Highgate Rise

by Anne Perry

  “Do you know Dr. and Mrs. Shaw well?”

  Lindsay was unsurprised. “I know him well. He is one of the few local men I find it easy to converse with. Open-minded, not pickled in tradition like most around here. A man of considerable intelligence and wit. Not common qualities—and not always appreciated.”

  “And Mrs. Shaw?” Pitt continued.

  “Not so well. One doesn’t, of course. Can’t discuss with a woman in the same way as with a man. But she was a fine woman; sensible, compassionate, modest without unctuousness, no humbug about her. All the best female qualities.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “What?” Lindsay was obviously surprised. Then his face creased into a comic mixture of humor and indecision. “Matter of opinion, I suppose. Dark, good features, bit heavy in the—” He colored and his hands waved vaguely in the air. Pitt judged they would have described the curve of hips, had not his sense of propriety stopped him. “Good eyes, intelligent and mild. Sounds like a horse—I apologize. Handsome woman, that’s my judgment. And she walked well. No doubt you’ll talk to the Worlingham sisters, her aunts; Clemency resembles Celeste a trifle, not Angeline.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps we should meet Dr. Shaw now?”

  “Of course.” And without further speech he led them back into the hall, and then with a brief warning knock he opened the withdrawing room door.

  Pitt ignored the remarkable curios on the walls, and his eyes went immediately to the man standing by the hearth, whose face was drained of emotion, but whose body was still tense, waiting for some action or demand upon it. He turned as he heard the door latch, but there was no interest in his eyes, only acknowledgment of duty. His skin had the pallor of shock, pinched at the sides of the lips and bruised around the eye sockets. His features were strong, and even bereavement in such fearful circumstances could not remove the wit and intelligence from him, nor the caustic individualism Pitt had heard others speak of.

  “Good evening, Dr. Shaw,” Pitt said formally. “I am Inspector Pitt, from Bow Street, and this is Constable Murdo from the local station. I regret it is necessary that we ask you some distressing questions—”

  “Of course.” Shaw cut off his explanations. As Murdo had said, he was a police surgeon and he understood. “Ask what you must. But first, tell me what you know. Are you sure it was arson?”

  “Yes sir. There is no possibility that the fire started simultaneously in four different places, all accessible from the outside, and with no normal household reason, such as a spark from the hearth or a candle spilled in a bedroom or on the stairs.”

  “Where did they start?” Shaw was curious now and unable to remain standing on the spot. He began to move about, first to one table, then another, automatically straightening things, compulsively making them tidier.

  Pitt stood where he was, near the sofa.

  “The fire chief says it was in the curtains,” he replied. “In every case.”

  Shaw’s face showed skepticism, quick and even now with a vestige of humor and critical perception which must normally be characteristic in him. “How does he know that? There wasn’t much”—he swallowed—“left of my home.”

  “Pattern of the burning,” Pitt answered gravely. “What was completely consumed, what was damaged but still partially standing; and where rubble and glass falls shows to some extent where the heat was greatest first.”

  Shaw shook himself impatiently. “Yes, of course. Stupid question. I’m sorry.” He passed a strong, well-shaped hand over his brow, pushing straight fair hair out of his way. “What do you want from me?”

  “What time were you called out, sir, and by whom?” He was half aware of Murdo by the door, pencil and notebook in hand.

  “I didn’t look at the clock,” Shaw answered. “About quarter past eleven. Mrs. Wolcott was in childbirth—her husband went to a neighbor’s with a telephone.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Over in Kentish Town.” He had an excellent voice with clear diction and a timbre that was unique and remarkably pleasing. “I took the trap and drove. I was there all night until the child was delivered. I was on the way home about five o’clock when the police met me—and told me what had happened—and that Clemency was dead.”

  Pitt had seen many people in the first hours of loss; it had often been his duty to bear the news. It never failed to distress him.

