by Anne Perry
Pitt was compelled to smile as well. “Was Lindsay interested in such ideas?” he asked.
“Interested, yes—in agreement, I doubt. But he did approve of their beliefs in appropriation of capital wealth that perpetuates the extreme differences between the propertied classes and the workers.”
“Did he quarrel with Pascoe?” It seemed a remote motive, but he could not leave it unmentioned.
“Yes—but I think it was more flash than heat. Pascoe is a born crusader; he’s always tilting at something—mostly windmills. If it hadn’t been poor Amos, it would have been someone else.”
The faint flicker of motive receded. “Were there any other callers, so far as you know?”
“Only Oliphant, the curate. He came to see me. He made it seem like a general call out of concern for my welfare, and I expect it was. He’s a decent chap; I find myself liking him more each time I see him. Never really noticed him before this, but most of the parishioners speak well of him.”
“ ‘He made it seem,’ ” Pitt prompted.
“Oh—well, he asked several questions about Clemency and her charity work on slum ownership. He wanted to know if she’d said anything to me about what she’d accomplished. Well of course she did. Not every day, just now and again. Actually she managed very little. There are some extremely powerful people who own most of the worst—and most profitable—streets. Financiers, industrialists, members of society, old families—”
“Did she mention any to you that you might have repeated to Oliphant, and thus Lindsay?” Pitt jumped at the thought, slender as it was, and Charlotte’s face came to his mind, eyes bright, chin determined as she set out to trace Clemency’s steps.
Shaw smiled bleakly. “I honestly don’t remember, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying much attention. I tried to be civil because he was so earnest and he obviously cared, but I thought he was wasting his time—and mine.” He drew his brows together. “Do you really think Clemency was actually a threat to someone? She hadn’t a dog in hell’s chance of getting a law passed to disclose who profited out of slum tenements, you know. The worst she could have done would be to get herself sued for slander by some outraged industrialist—”
“Which you would not have liked,” Pitt pointed out quietly. “It would have cost you all you possess, including your reputation, and presumably your livelihood.”
Shaw laughed harshly. “Touché, Inspector. That may look like a perfect motive for me—but if you think she’d have done that, and left me exposed, you didn’t know Clem. She wasn’t a foolish woman and she understood money and reputation.” His eyes were bright with a sad humor close to tears. “Far better than anyone will know now. You won’t understand how much I miss her—and why should I try to explain? I stopped being in love with her long ago—but I think I liked Clem better than anyone else I’ve ever known—even Amos. She and Maude were good friends. She knew all about the modeling—and didn’t give a damn.” He stood up slowly, as if his body ached.
“I’m sorry, Pitt. I have no idea who killed Clem—or Amos, but if I did I should tell you immediately—in the middle of the night, if that’s when it occurred to me. Now get out of here and go and dig somewhere else. I’ve got to eat something, and then go out on more calls. The sick can’t wait.”
The following morning Pitt was disturbed by a loud banging on his front door so urgent he dropped his toast and marmalade and swung up from the kitchen chair and along the hallway in half a dozen strides. In his mind the horror of fire was already gaping at him, nightmarish, and he had a sick premonition that this time it would be the lodging house, and the gentle curate, who found the right words to touch grief, would be in the ashes. It hurt him almost intolerably.
He yanked the door open and saw Murdo standing on the step, damp and miserable in the predawn light. The gas lamp a little beyond him to the left gave him the remnants of a halo in the mist.
“I’m sorry sir, but I thought I should tell you—just in case it has to do with it—sir,” he said wretchedly. His words were unexplained, but apparently made sense to him.
“What are you talking about?” Pitt demanded, beginning to hope it was not fire after all.
“The fight, sir.” Murdo shifted from one foot to the other, patently wishing he had not come. What had begun as a good idea now seemed a very bad one. “Mr. Pascoe and Mr. Dalgetty. Mrs. Dalgetty told the station sergeant last night, but I only just learned of it half an hour ago. Seems they didn’t take it serious—”
“What fight?” Pitt pulled his coat off the hook by the door. “If they fought last night couldn’t it have waited till after breakfast?” He scowled. “What do you mean, fight? Did they hurt each other?” He found the idea absurd and faintly amusing. “Does it really matter? They are always quarreling—it seems to be part of their way of life. It seems to give them a kind of validity.”
