Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [3]
Pitt glanced around it with interest. It was highly individual and spoke much of the man. There were four large, very untidy bookshelves, obviously stocked for convenience and not ornament. There was no visual order, only that of frequent use. Paper folios were poked in next to leather-bound volumes, large books next to small. A gilt-framed and very romantic picture of Sir Galahad kneeling in holy vigil hung above the fireplace, and another opposite it of the Lady of Shallott drifting down the river with flowers in her hair. There was a fine model of a crusader on horseback on a round wooden table by the leather armchair, and open letters scattered on the desk. Three newspapers were piled precariously on the arm of the couch and clippings lay on the seats.
“Quinton Pascoe,” their host said, introducing himself hastily. “But of course you know that. Here.” He dived for the newspaper clippings and removed them to an open desk drawer, where they lay chaotically skewed. “Sit down, gentlemen. This is quite dreadful—quite dreadful. Mrs. Shaw was a very fine woman. A terrible loss. A tragedy.”
Pitt sat down gingerly on the couch and ignored a crackle of newspaper behind the cushion. Murdo remained on his feet.
“Inspector Pitt—and Constable Murdo,” he said, introducing them. “What time did you retire last night, Mr. Pascoe?”
Pascoe’s eyebrows shot up, then he realized the point of the question.
“Oh—I see. A little before midnight. I am afraid I neither saw nor heard anything until the fire brigade bells disturbed me. Then, of course, there was the noise of the burning. Dreadful!” He shook his head, regarding Pitt apologetically. “I am afraid I sleep rather heavily. I feel a fearful guilt. Oh dear.” He sniffed and blinked, turning his head towards the window and the wild, lush garden beyond, the tawny color of early autumn blooms still visible. “If I had retired a little later, even fifteen minutes, I might have seen the first flicker of flames, and raised the alarm.” He screwed up his face as the vision became sharp in his mind. “I am so very sorry. Not much use being sorry, is there? Not now.”
“Did you happen to look out at the street within the last half hour or so before you retired?” Pitt pressed him.
“I did not see the fire, Inspector,” Pascoe said a trifle more sharply. “And for the life of me I cannot see the purpose in your repeatedly asking me. I mourn poor Mrs. Shaw. She was a very fine woman. But there is nothing any of us can do now, except—” He sniffed again and puckered his lips. “Except do what we can for poor Dr. Shaw—I suppose.”
Murdo fidgeted almost imperceptibly and his eyes flickered to Pitt, and back again.
It would be common knowledge soon and Pitt could think of no advantage secrecy would give.
He leaned forward and the newspaper behind the cushion crackled again.
“The fire was not an accident, Mr. Pascoe. Of course the gas exploding will have made it worse, but it cannot have begun it. It started independently in several places at once. Apparently windows.”
“Windows? What on earth do you mean? Windows don’t burn, man! Just who are you?”
“Inspector Thomas Pitt, from the Bow Street station, sir.”
“Bow Street?” Pascoe’s white eyebrows rose in amazement. “But Bow Street is in London—miles from here. What is wrong with our local station?”
“Nothing,” Pitt said, keeping his temper with difficulty. It was going to be hard enough to preserve amicable relations without comments like this in Murdo’s hearing. “But the superintendent regards the matter as very grave, and wants to have it cleared up as rapidly as possible. The fire chief tells us that the fire started at the windows, as if the curtains were the first to catch alight, and heavy curtains burn very well, especially if soaked in candle oil or paraffin first.”
“Oh my