by Anne Perry
One of the fire engine horses screamed as a length of wood fell across its back and the smell of burning hair and flesh filled the immediate air. It plunged forward, tearing its reins out of the fireman’s hands. Another man, almost too quick for thought, caught up a bucket of water and threw it over the beast, quenching in one act both the heat and the pain.
Pitt ran forward and caught the animal, throwing all his weight against its charge, and it shuddered to a halt. Murdo, who had grown up on a farm, took off his jacket, squashed it into another bucket of water, then slapped it onto the beast’s back and held it.
The chief fireman was coming towards Pitt, his face a mask of smoke stains. Only the eyes showed through, red-rimmed and desperate. His eyebrows were singed and there were angry red weals under the blackened grime. His clothes were torn and soiled almost beyond recognition by water and the charring of heat and debris.
“We’ve got the servants out!” he shouted, then spluttered into coughing and controlled himself with difficulty. He waved them farther back and they followed him to where there was a faint touch of coolness of night air softening the heat and the stench, and the roaring and crashing of masonry and the explosion of wood were less deafening. His face was haggard, not only with sorrow but with his own failure. “But we didn’t get either of the two gentlemen.” It was unnecessary to add that it was now beyond hope, it was apparent to anyone at all. Nothing could be alive in that conflagration.
Pitt had known it, yet to hear it from someone else who spoke from years of such hope and struggle gave him a sudden gaping emptiness inside that took him by surprise. He realized only now how much he had been drawn to Shaw, even though he accepted that he might have murdered Clemency. Or perhaps it was only his brain that accepted it, his inner judgment always denied it. And with Amos Lindsay there had been no suspicion, only interest, and a little blossom of warmth because he had known Nobby Gunne. Now there was only a sense of sharp pain for the destruction. Anger would come later when the wound was less consuming.
He turned to Murdo and saw the shock and misery in his face. He was young and very new to murder and its sudden, violent loss. Pitt took him by the arm.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “We failed to prevent this, but we’ve got to get him before he does any more. Or her,” he added. “It could be a woman.”
Murdo was still stunned. “What woman would ever do that?” He jerked his hand back, but he did not turn.
“Women are just as capable of passion and hatred as men,” Pitt replied. “And of violence, given the means.”
“Oh no, sir—” Murdo began instinctively, the argument born of his own memories. Sharp tongues, yes; and a box on the ears; certainly greed at times, and coldness; nagging, bossiness and a great deal of criticism; and mind-staggering, speech-robbing unfairness. But not violence like this—
Memory returned, crowding in on Pitt, and he spoke with surprise.
“Some of the most gruesome murders I’ve ever worked on were committed by women, Murdo. And some of them I understood very well—when I knew why—and pitied. We know so little about this case—none of the real passions underneath it—”
“We know the Worlinghams have a great deal of money, and so does old Lutterworth.” Murdo struggled to gather everything in his mind. “We know—we know Pascoe and Dalgetty hate each other, although what that has to do with Mrs. Shaw …” He trailed off, searching for something more relevant. “We know Lindsay wrote pro-Fabian essays—although that has nothing to do with Mrs. Shaw either—but the doctor approved it.”
“That’s hardly a passion to kindle a funeral pyre like that,” Pitt said bitterly. “No, Murdo. We don’t know very much. But dear God—we’re going to find out.” He swung around and walked back towards the fire chief, who was now directing his men to saving the houses in the immediate vicinity.
“Have you any idea if it was set the same way?” Pitt shouted.
The fire chief turned a filthy, miserable face to him.
“Probably. It went up very quick. Two people called us—one saw it from the street at the front, towards the town, the other down towards Holly Village and half at the back. That’s at least two places. From the speed of it I daresay there was more.”
“But you got the servants out? How? Why not Lindsay and Shaw? Were the fires all in the main house?”
“Looks like it. Although by the time we got here it was spread pretty well all over. Got one man badly burned and another with a broken leg getting the servants out.”