“No sir.” Murdo looked even more miserable. “They’re planning to fight this morning—at dawn, sir.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Pitt snapped. “Who on earth is going to get out of a warm bed at dawn and plan to have a quarrel? Somebody’s having a very ill considered joke at your expense.” He turned to hang up his coat again.
“No sir,” Murdo said stolidly. “They already had the quarrel, yesterday. The fight is this morning at sunrise—in the field between Highgate Road and the cemetery—with swords.”
Pitt grasped for one more wild instant at the concept of a joke, saw in Murdo’s face that it was not, and lost his temper.
“Hell’s teeth!” he said furiously. “We’ve got two houses in ruins, charred bodies of two brave, kind people—others injured and terrified—and two bloody idiots want to fight a duel over some damnable piece of paper.” He snatched the coat back again and pushed Murdo off the step onto the pavement, slamming the door. The cab Murdo had come in was only a few yards away. “Come on!” Pitt yanked the door open and climbed in. “Highgate Road!” he shouted. “I’ll show these two prancing fools what a real fight is! I’ll arrest them for disturbing the Queen’s peace!”
Murdo scrambled in beside him, falling sideways as the cab jerked into motion and only just catching the door as it swung away. “I don’t suppose they’ll hurt each other,” he said lamely.
“Pity.” Pitt was totally without sympathy. “Serve them both right if they were skewered like puddings!” And he rode the rest of the way in furious silence, Murdo not daring to make any further suggestions.
Eventually the cab came to an abrupt halt and Pitt threw open the door and jumped out, leaving the fare to Murdo to pay, and set off across the path through the field, Highgate Road to his left and the wall of the magnificent cemetery to his right. Three hundred yards ahead of him, paced out on the grass, their figures squat in the distance, were five people.
The solid figure of Quinton Pascoe was standing, feet a little apart, a cape slung over one shoulder, the cold, early sun, clear as springwater, on his shock of white hair. In front of him the dew was heavy on the bent heads of the grass, giving the leaves a strange hint of turquoise as the light refracted.
No more than half a dozen yards away, John Dalgetty, dark-headed, his back to the sun, the shadow masking his face, stood with one arm thrown back and a long object raised as if he were about to charge. Pitt thought at first it was a walking stick. The whole thing was palpably ridiculous. He started to run towards them as fast as his long legs would carry him.
Standing well back were two gentlemen in black frock coats, a little apart from each other. Presumably they were acting as seconds. Another man, who had taken his coat off—for no apparent reason, it was a distinctly chilly morning-was standing in shirtsleeves and shouting first at Pascoe, then at Dalgetty. His voice came to Pitt across the distance, but not his words.
With a flourish Pascoe swung his cloak around his arm and threw it onto the ground in a heap, regardless of the damp. His second rushed to pick it up and held it in front of him, rather like a shield.
Dalgetty, who had n
o cloak, chose to keep his coat on. He flourished the stick, or whatever it was, again, and let out a cry of “Liberty!” and lunged forward at a run.
“Honor!” Pascoe shouted back, and brandishing something long and pale in his hand, ran forward as well. They met with a clash in the middle and Dalgetty slipped as his polished boots failed to take purchase on the wet grass.
Pascoe turned swiftly and only just missed spearing him through the chest. Instead he succeeded in tearing a long piece from Dalgetty’s jacket and thoroughly enraging him. Dalgetty wielded what Pitt could now see was a sword stick, and dealt Pascoe a nasty blow across the shoulders.
“Stop it!” Pitt bellowed as loudly as his lungs would bear. He was running towards them, but he was still a hundred and fifty yards away, and no one paid him the slightest attention. “Stop it at once!”