  “It’s ironic,” Shaw continued, not looking at anyone. “She had intended to go out with Maude Dalgetty and spend the night with friends in Kensington. It was canceled at the last moment. And Mrs. Wolcott was not due for another week. I should have been at home, and Clemency away.” He did not add the obvious conclusion. It hung in the silent room. Lindsay stood somber and motionless. Murdo glanced at Pitt and his thoughts were naked for a moment in his face. Pitt knew them already.

  “Who was aware that Mrs. Shaw had changed her mind, sir?” he asked.

  Shaw met his eyes. “No one but Maude Dalgetty and myself,” he replied. “And I assume John Dalgetty. I don’t know who else they told. But they didn’t know about Mrs. Wolcott. No one did.”

  Lindsay was standing beside him. He put his hand on Shaw’s shoulder in a steadying gesture of friendship. “You have a distinctive trap, Stephen. Whoever it was may have seen you leave and supposed the house empty.”

  “Then why burn it?” Shaw said grimly.

  Lindsay tightened his grip. “God knows! Why do pyromaniacs do anything? Hatred of those who have more than they? A sense of power—to watch the flames? I don’t know.”

  Pitt would not bother to ask whether the home was insured, or for how much; it would be easier and more accurate to inquire through the insurance companies—and less offensive.

  There was a knock on the door and the manservant reappeared.

  “Yes?” Lindsay said irritably.

  “The vicar and his wife have called to convey their condolences to Dr. Shaw, sir, and to offer comfort. Shall I ask them to wait?”

  Lindsay turned to Pitt, not for his permission, of course, but to see if he had finished any painful questioning and might now retreat.

  Pitt hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether there was anything further he could learn from Shaw now, or if in common humanity he should allow whatever religious comfort there might be and defer his own questions. Perhaps he would actually learn more of Shaw by watching him with those who knew him and had known his wife.

  “Inspector?” Lindsay pressed him.

  “Of course,” Pitt conceded, although from the expression of defiance and something close to alarm in Shaw’s face, he doubted the vicar’s religious comfort was what he presently desired.

  Lindsay nodded and the manservant withdrew, a moment later ushering in a mild, very earnest man in clerical garb. He looked as if he had been athletic in his youth, but now in his forties had become a little lax. There was too much diffidence in him for good looks, but there was nothing of malice or arrogance in his regular features and rather indecisive mouth. His surface attempt at calm masked a deep nervousness, and the occasion was obviously far from being his element.

  He was accompanied by a woman with a plain, intelligent face, a little too heavy of eyebrow and strong of nose to be appealing to most people, but a good-natured mouth. In contrast to her husband she projected an intense energy, and it was all directed towards Shaw. She barely saw Lindsay or Pitt, and made no accommodation to them in her manner. Murdo was invisible.

  “Ah … hem—” The vicar was plainly confused to see the police still there. He had prepared what he was going to say, and now it did not fit the circumstances and he had nothing else in reserve. “Ah … Reverend Hector Clitheridge.” He introduced himself awkwardly. “My wife, Eulalia.” He indicated the woman beside him, waving his hand, thick wristed and with white cuffs a size too large.

  Then he turned to Shaw and his expression altered. He was apparently laboring under some difficulty. He wavered between natural distaste and alarm, and hard-won
resolution.

  “My dear Shaw, how can I say how sorry I am for this tragedy.” He took half a step forward. “Quite appalling. In the midst of life we are in death. How fragile is human existence in this vale of tears. Suddenly we are struck down. How may we comfort you?”

  “Not with platitudes, dammit!” Shaw said tartly.

  “Yes, well—I’m sure …” Clitheridge floundered, his face pink.

  “People only say some things so often because they are true, Dr. Shaw,” Mrs. Clitheridge said with an eager smile, her eyes on Shaw’s face. “How else can we express our feelings for you, and our desire to offer consolation.”

  “Yes quite—quite,” Clitheridge added unnecessarily. “I will take care of any—any, er … arrangements you care to—er … Of course it is soon—er …” He tailed off, looking at the floor.

  “Thank you,” Shaw cut across. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Clitheridge was patently relieved.