“Where are they now?”
“Dunno. Some feller in a nightshirt and cassock was running ’round trying to help, and getting in the way. Good-hearted, I suppose—but a damn nuisance. Woman with ’im ’ad more sense. ’Nother couple over off to the side, looked white as ghosts—woman weeping—but they brought blankets. ’Bin too busy to watch ’em when they’re safe out. Now, I’ll answer your questions tomorrer—”
“Did you get the horse out?” Pitt did not know why he asked it, except some dim memory of terrified animals in another fire long ago in his youth.
“Horse?” The fire chief frowned. “What horse?”
“The doctor’s horse—for his trap.”
“Charlie!” the fire chief yelled at a soaked and filthy man who was walking a few yards away, limping badly. “Charlie!”
“Sir?” Charlie stopped and came over towards them, his eyebrows scorched, his eyes red-rimmed and exhausted.
“You were ’round the back—did you get the horse?”
“Weren’t no ’orse, sir. I looked special. Can’t bear a good animal burnt.”
“Yes there was,” Pitt argued. “Dr. Shaw has a trap, for his calls—”
“No trap neither, sir.” Charlie was adamant. “Stable was still standing when I got there. No ’orse and no trap. Either they was kept somewhere else—or they’re out.”
Out! Was it possible Shaw was not here at all, that once again the fire had not caught him? In all this fearful pyre could only Amos Lindsay be dead?
Who would know? Who could he ask? He turned around in the red night, still loud with the crackling of sparks and the roar and boom of flame. He could see, at the far edge of the tangle of engines, horses, water buckets, ladders, and weary and injured men, the two black figures of Josiah and Prudence Hatch, a little apart from each other, huddled in a private and separate misery. The cassocked figure of Clitheridge was striding along, skirts flying, a flask in his outstretched hand, and Lally was rewrapping a blanket around the shoulders of a tiny kitchen girl who was shuddering so violently Pitt could see it even through the smoke and the melee. Lindsay’s manservant with the polished hair stood alone, stupefied, like a person upright in his sleep.
Pitt skirted around the horses and buckets and the men still working, and started towards the far side. He was off the opposite pavement and in the middle of the road when he heard the clatter of hooves and looked automatically up the street towards Highgate center to see who it was. There was no purpose in more fire engines now—and anyway there was no sound of bells.
It was a trap, horse almost at a gallop, wheels racing and jumping in their speed and recklessness. Pitt knew long before he saw him that it was Shaw, and he felt an intense relief, followed the instant after by a new darkness. If Shaw was alive, then it was still possible he had set both fires, first to kill Clemency, now to kill Lindsay. Why Lindsay? Perhaps in the few days he had stayed with Lindsay, Shaw had betrayed himself by a word, an expression, even something unsaid when it should have been? It was a sickening thought, and yet honesty could not dismiss it.
“Pitt!” Shaw almost fell off the step of the trap and took no trouble even to tie the rein, leaving the horse to go where it would. He grabbed Pitt by the arm, almost swinging him offhis feet. “Pitt! For God’s sake, what’s happened? Where’s Amos? Where are the staff?” His face was so gaunt with horror it was impossible not to be moved by it.
Pitt put out his hand to steady him. “The servants are all
right, but I’m afraid Lindsay was not brought out. I’m sorry.”
“No! No!” The cry was torn from Shaw and he plunged forward, bumping into people, knocking them aside in his headlong race towards the flames.
After a moment’s stupefaction Pitt ran after him, leaping a water hose and accidentally sending a fireman flying. He caught Shaw so close to the building the heat was immense and the roaring of the flames seemed almost around them. He brought him to the ground, driving the wind out of him.
“You can’t do anything!” he shouted above the din. “You’ll only get killed yourself!”
Shaw coughed and struggled to get up. “Amos is in there!” His voice was close to hysteria. “I’ve got to—” Then he stopped, on his hands and knees facing the blaze, and realization came to him at last that it was utterly futile. Something inside him collapsed and he made no resistance when Pitt pulled him to his feet.