Pascoe was startled, not by Pitt but by the blow, which must have hurt considerably. He stepped back a pace, shouted, “In the name of chivalry!” and swiped sideways with his ancient and very blunt sword, possibly an ill-cared-for relic of Waterloo, or some such battle.
Dalgetty, with a modern sword stick, sharp as a needle, parried the blow so fiercely the neglected metal broke off halfway up and flew in an arc, catching him across the cheek and opening up a scarlet weal which spurted blood down his coat front.
“You antiquated old fool!” he spluttered, startled and extremely angry. “You fossilized bigot! No man stands in the path of progress! A medieval mind like you won’t stop one single good idea whose time has come! Think you can imprison the imagination of man in your old-fashioned ideas! Rubbish!” He swung his broken sword high in the air so wildly the singing sound of it was audible to Pitt even above the rasping of his own breath and the thud of his feet. It missed Pascoe by an inch, and clipped a tuft off the top of his silver head and sent it flying like thistledown.
Pitt tore off his coat and threw it over Dalgetty.
“Stop it!” he roared, and caught him across the chest with his shoulder, sending them both to the ground. The broken sword stick went flying bright in the sun to fall, end down, quivering in the ground a dozen yards away.
Pitt picked himself up and disregarded Dalgetty totally. He did not bother to straighten his clothes and dust off the earth and grass. He faced a shaken, weaponless and very startled Pascoe.
By this time Murdo had dealt with the cab driver and run across the field to join them. He stood aghast at the spectacle, helpless to know what do to.
Pitt glared at Pascoe.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he demanded at the top of his voice. “Two people are dead already, God knows who did it, or why—and you are out here trying to murder each other over some idiotic monograph that nobody will read anyway! I should charge you both with assault with a deadly weapon!”
Pascoe was deeply affronted. Blood was seeping through the tear across the shoulder of his shirt and he was clearly in some pain.
“You cannot possibly do that!” his voice was high and loud.”It was a gentieman’s difference of opinion!” He jerked his hand up wildly. “Dalgetty is a desecrator of values, a man without judgment or discretion. He propagates the vulgar and destructive and what he imagines to be the cause of freedom, but which is actually license, indiscipline and the victory of the ugly and the dangerous.” He waved both arms, nearly decapitating Murdo, who had moved closer. “But I do not lay any charge against him. He attacked me with my full permission—so you cannot arrest him.” He stopped with some triumph and stared at Pitt out of bright round eyes.
Dalgetty climbed awkwardly to his feet, fighting his way out of Pitt’s coat, his cheek streaming blood.
“Neither do I lay charge against Mr. Pascoe,” he said, reaching for a handkerchief. “He is a misguided and ignorant old fool who wants to ban any idea that didn’t begin in the Middle Ages. He will stop any freedom of ideas, any flight of the imagination, any discovery of anything new whatsoever. He would keep us believing the earth is flat and the sun revolves around it. But I do not charge him with attacking me—we attacked each other. You are merely a bystander who chose to interfere in something which is none of your affair. You owe us an apology, sir!”
Pitt was livid. But he knew that without a complaint he could not make an arrest that would be prosecuted.
“On the contrary,” he said with sudden freezing contempt. “You owe me a considerable gratitude that I prevented you from injuring each other seriously, even fatally. If you can scramble your wits together long enough, think what that would have done to your cause—not to mention your lives from now on.”
The possibility, which clearly had not occurred to either of them, stopped the next outburst before it began, and when one of the seconds stepped forward nervously, Pitt opened his mouth to round on him for his utter irresponsibility.
But before he could continue on his tirade the other second shouted out and swung around, pointing where across the field from the Highgate direction were rapidly advancing five figures, strung out a dozen yards from each other. The first was obviously, even at that distance, the vigorous, arm-swinging Stephen Shaw, black bag in his hand, coattails flying. Behind him loped the ungainly but surprisingly rapid figure of Hector Clitheridge, and running after him, waving and calling out, his wife, Eulalia. Separated by a slightly longer space was a grim figure with scarf and hat which Pitt guessed to be Josiah Hatch, but he was too distant to distinguish features. And presumably the woman behind him, just breaking into a run, was Prudence.
