by Anne Perry
“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, having 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.
Pitt raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Murdo launched into his account, and Pitt sat down behind the desk, crossing his legs.
“Very sudden,” Murdo began, still standing and hunching his shoulders a trifle in dramatic concentration. “He had always been a man of great physical energy and excellent health, what you might call a ‘muscular Christian’ I believe—” He colored slightly at his own audacity in using such a term about his superiors, and because it was an expression he had only heard twice before. “His vigor was a matter of some pride to him,” he added as explanation, as the thought suddenly occurred to him that Pitt might be unfamiliar with the term.
Pitt nodded and hid his smile.
Murdo relaxed. “He fell ill with what they took to be a slight chill. No one worried unduly, although apparently Mr. Worlingham himself was irritated that he should be no stronger than most. Dr. Shaw called upon him and prescribed aromatic oils to inhale to reduce the congestion, and a light diet, which did not please him at all, and that he should remain in bed—and give up smoking cigars, which also annoyed him very much. He made no comment as to a mustard plaster—” Murdo screwed up his face in surprise and shook his head. “That’s what my mam always used on us. Anyway, he got no better, but Shaw didn’t call again. And three days later his daughter Clemency, the one who was murdered, visited and found him dead in his study, which is on the ground floor of his house, and the French doors open. He was lying stretched out on the carpet and according to the bobby as was called out, with a terrible look on his face.”
“Why were the police sent for?” Pitt asked. After all, it was ostensibly a family tragedy. Death was hardly a rarity.
Murdo did not need to glance at his notes. “Oh—because o’ the terrible look on his face, the French doors being open, and there was a great amount of money in the house, even twenty pounds in Treasury notes clutched in his hand, and they couldn’t unlock his fingers of it!” Murdo’s face was pink with triumph. He waited for Pitt’s reaction.
“How very curious.” Pitt gave it generously. “And it was Clemency Shaw who found him?”
“Yes sir!”
“Did anyone know whether any money was missing?”
“No sir, that’s what’s so peculiar. He had drawn out seven thousand, four hundred and eighty-three pounds from the bank.” Murdo’s face was pale again and a little pinched at the thought of such a fortune. It would have bought him a house and kept him in comfort till middle age if he never earned another penny. “It was all there! In Treasury notes, tied up in bundles in the desk drawer, which wasn’t even locked. It takes a lot of explaining, sir.”
“It does indeed,” Pitt said with feeling. “One can only presume he intended to make a very large purchase, in cash, or to pay a debt of extraordinary size, which he did not wish to do in a more usual manner with a draft. But why—I have no idea.”
“Do you suppose his daughter knew, sir—I mean, Mrs. Shaw?”
“Possibly,” Pitt conceded. “But didn’t Theophilus die at least two years ago?”
Murdo’s triumph faded. “Yes sir, two years and three months.”
“And what was the cause on the death certificate?”
“An apoplectic seizure, sir.”
“Who signed it?”
“Not Shaw.” Murdo shook his head fractionally. “He was the first on the scene, naturally, since Theophilus was his father-in-law, and it was his wife who found him. But just because of that, he called in someone else to confirm his opinion and sign the certificate.”
“Very circumspect,” Pitt agreed wryly. “There was a great deal of money in the estate, I believe. The amount withdrawn was only a small part of his total possessions. That’s another thing you might look into, the precise degree and disposition of the Worlingham fortune.”
“Yes sir, I will immediately.”
Pitt held up his hand. “What about these other cases Shaw was involved with? Do you know about any of them?”<
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“Only three firsthand, sir; and none of them is anything out of the way. One was old Mr. Freemantle, who got a bit tiddley at the mayor’s Christmas dinner party and got into a quarrel with Mr. Tiplady and pushed him down the steps of the Red Lion.” He tried to keep his expression respectful, and failed.
“Ah—” Pitt let out his breath in a sigh of satisfaction. “And Shaw was called to attend to the resulting injuries?”
“Yes sir. Mr. Freemantle fell over by hisself and had to be helped home. I reckon if he’d been a less important gentleman he’d ’ave cooled off the night in a cell! Mr. Tiplady had a few bruises and a nasty cut on his head, bled all over the place and gave them all a fright. Looked as white as a ghost, he did. Sobered him up better than a bucket of cold water!” His lips curled up in a smile of immeasurable satisfaction and his eyes danced. Then full memory returned and the light died. “Filthy temper the next day. Came in here shouting and carrying on, blamed Dr. Shaw for the headache he had, said he hadn’t been properly treated, but I reckon he was just furious ’cause we’d all seen him make a right fool of hisself on the town hall steps. Dr. Shaw told him to take more water with it next time, and go home till he’d slept it off.”
Pitt did not bother to pursue it. A man does not murder a doctor because the doctor speaks rather plainly about his debauchery and the consequent embarrassments.
“And the others?”
“Mr. Parkinson, Obadiah Parkinson, that is, got robbed up Swan’s Lane one evening. That’s up by the cemetery,” he added in case Pitt did not know. “He was hit rather hard and the bobby that found him called Dr. Shaw, but there’s nothing in that. He just took a good look at him, then said it was concussion and took him home in his own trap. Mr. Parkinson was very obliged.”
Pitt put the two files aside and picked up the third.
“Death of the Armitage boy,” Murdo said. “Very sad indeed, that. Dray horse took fright at something and bolted. Young Albert was killed instantly. Very sad. He was a good lad, and not more than fourteen.”
Pitt thanked him and dispatched him to go and pursue the Worlingham money, then he began to read the rest of the files on the desk in front of him. They were all similar cases, some tragic, some carrying an element of farce, pomposity exposed by the frailties of the flesh. Perhaps domestic tragedy lay behind some of the reports of bruising and broken bones, it was even possible that some of the autopsies which read as pneumonia or heart failure concealed a darker cause, an act of violence; but there was nothing in the notes here in front of him to indicate it. If Shaw had seen something he had not reported it in any official channel. There were seven deaths in all, and even on a second and third reading, Pitt could find nothing suspicious in any of them.
Finally he abandoned it, and after informing the desk sergeant of his intention, he stepped out into the rapidly chilling afternoon air and walked briskly to the St. Pancras Infirmary, glancing briefly across the road at the Smallpox Hospital, then climbed the steps to the wide front entrance. He was already inside when he remembered to straighten his jacket, polish his boots on the backs of his trouser legs, transfer half the collected string, wax, coins, folded pieces of paper and Emily’s silk handkerchief from one pocket to the other to balance the bulges a trifle, his fingers hesitating on the handkerchief’s exquisite texture just a second longer than necessary. Then he put his tie a little nearer center and ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it conspicuously worse. Then he marched to the superintendent’s office and rapped sharply on the door.
It was opened by a young man with fair hair and a narrow, anxious face.
“Yes?” he said, peering at Pitt.
Pitt produced his card, an extravagance which always gave him a tingle of pleasure.
“Inspector Thomas Pitt, Bow Street Police,” the young man read aloud with alarm. “Good gracious. What can you possibly want here? There is nothing amiss, I assure you, nothing at all. Everything is in most excellent order.” He had no intention of allowing Pitt in. They remained standing in the doorway.
“I did not doubt it,” Pitt soothed him. “I have come to make some confidential inquiries about a doctor who I believe has worked here—”
“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 f
or 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.”
