Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [124]
“By accident.” Shaw was watching him with bright, amused eyes. “I was making a medical call on an artist on hard times, and he tried to pay me with a painting of Maude. I didn’t take it, but I would like to have. Apart from the irony of it, it was damned good—but someone would have seen it. My heaven, she was a handsome woman. Still is, for that matter.”
“Does Dalgetty know that you know this?” Pitt was curious whether he would believe the answer, either way.
“I’ve no idea,” Shaw replied with apparent candor. “Maude does—I told her.”
“And was she distressed?”
“A trifle embarrassed at first; then she saw the humor of it, and knew that I’d not tell anyone.”
“You told me,” Pitt pointed out.
“You are hardly Highgate society.” Shaw was equally blunt, but there was no cruelty in his face. Highgate society was not something he admired, nor did he consider exclusion from it to be any disadvantage. “And I judge you not to be a man who would ruin her reputation for no reason but malice—or a loose tongue.”
Pitt smiled in spite of himself. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said with undisguised irony. “Now if you would turn your attention to the few days you were staying at Mr. Lindsay’s house, especially the last forty-eight hours before the fire. Can you remember any conversations you had with him about the first fire, about Mrs. Shaw, or about anyone who could possibly be connected with a reason to kill her, or you?”
Shaw pulled a bleak face and the humor died from his eyes.
“That covers just about everyone, since I haven’t any idea why anyone should hate me enough to burn me to death. Of course I’ve quarreled with people now and again—who hasn’t? But no sane person bears grudges over a difference of opinion.”
“I don’t mean a general philosophy, Doctor.” Pitt held him to the point. The answer might lie in his memory. Something had triggered in a murderer’s mind the need to protect himself—or herself—so violenüy that the person had risked exposure by killing again. “Recall which patients you saw those last few days; you must have notes if you can’t remember. What times did you come and go, when did you eat? What did you say to each other at table? Think!”
Shaw slumped in his chair and his face became lost in an effort of concentration. Pitt did not interrupt or prompt him.
“I remember Clitheridge came on the Thursday,” Shaw said at last. “Early in the evening, just as we were about to dine. I had been out to see a man with stones. He was in great pain. I knew they would pass in time, but I wished there was more I could do to ease him. I came home very tired—the last thing I wanted was a lot of platitudes from the vicar. I’m afraid I was rude to him. He intends well, but he never gets to the point; he goes ’round and ’round things without saying what he means. I’ve begun to wonder if he really does mean anything, or if he thinks in the same idiotic homilies he speaks. Perhaps he’s empty, and there’s no one inside?” He sniffed. “Poor Lally.”
Pitt allowed him to resume in his own time.
“Amos was civil to him.” Shaw continued after a moment. “I suppose he picked up my errors and omissions rather often, especially in the last few weeks.” Again the deep pain suffused his face, and Pitt felt like an intruder sitting so close to him. Shaw drew a deep breath. “Clitheridge went off as soon as he had satisfied his duty. I don’t remember that we talked about anything in particular. I wasn’t really listening. But I do remember the next day, the day before the fire, that both Pascoe and Dalgetty called, because Amos told me about it over dinner. It was about that damn monograph, of course. Dalgetty wanted him to do another, longer one on the new social order, all wrapped ’round in the essential message that freedom to explore the mind is the most sacred thing of all, and knowledge itself is the holiest thing, and every man’s God-given right.” He leaned forward a little again, his eyes searching Pitt’s face, trying to deduce his reaction. Apparently he saw nothing but interest, and continued