  “In the meantime, dear doctor …” Mrs. Clitheridge took a step forward, her eyes bright, her back very straight under her dark bombazine, as if she were approaching something exciting and a little dangerous. “In the meantime, we offer you our condolences, and please feel you may call upon us for anything at all, any task that you would prefer not to perform yourself. My time is yours.”

  Shaw looked across at her and the ghost of a smile touched his face. “Thank you, Eulalia. I am sure you mean it kindly.”

  The blush deepened in her face, but she said no more. The use of her Christian name was a familiarity, particularly in front of such social inferiors as the police. Pitt thought from the lift of Shaw’s brows that even now he had done it deliberately, an automatic instinct to sweep away pretense.

  For a moment Pitt saw them all in a different light, six people in a room, all concerned with the violent death of a woman very close to them, trying to find comfort for themselves and each other, and they observed all the social niceties, masked all the simplicity of real emotion with talk of letters and rituals. And the old habits and reactions were there too: Clitheridge’s reliance on quoting predictable Scriptures, Eulalia’s stepping in for him. Something in her was wakened to a sharper life by Shaw’s personality, and it both pleased and disturbed her. Duty won. Perhaps duty always won.

  From Shaw’s tight body and restless movements none of it reached more than a surface, intellectual humor in him. The ache underneath he would bear utterly alone—unless Lindsay had some frank expression that could bridge the gulf.

  Pitt stepped back out of the center of the floor and stood next to the patterned curtains, watching. He glanced at Murdo to make sure he did the same.

  “Are you going to remain here with Mr. Lindsay?” Eulalia inquired solicitously of Shaw. “I assure you, you would be most welcome at the parsonage, if you wish. And you could remain as long as suited you—until … er, of course you will purchase another house—”

  “Not yet, my dear, not yet,” Clitheridge said in a loud whisper. “First we must, er, organize—deal with the—er, spiritual—”

  “Nonsense!” she hissed back at him. “The poor man has to sleep somewhere. One cannot deal with emotions until one has accommodated the creature.”

  “It is the other way ’round, Lally!” He was getting cross. “Please allow me—”

  “Thank you.” Shaw interrupted, swinging around from the small table where he had been fingering an ornament. “I shall remain with Amos. But I am sensible of your kindness—and you are perfectly correct, Eulalia, as always. One can grieve far more adequately in some physical comfort. There is no advantage whatsoever in having to worry about where to sleep or what to eat.”

  Clitheridge bridled, but offered no demur; the opposition was far too much for him.

  He was saved from further argument by the manservant’s reappearance to announce yet more callers.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hatch, sir.” There was no question as to whether they should be received. Pitt was curious.

  “Of course.” Lindsay nodded.

  The couple who were admitted a moment later were soberly, even starkly dressed, she in total black, he in a winged collar, black tie and high-buttoned suit of indeterminate dark shade. His face was composed in extreme gravity, tight-lipped, pale, and his eyes brilliant with contained emotion. It was a countenance that caught Pitt’s attention with its intensity as passionate as Shaw’s, and yet by every innate inclination different—guarded and inward of thought where Shaw was rash and quickly expressive; abstemious and melancholy where Shaw was full of vitality and a wild humor; and yet the possibilities of depth were the same, the power of emotion.

  But it was Mrs. Hatch who came forward first, ignoring everyone else and going straight to Shaw, which seemed to be what he expected. He put both arms around her and held her.

  “My dear Prudence.”

  “Oh, Stephen, this is quite dreadful.” She accepted his embrace without hesitation. “How can it have happened? I was sure Clemency was in London with the Bosinneys. At least thank God you were not there!”

  Shaw said nothing. For once he had no answer.

  There was an uncomfortable silence as if others who felt the emotions less deeply were embarrassed by their exclusion and would rather not have witnessed them.

  “Mrs. Shaw’s sister,” Murdo whispered, leaning closer to Pitt. “Both ladies are daughters of the late Theophilus Worlingham.”

  Pitt had never heard of Theophilus Worlingham, but apparently he was a person of some repute from the awe in Murdo’s voice.