“Come back, or you’ll get burned,” Pitt said gently.
“What?” Shaw was still staring at the violence of the flames. They were so close the heat was hurting their skin, and the brightness made him screw up his eyes, but he seemed only peripherally aware of it.
“Come back!” Pitt shouted as a beam fell in with a crash and an explosion of sparks. Without thinking he took Shaw by the arms and pulled him as if he had been a frightened animal. For a moment he was afraid Shaw was going to fall over, then at last he obeyed, stumbling a little, careless if he hurt himself.
Pitt wanted to say something of comfort, but what was there? Amos Lindsay was dead, the one man who had seemed to understand Shaw and not be offended by his abrasiveness, who saw beyond the words to the mind and its intent. It was Shaw’s second terrible bereavement in less than two weeks. There was nothing to say that would not be fatuous and offensive, only betraying a complete failure to understand anything of his true pain. Silence at least did not intrude, but it left Pitt feeling helpless and inadequate.
Clitheridge was floundering over towards them, a look of dedication and terror on his face. He obviously had not the faintest idea what to say or do, except that he was determined not to flinch from his duty. At the last moment he was saved by events. The horse in the trap took flight as a piece of burning debris shot past it and it reared up and twisted around.
That at least was something Clitheridge understood. He abandoned Shaw, for whom he could do nothing and whose grief appalled and embarrassed him, and reached instead for the horse, holding the rein close to its head and throwing all his considerable weight against the momentum of its lunge.
“Whoa! Steady—steady now. It’s all right—steady, girl. Hold hard!” And miraculously for once he was completely successful. The animal stopped and stood still, shuddering and rolling its eyes. “Steady,” he said again, full of relief, and began to lead it across the road, away from the roar and heat, and away from Shaw.
“The servants.” At last Shaw spoke. He twisted around on one foot and swayed a little. “What about the servants? Where are they? Are they hurt?”
“Not seriously,” Pitt replied. “They’ll be all right.”
Clitheridge was still across the street with the horse and trap, leading it away, but Oliphant the curate was coming towards them, his thin face lit by the glare from the flames, his figure gawky in a coat whose shoulders were too big. He stopped in front of them and his voice was quiet and certain.
“Dr. Shaw; I lodge with Mrs. Turner up on West Hill. She has other rooms and you’d be welcome to stay there as long as you choose. There is nothing you can do here, and I think a strong cup of tea, some hot water to wash in, and then sleep would help you to face tomorrow.”
Shaw opened his mouth to argue, then realized that Oliphant had not offered facile words of comfort. He had offered practical help and reminded him that there was another day ahead, and regardless of pain or shock, there would be duties, things to do that would be useful and have meaning.
“I—” He struggled for the practical. “I have no-nothing—it is all gone—again—”
“Of course,” Oliphant agreed. “I have an extra nightshirt you are welcome to, and a razor, soap, a clean shirt. Anything I have is yours.”
Shaw tried to cling to the moment, as if something could still be retrieved, some horror undone that would become fixed if he were to leave. It was as though accepting it made it true. Pitt knew the feeling, irrational and yet so strong it held one to the scene of tragedy because to move was to acknowledge it and allow it to be real.
“The servants,” Shaw said again. “What about them? Where are they to sleep? I must—” He turned one way and another, frantic for some action to help, and saw none.
Oliphant nodded, his face red in the flames’ reflection, his voice level. “Mary and Mrs. Wiggins will stay with Mr. and Mrs. Hatch, and Jones will stay with Mr. Clitheridge.”
Shaw stared at him. Two firemen went past supporting a third between them.
“We shall begin to search for new positions for them in the morning.” Oliphant held out his hand. “There are plenty of people who want good, reliable help that has been well trained. Don’t worry about it. They are frightened, but not hurt. They need sleep and the assurance that they will not be put on the street.”
