Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [27]
“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