  Josiah Hatch cleared his throat to draw the episode to a conclusion. Proprieties must be observed, and he had become aware of the shadowy figures of Pitt and Murdo in the unlit corner of the room, not part of the event, and yet intrusively present.

  “We must comfort ourselves with faith,” he continued. He looked sideways at Clitheridge. “I am sure the vicar has already spoken words of strength to you.” It sounded almost like a charge, as if he were not sure at all. “This is a time when we call upon our inner resources and remember that God is with us, even in the valley of the shadow, and His will shall be done.”

  It was a statement at once banal and unarguable, and yet he was painfully sincere.

  As if catching some honesty in the man, Shaw pushed Prudence away gently and answered him.

  “Thank you, Josiah. It is a relief to me to know you will be there to sustain Prudence.”

  “Of course,” Hatch agreed. “It is a man’s godly duty to support women through their times of grief and affliction. They are naturally weaker, and more sensitive to such things. It is their gentleness and the purity of their minds which make them so perfectly suited to motherhood and the nurturing of tender youth, so we must thank God for it. I remember dear Bishop Worlingham saying so much to that effect when I was a young man.”

  He did not look at any of them, but to some distance of his own memory. “I shall never cease to be grateful for the time in my youth I spent with him.” A spasm of pain crossed his face. “My own father’s refusal to allow me to enter the church was almost offset by that great man’s tutelage of me in the ways of the spirit and the path of true Christianity.”

  He looked at his wife. “Your grandfather, my dear, was as close to a saint as we are like to see in this poor world. He is very sadly missed—sadly indeed. He would have known precisely how to deal with a loss like this, what to say to each of us to explain divine wisdom so we should all be at peace with it.”

  “Indeed—indeed,” Clitheridge said inadequately.

  Hatch looked at Lindsay. “Before your time, sir, which is your misfortune. Bishop Augustus Worlingham was quite remarkable, a great Christian gentleman and benefactor to uncounted men and women, both materially and spiritually. His influence was incalculable.” He leaned forward a fraction, his face creased with earnestness. “No one can say how many are now following a righteous path because of his life here on this earth. I know of dozens myself.” He stared at Lin
dsay. “The Misses Wycombe, all three of them, went to nurse the sick entirely on his inspiration, and Mr. Bartford took the cloth and set up a mission in Africa. No one can measure the domestic happiness resulting from his counsel on the proper place and duties of women in the home. A far wider area than merely Highgate has been blessed by his life …”

  Lindsay looked nonplussed, but did not interrupt. Perhaps he could think of nothing adequate to say.

  Shaw clenched his teeth and looked at the ceiling.

  Mrs. Hatch bit her lip and glanced nervously at Shaw.

  Hatch plunged on, a new eagerness in his voice, his eyes bright. “No doubt you have heard of the window we are dedicating to him in St. Anne’s Church? It is planned already and we need only a little more money. It is a representation of the bishop himself, as the prophet Jeremiah, teaching the people from the Old Testament; with angels at his shoulders.”

  Shaw’s jaw clenched, and he refrained from saying anything with apparent difficulty.

  “Yes—yes, I heard,” Lindsay said hastily. He was patently embarrassed. He glanced at Shaw, now moving as if he could barely contain the pent-up energy inside him. “I am sure it will be a beautiful window, and much admired.”

  “That is hardly the point,” Hatch said sharply, his mouth puckering with anger. “Beauty is not at issue, my dear sir. It is the upliftment of souls. It is the saving of lives from sin and ignorance, it is to remind the faithful what journey it is we make, and to what end.” He shook his head a little as if to rid himself of the immediacy of the very solid materiality around him. “Bishop Worlingham was a righteous man, with a great understanding of the order of things, our place in God’s purpose. We permit his influence to be lost at our peril. This window will be a monument to him, towards which people will raise their eyes every Sunday, and through which God’s holy light will pour in upon them.”

  “For heaven’s sake, man, the light would come through whatever window you put in the wall,” Shaw snapped at last. “In fact you’d get most of it if you stood outside in the graveyard in the fresh air.”