Highgate Rise (13 page)

“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. “Touché,” 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 confidence 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.

The manservant returned and showed him out into the autumn sunlight, thin and gold, and the wind scurrying dry leaves along the footpath. It took him half an hour’s brisk walk before he found a hansom to take him back into the city.

4

C
HARLOTTE DID NOT
enjoy the public omnibus, but to hire a hansom cab all the way from Bloomsbury to her mother’s home on Cater Street was an unwarranted extravagance; and should there be any little surplus for her to spend, there were better things that might be done with it. Particularly she had in mind a new gown on which to wear Emily’s silk flowers. Not, of course, that a cab fare would purchase even one sleeve of such a thing, but it was a beginning. And with Emily home again, there might arise an occasion to wear such a gown.

In the meantime she climbed aboard the omnibus, gave the conductor her fare, and squeezed between a remarkably stout woman with a wheeze like a bellows and a short man whose gloomy stare into the middle distance of his thoughts threatened to take him beyond his stop, unless he were traveling to the end of the line.

“Excuse me.” Charlotte sat down firmly, and they were both obliged to make way for her, the large woman with a creak of whalebone and rattle of taffeta, the man in silence.

She alighted presently and walked in mild, blustery wind the two hundred yards along the street to the house where she had been born and grown up, and where seven years
ago she had met Pitt, and scandalized the neighbors by marrying him. Her mother, who had been trying unsuccessfully to find a husband for her ever since she had been seventeen, had accepted the match with more grace than Charlotte had imagined possible. Perhaps it was not unmixed with a certain relief? And although Caroline Ellison was every bit as traditional, as ambitious for her daughters, and as sensitive to the opinions of her peers as anyone else, she did love her children and ultimately realized that their happiness might lie in places she herself would never have considered even tolerable.

Now even she admitted to a considerable fondness for Thomas Pitt, even if she still preferred not to tell all her acquaintances what he did as an occupation. Her mother-in-law, on the other hand, had never ceased to find it a social disaster, nor lost an opportunity to say so.

Charlotte mounted the steps and rang the bell. She had barely time to step back before it opened and Maddock the butler ushered her in.

“Good afternoon, Miss Charlotte. How very pleasant to see you. Mrs. Ellison will be delighted. She is in the withdrawing room, and at the moment has no other callers. Shall I take your coat?”

“Good afternoon, Maddock. Yes, if you please. Is everyone well?”

“Quite well, thank you,” he replied automatically. It was not expected that one would reply that the cook had rheumatism in her knees, or that the housemaid had sniffles and the kitchen maid had twisted her ankle staggering in with the coke scuttle. Ladies were not concerned in such downstairs matters. He had never really grasped that Charlotte was no longer a “lady” in the sense in which she had been when she grew up in this house.

In the long-familiar withdrawing room Caroline was sitting idly poking at a piece of embroidery, her mind quite absent from it; and Grandmama was staring at her irritably, trying to think of a sufficiently stinging remark to make. When she was a girl embroidery was done with meticulous
care, and if one were unfortunate enough to be a widow with no husband to please, that was an affliction to be borne with dignity and some grace, but one still did things with proper attention.

“If you continue in that manner you will stitch your fingers, and get blood on the linen,” she said just as the door opened and Charlotte was announced. “And then it will be good for nothing.”

“It is good for very little anyway,” Caroline replied. Then she became aware of the extra presence.

“Charlotte!” She dropped the whole lot, needle, linen, frame and threads, on the floor and rose to her feet with delight—and relief. “My dear, how nice to see you. You look very well. How are the children?”

“In excellent health, Mama.” Charlotte hugged her mother. “And you?” She turned to her grandmother. “Grandmama? How are you?” She knew the catalogue of complaint that would follow, but it would be less offensive if it were asked for than if it were not.

“I suffer,” the old lady replied, looking Charlotte up and down with sharp, black eyes. She snorted. She was a small, stout woman with a beaked nose, which in her youth had been considered aristocratic, at least by those most kindly disposed towards her. “I am lame—and deaf—which if you came to visit us more often you would know without having to ask.”