“Thank God,” one of the seconds gasped. “The doctor—”
“And why in God’s name didn’t you call him before you began, you incompetent ass?” Pitt shouted at him. “If you are going to second in a duel, at least do it properly! It could have meant the difference between a man living or dying!”
The man was stung at last by the injustice of it, and the thoroughgoing fear that Pitt was right.
“Because my principal forbade me,” he retaliated, pulling himself up very straight.
“I’ll wager he did,” Pitt agreed, looking at Dalgetty, now dripping blood freely and very pasty-faced; then at Pascoe holding his arm limply and beginning to shake from cold and shock. “Knew damned well he’d prevent this piece of idiocy!”
As he spoke Shaw came to a halt beside them, staring from one to the other of the two injured men, then at Pitt.
“Is there a crime?” he said briskly. “Is any of this palaver”—he waved his hands, dropping the bag to the ground—“needed for evidence?”
“Not unless they want to sue each other,” Pitt said disgustedly. He could not even charge them with disturbing the peace, since they were out in the middle of a field and no one else was even aware of their having left their beds. The rest of Highgate was presumably taking its breakfast quietly in its dining rooms, pouring its tea, reading the morning papers and totally unaffected.
Shaw looked at the two participants and made the instant decision that Dalgetty was in the more urgent need of help, since he seemed to be suffering from shock whereas Pascoe was merely in pain, and accordingly began his work. He had done no more than open his bag when Clitheridge arrived, acutely distressed and embarrassed.
“What on earth has happened?” he demanded. “Is somebody hurt?”
“Of course somebody’s hurt, you fool!” Shaw said furiously. “Here, hold him up.” He gestured at Dalgetty, who was covered in blood and was beginning to look as if he might buckle at the knees.
Clitheridge obeyed gladly, his face flooding with relief at some definite task he could turn himself to. He grasped Dalgetty, who rather awkwardly leaned against him.
“What happened?” Clitheridge made one more effort to understand, because it was his spiritual duty. “Has there been an accident?”
Lally had reached them now and her mind seized the situation immediately.
“Oh, how stupid,” she said in exasperation. “I never thought you’d be so very childish—and now you’ve really hurt each o
ther. And does that prove which of you is right? It only proves you are both extremely stubborn. Which all Highgate knew anyway.” She swung around to Shaw, her face very slightly flushed. “What can I do to be of assistance, Doctor?” By that time Josiah Hatch had also reached them, but she disregarded him. “Do you need linen?” She peered in his bag, then at the extent of the bloodstains, which were increasing with every minute. “How about water? Brandy?”
“Nobody’s going to pass out,” he said sharply, glaring at Dalgetty. “For heaven’s sake put him down!” he ordered Clitheridge, who was bearing most of Dalgetty’s weight now. “Yes, please, Lally—get some more linen. I’d better tie some of this up before we move them. I’ve got enough alcohol to disinfect.”
Prudence Hatch arrived breathlessly, gasping as she came to a halt. “This is awful! What on earth possessed you?” she demanded. “As if we haven’t enough grief.”
“A man who believes in his principles is sometimes obliged to fight in order to preserve them,” Josiah said grimly. “The price of virtue is eternal vigilance.”
“That is freedom,” his wife corrected him.
“What?” he demanded, his brows drawing down sharply.
“The price of freedom is eternal vigilance,” she replied. “You said virtue.” Without being told she was taking a piece of clean cloth out of Shaw’s bag, unfolding it and soaking it in clean spirit from one of his bottles. “Sit down!” she commanded Pascoe smartly, and as soon as he did, she began to clean away the torn outer clothing and then the blood till she could see the ragged tear in the flesh. Then she held the pad of cloth to it and pushed firmly.
He winced and let out a squeak as the spirit hit the open wound, but no one took any notice of him.
“Freedom and virtue are not the same thing at all,” Hatch argued with profound feeling, his face intent, his eyes alight. To him the issue obviously far outweighed the ephemeral abrasions of the encounter. “That is precisely what Mr. Pascoe risked his life to defend!”
