was hard, but I fear yours will be harder. Good day to you.”

When Pitt left the hospital the autumn evening was dark and the gas lamps were already lit. It was now October, and a few early leaves crunched under his feet as he strode towards the intersection where he could get a cab. The air had a clarity and sharpness that promised frost in a week or two. The stars shone in pinpricks of light infinitely far away, flickering and sparkling in the cold. Out here in Highgate there was no fog from the river, no smoke in the air from factories or densely packed houses huddled back-to-back. He could smell the wind blowing off the fields and hear a dog barking in the distance. One day he must take Charlotte and the children for a week in the country. She had not been away from Bloomsbury for a long time. She would love it. He began to think of small economies he could make, ways he could save enough for it to be possible, and the expression on her face when he could tell her. He would keep it to himself until he was sure.

He strode out along the footpath and was so lost in thought
that the first cab passed him by and was over the rise in the hill and disappearing before he realized it.

In the morning he returned to Highgate to see if Murdo had discovered anything of interest, but he was already out hot on the scent, and had left only the briefest notes to that effect. Pitt thanked the desk sergeant, who still grudged him his interference in a local matter which he believed they could well have handled themselves. Pitt left and went back to the hospital to speak to the Shaws’ butler.

The man was propped up in bed looking haggard, his eyes deep socketed with shock and pain, his face unshaved and his left arm bound in bandages. There were raw grazes on his face and one scab beginning to form. It was unnecessary for the doctor to tell Pitt that the man had been badly burned.

Pitt stood by the bedside and in spite of the fact that it was blood, carbolic, sweat and the faint odor of chloroform that he could smell in the air, the sharp stench of smoke and wet cinders came back to him as if he had stood by the ruined house only a few minutes since, and then seen the charred wreck of Clemency Shaw’s body lying on a stretcher in the morgue, barely recognizable as human. The anger inside him knotted his stomach and his chest till he found it hard to form the words in his mouth or force the breath to make speech.

“Mr. Burdin?”

The butler opened his eyes and looked at Pitt with no interest.

“Mr. Burdin, I am Inspector Pitt of the Metropolitan Police. I have come to Highgate to find out who set the fire that burned Dr. Shaw’s house—” He did not mention Clemency. Perhaps the man had not been told. This would be a cruel and unnecessary shock. He should be informed with gentleness, by someone prepared to stay with him, perhaps even to treat his grief if it worsened his condition.

“I don’t know,” Burdin said hoarsely, his lungs still seared by the smoke. “I saw nothing, heard nothing till Jenny started screaming out. Jenny’s the housemaid. Her bedroom’s nearest the main house.”

“We did not imagine you had seen the fires started.” Pitt tried to sound reassuring. “Or that you knew anything obvious. But there may have been something which, on reflection, could be of importance—perhaps when put together with other things. May I ask you some questions?” It was a polite fiction to seek permission, but the man was badly shocked, and in pain.

“Of course.” Burdin’s voice dropped to a croak. “But I’ve already been thinking, turning it over and over in my mind.” His face furrowed now with renewed effort. “But I don’t remember anything different at all—not a thing. Everything was just as—” The breath caught in his throat and he began to cough as the raw lining hurt anew.

Pitt was confused for a moment, panic growing inside him as the man’s face suffused with blood as he struggled for air, tears streaming down his cheeks. He stared around for help, and there was none. Then he saw water on the table in the corner and reached for it, tipping it into a cup clumsily in his haste. He clasped Burdin around the shoulders and eased him up and put the cup to his lips. At first he choked on it, spluttering it over himself, then at last enough trickled down his burning throat and cooled it. The pain was eased and he lay back, exhausted. It would be cruel and pointless to require him to speak again. But the questions must be asked.

“Don’t speak,” Pitt said firmly. “Turn your hand palm up if the answer is yes, and down if it is no.”

Burdin smiled weakly and turned his palm up.

“Good. Did anyone call on the doctor at his house that day, other than his surgery appointments?”

Palm up.

“Tradesmen or business?”

Palm down.

“Personal acquaintance?”

Palm on its side.

“Family?”

Palm up.

“The Worlingham sisters?”

Palm down, very definitely.

“Mr. or Mrs. Hatch?”

Palm up.

“Mrs. Hatch?”

Palm down.

“Mr. Hatch? Was there a quarrel, raised voices, unpleasantness?” Although Pitt could think of nothing that could aggravate a temperamental difference into murder.

Burdin shrugged fractionally and turned his hand on its side.

“Not more than usual?” Pitt guessed.

Burdin smiled and there was a flicker of something like humor in his eyes, but again he shrugged. He did not know.