“I do know, Grandmama,” Charlotte replied, determined to be agreeable. “I asked only to show you that I care.”

“Indeed,” the old woman grunted. “Well sit down and tell us something of interest. I am also bored. Although I have been bored ever since your grandfather died—and for some time before, come to that. It is the lot of women of good breeding to be bored. Your mother is bored also, although she has not learned to resign herself to it as I have. She has developed no skill at it. She does bad embroidery. I cannot see well enough to embroider anymore, but when I could, it was perfect.”

“You will have tea.” Caroline smiled across her mother-in-law’s
head. These conversations had been part of her life for twenty years, and she accepted them with good grace. Actually, she was seldom bored; when the first grief of her widowhood had passed she had discovered new and most interesting pursuits. She had found herself free to read the newspapers for the first time in her life, any pages she wished. She had learned a little of politics and current affairs, social issues of debate, and she had joined societies which discussed all manner of things. She was finding time heavy this afternoon simply because she had decided to spend the time at home with the old lady, and they had until now received no callers.

“Please.” Charlotte accepted, seating herself in her favorite chair.

Caroline rang for the maid and ordered tea, sandwiches, cakes and fresh scones and jam, then settled to hear whatever news Charlotte might have, and to tell her of a philosophical group she had recently joined.

The tea came, was poured and passed, and the maid retired.

“You will have seen Emily, no doubt.” Grandmama made it a statement, and her face was screwed up with disapproval. “In my day widows did not marry again the moment their poor husbands were cold in the ground. Unseemly haste. Most unseemly. And it’s not even as if she were bettering herself. Stupid girl. That I could understand, at least. But Jack Radley! Who on earth are the Radleys? I ask you!”

Charlotte ignored the whole matter. She was confident Jack Radley would flatter the old lady and she would melt like butter on a hot crumpet. It was simply not worth trying to argue the point now. And of course whatever Emily had brought her from Europe she would criticize, but she would be pleased all the same, and show it off relentlessly.

As if aware of Charlotte’s well-controlled temper the old lady swiveled around and glared at her over the top of her eyeglasses.

“And what are you doing with yourself these days, miss? Still meddling in your husband’s affairs? If there is anything
in the world that is totally and inexcusably vulgar, it is curiosity about other people’s domestic tragedies. I told you at the time no good would come of it.” Again she snorted spitefully and settled back a little in her seat. “Detective, indeed!”

“I am not involved in Thomas’s present case, Grandmama.” Charlotte took a fifth cucumber sandwich and ate it with relish. They really were delicious, thin as wafers, and sweet and crisp.

“Good,” the old woman said with satisfaction. “You eat too much. It is unladylike. You have lost all the refinement of manner you used to have. I blame you, Caroline! You should never have allowed this to happen. If she had been my daughter she would not have been permitted to marry beneath her!”

Caroline had long ago ceased to defend herself from such remarks, and she did not wish to quarrel, even though she was provoked. In fact it gave her a certain satisfaction to catch her mother-in-law’s beady eyes and smile sweetly back at her, and see the irritation in them.

“Unfortunately I had not your skill,” she said gently. “I managed very well with Emily—but Charlotte defeated me.”

The old lady was temporarily beaten. “Hah!” she said, at a loss for words.

Charlotte hid her smile, and took another sip of tea.

“Given up meddling, have you?” The old lady renewed the attack. “Emily will be disappointed!”

Charlotte sipped her tea again.

“All cutpurses and thieves, I suppose,” Grandmama continued. “Been demoted, has he?”

Finally Charlotte was drawn, in spite of her resolution.

“No. It is arson and murder. A very respectable woman has been burned to death in Highgate. In fact her grandfather was a bishop,” she added with something unpleasantly like triumph.

The old lady looked at her guardedly. “What bishop would that be? Sounds unlikely to me.”