Shaw looked at him incredulously.
“Come,” Oliphant repeated. “You cannot help here—”
“I can’t just—just walk away!” Shaw protested. “My friend is in that—” He stared helplessly at the blaze, now redder and sinking as the last of the wood crumbled away inside and the masonry collapsed inward. He searched for words to explain the tumult of emotions inside him, and failed. There were tears in the grime on his face. His hands clenched at his sides and jerked as if he still longed to move violently, and had no idea where or how.
“Yes you can leave it,” Oliphant insisted. “There is no one left here; but tomorrow there will be people who need you—sick, frightened people who trust you to be there and use the knowledge you have to help them.”
Shaw stared at him, horror in his face turning to a slow amazement. Then finally, without speaking, he followed him obediently, his shoulders sagging, his feet slow, as if he were bruised, and intensely, painfully tired.
Pitt watched him go and felt a racking mixture of emotions inside himself; pity for Shaw’s grief and the stunning pain he obviously felt, fury at the fearful waste of it, and a kind of anger because he did not know who to blame for it all, who to cherish and who to want to hunt and see punished. It was like having a dam pent up inside him and the pressure of confusion ached to burst in some easy and total action, and yet there was none.
The building crashed in sparks again as another wall subsided. Two firemen were shouting at each other.
Finally he left them and retraced his own steps to look for Mundo and begin the miserable task of questioning the closest neighbors to see if any of them had seen or heard anything before the fire, anyone close to Lindsay’s house, any light, any movement.
Murdo was amazed by how tumultuous were his feelings about accompanying Pitt to the Lutterworths’. Away from the immediate heat of the fire his face hurt where the skin was a little scorched, his eyes stung and watered from the smoke, even his throat ached from it, and there was a large and painful blister forming on his hand where he had been struck by a flying cinder. But his body was chilled, and inside the coat Oliphant had found for him, he was shivering and clenched with cold.
He thought of the huge, dark house of the Lutterworths, of the splendor inside it, carpets, pictures, velvet curtains bound with sashes and splayed on the floor like overlong skirts. He had only ever seen such luxury at the Worlinghams’ themselves, and theirs was a lot older, and worn in one or two places. The Lutterworths’ was all new.
But far sharper in his mind, and making him clench his sore hands before he remembered the blister, was the memory of Flora Lutterworth with her wide, dark eyes, so very direct, the proud way she carried her head, chin high. He had noticed her hands especially; he
always remarked hands, and hers were the most beautiful he had ever seen, slender, with tapering fingers and perfect nails, not plump and useless like those of so many ladies of quality—like the Misses Worlingham, for example.
The more he thought of Flora the lighter his feet were on the frosty pavement, and the more wildly his stomach lurched at the prospect of Pitt knocking on the front door with its brass lion’s head, until he disturbed the entire household and brought the footman to let them in, furious and full of contempt, so they could stand dripping and filthy on the clean carpet till Lutterworth himself was roused and came down. Then Pitt would ask him a lot of intrusive questions that would all be pointless in the end, and could have waited until morning anyway.
They were actually on the step when he finally spoke.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until morning?” he said breathlessly. He was still very wary of Pitt. At times he admired him, at others he was torn by old loyalties, parochial and deep rooted, understanding his colleagues’ resentment and sense of having been undervalued and passed by. But most often he was lost in his own eagerness to solve the case and he thought of nothing but how could he help, what could he contribute to their knowledge. He was gaining a measure of respect for Pitt’s patience and his observation of people. Some of his conclusions had escaped Murdo. He had had no notion how Pitt knew of some of the exchanges between Pascoe and Dalgetty—until Pitt had quite openly recounted how Mrs. Pitt had attended the funeral supper and repeated back: to him all her impressions. In that moment Murdo had ceased to dislike Pitt; it was impossible to dislike a man who was so candid about his deductions. He could easily have pretended a superior ability, and Murdo knew a good many who would have.
